Read Online The Silent Cry by Anne Perry - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anne Perry
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, General, detective, Suspense, Historical, Mystery & Detective, Private Investigators, Legal Stories, Mystery Fiction, Political, Traditional British, London (England), Monk; William (Fictitious character), Private investigators - England - London
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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 further 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 it to his lips. He drank it 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 silent. What should she say? Usually she would have asked a patient about themselves, led them to talk to her.
But anything with Rhys would be utterly one-sided. She could only guess from his expression whether her words interested or bored, encouraged or caused further pain. She had hardly seen Sylvestra to learn any more about him.
In the end she said nothing.
She took the empty cup from him. "Are you ready to sleep?" she asked.
He shook his head slowly but decisively. He wanted her to stay.
"You have some very interesting books." She glanced towards the shelf.
"Do you like to be read to?”
He thought for a moment, then nodded. She should choose something far removed from his present life, and it must be something without violence. Nothing must remind him of his own experience. And yet it must not be tedious either.
She went over to the shelf and tried to make out the titles in the firelight, which was now considerable. "How about a history of Byzantium?" she suggested.
He nodded again, and she returned with it in her hand. "I'll have to light the gas.”
He agreed, and for three-quarters of an hour she read quietly to him about the colourful and devious history of that great centre of Empire, its customs and its people, its intrigues and struggles for power. He fell asleep reluctantly, and she closed the book, marking the page with a taper from the box by the fire, put out the light again, and tip-toed back to her room with a feeling of something close to elation.
There was not a great deal she could do for him beyond making sure he was as comfortable as possible, that his bedroom was clean and that the bandages on his more minor wounds were changed as often as was consistent with healing. Eating was difficult for him and seemed to cause him immediate distress. Obviously his internal injuries affected his ability to accept and digest food. It was distressing, and yet she knew that if he did not take nourishment he would waste away, his organs would cease to function and he would damage them irreparably.
Fluid was vital.
She brought him milk and arrowroot again, beef tea, and a little dry, very thin toast, and then half an hour later, more egg custard.
It was not without pain, but he did retain it.
Dr. Wade came in the late morning. He looked anxious, his face pinched, his eyes shadowed. He himself was limping and in some pain from a fall from his horse over the previous weekend. He came upstairs almost immediately, meeting Hester on the landing.
"How is he, Miss Latterly? I fear it is a wretched job I've given you.
I'm truly sorry.”
"Please don't apologise, Dr. Wade," she responded sincerely. "I don't wish to have only the easy cases…”
His face softened. "I'm very grateful for that! I had heard well of you, it seems with good reason. Nevertheless, it must be disturbing when there is so little you can do, anyone can do, to help." He frowned and his voice dropped. He stared at the floor. "I've known the family for years,
"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 further 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 it to his lips. He drank it 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 silent. What should she say? Usually she would have asked a patient about themselves, led them to talk to her.
But anything with Rhys would be utterly one-sided. She could only guess from his expression whether her words interested or bored, encouraged or caused further pain. She had hardly seen Sylvestra to learn any more about him.
In the end she said nothing.
She took the empty cup from him. "Are you ready to sleep?" she asked.
He shook his head slowly but decisively. He wanted her to stay.
"You have some very interesting books." She glanced towards the shelf.
"Do you like to be read to?”
He thought for a moment, then nodded. She should choose something far removed from his present life, and it must be something without violence. Nothing must remind him of his own experience. And yet it must not be tedious either.
She went over to the shelf and tried to make out the titles in the firelight, which was now considerable. "How about a history of Byzantium?" she suggested.
He nodded again, and she returned with it in her hand. "I'll have to light the gas.”
He agreed, and for three-quarters of an hour she read quietly to him about the colourful and devious history of that great centre of Empire, its customs and its people, its intrigues and struggles for power. He fell asleep reluctantly, and she closed the book, marking the page with a taper from the box by the fire, put out the light again, and tip-toed back to her room with a feeling of something close to elation.
There was not a great deal she could do for him beyond making sure he was as comfortable as possible, that his bedroom was clean and that the bandages on his more minor wounds were changed as often as was consistent with healing. Eating was difficult for him and seemed to cause him immediate distress. Obviously his internal injuries affected his ability to accept and digest food. It was distressing, and yet she knew that if he did not take nourishment he would waste away, his organs would cease to function and he would damage them irreparably.
Fluid was vital.
She brought him milk and arrowroot again, beef tea, and a little dry, very thin toast, and then half an hour later, more egg custard.
It was not without pain, but he did retain it.
Dr. Wade came in the late morning. He looked anxious, his face pinched, his eyes shadowed. He himself was limping and in some pain from a fall from his horse over the previous weekend. He came upstairs almost immediately, meeting Hester on the landing.
"How is he, Miss Latterly? I fear it is a wretched job I've given you.
I'm truly sorry.”
"Please don't apologise, Dr. Wade," she responded sincerely. "I don't wish to have only the easy cases…”
His face softened. "I'm very grateful for that! I had heard well of you, it seems with good reason. Nevertheless, it must be disturbing when there is so little you can do, anyone can do, to help." He frowned and his voice dropped. He stared at the floor. "I've known the family for years,
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