Page 29 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

Hester thanked her and told her to go and see what she could do for the other patients, then take a chance to sleep herself.

“Not while yer tendin’ to ’er all on yer own!” Bessie said indignantly.

“This isn’t a job for two,” Hester answered, but she smiled at Bessie’s loyalty. “If you rest now, you can take a turn in the morning. I’ll call you if I need you, I promise.”

Bessie stood her ground. “I’ll never ’ear yer!”

“Take th

e room opposite, then you will.”

“Yer’ll call?” Bessie insisted.

“Yes, I will! Now get out of my way!”

Bessie obeyed, and Hester put the cloth in the cold water, wrung it out, and placed it on the sick woman’s forehead. At first it seemed to irritate her and she tried to turn away. Hester moved the cloth and gently put it over her throat. She wrung it out again and tried her forehead a second time.

Ruth groaned and her eyelids flickered.

Again and again Hester dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out, and bathed the woman with it, at first only her face and neck. Then, as that seemed to have little effect, she stripped back the sheet and blankets and laid the cloth over the top of her chest as well.

The time crept by. She looked at her watch and it was ten in the evening.

Then some time around midnight she became aware that Ruth had not moved for a while, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes. Hester leaned forward. She could not see the rise and fall of Ruth’s breathing. She was far too familiar with death for it to frighten her, but it never left her without a sadness. She put out her hand and touched the woman’s neck, just to make sure there was no pulse.

Ruth’s eyes opened. “What is it?” she whispered crossly.

It was the first time Hester had heard her speak, and her voice was startling. It was low, soft, and pleasing, the voice of a woman of some education and culture. Hester was so startled she flinched. “I. . I’m sorry,” she apologized, as if rather than ministering to a sick patient she had crept into someone else’s bedroom. “I wanted to see if you were still feverish. Do you feel better? Would you like something to drink?”

“I feel awful,” Ruth answered, still speaking as if her throat were parched.

“Would you like some water?” Hester repeated the offer. “I’ll help you sit up.”

Ruth frowned at her. “Who are you?” She looked around the room as much as she could see without moving her head. “What is this place? It looks like a brothel!”

Hester smiled. “That’s because it is-or was. Now it’s a clinic. Don’t you remember coming here?”

Ruth closed her eyes. “If I remembered coming, I wouldn’t ask!”

Hester was taken aback. She realized with a shock how used she had become to gratitude from the sick and injured who regularly found shelter there. She had come to take it for granted, and this woman looked at her with no admiration at all, no sense of respect towards a rescuer.

“Do you remember Mr. Louvain, who brought you here?”

The change in Ruth’s face was subtle, so slight it could have been no more than the struggle to focus her mind, or the fear that she was losing control of what was happening to her.

“He brought me here?” Ruth said quietly.

“Yes.” Hester should have asked again if she wanted water, but curiosity stayed her for another moment, waiting.

An odd smile touched Ruth’s face, ironic, as if there was a terrible humor to her situation that even in her state of wretchedness she could still appreciate. “What did he say?” Her eyes, meeting Hester’s, were hard and angry. She would accept help, but she would not be grateful for it.

“That you were the mistress of a friend of his who had put you out because you were ill,” Hester replied. The answer was cruel, but surely a woman who had followed such a path, chosen or not, must be used to facing truths.

Ruth closed her eyes as a wave of pain washed over her, but the smile did not fade away entirely.

“Mistress, is that what he said?” she whispered derisively.

“Yes.”

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