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Authors: Anne Perry
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was hardly discernible. He was not a man who wished to have any softness seen in him, even here.
“He put her out,” he added. “I have sent letters to her family, but it may be a few days before anyone can send for her. They live in the north. And at present she is too ill to travel.”
Hester looked at the woman again. Her face was flushed deep red, and she seemed to be so consumed by her suffering that she was almost oblivious of her surroundings.
“Can you tell me any history of her illness?” Hester asked quietly. Even though she thought the woman was not listening to her, she still disliked speaking of someone as if they were not present. “Anything you can tell me may help.”
“I don’t know when it began,” he replied. “Or if it was slow or sudden. She seems to be feverish, barely able to stand, and since last night when I took her from his keeping, she has had no desire to eat.”
“Is she sick, vomiting?” she asked.
He looked at her quite steadily. “No. It seems to be a matter of fever and dizziness, and difficulty in breathing. I daresay it is pneumonia, or something of the sort.” He hesitated. “I don’t wish her in a hospital with their rigid moral rules. They would despise her for her circumstances, and rob her of any privacy.”
Hester understood. She had worked in hospital wards and knew the pages of directions, the things patients must do, and could not do without removal of privileges, freedoms. Many of them were to do with morality, in someone’s strict opinion.
“We’ll do everything for her that we can,” she promised. “Rest and warmth, and as many hot drinks as we can persuade her to take, will help. But if it is pneumonia, it will have to run its course, until the fever breaks. No one can tell whether that will be for good or ill, but we will do all that can be done. And I can promise you that at least she will be eased in her distress.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly, and with a suddenly intense feeling, “You are a good woman.” He put his hand into the pocket inside his jacket and pulled out a handful of money. He placed five gold sovereigns on the back of the couch, and then counted out four half crowns and four separate shillings. “Our agreement,” he said. “Thank you, Mrs. Monk. Good day to you.”
“Good day, Mr. Louvain,” she replied, but already her attention was on the sick woman. She picked up the money and put it in the pocket of her dress, then rearranged her apron over it. “Bessie, you’d best help me get Miss Clark along to a room and into bed. The poor soul looks fit to pass out.”
And indeed Ruth Clark seemed so deep in her distress as to be beyond helping herself. When Hester bent to half lift her on one side, with Bessie on the other, it was all they could do to get her as far as the first bedroom. Bessie propped her up, sagging against the door frame, while Hester freed one hand to open the door, and then together they half lifted, half dragged her across to the bed. She fell on it heavily. Her eyes were still open, but she did not seem to see anything, nor did she speak.
She was dead weight, and with considerable difficulty, in spite of much practice, Hester took her outer clothes off while Bessie went to get half a cup of hot tea with a drop of brandy in it.
When she had removed all but Ruth’s undergarments and had eased her into the bed, Hester took the pins out of Ruth’s hair so she would be more comfortable. She touched the woman’s forehead. It was very hot, her skin dry. She studied her patient’s face, trying to assess what sort of woman she was and how long she had been ill.
It must have come on very rapidly. Had it been slow—a sore throat, then a tight chest, then fever—surely Louvain would have brought her sooner. She did not look to be a woman of delicate constitution, or prone to infection. The skin of her arms and body was firm and her neck and shoulders had a good texture, not the loose, thin, slightly
“He put her out,” he added. “I have sent letters to her family, but it may be a few days before anyone can send for her. They live in the north. And at present she is too ill to travel.”
Hester looked at the woman again. Her face was flushed deep red, and she seemed to be so consumed by her suffering that she was almost oblivious of her surroundings.
“Can you tell me any history of her illness?” Hester asked quietly. Even though she thought the woman was not listening to her, she still disliked speaking of someone as if they were not present. “Anything you can tell me may help.”
“I don’t know when it began,” he replied. “Or if it was slow or sudden. She seems to be feverish, barely able to stand, and since last night when I took her from his keeping, she has had no desire to eat.”
“Is she sick, vomiting?” she asked.
He looked at her quite steadily. “No. It seems to be a matter of fever and dizziness, and difficulty in breathing. I daresay it is pneumonia, or something of the sort.” He hesitated. “I don’t wish her in a hospital with their rigid moral rules. They would despise her for her circumstances, and rob her of any privacy.”
Hester understood. She had worked in hospital wards and knew the pages of directions, the things patients must do, and could not do without removal of privileges, freedoms. Many of them were to do with morality, in someone’s strict opinion.
“We’ll do everything for her that we can,” she promised. “Rest and warmth, and as many hot drinks as we can persuade her to take, will help. But if it is pneumonia, it will have to run its course, until the fever breaks. No one can tell whether that will be for good or ill, but we will do all that can be done. And I can promise you that at least she will be eased in her distress.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly, and with a suddenly intense feeling, “You are a good woman.” He put his hand into the pocket inside his jacket and pulled out a handful of money. He placed five gold sovereigns on the back of the couch, and then counted out four half crowns and four separate shillings. “Our agreement,” he said. “Thank you, Mrs. Monk. Good day to you.”
“Good day, Mr. Louvain,” she replied, but already her attention was on the sick woman. She picked up the money and put it in the pocket of her dress, then rearranged her apron over it. “Bessie, you’d best help me get Miss Clark along to a room and into bed. The poor soul looks fit to pass out.”
And indeed Ruth Clark seemed so deep in her distress as to be beyond helping herself. When Hester bent to half lift her on one side, with Bessie on the other, it was all they could do to get her as far as the first bedroom. Bessie propped her up, sagging against the door frame, while Hester freed one hand to open the door, and then together they half lifted, half dragged her across to the bed. She fell on it heavily. Her eyes were still open, but she did not seem to see anything, nor did she speak.
She was dead weight, and with considerable difficulty, in spite of much practice, Hester took her outer clothes off while Bessie went to get half a cup of hot tea with a drop of brandy in it.
When she had removed all but Ruth’s undergarments and had eased her into the bed, Hester took the pins out of Ruth’s hair so she would be more comfortable. She touched the woman’s forehead. It was very hot, her skin dry. She studied her patient’s face, trying to assess what sort of woman she was and how long she had been ill.
It must have come on very rapidly. Had it been slow—a sore throat, then a tight chest, then fever—surely Louvain would have brought her sooner. She did not look to be a woman of delicate constitution, or prone to infection. The skin of her arms and body was firm and her neck and shoulders had a good texture, not the loose, thin, slightly
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