Read Online William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry by Anne Perry - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne Perry
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hundreds. You feel as if everything ought to stop, but of course it doesn’t.”
She watched him, and he did not move his eyes away, even though they seemed filled with anger. She was almost sure it was anger, not fear. She looked down to where his broken and splinted hands lay on the sheets. The ends of the fingers below the bandages were slender and sensitive. The nails were perfectly shaped, except for one which was badly torn. He must have injured them when he had fought to try to save himself … and perhaps his father too. What did he remember of it? What terrible knowledge was locked up in his silence?
“I met several Turkish people who were very charming and most interesting,” she went on, as if he had responded wishing to know. She described a young man who had helped in the hospital, talking about him quite casually, remembering more and more as she spoke. What she could not recall she invented.
Once, during the whole hour she spent with him, she saw the beginning of a smile touch his mouth. At least he was really listening. For a moment they had shared a thought or a feeling.
Later she brought a salve to put on the broken skin of his face where it was drying and would crack painfully. She reached out with it on her finger, and the moment her skin touched his, he snatched his cheek away, his body clenched up, his eyes black and angry.
“It won’t hurt,” she promised. “It will help to stop the scab from cracking.”
He did not move. His muscles were tight, his chest andshoulders so locked that the pain of it must pull on the bruises which both Dr. Riley and Dr. Wade had said covered his body.
She let her hands fall.
“All right. It doesn’t matter. I’ll ask you later and see if you’ve changed your mind.”
She left and went downstairs to the kitchen to fetch him something to eat. Perhaps the cook would prepare him a coddled egg or a light custard. According to Dr. Wade, he was well enough to eat and must be encouraged to do so.
The cook, Mrs. Crozier, had quite an array of suitable dishes either already prepared or easy to make even as Hester waited. She offered beef tea, eggs, steamed fish, bread-and-butter pudding, baked custard or cold chicken.
“How is he, miss?” she asked with concern in her face.
“He seems very poorly still,” Hester answered honestly. “But we should keep every hope. Perhaps you know which dishes he likes?”
The cook’s face brightened a little. “Oh, yes, miss, I certainly do. Very fond o’ cold saddle o’ mutton, he is, or jugged hare.”
“As soon as he’s ready for that, I’ll let you know.” Hester took the coddled egg and the custard.
She found him in a changed mood. He seemed very ready to allow her to assist him to sit up and take more than half the food prepared for him, in spite of the fact that to move at all obviously caused him considerable pain. He gasped and sweat broke out on his face. He seemed at once clammy and cold, and for a little while nauseous as well.
She did all she could for him but it was very little. She was forced to stand by helplessly while he fought waves of pain, his eyes on her face, filled with desperation and a plea for any comfort at all, any relief. She reached out and held the ends of his fingers below the bandages, regardless of the bruising and the broken, scabbed skin, and gripped him as she would were he slipping away from her literally.
His fingers clung so hard she felt as if she too would be bruised when at last he let go.
Half an hour passed in silence, then finally he began to relax alittle. The sweat was running off his brow and standing in beads on his lip, but his shoulders lay easy on the pillow and his fingers unclenched. She was able to slip her hand out of his grasp and move away to wring the cloth again and bathe his face.
He smiled at her. It was just a small curving of the lips, a softening of his eyes, but it was real.
She smiled back and felt a tightness in her throat. It was a
She watched him, and he did not move his eyes away, even though they seemed filled with anger. She was almost sure it was anger, not fear. She looked down to where his broken and splinted hands lay on the sheets. The ends of the fingers below the bandages were slender and sensitive. The nails were perfectly shaped, except for one which was badly torn. He must have injured them when he had fought to try to save himself … and perhaps his father too. What did he remember of it? What terrible knowledge was locked up in his silence?
“I met several Turkish people who were very charming and most interesting,” she went on, as if he had responded wishing to know. She described a young man who had helped in the hospital, talking about him quite casually, remembering more and more as she spoke. What she could not recall she invented.
Once, during the whole hour she spent with him, she saw the beginning of a smile touch his mouth. At least he was really listening. For a moment they had shared a thought or a feeling.
Later she brought a salve to put on the broken skin of his face where it was drying and would crack painfully. She reached out with it on her finger, and the moment her skin touched his, he snatched his cheek away, his body clenched up, his eyes black and angry.
“It won’t hurt,” she promised. “It will help to stop the scab from cracking.”
He did not move. His muscles were tight, his chest andshoulders so locked that the pain of it must pull on the bruises which both Dr. Riley and Dr. Wade had said covered his body.
She let her hands fall.
“All right. It doesn’t matter. I’ll ask you later and see if you’ve changed your mind.”
She left and went downstairs to the kitchen to fetch him something to eat. Perhaps the cook would prepare him a coddled egg or a light custard. According to Dr. Wade, he was well enough to eat and must be encouraged to do so.
The cook, Mrs. Crozier, had quite an array of suitable dishes either already prepared or easy to make even as Hester waited. She offered beef tea, eggs, steamed fish, bread-and-butter pudding, baked custard or cold chicken.
“How is he, miss?” she asked with concern in her face.
“He seems very poorly still,” Hester answered honestly. “But we should keep every hope. Perhaps you know which dishes he likes?”
The cook’s face brightened a little. “Oh, yes, miss, I certainly do. Very fond o’ cold saddle o’ mutton, he is, or jugged hare.”
“As soon as he’s ready for that, I’ll let you know.” Hester took the coddled egg and the custard.
She found him in a changed mood. He seemed very ready to allow her to assist him to sit up and take more than half the food prepared for him, in spite of the fact that to move at all obviously caused him considerable pain. He gasped and sweat broke out on his face. He seemed at once clammy and cold, and for a little while nauseous as well.
She did all she could for him but it was very little. She was forced to stand by helplessly while he fought waves of pain, his eyes on her face, filled with desperation and a plea for any comfort at all, any relief. She reached out and held the ends of his fingers below the bandages, regardless of the bruising and the broken, scabbed skin, and gripped him as she would were he slipping away from her literally.
His fingers clung so hard she felt as if she too would be bruised when at last he let go.
Half an hour passed in silence, then finally he began to relax alittle. The sweat was running off his brow and standing in beads on his lip, but his shoulders lay easy on the pillow and his fingers unclenched. She was able to slip her hand out of his grasp and move away to wring the cloth again and bathe his face.
He smiled at her. It was just a small curving of the lips, a softening of his eyes, but it was real.
She smiled back and felt a tightness in her throat. It was a
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