The Shifting Tide (41 page)

Claudine bent down and helped her up, holding her so tightly she couldn’t have buckled at the knees if she had wanted to. Together, awkwardly, trying to keep in step and not trip each other, they made their way back up the stairs, passing a horrified Squeaky Robinson on the landing.

“Don’t look like that, you daft ha’porth!” Claudine shot a furious glare at him. “She’s just tired! If you want to be useful, go and fetch some water from the yard. And if there isn’t any there, tell those blasted men to go and get some.” And without waiting to see if he was going to obey her, she swept Hester along to the bedroom and half heaved her onto the bed. “Now go to sleep!” she ordered furiously. “Just do it! I’ll look after everything.”

Hester stopped struggling and let go.

She woke with a start. The only light in the room was from the candle burning on the small table beside her. In its flame she could see Margaret sitting on the chair, looking back at her, a little anxious but smiling.

Hester shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She sat up slowly, blinking, but Margaret was still there. Horror welled up inside her. “You can’t have . . .”

“I haven’t,” Margaret said, understanding immediately. She leaned forward and took Hester’s arm. “Neither have you. You’re just exhausted.”

“They shouldn’t have told you!” Hester protested, struggling to sit up. Now fear for Margaret drowned out all other thoughts.

Margaret shook her head. “They didn’t. I came because I couldn’t leave you here alone.” She said it quite simply, without protestations of morality or friendship. It was simply a fact.

Hester smiled widely and lay back, filled with warmth, just for now refusing to think beyond the moment.

Later they met together over toast and jam and a cup of tea, while Hester told Margaret all that had happened since she had left.

“I’m sorry about Mercy,” Margaret said quietly. “I liked her. It seems a terrible sacrifice. She’s so young, and had everything before her. At least . . .” She frowned. “I don’t really know anything except that she is Clement Louvain’s sister. One tends to think that if people have a good family, and are more than pleasing to look at, they will be happy, and that’s silly, really. She may have all kinds of private griefs we know nothing of.” Her face became reflective, deep in her own thoughts, and there was more than a shadow of pain in it.

Hester knew what it was; there was only one thing that would trouble Margaret in such a way. There was all the difference in the world between the ache in the heart caused by love, its disillusion and loneliness, and the fear of any other kind of calamity. She had realized even more intensely in these last days that the passion, the tenderness—above all, the companionship—of heart and mind were the gifts that gave light and meaning to all others, or took it from them.

“Oliver?” she said gently.

Margaret’s eyes opened wide, then she blushed. “Am I so transparent?”

Hester smiled. “To another woman, yes, of course, you are.”

“He asked me to marry him,” Margaret said quietly. She bit her lip. “I had been waiting for him to do that, dreaming of it, and it was all exactly as it should have been.” She gave a rueful, bewildered little laugh. “Except that nothing was really right. How could I possibly accept marriage now and go away, leaving you here alone to cope with this? What would I be worth if I could, and how could he not know that? What does he believe of me that he would even ask?”

Hester watched Margaret’s face. “What did you say?”

Margaret took a sharp breath. “That I could not, of course. I told him that I was coming here. He didn’t want me to, at least part of him didn’t. Illness . . . frightens him . . .” She said it with hesitation, as if betraying a confidence and yet unable to bear it alone.

“I know.” Hester smiled. “He’s not perfect. It costs him all the courage he has even to think of it, let alone come close to it.”

Margaret said nothing.

“Perhaps he can face things we find harder, or even turn away from,” Hester went on. “If he were afraid of nothing, if he had never run away, never failed or been ashamed, never needed time and another chance, what would he have in common with the rest of us, and how would he learn to be gentle with us?”

Margaret looked at her steadily, searching her eyes.

“You’re disappointed?” Hester asked.

“No!” Margaret answered instantly, then looked away. “I . . . I’m afraid he’ll think I am, because I was for a moment or two. And maybe he won’t ask me again. Maybe nobody will, but that doesn’t matter, because I really don’t want anyone else. Apart from you, there’s nobody else I . . . like so much.” She looked up again. “Do you understand?”

“Absolutely. I believe he will ask you, but if he is cautious, you will have to deal with that.”

“You mean be patient, wait?”

“No, I don’t!” Hester responded instantly. “I mean do something about it. Put him in a situation where he is obliged to speak—not that I am in the least useful at doing that sort of thing myself, but I know it can be done.”

Sutton came in through the back door, Snoot at his heels. Hester poured tea for him, offered him toast, and invited him to sit down.

“It’s good to see you, miss,” he said to Margaret, accepting the invitation. The words were bare enough, but the expression in his face was profound approval, and Margaret found herself coloring at the unspoken praise.

Hester took the crusts from her toast and gave them to Snoot. “I know I shouldn’t,” she acknowledged to Sutton. “But he’s done such a good job.”

“He’s a beggar!” Sutton said tartly. “ ’Ow many times ’ave I told yer not to beg, yer little ’ound?” His voice was full of pride. “ ’e ’as done a good job, Miss ’Ester. I in’t seed a rat fer two days now.”

Hester felt a hollowness at the thought that Sutton might leave. She realized how much she relied upon him, even with Margaret back. His resourcefulness, his wry, brave wit, his companionship could not be replaced by anybody else.

“There might still be some,” she said too quickly.

“I’ll show yer where I bin,” he replied, waiting until she was ready to move.

She finished her tea, and when he had also she followed him to the laundry. It smelled of carbolic, wet stone, and cotton. He stopped. “We in’t had no more new cases o’ the plague since Miss Mercy. Mebbe we’re gonna get the better of it,” he said softly. “But I in’t goin’ till yer find out ’oo killed that Clark woman. Not as she din’t deserve it, like, but nob’dy can take the law into their own ’ands.” He looked at her in the dim light. “I bin thinkin’, it’s gotter be between Flo, Miss Claudine, an’ Miss Mercy, though why Miss Mercy should wanter kill ’er I in’t got no idea. Summink ter do wi’ ’er brother, mebbe. Bessie could’ve o’ course, but she in’t like that. The rest of ’em were too poorly accordin’ ter Bessie, an’ din’t never see ’er.”

“Or Squeaky,” Hester added. “But so far as I know, he didn’t see her either. And why on earth would he want to kill her?”

“That’s exactly it,” Sutton said unhappily. “An’ as yer said, it were Mr. Louvain as brung ’er in.”

“Yes. He said she was the mistress of a friend of his.”

He raised an eyebrow in a lopsided expression of doubt. “Or mebbe not? ’ave yer thought as mebbe she were ’is own mistress, like?”

“Yes, of course, I have.” A coldness touched her. “You mean that Mercy knew that, perhaps even knew her?”

“In’t wot I wanna think,” he said sadly. “Nor wouldn’t I wanter think as mebbe that’s why she come ’ere ter ’elp—”

“Just to murder Ruth Clark?” Hester refused to believe it. “She was here for days before Ruth was killed. If that’s what she came for, why would she wait?”

“I dunno. Mebbe she wanted ter argue the Clark woman inter leavin’ the family alone?” he suggested, his face pinched with weariness. “But p’r’aps the Clark woman ’ad ideas o’ becomin’ Mrs. Louvain? Or mebbe just o’ bleedin’ ’im o’ money. Miss Mercy could a bin protectin’ ’im.”

“No.” This time she was quite certain. “He doesn’t need anyone to do that. If Ruth Clark was trying to blackmail him, or get money in any way, he’d simply have dumped her in the river himself.”

He looked at her, shaking his head a little. “Someb’dy put a piller over ’er ’ead. D’yer reckon as it were Flo—or Miss Claudine? Miss Claudine got a tongue on ’er as’d slice bacon, but she wouldn’t stoop ’erself to ’it anyb’dy. I seen ’er wi’ Squeaky. She’d fair bust ’er stays, but she wouldn’t ’it ’im. Flo’s a different kettle o’ fish. She’d a throttled ’er if she’d really lost ’er rag, like. But d’yer reckon as she’d a carried it off after, all cool an’ surprised, like? An’ nob’dy’d guessed it were ’er?”

“No . . .”

“Then I reckon yer’ve gotter think as it were Miss Mercy.” His face was marked with weariness and sorrow. “I wish I ’adn’t ’ad ter say that.”

“I was just putting off thinking it,” she admitted. “I sensed emotion between them, but I really didn’t think it was hatred, and I would have sworn that Ruth wasn’t afraid of her. If there’d been that kind of threat between them, if Ruth was blackmailing Clement Louvain, or imagining she would marry him, then surely she’d know Mercy would try to stop it? Wouldn’t she have been afraid?”

He was disconcerted. “ ’Ow daft were she?”

“Not at all. She was quick, well educated; in fact, they seemed to belong to the same social class, except that Ruth was possibly Louvain’s mistress, whereas Mercy is his sister.”

There was a sound at the doorway, and Claudine came in, aware that she was probably interrupting and ignoring the fact. Her eyes were bleak and she held her voice in control with difficulty. “Mrs. Monk, I think Mercy is sinking. Flo is with her, but I thought you’d like to be there yourself if she rallies long enough to know.”

Hester was not ready. Her thoughts were in turmoil and she needed to know the truth, however deeply it hurt, if only to free Flo and Claudine from suspicion. Nor was she ready emotionally. She liked Mercy, liked her patience, her curiosity, the way she was willing to learn skills outside her class or style of life, her generosity of spirit, her ease to praise others, even her occasional flashes of temper. Hester was not prepared to accept her death with so much turbulence of heart, so many painful questions unanswered.

But time would not wait; the hand of plague waited for nothing.

“I’m coming,” she said, glancing once at Sutton. Then she followed Claudine out through the kitchen and up the stairs to Mercy’s room.

Flo was sitting beside the bed, leaning forward a little to hold Mercy’s hand. Mercy lay quite still, her eyes closed. She was breathing heavily and the sweat stood out on her skin.

Flo rose and allowed Hester to take her place, moving silently to the door.

Hester touched Mercy’s head, then wrung out the cloth in the dish of water and placed it on her brow. A few minutes later Mercy opened her eyes. She saw Hester and smiled, just the corner of her lips moving a fraction.

“I’m here,” Hester whispered. “I won’t leave you.”

Mercy seemed to be struggling to say something. Hester wet her lips with the cloth.

“Are there any more?” Mercy breathed, the words barely audible.

“Any more?” Hester did not understand what she meant, but she could see that it was of intense importance to her.

“Any more . . . sick?” Mercy whispered.

“No, no more,” Hester answered.

There were several more minutes of silence. Mercy was blue about the lips and she was obviously in severe pain. The poison that had blackened the buboes under her arms and groin was racking her whole body now. Hester had seen death often enough to know that it would not be long. She would have to get word out to Clement Louvain when it was over and they could communicate with the outside world. She would have to tell him about Ruth Clark as well, whatever the truth of his regard for her had been. Odd, such lovely words: Mercy and Clement. And the sister was Charity—the same meaning again. And Ruth Clark too. The word was usually used in the negative—
ruthless
—so
ruth
must be a kind of mercy and forbearance, a gentleness of spirit. Presumably, Clement Louvain would tell Charity. What a lot of grief for one man to bear.

Had he known that Ruth had plague? Was that why he had brought her here instead of having her nursed in his own home? If she had been his mistress, then he could well have it too by now.

Mercy’s eyes were open.

Hester looked at her. “Did you know that Ruth Clark had the plague?”

Mercy blinked. “Ruth?” It was almost as if she did not know who Hester meant.

“Ruth Clark, the first one to die,” Hester reminded her. “She was suffocated. Someone put a pillow over her face and stifled her, but she would have died of plague anyway—almost certainly. Hardly anyone ever recovers.”

“Leaving . . .” Mercy said hoarsely. “Not listen to me. Spread it . . .”

“No, she didn’t,” Hester assured her gently, her eyes brimming with tears. “She never went outside the clinic, except to be buried.” She put her hand on Mercy’s and felt the fingers respond very slightly. “That’s why you killed her, isn’t it?” Her throat was tight and aching. “To stop her from leaving. You knew she had plague, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” It was hardly more than a breath.

“How? Was she your brother’s mistress?”

Mercy made a funny little sound in her throat, a gasping as if she had something caught in it, and it was a couple of seconds before Hester realized it was laughter.

“Wasn’t she?” she asked. “Who was Ruth Clark?”

“Charity . . .” Mercy answered. “My sister. Stanley died at sea, but Charity thought she could escape. I wouldn’t let her . . . not with plague. I . . .” But she had no more strength. Her eyelids fluttered and her breath eased out slowly and did not come again.

Hester reached for her pulse, but she knew it would not be there. She sat motionless, overwhelmed with the reality of the loss. She had not known Mercy long, but they had shared sorrow, pity, and laughter; shared grubby manual duties, fear and hope, and feelings that mattered. Now she knew that Mercy had come here deliberately, knowing what it might cost her, to stop her sister from carrying plague away into the city, the country. She had paid the price to the last drop.