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Alastair glanced at him irritably, then did not bother to say anything, as though it all had been said before, and had been no use then, or now, or perhaps in these circumstances was too trivial to bother with. His attention was on his mother. He looked troubled and short-tempered.
“I think you have everything you need, Mother. I hope your journey will be uneventful.” He did not look at Hester, but his meaning was obvious. He bent as if to kiss Mary on the cheek, then apparently changed his mind and straightened up again. “Griselda will meet you, of course.”
“We’ll be here to meet you on your return, Mother,” Eilish said with a quick smile.
“Hardly, my dear.” Quinlan’s expression indicated his feelings profoundly. “It will be half past eight in the morning. When were you ever up at that hour?”
“I can be-if someone wakes me,” Eilish said defensively.
Baird opened his mouth, and closed it again without speaking.
Oonagh frowned. “Of course you can, if you wish to enough.” She turned back to Mary. “Now, Mother, do you have everything you need? Are there any footwarmers here?” She looked down at the floor, and Hester’s eyes followed hers. Footwarmers. What a blessed thought. On the journey up her feet had been so cold she had almost lost all sensation in them.
“Send for some,” Quinlan said with raised eyebrows. “There ought to be.”
“There are,” Oonagh answered him, bending down to pull one of the large stone bottles forward. It was filled with hot water, and also with a chemical which was supposed, when shaken vigorously, to restore some of the heat naturally lost towards morning. “There you are, Mother, it’s lovely and hot. Rest your feet on that. Where’s the traveling rug, Baird?”
He handed it to her obediently, and she took it and made Mary comfortable, wrapping it around her, and folded the spare one on the other seat. No one was taking much notice of Hester, who was apparently not expected to begin her duties until they had actually departed. She arranged her valise where it was out of the way, then sat down on the seat opposite and waited.
Gradually all the good-byes were said and each of them moved back into the corridor until only Oonagh was left.
“Good-bye, Mother,” she said quietly. “I shall look after everything while you are gone-and do it as you would have.”
“What an odd thing to say, my dear.” Mary smiled in amusement. “You look after most of the household now. And when I come to think of it, I believe you have done for some considerable time. And I assure you, it had never crossed my mind to worry.”
Oonagh kissed her very lightly, then turned to Hester, her eyes direct and very clear. “Good-bye, Miss Latterly.” And the next moment she was gone.
Mary settled a trifle more comfortably in her seat. She was naturally facing forward, and it was Hester who would travel always looking the way she had come.
A wry look crossed Mary’s face, as though her last words in some way amused her.
“Are you worried?” Hester said quickly, wondering if there were some way she might ease her concern. Mary Farraline was not only her patient, she was also a person towards whom she felt a natural warmth.
Mary lifted her shoulders in the slightest of shrugs. “Oh no, not really. I can think of no sensible thing to worry about. Are you going to be warm enough, my dear? Please use the other rug.” She indicated where Oonagh had put it. “It is brought for you. Really, they should have given us a footwarmer each.” She made a little click of a
“Have you traveled a great deal?” Hester inquired, moving to sit as Mary had directed, and finding the blessed relief of the footwarmer on her already chilled feet.
Outside doors were slamming and the porter was shouting out something, but his voice was lost in a belch and hiss of steam. The train clanked and lurched forward, then very slowly gathered speed and they emerged from the canopy of the station into the darkness of the countryside.
“I used to,” Mary replied to the question with a reminiscent look. “All sorts of places: London, Paris, Brussels, Rome. I even went to Naples once, and Venice. Italy is so beautiful.” She smiled and her face lit with memory. “Everyone should visit it once in their lives. Preferably when they are about thirty. Then they would be old enough to realize how marvelous it is, to feel something of all it has been and sense the past around them, to give depth to the present. And yet they would still be young enough for the flavor to enrich the larger portion of their lives.” The train jolted hard, and then continued forward at greater speed. “I think it is a shame to have your miracles in life when you are too young, and in too much of a hurry to realize what they are. It is a terrible thing to know your blessings only in hindsight.”
Hester was considering the impact of that thought so seriously she did not reply.
“But you have also traveled,” Mary said, her eyes bright on Hester’s face. “And far more interestingly than I-at least for the most part. Oonagh told me you were in the Crimea. If you are not pained by recalling it, I should most dearly like to hear something of your experiences. I admit, my mind is filled with questions in a ma
Hester had found many peoples’ questions poorly framed and based on assumptions made from the peace and ignorance of England, where the vast majority knew only what newspapers told them. Although that knowledge was now increasing their ability to criticize and raise doubts, it still carried very little of the passion or the horror of reality.
“It brings back distressing memories?” Mary said quickly, apology vivid in her voice.
“No, not at all,” Hester denied, more in courtesy than strict taith. Her memories were sharp and complex, but she had seldom found herself desiring to escape them. “I fear that they may become tedious for people because I felt so strongly about so much, I tend to repeat myself about the wrongs and omit the details which may make the tale more interesting.”
“I should not be in the least interested in a well-considered and emotionless account that I might read in my daily newspaper.” Mary shook her head vigorously. ‘Tell me what you felt. What surprised you most? What was best, and what was worst?” She waved a long hand dismissively. “I don’t mean the suffering of the men, I shall take that for granted. I mean for yourself.”
The train had settled with a steady rhythm that was almost soothing in its regularity.
“Rats,” Hester answered without hesitation. “The sound of rats falling off the walls onto the floor; that, and waking up cold.” The memory was sharp as she said it, blurring the present and the sense of the warm rug around her. “It wasn’t so bad once you were up and moving around-and thinking of what you were doing-but when you woke up in the night and were too cold to go back to sleep again, no matter how tired you were, that’s what stays with me most.” She smiled. “Waking up warm, pulling the blankets close around me, hearing the sound of the rain outside, and knowing that there is nothing alive in the room except me, that’s marvelous.”
Mary laughed, a rich sound of pure enjoyment.
“What an unpredictable faculty memory is. The oddest things will bring back times and places we had long thought lost in the past.” She leaned back in the seat, her face relaxed, her eyes on some distance of the imagination. “You know, I was born the year after the fall of the Bastille-”