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“So angry!” Enid cried, her voice now harsh with distress. “Why? Why, Milo?”
Hester held her gently. “He’s not angry, my dear. He really isn’t. If he was, it was a long time ago. It’s all over now. Lie still and rest.”
For several minutes there was peace. Enid seemed to be easy.
Hester had seen many people in delirium, and she knew that past and present became muddled in the mind. Sometimes people seemed to retreat as far as childhood. The delusions of fever were terrifying: huge faces ballooned, then retreated; features were distorted, became hideous and threatening, full of deformities.
She ached to be able to help, to relieve any of the anguish, even to avert the crises, but there was nothing she knew to do. There was no medicine, no treatment. All anyone could do was wait and hope.
The gas hissed gently in the single light that was still burning. The clock ticked on the mantel. The fire was so low in the grate the coals were hot and red, but there was no
flame whickering, no sound of collapsing embers.
Enid stirred again.
“Milo?” she whispered.
“Shall I send for him?” Hester asked. “He’s only a few rooms away. He’ll come.”
“I know it troubles you, my dear,” Enid went on as if she had not heard Hester’s question. “But you really must let it go. It was only a letter. He shouldn’t have written …” There was worry in her voice, and something that could even have been pity. “I shouldn’t have laughed …” She trailed off and her words were lost in a mumble, and then suddenly she gave a giggle of pure delight before she fell silent.
Hester wrung out the cloth again. It was time she pulled the bell and had it changed to new water, clean and cool. But to reach it she would have to let go of Enid.
Very gently she tried to ease herself out, but Enid suddenly clung to her, her hand weak but desperate.
“Milo! Don’t go! Of course it hurts. It was shameful of him. I understand, my dear … but …” Again her words became jumbled and made no more sense. Her mind began to wander. She seemed to be a young woman again, mentioning dancing, parties. Sometimes her words were indistinguishable, but occasionally one or two would come through clearly, a man’s name, a word of endearment, a chiding or a farewell. It seemed that either in imagination or reality, Enid had had many admirers, and from the intimacy of her voice and the snatched references here and there, some had loved her very much. Milo’s name was spoken once with a cry of frustration, almost despair, and then again later two or three times in a row, as if she were fascinated by it, and it was both tenderness and exasperation to her.
Towards midnight she became quieter, and Hester feared she was slipping away. She was very weak, and the fever seemed, if anything, worse. She left her for a moment to pull the bell rope. Dingle came almost immediately, still fully dressed, her face pale with distress, eyes wide. Hester asked her to fetch Lord Ravensbrook and take away the water and bring fresh, clean towels.
“Is it …” Dingle started, then changed her mind. “Is it time to change the bed linen, do you think, before his lordship comes?”
“No, thank you,” Hester declined. “I’ll not disturb her.”
“I’ll help you, miss.”
“It won’t make any difference now.”
“Is it … the end?” Dingle forced the words between stiff lips. She looked very close to weeping. Hester wondered how long she had been with Enid … possibly all her adult life, maybe thirty years or more. If she were fortunate, Lord Ravensbrook would have allowed Enid to make provisions for her, or he would do so himself. Otherwise she would be without a position—although from her white face and brimming eyes, that was far from her thoughts now.
“I think it is the crisis,” Hester answered. “But she is a strong woman, and she has courage. It may not be the end.”
“ ’Course she has,” Dingle said with intensity. “Never know’d anybody like her for spirit. But typhoid’s a terrible illness. It’s took so many.”
On the bed Enid gave a little moan, then lay perfectly still.
Dingle gasped.
“It’s all right,” Hester said quickly, seeing the faint rise and fall of Enid’s breast. “But you had better fetch his lordship without delay. Then don’t forget the water—and cool, not hot. Just take the chill off it, that’s all.”
Dingle hesitated. “I know you done all the nursing, but I’ll lay her out, if you please.”
“Of course,” Hester agreed. “If it’s necessary. But the battle isn’t lost yet. Now please send for the water. It may make a difference.”
Dingle whirled around and almost ran to the door. Perhaps she had thought it simply cosmetic. Now her feet flew along the passage and she returned in less than five minutes with a great ewer full of water barely off the chill, and a clean towel over her arm.
“Thank you.” Hester took the ewer with the briefest smile and immediately dipped the towel. Then she laid it, still wet, across Enid’s brow and her throat, then sponged her hands and lower arms.
“Help me hold her up a little,” she asked. “And I’ll place it on the back of her neck for a moment or two.”
