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“Yes,” Hester admitted with a shiver. But as much as she feared Dora Parsons herself, it was fear of being hurt, not killed. She found it hard to believe sheer ignorant dislike of a woman she believed to have ambitions that were arrogant and misplaced, and to imagine herself superior, was motive for a sane person to commit murder. And for all her coarseness, Dora Parsons was an adequate nurse, rough but not deliberately cruel, tireless and patient enough with the sick. The more Hester thought about it, the less did she think Dora would murder Prudence out of nothing more than hatred.
“Yes, I am sure she has the strength,” she went on. “But no reason.”
“No, I suppose.” She sounded reluctant, but she smiled as she said it. “And I’d better go before Mrs. Flaherty comes back and catches me. Shall I empty the slop pail for you? I’ll be quick.”
“Yes please. And thank you for the sandwich and the tea.”
The girl smiled with sudden brilliance, then blushed, took the pail, and disappeared.
It was a long night, and Hester got little sleep. Her patient dozed fitfully, always aware of his pain, but when daylight came a little before four in the morning his pulse was still strong and he had only the barest flush of fever. Hester was weary but well satisfied, and when Sir Herbert called in at half past seven she told him the news with a sense of achievement.
“Excellent, Miss Latterly.” He spoke succinctly, beyond Prendergast’s hearing, although he was barely half awake. “Quite excellent. But there is a long way to go yet.” He looked at him dubiously, pushing out his lip. “He may develop fever any time in the next seven or eight days, which could yet prove fatal. I wish you to remain with him each night. Mrs. Flaherty can see to his needs during the day.” He ignored her temporarily while he examined the patient, and she stepped back and waited. His concentration was total, his brows furrowed, eyes intent while his fingers moved dextrously, gently. He asked one or two questions, more for reassurance of his attention than from a need for information, and he was unconcerned when Prendergast gave few coherent replies, his eyes sunken with shock of the wound and the bleeding.
“Very good,” Sir Herbert said at last, stepping back. “You are progressing very well, sir. I expect to see you in full health in a matter of weeks.”
“Do you? Do you think so?” Prendergast smiled weakly. “I feel very ill now.”
“Of course you do. But that will pass, I assure you. Now I must attend to my other patients. The nurses will care for you. Good day, sir.” And with no more than a passing nod to Hester he left, striding along the corridor, shoulders squared, head high.
As soon as she was relieved, Hester also left. She was barely halfway along the corridor in the direction of the nurses’ dormitory when she encountered the imposing figure of Berenice Ross Gilbert. Although in any social circumstance she would have considered herself Lady Ross Gilbert’s equal, even if perhaps that opinion had not been shared, in her gray stuff nursing dress, and with her occupation known, she was at every kind of disadvantage, and she was uncomfortably aware of it.
Berenice was dressed splendidly, as usual, her gown a mixture of rusts and golds with a touch of fuchsia pink, and cut to the minute of fashion. She smiled with casual charm, looking straight through Hester, and continued on her way. However, she had only gone a few steps when Sir Herbert came out of one of the doorways.
“Ah!” he said quickly, his face lighting up. “I was just hoping to …”
“Good morning, Sir Herbert,” Berenice cut across him, her voice brittle and a trifle loud. “Another very pleasant day. How is Mr. Prendergast? I hear you performed a brilliant operation. It is an excellent thing for the reputation of the hospital, and of course for English medicine in general. How did
he pass the night? Well?”
Sir Herbert looked a little taken aback. He was facing Berenice with his profile to Hester, whom he had not noticed standing in the shadows a dozen yards away. She was a nurse, so to some extent invisible, like a good domestic servant.
Sir Herbert’s eyebrows rose in obvious surprise.
“Yes, he is doing very well so far,” he replied. “But it is too early yet for that to mean a great deal. I didn’t know you were acquainted with Mr. Prendergast.”
“Ah no, my interest is not personal.”
“I was going to say that I—” he began again.
“And of course,” she cut across him again, “I am concerned with the hospital’s reputation and your enhancement of it, Sir Herbert.” She smiled fixedly. “Of course this whole wretched business of poor Nurse—whatever her name was.”
“Barrymore? Really, Berenice …”
“Yes, of course, Barrymore. And we have another Crimean nurse, so I hear—Miss—er …” She half turned toward Hester and indicated her.
“Ah—yes.” Sir Herbert looked startled and slightly out of composure. “Yes—it seems like a fortunate acquisition—so far. A very competent young woman. Thank you for your kind words, Lady Ross Gilbert.” Unconsciously he pulled down the front of his jacket, straightening it a little. “Most generous of you. Now if you would excuse me, I have other patients I must attend. Charming to see you.”
Berenice smiled bleakly. “Naturally. Good morning, Sir Herbert.”
Hester moved at last toward the dormitory and the opportunity for an hour or two’s rest. She was tired enough to sleep even through the constant comings and goings, the chatter, the movement of others, even though she longed for privacy. The peace of her own small lodging room seemed a haven it never had previously, when she had compared it with her father’s home with its spaciousness, warmth, and familiar elegance.
She did not sleep long and woke with a start, her mind frantically trying to recall some impression she had gained. It was important, it meant something, and she could not grasp it.
An elderly nurse with a bald patch on one side of her head was standing a few feet away, staring at her.
“That there rozzer wants yer,” she said flatly. “The one wi’ the eyes like a ferret. You’d better look sharp. ’E ain’t one to cross.” And having delivered her message she took herself off without glancing backwards to see whether Hester obeyed or not.
Blinking, her eyes sore, her head heavy, Hester climbed out of the cot (she did not think of it as hers), pulled on her dress, and straightened her hair. Then she set off to find Jeavis; from the woman’s description it could only be Jeavis who wanted her, not Evan.
