William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

“She’s been working almost without a stop for days. We can leave her for a little longer. I’ll get up. Has anything happened during the night? How is everyone?” As she straightened up she touched her fingers to the skin under her armpits, dreading to feel the tenderness and only half believing it was not there.
    “That Minnie looks worse,” Flo replied, pretending she had not noticed the gesture. She understood it perfectly. “Coughin’ fit to bring ’er guts up, she is,” she went on. “But still got plenty ter say fer ’erself, so I reckon’s she’s good fer another day or two, poor little cow. Kettle’s on when yer ready.”
    “Thank you.”
    Flo went out, closing the door behind her. Stiffly, shivering as the air hit her skin, Hester got up. She dressed again and splashed her face from the small dish of cold water she had spared herself. Then she started to go downstairs for the tea Flo had offered and a slice or two of toast. Thanks to Margaret’s constant efforts, they had sufficient food and fuel. She pushed the thought of Margaret out of her mind because she missed her company, her encouragement, just the knowledge that she could glance at her and know that they understood each other in unique ways. The loneliness might cripple her if she allowed it.
    If she thought of Monk, she would find herself in tears. She could not bear to think of being with him again—his voice, his touch, the feel of his lips on her face—because the sweetness of it was everything she longed for. Nor could she think of the possibility that she would not, because that robbed her of hope. He was the only reward that mattered and it was enough to drive her through exhaustion and pity and grief.
    She was halfway down the stairs when she thought she had better have a look at Mercy. She was probably just exhausted. She was a young woman of good birth and a fairly sheltered upbringing. This kind of physical labor, let alone the constant fear, would have crippled most girls like her.
    Hester knocked lightly on the door, and there was no answer. She pushed it open and went in. Mercy looked to be sound asleep, but not motionless. She moved slightly, took an unsteady breath, then turned her head.
    “Mercy?” Hester said quietly.
    There was no answer.
    Hester walked over to her. Even in the dim daylight through the curtains she could see that Mercy was not awake. She was tossing and turning in fever, her cheeks flushed, a beading of sweat on her lip.
    Hester felt a slow settling of pain inside her and fear took hold of her stomach, knotting it tight. With a trembling hand she reached over and pulled the bedclothes back. Her fingers rested lightly over the place where the sleeve of the nightgown met the bodice. She felt the hard lumps. Perhaps it was going to happen to all of them. It was only sooner or later, that was all. Now for Mercy it was a terrible certainty.
    Hester’s throat was thick with tears. She found it suddenly hard to breathe. Looking down at the flushed face and the fair, tangled hair, she realized how much she liked Mercy. She was angry that this should happen to her, and not someone who had less to lose or who would not be missed so much. It was a stupid emotion, and she should have known better than to allow herself to feel it, but all the reason in the world made no difference.
    Slowly she turned and walked away, closing the door of the room behind her and going down the stairs as if in a dream. She must get something to eat, stay strong. She would nurse Mercy herself, make sure she never woke alone. No one could help; no one could remove the physical pain, the horror or the inevitability of death. Lies would be no comfort, only dig a gulf between them. She could do nothing but simply be there.
    She walked into the kitchen. They all turned to look at her, but it was Sutton who spoke. He came over to her, his face pinched with concern.
    “Tea!” he ordered Flo. “Then get yerself off.” To Claudine he just waved a hand, and, white-faced, she went to resume the endless laundry. There was little water left, but she did not mention it, and certainly did not complain. She would reuse what was there if it proved necessary. Squeaky was nowhere to be seen. Fear was in the air, like the cold.
    Flo poured the tea and excused herself. Hester sat down, still without having spoken. She placed her hands around the steaming mug and let the warmth run through them.
    “D’yer know ’oo did it?” Sutton said