Read Online The Silent Cry by Anne Perry - Free Book Online Page B
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
Ads: Link
Miss Latterly, ever since I came out of the Navy…”
"The Navy?" She was caught by surprise. It was something she had not even imagined. "I'm sorry… I have no right to…”
He smiled suddenly, illuminating his features and changing his appearance entirely. "I was a naval surgeon twenty years ago. Some of the men I tended had served with Nelson." His eyes met hers, bright with memory, seeing in his mind another age, another world. "One old sailor, whose leg I amputated after a canon had broken loose and pinned him to the bulkhead, had served in the victory at Trafalgar." His voice was thick with concentration. "I don't suppose there is another woman I know to whom I could say that, and she would have some idea of what it means. But you have seen battle, you have watched the courage amid horror, the heart and the strength, the endurance through pain and in the face of death. I think we share something that the people around us can never know. I am extremely grateful that you are nursing poor Rhys, and will be here to support Sylvestra through what can only be a dreadful ordeal for her.”
He did not say so in words, but she saw in his eyes that he was preparing her for the fact that Rhys might not recover. She steeled herself.
"I shall do everything I can," she promised, meeting his gaze steadily.
"I'm sure you will." He nodded. "I have no doubt of it whatever. Now… I will see him. Alone. I am sure you understand. He is a proud man… young… sensitive. I have wounds to tend, dressings which must be changed.”
"Of course. If I can be of assistance, just ring the bell.”
"Thank you, thank you, Miss Latterly.”
In the afternoon Hester left Rhys to rest, and spent a little time with Sylvestra in the withdrawing room. It was crowded with furniture, as was the rest of the house, but warm and surprisingly comfortable, to the body if not to the eye.
The house was very quiet. She could hear only the flames in the fireplace and the driving of rain against the window. There were no sounds of servants' feet across the hallway, or whispers or laughter as there were in most houses. Tragedy seemed to have settled over it with peculiar loneliness.
Sylvestra asked after Rhys, but it was merely to make conversation. She had been in to see him twice during the day, the second time she had stayed for a painful half-hour, trying to think of something to say to him, recalling happiness in the distant past, when he was still a child, and half promising that such peace and joy would come again. She had not mentioned Leighton Duff. Perhaps that was natural. The shock and wound of his loss was far too new, and she certainly would not wish to remind Rhys of it.
In the silences between them, Hester looked around the room for something to prompt a conversation. Again she was unsure whether speech was wanted or not. She was conscious of a painful isolation in the woman who sat a few feet away from her, a polite smile on her face, her eyes distant. Hester did not know if it was loneliness, or simply a private dignity of grief.
She saw among the group photographs one of a young woman with dark eyes and level brows and a nose too strong to be pretty, but her mouth was beautiful. She bore a marked resemblance to Rhys, and the gown she was wearing, the top half of which was very clear in the picture, was of very modern style, not more than a year or two old.
"What an interesting face," she remarked, hoping it was not touching on another tragedy.
Sylvestra smiled and there was pride in it.
"That is my daughter, Amalia.”
Hester wondered where she was, and how soon she could be here to help and support her mother. Surely no family duty could be more important?
The answer came immediately, again with a lift of pride and shadow of puzzlement.
"She is in India. Both my daughters are there. Constance is married to a captain in the army. She had the most terrible time during the Mutiny three years ago. She writes often, telling us about
"The Navy?" She was caught by surprise. It was something she had not even imagined. "I'm sorry… I have no right to…”
He smiled suddenly, illuminating his features and changing his appearance entirely. "I was a naval surgeon twenty years ago. Some of the men I tended had served with Nelson." His eyes met hers, bright with memory, seeing in his mind another age, another world. "One old sailor, whose leg I amputated after a canon had broken loose and pinned him to the bulkhead, had served in the victory at Trafalgar." His voice was thick with concentration. "I don't suppose there is another woman I know to whom I could say that, and she would have some idea of what it means. But you have seen battle, you have watched the courage amid horror, the heart and the strength, the endurance through pain and in the face of death. I think we share something that the people around us can never know. I am extremely grateful that you are nursing poor Rhys, and will be here to support Sylvestra through what can only be a dreadful ordeal for her.”
He did not say so in words, but she saw in his eyes that he was preparing her for the fact that Rhys might not recover. She steeled herself.
"I shall do everything I can," she promised, meeting his gaze steadily.
"I'm sure you will." He nodded. "I have no doubt of it whatever. Now… I will see him. Alone. I am sure you understand. He is a proud man… young… sensitive. I have wounds to tend, dressings which must be changed.”
"Of course. If I can be of assistance, just ring the bell.”
"Thank you, thank you, Miss Latterly.”
In the afternoon Hester left Rhys to rest, and spent a little time with Sylvestra in the withdrawing room. It was crowded with furniture, as was the rest of the house, but warm and surprisingly comfortable, to the body if not to the eye.
The house was very quiet. She could hear only the flames in the fireplace and the driving of rain against the window. There were no sounds of servants' feet across the hallway, or whispers or laughter as there were in most houses. Tragedy seemed to have settled over it with peculiar loneliness.
Sylvestra asked after Rhys, but it was merely to make conversation. She had been in to see him twice during the day, the second time she had stayed for a painful half-hour, trying to think of something to say to him, recalling happiness in the distant past, when he was still a child, and half promising that such peace and joy would come again. She had not mentioned Leighton Duff. Perhaps that was natural. The shock and wound of his loss was far too new, and she certainly would not wish to remind Rhys of it.
In the silences between them, Hester looked around the room for something to prompt a conversation. Again she was unsure whether speech was wanted or not. She was conscious of a painful isolation in the woman who sat a few feet away from her, a polite smile on her face, her eyes distant. Hester did not know if it was loneliness, or simply a private dignity of grief.
She saw among the group photographs one of a young woman with dark eyes and level brows and a nose too strong to be pretty, but her mouth was beautiful. She bore a marked resemblance to Rhys, and the gown she was wearing, the top half of which was very clear in the picture, was of very modern style, not more than a year or two old.
"What an interesting face," she remarked, hoping it was not touching on another tragedy.
Sylvestra smiled and there was pride in it.
"That is my daughter, Amalia.”
Hester wondered where she was, and how soon she could be here to help and support her mother. Surely no family duty could be more important?
The answer came immediately, again with a lift of pride and shadow of puzzlement.
"She is in India. Both my daughters are there. Constance is married to a captain in the army. She had the most terrible time during the Mutiny three years ago. She writes often, telling us about
Similar Books
