Afterwards Rhys was exhausted. His face was grey with pain and his clothes were soaked with sweat.

"I'll change the bed," she said matter-of-factly. "You can't sleep in that. Then I'll get you a draught to ease the pain of it, and help you to rest. Maybe you'll think twice before hitting anyone again?”

He bit his lip and stared at her. He looked rueful, but it was far less than an apology. It was too complicated to express without words, perhaps even with them.

She helped him to the further side of the bed, half supporting his weight; he was dizzy and weak with pain. She eased him down on to it.

She took off the rumpled sheets, marked with spots of blood, and put on clean ones. Then she helped him change into a fresh nightshirt and held him steady while he half rolled back to the centre of the bed and she straightened the covers over him.

"I'll be back in a few moments with the draught for pain," she told him. "Don't move until I return.”

He nodded obediently.

It took her nearly quarter of an hour to mix up the strongest dose she dared give him from Dr. Wade's medicine. It should be enough to help him sleep at least half of the night. Anything strong enough to deaden the pain of his hands might kill him. It was the best she could do.

She offered it to him and held it while he drank.

He made a face.

"I know it's bitter," she agreed. "I brought a little peppermint to take the taste away.”

He looked at her gravely, then very slowly he smiled. It was thanks, there was nothing else in it, no cruelty, no satisfaction. He was powerless to explain.

She pushed the hair back off his brow.

"Goodnight," she said quietly. "If you need me, you have only to knock the bell.”

He raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, of course I'll come," she promised.

This time the smile was a little wider, then he turned away suddenly, and his eyes filled with tears.

She went out quietly, bitterly aware that she was leaving him alone with his horror and his silence. The draught would give him at least a little rest.

The doctor called the following morning. It was a dark day, the sky heavy-laden with snow and an icy wind whistling in the eaves. He came in with skin whipped ruddy by the cold, and rubbing his hands to get the circulation back after sitting still in his carriage.

Sylvestra was relieved to see him and came out of the morning room immediately she heard his voice in the hall. Hester was on the stairs and could not help observing his quick effort to smile at her, and her relief. She went to him eagerly and he took her hands in his, nodding while he spoke to her. The conversation was brief, then he came straight up to Hester. He took her arm and led her away from the banister edge and towards the more private centre of the landing.

"It is not good news," he said very quietly as if aware of Sylvestra still below them. "You gave him the powders I left?”

"Yes, in the strongest dose you prescribed. It provided him some ease.”

"Yes," he nodded. He looked cold, anxious and very tired, as if he too had slept little. Perhaps he had been up all night with other patients. Below them in the hall Sylvestra's footsteps faded towards the withdrawing room.

"I wish I knew what to do to help him, but I confess I am working blindly." Wade looked at Hester with a regretful smile. "This is very different from the orlop deck on which I trained." He gave a dry, little laugh. "There everything was so quick. Men were carried in and laid on the canvas. Each waited his turn, first brought in, first seen. It was a matter of searching for musket balls, splinters of wood teak splinters are poisonous, did you know that, Miss Latterly?

"No.”

"Of course not! I don't suppose you have them in the army. But then in the Navy we didn't have men trodden on or dragged by horses. I expect you did?”

"Yes.”

"But we are both used to cannon fire, sabre slashes and musket shot, and fever…" His eyes were bright with remembered agony. "God, the fevers! Yellow Jack, scurvy, malaria…”

"Cholera, typhoid and gangrene," she responded, the past hideously clear for an instant.

"Gangrene," he agreed, his gaze unwavering from hers. "Dear God, I saw some courage! I imagine you could match me, instance for instance?”

"I believe so." She did not want to see the white faces again, the broken bodies and the fever and deaths, but it gave her a pride like a burning pain inside to have been part of it, and to be able to share it with this man who understood as a mere reader and listener never could.

"What can we do for Rhys?" she asked.

He drew in his breath and let it go in a sigh. "Keep him as quiet and as comfortable as we can. The internal bruising will subside in time, I believe, unless there is more damage done than we know. His external wounds are healing, but it is very early yet." He looked very grave and his voice dropped even lower, belying his words. "He is young, and was strong and in good health. The flesh will knit, but it will take time. It must still cause him severe pain. It is to be expected, and there is nothing to do but endure. You can relieve him to some extent with the powders I have left. I will re-dress his wounds each time I call, and make sure they are uninfected. There is little suppuration, and no sign of gangrene, so far. I shall be most careful.”

"I was obliged to re-bandage his hands last night. I'm sorry." She was reluctant to tell him about the unpleasant incident with Sylvestra.

"Oh?" He looked wary, the concern in his eyes deepening, but she saw no anger, no censure of her. "I think you had better tell me what happened, Miss Latterly. I am sensitive to your wish to protect your patient's confidentiality, but I have known Rhys a long time. I am already aware of some of his characteristics.”

Briefly, omitting detail, she told him of the encounter with Sylvestra.

"I see," he said quietly. He turned away so she could not see his face. "It is not hopeful. Please do not encourage Mrs. Duff to expect… Miss Latterly, I confess I do not know what to say! One should never abandon any effort, try all one can, whatever the odds.”

He hesitated before going on, as if it cost him an effort to master his feelings. "I have seen miracles of recovery. I have also seen a great many men die. Perhaps it is better to say nothing, if you can do that, living here in the house?”

"I can try. Do you think he will regain his speech?”

He swung around to face her, his eyes narrow and dark, unreadable.

"I have no idea. But you must keep the police from harassing him! If they do, and they send him into another hysteria, it could kill him.”

His voice was brittle and urgent. She heard the note of fear in it, which she saw in his eyes and mouth. "I don't know what happened, or what he did, but I do know that the memory is unbearable to him. If you want to save his sanity, you will guard him with every spark of courage and intelligence you have, from the police attempts to make him relive it with their questions. For him to do so could very well tip him over the abyss into madness from which he might never return. I have no doubt that if anyone is equal to that, you are.”

"Thank you," she said simply. It was a compliment she would treasure, because it was from a man who used no idle words.

He nodded. "Now I will go and see him. If you will be good enough to ensure we are uninterrupted. I must examine not only his hands, but his other wounds to see he has not torn any of the newly healing skin.

Thank you for your care, Miss Latterly.”

The following day Rhys received his first visitor since the incident.

It was early in the afternoon. The day was considerably brighter. Snow was lying on the roofs and it reflected back from a windy sky and the pale sunlight of short, winter days.