Anne Perry - The Shifting Tide

“The new woman who came in,” Claudine said, framing her words carefully, “I think she has a. . a disease of. . a moral nature.” Her nostrils flared as though she could smell its odor in the room.

Hester had a terse answer on her tongue, then she remembered how much she needed Claudine’s help, unskilled as it was. She complained, she disapproved, but through it she kept working, almost as if she found some perverse comfort in it. A thought flickered through Hester’s mind as to what her life at home must be like that she came seeking some kind of happiness or purpose for herself here. But she had no time to pursue it.

“What are her symptoms?” she asked, swinging her feet over onto the floor.

“I don’t know much about such things,” Claudine defended herself. “But she has scars like the pox on her shoulders and arms, and other things I’d prefer not to mention.” She stood very stiffly, balanced as if to retreat. Her face was oddly crumpled. “I think the poor thing is like to die,” she added, a harsh and sudden pity in her voice, and then gone again, as though she was ashamed of it.

For the first time, Hester wondered if Claudine had ever seen death before, and if she was afraid of it. She had not thought to consider that possibility until now. She stood up slowly. She was stiff from lying too heavily asleep in one position.

“I’ll come and see what I can do,” she said in answer to the summons. “There may not be much.”

“I’ll help,” Claudine offered. “You. . you look tired.”

Hester accepted, asking her to fetch a bowl of water and a cloth.

Claudine was right; the woman looked very ill indeed. She drifted in and out of consciousness, her skin was hot and dry and her breathing rattled, her pulse was weak. Now and again she moved her eyes and tried to speak, but no distinguishable words came.

Hester waited with her, leaving Mercy Louvain to tend to Ruth Clark and try to keep her fever down. Claudine came and went, each time more anxious.

“Can’t you do anything for her?” she asked, whispering in deference to the possibility that the sick woman might hear her.

“No. Just be here so she is not alone,” Hester replied. She had a light hold on the woman’s hand, just enough to exert a slight pressure in acknowledgment of her presence.

“So many of them. .” Claudine did not like to say die like this , but it was in her pale face, the tightness of her lips. She smoothed her apron over her stomach, her hands, red-knuckled, were stiff.

“Yes,” Hester said simply. “It’s a hazard of the job, but it’s less certain than starvation.”

“The job!” Claudine all but choked on the word. “You make it sound like a decent labor! Have you any idea what heartache they bring to-” She stopped abruptly.

Hester heard the anguish in the sudden bitten-back words, as if Claudine had already betrayed herself. She turned and looked up at Claudine and saw the shame in her eyes, and fear, as if Hester might already know more than Claudine could bear to have known.

Hester spoke quietly. “The best way I ever found of dealing with it is to stop imagining the details of other people’s lives, particularly the parts that ought to be private, and try to help some of the mess. I’ve made the odd error myself.”

“Well, we’re none of us saints,” Claudine said awkwardly.

Before she could have any further thought the woman on the bed made a dry little sound in her throat and stopped breathing. Hester leaned closer to her and felt for the pulse in her neck. There was nothing. She folded the woman’s hands and stood up slowly.

Claudine was staring at her, her face ashen. “Is she. .”

“Yes.”

“Oh. .” Suddenly, and to her fury, she started to shiver, and the tears welled up in her eyes. She turned on her heel and marched out of the room, and Hester heard her footsteps along the passageway.

Hester tidied the bed a little, then went out and closed the door. She was walking towards Ruth Clark’s room, and from several feet away she heard the voices. They were not loud, but tight and hard with anger. The words were muffled, only one or two distinct. There was something about leaving, and a threat so choked with emotion that the individual words ran into a blur. Only the rage was clear, a pain so intense and so savage that it made the sweat prickle on her skin and her heart pound as if it could reach out and damage her where she stood.

She shrank from intruding. She wanted to pretend she had not heard it at all, that it was some kind of mistake, a momentary nightmare from which she had awoken into reality.

She had not steeled herself to do anything, or even been quite sure what she should do, when the door opened and Mercy came out, carrying a bowl of water and a cloth over her arm. Mercy looked angry and frightened. She stopped abruptly when she saw Hester.

“She thinks she’s better,” she said huskily. “She wants to leave, perhaps tomorrow. She isn’t well enough. . I’m. . I’m trying to convince her.” Her face was pale, her eyes hollow with exhaustion. She looked close to tears.

“I was told she had family coming for her soon,” Hester replied, trying to be comforting. “If they do, then they will look after her. I imagine that’s what she was referring to. Don’t worry about it. She isn’t well enough to leave without someone to care for her, and she must know that.”

“Family?” Mercy said in amazement. “Who?”

“I don’t know.” She was about to add that it was Clement Louvain who had spoken of them, then she changed her mind. Perhaps Mercy had no idea of her brother’s private life, or that of his friend, supposing he existed. “But don’t worry about her,” she said instead. “We can’t keep her here if she wants to leave, but I’ll try to persuade her how foolish it would be.” She looked at Mercy’s drawn face. “She’s a difficult woman. She’s always quarreling with Flo, even accused her of being a thief, and really upset her. Flo’s all kinds of things, and it doesn’t matter. But she’s not a thief and she really cares about that. If someone comes for Ruth, it would be a good thing.”

Mercy stood still. “I’m sorry,” she said very quietly.

“Go and have a cup of tea,” Hester said. “And something to eat. When did you last sit down?” She put her hand on Mercy’s arm. “We can’t help everyone; some people just won’t be helped. We have to do what we can, and then go on to think of the next person.”

Mercy moved as if to say something, then the words died on her lips.

“I know it’s difficult. But it’s the only way to survive.”

If Mercy found any comfort in that, it did not reflect in her face. She nodded, but more as a matter of form than agreement, and went on down the stairs.

The rest of the night passed with little incident. Hester managed to get several hours’ sleep. In the morning she sent Squeaky to the undertaker to have him come and remove the body of the dead woman, then set about making breakfast for everyone able to eat.

Claudine looked tired and withdrawn, but she carried out her duties with slightly increased skill. She even took a dish of gruel up to Ruth Clark and helped her to eat most of it.

“I’m bothered whether I know if that woman’s better or not,” she said when she returned to the kitchen with the dish. “One minute I think she is, then she has that fever back and looks like she’ll not make it to nightfall.” She put the uneaten gruel down the drain and the dish in the sink. “I’ll go down the street and fetch water,” she added through pursed lips. “It’s as cold as the grave out there.”

Hester thanked her sincerely and decided to go up and see Ruth herself. She found her propped up very slightly on the pillows, her face flushed, her eyes bright and angry.