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Adrienne stood a little back from his side, but never took her eyes from him. Did she really imagine that she might do something to help? Or was it only a mixture of habit and fear, and of possession of him, her ownership as his daughter?
As the moments ticked by, Hester checked that the blood was flowing easily and that Radnor’s temperature and pulse remained steady. His eyes were closed, but she knew he was awake, feeling the life in his veins strengthening with Charlie’s fresh, bright red blood inside him.
What was it in the blood of these children that gave life, yet of so many others brought illness and then death? Rand was a chemist; did he know? She would ask him some time, when they were alone. Why was their blood different? Was there some tiny thing in the procedure that was different, a timing, a balance of ingredients, something about the patient receiving it?
Adrienne’s face was tense. She was ignoring Hester as if she were part of the apparatus, with its tubes and bottles, its frame, clamps and wires to hold everything in place.
The colour was returning to Radnor’s face. Hester knew that Adrienne saw it too. She leaned forward a little. The muscles in her neck were rigid with tension, her eyes wide. What was she seeing – life returning to the old pattern, her father with his vigour and all his old energy? Hester could not tell whether the passion in her face was love or dread. She had not heard Adrienne speak of her own life, except in terms of her father’s dependency on her. Was she as much a captive as Hester was in this house? Except that while Mr Radnor lived, there was no end in sight.
But if he died, then the end for Hester was very much in sight. Rand could not afford to let her leave here with the knowledge of what had happened. She would testify against him; she would have no moral choice. And – a thought that was even uglier to her – Charlie, Maggie and Mike would be killed as well. The older two at least would speak up. Rand would not risk that.
She must do better. She must find a way to get all of them out.
There was only one person who might help. How long did she have before she was not necessary to Rand? If the treatment succeeded, by the time he was sure, it would be too late for Hester to act.
Rand knew that. He would be watching Radnor’s progress, every rally, every setback, and he knew that she would too. Would he act first to kill her? Or would he miss the moment, and she would escape? Or fail, and be caught, making it all infinitely worse? She was cold at the thought, the small hairs standing up on her arms, as if someone had let in an icy draught. One mistake would be one too many.
She looked across and found Adrienne watching her. Their eyes met in a moment when they seemed to have a complete understanding of each other. And then it was gone again, and they were the strangers they had been before.
Chapter Seven
THE NEW blood made a conspicuous difference to Radnor’s recovery. The day after the procedure he was sitting up in bed and welcomed a good breakfast. Hester brought it to him with conflicting emotions. Her profession and her will were to heal. She was trained to disregard the personality of an invalid; and the oath and promise of all healers was always to do their best, without judgement. All patients must receive the best effort you could call up, regardless of whether you are tired, discouraged, frightened or ill yourself.
The treatment was working. That was a victory, a new and major one.
On the other hand the closer Radnor was to complete recovery, the less purchase did Hester have on her own life – less time to think.
He was watching her now.
She set the tray in front of him and saw with both pleasure and revulsion how he picked up the knife and fork and began on two soft-poached eggs on crisp, brown toast. She had baked it herself, as it was a skill Adrienne did not have. He ate slowly, with relish, savouring every mouthful, quite aware that she was seeing and noting. In fact, it appeared to amuse him, as if her awareness gave an extra dimension to his enjoyment.
She took away the empty tray and set it on the landing, then returned to check his pulse and temperature again. She took his wrist and held it, counting. The blood beat strongly, as if she could touch the life in him.
‘Well?’ he asked when she had completed the count. ‘Satisfied, Mrs Monk?’
‘You are progressing, Mr Radnor,’ she replied, letting go of his hand as soon as she could. ‘And your temperature is almost normal.’
He smiled. ‘Have you ever had fun, woman? Ever laughed at something ridiculous, seen the hilarious absurdity of life? Do you always do what you’re told to, or do you look in your masters’ eyes and tell them to go to hell? Perhaps you have less red blood in you than I have.’ He gave a jerky little laugh. ‘What does Mr Monk do that he chose a woman like you, eh?’ His expression was curious, almost prurient, as he looked her body up and down.
‘He is Commander of the Thames River Police, Mr Radnor,’ she replied with a smile just as hard as his. She saw the look in his eyes, and he knew that she had seen it. It annoyed him. ‘And yes, I have done all the things you say,’ she continued. ‘Especially telling them to go to hell, which is not easy in the army. And I have done them with good people. Has anybody ever loved you that you didn’t buy first, Mr Radnor?’ The minute the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. She had allowed him to provoke her, and that was a tactical error as well as one of morality between patient and nurse. His moment of surprise before he recovered his composure was her only reward.
His smile widened, showing his teeth again. He was satisfied that he had provoked her, and she had not resisted.
She spent the middle of the day with Maggie, Charlie and Mike. For a while she cleaned and tidied the room. That was important. They would be highly vulnerable to infection.
Mike seemed to be as well as before, but he was frightened, and very young to be without either of his parents. Usually Maggie took care of him, but today she was listless. She looked very pale, and every so often she fell asleep. Mike went to her and stood beside the chair where she was curled up. He wanted to talk to her, but she was too sleepy to pay attention.
He went over to Charlie, who was staring out of the window. There was nothing to see except the wind in the trees and the cloud shadows over the hills in the distance.
Mike leaned up against him. Charlie put his arm around him, but he did not say anything.
Hester went to the small pantry and came back with a tray of glasses and a jug of milk. Mike ran over to her and threw his arms around her hips. She thought at first that he was thirsty for the milk, but after she had poured it and persuaded Maggie to have a small amount, she realised Mike was frightened. He just did not have the words to say so.
She wanted to hold him close, soothe away the hurt inside him, but he was not her child. She had no right to that intimacy and she was nervous of intruding, creating a bond she would have to break when they were returned home. She wondered how she could give them some respite from the uncertainty of what would happen to them, even if they would get home. Did they know that Rand was drawing away their lives in order to save Radnor, and solve by experiment the healing mystery of their blood?
She racked her mind for stories she could tell to children their ages, but she could not remember what tales she had heard so far back in her own childhood. And of course by Maggie’s age she could read on her own.
Nothing came to mind but bits and pieces of stories. She could remember Cinderella, but what would these children make of princes and glass slippers? What about history? That was full of stories. Or legend?
