William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

cook, Mrs. Crozier, had quite an array of suitable dishes either already prepared or easy to make even as Hester waited. She offered beef tea, eggs, steamed fish, bread-and-butter pudding, baked custard or cold chicken.
    “How is he, miss?” she asked with concern in her face.
    “He seems very poorly still,” Hester answered honestly. “But we should keep every hope. Perhaps you know which dishes he likes?”
    The cook’s face brightened a little. “Oh, yes, miss, I certainly do. Very fond o’ cold saddle o’ mutton, he is, or jugged hare.”
    “As soon as he’s ready for that, I’ll let you know.” Hester took the coddled egg and the custard.
    She found him in a changed mood. He seemed very ready to allow her to assist him to sit up and take more than half the food prepared for him, in spite of the fact that to move at all obviously caused him considerable pain. He gasped and sweat broke out on his face. He seemed at once clammy and cold, and for a little while nauseous as well.
    She did all she could for him but it was very little. She was forced to stand by helplessly while he fought waves of pain, his eyes on her face, filled with desperation and a plea for any comfort at all, any relief. She reached out and held the ends of his fingers below the bandages, regardless of the bruising and the broken, scabbed skin, and gripped him as she would were he slipping away from her literally.
    His fingers clung so hard she felt as if she too would be bruised when at last he let go.
    Half an hour passed in silence, then finally he began to relax alittle. The sweat was running off his brow and standing in beads on his lip, but his shoulders lay easy on the pillow and his fingers unclenched. She was able to slip her hand out of his grasp and move away to wring the cloth again and bathe his face.
    He smiled at her. It was just a small curving of the lips, a softening of his eyes, but it was real.
    She smiled back and felt a tightness in her throat. It was a glimpse of the man he must have been before this terrible thing had happened to him.
    Rhys did not knock the bell for her during the night; nevertheless, she woke twice of her own accord and went in to see how he was. On the first occasion she found him sleeping fitfully. She waited a few moments, then crept out again without disturbing him.
    The second time he was awake, and he heard her the moment she pushed the door. He was lying staring towards her. She had not brought a candle, using only the light from the embers of the fire. The room was colder. His eyes looked hollow in the shadows.
    She smiled at him.
    “I think it’s time I stoked the fire again,” she said quietly. “It’s nearly out.”
    He nodded very slightly and then watched her as she crossed the room and took away the guard and bent to riddle the dead ash through the basket and very gently pile more small pieces of coal on what was left, then wait until it caught in a fragile flame.
    “It’s coming,” she said for no reason other than a sense of communication. She looked around and saw him still watching her. “Are you cold?” she asked.
    He nodded, but it was halfhearted, his expression rueful. She gathered he was only a very little chilly.
    She waited until the flames were stronger, then put on more coals, piling them high enough to last until morning.
    She went back to the bed and looked at him more closely, trying to read in his expression what he wanted or needed. Hedid not seem in physical pain any more than before, but there was an urgency in his eyes, a tension around his mouth. Did he want her to stay or to go? If she asked him, would it be too clumsy, too direct? She must be delicate. He had been hurt so badly. What had happened to him? What had he seen?
    “Would you like a little milk and arrowroot?” she suggested.
    He nodded immediately.
    “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she promised.
    She returned nearly a quarter of an hour later. It was farther to the kitchen than she had remembered, and it had taken longer to bring the cooking range to a reasonable heat. But the ingredients were fresh and she had a handsome blue-and-white porcelain mug filled with steaming milk, just the right temperature to drink, and the arrowroot in it would be soothing. She propped the pillows behind him and held the mug to his lips. He drank its contents with a smile, his eyes steady on hers.
    When he was finished she was not sure whether he wanted her to stay or not, to speak or remain