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TWO DAYS AFTER Percival was hanged, Septimus Thirsk developed a slight fever, not enough to fear some serious disease, but sufficient to make him feel unwell and confine him to his room. Beatrice, who had kept Hester more for her company than any genuine need of her professional skills, dispatched her immediately to care for him, obtain any medication she considered advisable, and do anything she could to ease his discomfort and aid his recovery.
Hester found Septimus lying in bed and in his large, airy room. The curtains were drawn wide open onto a fierce February day, with the sleet dashing against the windows like grapeshot and a sky so low and leaden it seemed to rest close above the rooftops. The room was cluttered with army memorabilia, engravings of soldiers in dress uniform, mounted cavalry officers, and all along the west wall in a place of honor, unflanked by anything else, a superb painting of the charge of the Royal Scots Greys at Waterloo, horses with nostrils flared, white manes flying in the clouds of smoke, and the whole sweep of battle behind them. She felt her heart lurch and her stomach knot at the sight of it. It was so real she could smell the gunsmoke and hear the thunder of hooves, the shouting and the clash of steel, and feel the sun burning her skin, and knew the warm odor of blood would fill her nose and throat afterwards.
And then there would be the silence on the grass, the dead lying waiting for burial or the carrion birds, the endless work, the helplessness and the few sudden flashes of victory when someone lived through appalling wounds or found some ease from pain. It was all so vivid in the moment she saw the picture, her body ached with the memory of exhaustion and the fear, the pity, the anger and the exhilaration.
She looked and saw Septimus’s faded blue eyes on her, and knew in that instant they understood each other as no one else in that house ever could. He smiled very slowly, a sweet, almost radiant look.
She hesitated, not to break the moment, then as it passed naturally, she went over to him and began a simple nursing routine, questions, feeling his brow, then the pulse in his bony wrist, his abdomen to see if it were causing him pain, listened carefully to his rather shallow breathing and for telltale rattling in his chest.
His skin was flushed, dry and a little rough, his eyes over-bright, but beyond a chill she could find nothing gravely wrong with him. However a few days of care might do far more for him than any medication, and she was happy to give it. She liked Septimus, and felt the neglect and slight condescension he received from the rest of the family.
He looked at her, a quizzical expression on his face. She thought quite suddenly that if she had pronounced pneumonia or consumption he would not have been afraid—or even grievously shaken. He had long ago accepted that death comes to everyone, and he had seen the reality of it many times, both by violence and by disease. And he had no deep purpose in extending his life anymore. He was a passenger, a guest in his brother-in-law’s house, tolerated but not needed. And he was a man born and trained to fight and to protect, to serve as a way of life.
She touched him very gently.
“A nasty chill, but if you are cared for it should pass without any lasting effect. I shall stay with you for a while, just to make sure.” She saw his face brighten and realized how used he was to loneliness. It had become like the ache in the joints one moves so as to accommodate, tries to forget, but never quite succeeds. She smiled with quick, bright conspiracy. “And we shall be able to talk.”
He smiled back, his eyes bright for once with pleasure and not the fever in him.
“I think you had better remain,” he agreed. “In case I should take a sudden turn for the worse.” And he coughed dramatically, although she could also see the real pain of a congested chest.
“Now I will go down to the kitchen and get you some milk and onion soup,” she said briskly.
He pulled a face.
“It is very good for you,” she assured him. “And really quite palatable. And while you eat it, I shall tell you about my experiences—and then you may tell me about yours!”
“For that,” he conceded, “I will even eat milk and onion soup!”
Hester spent all that day with Septimus, bringing her own meals up on a tray and remaining quietly in the chair in the corner of the room while he slept fitfully in the afternoon, and then fetching him more soup, this time leek and celery mixed with creamed potato into a thick blend. When he had eaten it they sat through the evening and talked of things that had changed since his day on the battlefield—she telling him of the great conflicts she had witnessed from the grassy sward above, and he recounting to her the desperate cavalry battles he had fought in the Afghan War of 1839 to 1842—then in the conquest of Sind the year after, and in the later Sikh wars in the middle of the decade. They found endless emoti
ons, sights and fears the same, and the wild pride and horror of victory, the weeping and the wounds, the beauty of courage, and the fearful, elemental indignity of dismemberment and death. And he told her something of the magnificent continent of India and its peoples.
They also remembered the laughter and the comradeship, the absurdities and the fierce sentimental moments, and the regimental rituals with their splendor, farcical at a glance, silver candelabra and full dinner service with crystal and porcelain for officers the night before battle, scarlet uniforms, gold braid, brasses like mirrors.
“You would have liked Harry Haslett,” Septimus said with a sweet, sharp sadness. “He was one of the nicest men. He had all the qualities of a friend: honor without pomposity, generosity without condescension, humor without malice and courage without cruelty. And Octavia adored him. She spoke of him so passionately the very day she died, as if his death were still fresh in her mind.” He smiled and stared up at the ceiling, blinking a little to hide the tears in his eyes.
Hester reached for his hand and held it. It was a natural gesture, quite spontaneous, and he understood it without explanation. His bony fingers tightened on hers, and for several minutes they were silent.
“They were going to move away,” he said at last, when his voice was under control. “Tavie wasn’t much like Araminta. She wanted her own house; she didn’t care about the social status of being Sir Basil Moidore’s daughter or living in Queen Anne Street with the carriages and the staff, the ambassadors to dine, the members of Parliament, the foreign princes. Of course you haven’t seen any of that because the house is in mourning for Tavie now—but before that it was quite different. There was something special almost every week.”
“Is that why Myles Kellard stays?” Hester asked, understanding easily now.
“Of course,” he agreed with a thin smile. “How could he possibly live in this manner on his own? He is quite well off, but nothing like the wealth or the rank of Basil. And Araminta is very close to her father. Myles never stood a chance—not that I am sure he wants it. He has much here he would never have anywhere else.”
“Except the dignity of being master in his own house,” Hester said. “The freedom to have his own opinions, to come and go without deference to anyone else’s plans, and to choose his friends according to his own likes and emotions.”
“Oh, there is a price,” Septimus agreed wryly. “Sometimes I think a very high one.”
Hester frowned. “What about conscience?” She said it gently, aware of the difficult road along which it would lead and the traps for both of them. “If you live on someone else’s bounty, do you not risk compromising yourself so deeply with obligation that you surrender your own agency?”
He looked at her, his pale eyes sad. She had shaved him, and become aware how thin his skin was. He looked older than his years.
“You are thinking about Percival and the trial, aren’t you.” It was barely a question.
“Yes-they lied, didn’t they?”
“Of course,” he agreed. “Although perhaps they hardly saw it that way. They said what was in their best interest, for one reason or another. One would have to be very brave intentionally to defy Basil.” He moved his legs a fraction to be more comfortable. “I don’t suppose he would throw us out, but it would make life most unpleasant from day to day—endless restrictions, humiliations, little scratches on the sensitive skin of the mind.” He looked across at the great picture. “To be dependent is to be so damned vulnerable.”
