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Hester did not reply. She thought of a man whose life had been dedicated to one art, losing it in a moment’s fall from a horse, not even doing anything necessary, simply a race. What regret would follow, what self-blame for the hardship to his family.
“Leighton helped him a great deal,” Sylvestra went on. “He managed to sell some property for him and invest the money so he was provided for, at least with some income for his family.”
Hester smiled quickly, in acknowledgment that she had heard and appreciated it.
Sylvestra’s face darkened again. “Do you think Rhys may have gone into that dreadful area searching for a friend in trouble?” she asked.
“It seems possible.”
“I shall have to ask Arthur Kynaston. Perhaps he will come to see Rhys when he is a little better. He might like that.”
“We can ask him in a day or two. Is he fond of Rhys?”
“Oh yes. Arthur is the son of one of Leighton’s closest friends, the headmaster of Rowntrees—that is an excellent boys’ school near here.” Her face softened for a moment and her voice lifted with enthusiasm. “Joel Kynaston was a brilliant scholar, and he chose to dedicate his life to teaching boys the love of learning, especially the classics. That is where Rhys learned his Latin and Greek,
and his love of history and ancient cultures. It is one of the greatest gifts a young person can receive. Or any age of person, I suppose.”
“Of course,” Hester agreed.
“Arthur is Rhys’s age,” Sylvestra went on. “His elder brother, Marmaduke—they call him Duke—is also a friend. He is a little … wilder, perhaps? Clever people sometimes are, and Duke is very talented. I know Leighton thought him headstrong. He is now at Oxford studying classics, like his father. Of course, he is still home for Christmas. They both must be terribly grieved by this.”
Hester finished her toast and drank the last of her tea. At least she knew a little more about Rhys. It did not explain what had happened to him, but it offered a few possibilities.
Nothing she had learned prepared her for what happened that afternoon when Sylvestra came into the bedroom for the third time that day. Rhys had had a very light luncheon and then fallen asleep. He was in some physical pain. Lying in more or less one position was making him very stiff and his bruises were healing only slowly. It was impossible to know what injuries were causing pain, swelling or even bleeding within him. He was very uncomfortable, and after Hester had given him a sedative herbal drink with something to ease him at least a little, he fell into a light sleep.
He woke when Sylvestra came in.
She went over and sat in the chair next to him.
“How are you, my dear?” she said softly. “Are you rested?”
He stared at her. Hester was standing at the end of the bed and saw the pain and the darkness in his eyes.
Sylvestra put out her hand and stroked him gently on the bare arm above his splints and plasters.
“Every day will be a little better, Rhys,” she said just above a whisper, her voice dry with emotion. “It will pass, and you will heal.”
He looked at her steadily, then slowly his lips curled back from his teeth in a cold glare of utter contempt.
Sylvestra looked as if she had been struck. Her hand remained on his arm, but as if frozen. She was too stunned to move.
“Rhys …?”
A savage hatred filled his face, as if, had he the strength, he would have lashed out at her physically, wounding, gouging, delighting in pain.
“Rhys …” She opened her mouth to continue, but she had no words. She withdrew her hand as if it had been injured, holding it protectively.
His face softened; the violence crumpled out of it, leaving him limp and bruised.
She reached out to him again, instant to forgive.
He looked at her, measuring her feelings, waiting; then he lifted his other hand and hit her, jarring the splints. It must have been agony to his broken bones and he went gray with the shock of it, but he did not move his eyes from hers.
Her eyes filled with tears and she stood up, now truly physically hurt, although it was nothing compared with the pain of confusion and rejection and helplessness within. She walked slowly to the door and out of the room.
Rhys’s lips curled in a slow, vicious, satisfied smile, and he swung his face back to look at Hester.
Hester was cold inside, as if she had swallowed ice.
