"So you could talk to Gabriel?"
"Rather more so I would have some knowledge of what his needs would be," Hester answered.
Perdita stared at the embers of the fire. "He doesn't think I can learn to do that. He doesn't think I will be any use or comfort at all."
What was there to say that was even remotely honest and yet not so hurtful it was destructive?
"Sometimes there isn't anything you can do," Hester began, thinking what more to say, feeling for words. "At times he may wish to speak of the Mutiny and of what happened at Cawn-pore, other times he will want to forget it. No one can know when each will be."
"You mean it is easier for you?" Perdita said.
"In some ways, yes, of course it is. Not just because I have seen a battlefield…"
"Can you tell me what it is like?" Perdita asked, eagerness and dread mixed in her voice. "So I can understand Gabriel? He won't tell me anything about it. I was at home when he was in India, and my father wouldn't even allow me to read about it in the newspapers. He said it was not suitable… for me or for my mother." She bit her lip. "He said we didn't have to know things like that, and anyway it was only a journalist's idea of the truth and might be inaccurate and overdramatic.
Now it's too late because the newspapers are all thrown away ages ago."
"You can always go to the library and find the back copies, if you want to," Hester pointed out. "But I am not sure it that would be a good thing. Do you wish to know about it… as much as can be understood by reading?"
The fire crackled and threw up a shower of sparks.
Perdita sat very still. "I don't know. Sometimes I think so, then there are times when I wish it never had to be thought of again and I'm glad I know nothing." She took a long breath and shook her head a little. "I just wish it would go away and everything could be as it used to… before the Mutiny. None of that mattered then." She sniffed. "I could have gone out to Delhi, or Bombay, or wherever was the nearest place to where Gabriel was. I could have been with him, and none of these things would have happened!"
"He wouldn't have seen things like the massacre at Cawn-pore," Hester agreed. "But he would still have lost his friends, and he might still have received his own injuries. That can happen anywhere."
"Not in England!" Perdita said, looking up quickly.
"Yes, it could. People can be dragged by horses, or burned by fires, or any number of other things. There isn't anywhere where life is completely safe. And even if there were, it doesn't matter now. The only way is forward through reality, through what we have."
"You make it sound so easy!" There was resentment in Perdita's voice, and fear, and self-pity.
"No, it isn't," Hester contradicted her. "It's very difficult indeed. It's just that there isn't any alternative worth having. And perhaps Gabriel doesn't want you to know about the Mutiny."
"You mean he thinks I'm not strong enough to bear it!" Perdita challenged. "But you are! He can talk to you about it for hours."
Hester took a deep breath. "I am here temporarily. In a while I shall leave again. It doesn't matter to him what I know or what I think. I shall be gone after a while. And he doesn't care so much about my feelings… beyond what courtesy dictates. I am a stranger, not part of his life."
Perdita's face softened a little, a flare of hope in her eyes.
"But if he doesn't want me to know, if I can't share it with him, how can I ever be of any use?" The sharp edge in her voice was fading but still discernible.
Hester thought very carefully. "Wait a little while," she suggested. "Feelings don't always remain the same. He has only been home a few days. You cannot make tomorrow's decision until tomorrow comes. I know that is hard. One wants to see the way ahead… but it is not possible."
Perdita sat silently for several minutes and Hester waited without interrupting.
Eventually, Perdita stood up and straightened her dress. She seemed unaware that her hair was coming out of its pins, long, fair brown hair with a wave in it.
"I suppose I had better go to bed. I'm terribly tired, but I can't seem to sleep these nights."
"Would you like me to make you a draft?" Hester offered, rising to her feet as well. "Or a lavender pillow? Do you have one? They can help."
"I expect so. I think there's one in my handkerchief drawer or in the linen." She went to the door without looking at Hester. "I can ask Martha. Good night, Miss Latterly."
"Good night, Mrs. Sheldon."
Perdita went out and Hester heard her walk across the hall and then silence. She went out herself a few moments afterwards, and upstairs to her room. She washed quickly in cold water and went to bed. She was too tired to lie awake.
In the morning she accomplished her usual duties for Gabriel, changing the linen and seeing that his bandages were fresh and the wound clean. The doctor had called the day before and there was no need to trouble him today.
She was in the stillroom sorting through the various herbs and oils kept in stock in the house when Perdita's lady's maid came in. Martha Jackson was a thin, dark woman who had probably been handsome enough in her youth, but now, in her middle forties, she was a little gaunt. The lines of hardship were etched deeply into her face but there was no bitterness in them, and no self-pity. Hester had liked her from the moment they met. She had gathered from the odd remark let slip that Martha had originally been Perdita's governess but that circumstances had dictated that she remain in a secure position, and become her maid, rather than leave and seek another post as governess somewhere else, which could only be temporary again, as children's schoolroom years always pass. Once she had been a senior, almost independent employee. Now she was a servant, albeit a necessary and trusted one.
"Good morning, Miss Latterly," she said with forced cheerfulness. "How are you today? I hope you are settling in well. If there is anything I can do, please let me know."
Hester smiled at her. "Good morning, Miss Jackson. Yes, I am very comfortable, thank you."
Martha busied herself with making a paste for reviving the luster of tortoiseshell which had lost its shine and depth. She was carefully putting drops of olive oil into a teaspoon of jeweler's rouge.
"Are you needing anything in particular, Miss Latterly?" she asked after a moment or two. "Perhaps there is something missing that you could use?" She started to apply the paste to the comb, rubbing the soft cloth around in small circular movements.
"More lavender," Hester answered. "I think Mrs. Sheldon is not finding it easy to sleep at the moment."
Martha was rubbing with the cloth automatically. She turned to face Hester.
"She's so frightened," she said quietly. "Is there anything you can say to comfort her? I've racked my brains, but I know so little about his condition; if I tell her something that isn't true, she'll never trust me again. She has no one else to turn to. Mr. Sheldon is no use-" She stopped abruptly. She had betrayed a family confidence, even if it was one Hester could have worked out for herself, and probably had. It was not what others knew that mattered, it was the breach of trust.
Hester saw the compassion in Martha's face. It was more than duty or the pity anyone might have felt; it was the kind of love which cannot escape once obligation has been fulfilled, or walk away when conscience is satisfied. Martha had known and cared for Perdita since Perdita was a child. Perhaps she was the only one who had, closely, daily, seeing the weaknesses as well as the strengths, the temptations and disappointments, the failures; the only one who knew what effort or what price lay behind the outward joys.