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Hester went down to the kitchen and made tea, then brought it up and added a few spoonfuls of port. She helped him drink it without any further conversation. His color was definitely better when he lay back.
“Yer looked arter soldiers?” he asked doubtfully.
“Yes.”
“W’y d’yer do that? Din’t Mr. Monk mind?”
“I didn’t know him then.”
“In’t yer got no ma and pa ter look arter yer?” He frowned, as she evidently did not fit his picture of an orphan.
“Yes, I had then. They didn’t like it a lot,” she said frankly. “But quite a few young ladies, even very respectable ones, went out to help Florence Nightingale.”
“Oh! Yer one of ’em?”
“Yes.”
“Were yer scared?”
“Sometimes. But when things are at their worst you don’t think of yourself so much—more of the men who are wounded, and if you can help them.”
“Oh.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t need no ’elp. Least, not most o’ the time. I ’elp Mr. Monk. ’E don’t know much ’bout the river. Not that ’e in’t clever, an’ brave, like,” he added quickly. “ ’E’s just…”
“Ignorant,” she supplied for him with a smile.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “If yer knowed that, why’d yer let ’im go?”
“Because if you love someone, you can’t stop them doing what they believe they have to.”
He looked at her more seriously, with the beginning of something that could even have been respect. “Is that why yer pa let yer go inter the army?”
“Something like that.”
“Wot’s it like?”
She told him, fairly factually, what the troop ship had been like crossing the Mediterranean, and her first sight of Scutari. She was describing the hospital when she realized he was asleep. His breathing was even, his brow cool, his skin dry.
She lay down on Monk’s side of the bed and, in spite of her intention not to fall asleep, almost immediately drifted off too.
When she woke Scuff was awake, looking uncomfortable. He had been lying close to her, perhaps afraid to move in case he disturbed her. Yet he remained there now when he did not have to, his eyes wary, waiting for her to say something, perhaps make some kind of demand.
She knew better. He might have been frightened, lonely, and hungry for affection, but if she offered it too
soon he would reject it instantly. He needed his independence to survive, and he knew it.
“How are you?” she asked quite casually. “I fell asleep,” she added unnecessarily.
“It ’urts,” he said, then instantly seemed ashamed of himself. “I’m better, ta. I can go ’ome soon.”
It was not the time to argue with him. He needed to feel some part of his fate was in his own hands. He was afraid of losing his freedom, of becoming dependent, of coming to like warmth and soft beds, hot food—even belonging.
“Yes, of course,” she agreed. “As soon as you are a little better. I am going to get something to eat. Would you like something, too?”
He was silent, uncertain whether to accept or not. In his world, food was life. One never took it or gave it lightly. All his surroundings were unfamiliar, and he was conscious enough now to be fully aware of that.
She stood up, tidying back a few strands of hair and making a poor job of it. In spite of her determination not to care for the boy, she cared intensely. If he knew, he would resent it and feel trapped. She must not allow it to show. She went to the door without looking back, then forgetting at the last moment, she turned. He was lying in her place, white-faced, the skin pinched around his mouth, shadowed around his eyes. He looked very small. It was Monk’s opinion he cared about, not hers.
“I’ll be back,” she said, feeling foolish, and went down the stairs.
