The Silent Cry

"No… no, I wish I could, but I also have wished he would develop more desire to sit up longer, even get into a chair for a while. He is still very weak, and not able to take as much food as I had expected.”

He sighed. "Perhaps we hope too much. But guard your words, Miss Latterly, or we may unintentionally cause even more pain." And with an inclination of his head, he went up the stair past her and disappeared across the landing.

Hester went to the withdrawing room and knocked on the door. She had a fear of interrupting a moment that could be confidential. However, she was invited in immediately and with apparently genuine pleasure.

"Do come in, Miss Latterly," Eglantyne said warmly. "Mrs. Duff was telling me about Amalia's letters from India. It sounds extraordinarily beautiful, in spite of the heat and the disease.

Sometimes I regret there is so much of the world I shall never see. Of course my brother has travelled a great deal…”

"He was a naval surgeon, wasn't he?" Hester sat in the chair offered her. "He mentioned something of it to me.”

Eglantyne's face showed little expression. It was plain it did not excite in her the imagination of danger, personal courage, desperate conditions and the knowledge of suffering that it did in Hester. But then how could it? Eglantyne Wade had probably never witnessed anything more violent or distressing than a minor carriage accident, the odd broken bone or cut hand. Her grief would be… what? Boredom, a sense of life passing by without touching her, of being very little real use to anyone. Almost certainly a loneliness, perhaps a broken romance, a love known and lost, or merely dreamed of. She was pretty, in fact very pretty, and it seemed she was also kind. But that was not enough to understand a man like Corriden Wade.

Eglantyne avoided Hester's eyes. "Yes, he does speak of it occasionally. He believes very strongly in the power of the Navy, and the life at sea, to build character. He says it is nature's way of refining the race. At least I think that is what he said." She seemed uninterested. There was no life in her voice, no lift of understanding or care.

Sylvestra looked at her quickly, as if sensing some emotion, perhaps loneliness, beyond her words.

"Would you like to travel?" Hesterasked to fill the silence.

"Sometimes I think so," Eglantyne answered slowly, recalling herself to the polite necessities of conversation. "I am not sure where. Fidelis… Mrs. Kynaston… speaks of it sometimes. But of course it was only a dream. Still, it is pleasant to read, is it not? I dare say you read a great deal to Rhys?”

The conversation continued for nearly an hour, touching on a dozen things, exploring none of them.

Eventually Corriden Wade returned looking very grave, his face deeply lined, as if he were close to exhaustion. He closed the door behind him and walked across to stand in front of them.

Silently Eglantyne reached out and took Sylvestra's hand, and Sylvestra clung to it until her knuckles shone white with the pressure.

"I am sorry, my dear," he said quietly. "I have to warn you that Rhys is not progressing as well as I would like. As no doubt Miss Latterly will have told you, his outer wounds are healing well. There is no suppuration and certainly no threat of gangrene. But internally we ca

Sylvestra stared up at him, her face stricken.

"We must wait and hope," Eglantyne said gently, looking from Sylvestra to her brother, and back again. "At least he is no worse, and that in itself is something to be thankful for.”

Sylvestra attempted to smile, and failed.

"Why does he not speak?" she pleaded. "You said he had not sustained any injury to make him dumb. What is wrong with him, Corriden? Why has he changed so terribly!”

He hesitated. He glanced at his sister, then drew in his breath as if to answer, but remained silent.

"Why?" Sylvestra demanded, her voice rising.

"I don't know," he said helplessly. "I don't know, and my dear, you must brace yourself for the fact that we may never know! Perhaps he will only recover if he can forget it entirely. Begin life again from now onward. And possibly in time that may happen." He turned to Hester, his eyes wide in question.

She could not answer. They were all staring at her, waiting for her to offer some kind of hope. She longed to be able to, and yet if she did, and it proved false, how much harder would it be then? Or was getting through tonight and tomorrow all that mattered at this moment? A step at a time. Don't attempt the entire journey in one leap of thought. It will be enough to cripple you.

"That may well be the case," she agreed aloud. "Time and forgetting may heal his spirit, and his body will follow.”

Sylvestra relaxed a little, blinking back tears. Surprisingly even Corriden Wade seemed to be pleased with her answer.

"Yes, yes," he nodded slightly. "I think you are very wise, Miss Latterly. And of course you have experience with men fearfully injured, and who must have seen most terrible sights. We will do all we can to help him forget.”

Hester rose to her feet. "I must go up and see if there is anything I can do for him now. Please excuse me.”

They murmured assent, and she left the room wishing them goodbye, and hurried across the hall and up the stairs. She found Rhys lying hunched up in the bed, the sheets tangled, a bowl of bloodstained bandages left by the door, half covered with a cloth. He was shivering, although the blankets were up around his chest, and the fire was burning briskly.

"Shall I change your bed…" she began.

He glared at her with blazing eyes of such rage she stopped in mid-sentence. He looked so savage she thought he might even attempt to strike at her if she came close enough, and he would damage his broken hands again.

What had happened? Had Dr. Wade told him how seriously ill he was?

Had he suddenly realised there was a possibility he would not get better? Was this rage his way of concealing a pain he could not bear?

She had seen such rage before, only too often.

Or had Dr. Wade examined him and been obliged to hurt him physically in order to look more carefully at his wounds? Did the fury in his eyes and the tear stains on his cheeks spring from unbearable pain, and the humiliation of not having been able to live up to his ideal of courage?

How could she begin to help him?

Perhaps fussing was the last thing he wanted at the moment. Maybe even a rumpled bed, stale and uncomfortable, sheets smeared with blood, were better than the interference of somebody who could not share his pain.

"If you want me, knock the bell," she said quietly, looking to make sure it was still where his fingers could reach it. It was not there.

She glanced around. It was across on the tallboy. Dr. Wade had probably moved it because he had wished to use the bedside table for his instruments, or the bowl. She replaced it where it usually sat.

"It doesn't matter what time it is," she assured him. "I'll come.”

He stared at her. He was still furious, still imprisoned in silence.

His eyes brimmed over with tears, and he turned away from her.