“Of course! I’m sorry for being so slow to understand. Yes, I have told him. I did not think it right to keep it from him. He will have to face it. I do not want him to believe I have lied to him.”
“I cannot imagine how difficult it must be for you,” Hester said. “I am sorry I had to ask.”
Sylvestra was silent for a moment, as if she too was stunned even by the thought of what had happened to her in the space of a few days. Her husband was dead and her son was desperately ill, locked in his own world of isolation, hearing and seeing but unable to speak, unable to communicate with anyone the terror and the pain he must feel.
“I’ll try to tell you something about him,” Sylvestra replied. “It … it is difficult to think of the kind of things which would help.” She turned to lead the way out of the room and across the hall to the stairs. At the bottom she looked back at Hester.“I am afraid that because of the nature of the incident, we have the police returning to ask questions. I cannot believe they will trouble you, since naturally you can know nothing. When Rhys regains his speech, he will tell them, but of course they don’t wish to wait.” A bleakness came over her face. “I don’t suppose they will ever find who did it anyway. It will be some pack of nameless ruffians, and the slums will protect their own.” She started up the stairs, back very straight, head high, but there was no life in her step.
Following after her, Hester imagined that Sylvestra was barely beginning to lose the numbness of shock, and only in her mind did she turn over and over the details as their reality emerged. Hester could remember feeling the same when she first heard of the suicide of her father, and then, within weeks, of her mother’s death from loneliness and despair. She had kept on worrying at the details, and yet at the same time never really believed the man responsible for her family’s ruin would be caught.
But that was all in the past, and all that needed to be retained in her mind from it was her understanding of the changing moods of grief.
The Duff house was large and very modern in furnishings. Everything she had seen in the morning room and in the hall dated from no further back than the accession of the Queen. There was none of the spare elegance of the Georgian period, or of William IV. There were pictures everywhere, ornate wallpaper, tapestries and woven rugs, flower arrangements and stuffed animals under glass. Fortunately, both the hall and the upstairs landings were large enough not to give an air of oppression, but it was not a style Hester found comfortable.
Sylvestra opened the third door along, hesitated a moment, then invited Hester to accompany her inside. This room was completely different. The long windows faced south and such daylight as there was fell on almost bare walls. The space was dominated by a large bed with carved posts, and in it lay a young man with pale skin, his sensitive, moody face mottled with blue-black bruises and in several places still scabbed with dried blood. His hair, as black as his mother’s, was parted toone side and fell forward over his brow. Because of the disfigurement of his injuries and the pain he must feel, it was difficult to read his expression, but he stared at Hester with what looked like resentment.
It did not surprise her. She was an intruder in a very deep and private grief. She was a stranger, and yet he would be dependent upon her for his most personal needs. She would witness his pain and still be detached from it, able to come and go, to see and yet not to feel. He would not be the first patient to find that humiliating, an emotional and physical nakedness in front of someone who always had the privacy of clothing.
Sylvestra went over to the bed, but she did not sit.
“This is Miss Latterly, who is going to care for you now you are home again. She will be with you all the time, or else in the room along the landing, where
“I cannot imagine how difficult it must be for you,” Hester said. “I am sorry I had to ask.”
Sylvestra was silent for a moment, as if she too was stunned even by the thought of what had happened to her in the space of a few days. Her husband was dead and her son was desperately ill, locked in his own world of isolation, hearing and seeing but unable to speak, unable to communicate with anyone the terror and the pain he must feel.
“I’ll try to tell you something about him,” Sylvestra replied. “It … it is difficult to think of the kind of things which would help.” She turned to lead the way out of the room and across the hall to the stairs. At the bottom she looked back at Hester.“I am afraid that because of the nature of the incident, we have the police returning to ask questions. I cannot believe they will trouble you, since naturally you can know nothing. When Rhys regains his speech, he will tell them, but of course they don’t wish to wait.” A bleakness came over her face. “I don’t suppose they will ever find who did it anyway. It will be some pack of nameless ruffians, and the slums will protect their own.” She started up the stairs, back very straight, head high, but there was no life in her step.
Following after her, Hester imagined that Sylvestra was barely beginning to lose the numbness of shock, and only in her mind did she turn over and over the details as their reality emerged. Hester could remember feeling the same when she first heard of the suicide of her father, and then, within weeks, of her mother’s death from loneliness and despair. She had kept on worrying at the details, and yet at the same time never really believed the man responsible for her family’s ruin would be caught.
But that was all in the past, and all that needed to be retained in her mind from it was her understanding of the changing moods of grief.
The Duff house was large and very modern in furnishings. Everything she had seen in the morning room and in the hall dated from no further back than the accession of the Queen. There was none of the spare elegance of the Georgian period, or of William IV. There were pictures everywhere, ornate wallpaper, tapestries and woven rugs, flower arrangements and stuffed animals under glass. Fortunately, both the hall and the upstairs landings were large enough not to give an air of oppression, but it was not a style Hester found comfortable.
Sylvestra opened the third door along, hesitated a moment, then invited Hester to accompany her inside. This room was completely different. The long windows faced south and such daylight as there was fell on almost bare walls. The space was dominated by a large bed with carved posts, and in it lay a young man with pale skin, his sensitive, moody face mottled with blue-black bruises and in several places still scabbed with dried blood. His hair, as black as his mother’s, was parted toone side and fell forward over his brow. Because of the disfigurement of his injuries and the pain he must feel, it was difficult to read his expression, but he stared at Hester with what looked like resentment.
It did not surprise her. She was an intruder in a very deep and private grief. She was a stranger, and yet he would be dependent upon her for his most personal needs. She would witness his pain and still be detached from it, able to come and go, to see and yet not to feel. He would not be the first patient to find that humiliating, an emotional and physical nakedness in front of someone who always had the privacy of clothing.
Sylvestra went over to the bed, but she did not sit.
“This is Miss Latterly, who is going to care for you now you are home again. She will be with you all the time, or else in the room along the landing, where
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