“I think it is the crisis,” Hester answered. “But she is a strong woman, and she has courage. It may not be the end.”

“'Course she has,” Dingle said with intensity. “Never know'd anybody like her for spirit. But typhoid's a terrible illness. It's took so many.” On the bed Enid gave a little moan, then lay perfectly still.

Dingle gasped.

“It's all right,” Hester said quickly, seeing the faint rise and fall of Enid's breast. “But you had better fetch his lordship without delay. Then don't forget the water-and cool, not hot. Just take the chill off it, that's all.”

Dingle hesitated. “I know you done all the nursing, but I'll lay her out, if you please.”

“Of course,” Hester agreed. “If it's necessary. But the battle isn't lost yet. Now please send for the water. It may make a difference.”

Dingle whirled around and almost ran to the door. Perhaps she had thought it simply cosmetic. Now her feet flew along the passage and she returned in less than five minutes with a great ewer full of water barely off the chill, and a clean towel over her arm.

“Thank you.” Hester took the ewer with the briefest smile and immediately dipped the towel. Then she laid it, still wet, across Enid's brow and her throat, then sponged her hands and lower arms.

“Help me hold her up a little,” she asked. “And I'll place it on the back of her neck for a moment or two.”

Dingle obliged instantly.

“Lord Ravensbrook is taking a long time,” Hester murmured, laying Enid back again. “Was he very deeply asleep?”

“Oh!” Dingle stared at her, aghast. “I forgot 'im! Oh dear-I'd better go and fetch him now!” She did not ask Hester to keep silent about the omission, but her eyes made the plea for her.

“The water was more important,” Hester said by way of agreement.

“I'll get 'im now.” Dingle was already on her way to the door. “An' I'd better tell Miss Genevieve…”

Milo Ravensbrook came in within moments. He had dressed, but little more.

His hair was uncombed and lay in thick, untidy curls most women would have envied with a passion. His eyes were hollow and his cheeks pinched and dark with stubble. He looked angry, frightened and extraordinarily vulnerable.

He ignored Hester and went up to the bed and stood staring at his wife.

The clock on the mantelshelf gave a faint chime of quarter past midnight.

“It's cold in here,” he said without turning, accusation flaring in his voice. “You've let it get cold. Stoke the fire.”

She did not bother to argue. It probably did not matter now, and he was not in a mood to listen. Obediently she went to the coal bucket, picked up the tongs and placed two pieces on the hot embers. They were slow to ignite.

“Use the bellows,” he commanded.

She had seen grief take people in many different ways. Sometimes it was dread of the loneliness which would follow, the long days and years of no one with whom to share their inner thoughts, the feelings which could not be explained, the belief that no one else would love them as that person had, and accept and understand their faults as well as their virtues. For some it was guilt that somehow or other they had not said or done all that they might, and now it was already too late. The minutes were slipping by, and still they could think of nothing adequate to say to make up for all the mistakes and missed opportunities. “Thank you” or “I love you” was too hard to say, and too simple.

And for many it was the fear of death itself, the absolute knowledge that one day they must face it too, and in spite of even profound religious faith, they did not really know what lay beyond. An hour a week of formal ritual was no comfort to the mind or the soul when faced with reality.

Faith must be part of the daily web of life, a trust tested in a myriad of smaller things, before it can be a bridge over the chasm of such a passage from the known to the unknown. If Milo Ravensbrook was afraid for himself, she did not blame him.

“You can speak to her,” she said to him from the end of the bed to where he stood beside it, still looking down at Enid without touching her. “Even if she does not respond, she may hear you.”

He raised his head, his expression impatient, almost accusatory.

“It may comfort her,” she added.

Suddenly the anger drained out of him. He looked at Hester steadily, not so much at her face as at her gray dress and white apron, which were not Dingle's clothes but her own again. She realized how used he must be to women in such attire. She probably did not appear very different from the nursery maid or the nanny who would have brought him up, told him stories, given him his food and sat with him at mealtimes and made sure he ate what was put before him, disciplined him, nursed him when he was sick, accompanied him when he went out for walks in the park or for rides in the carriage. There was a lifetime's association with the gray, starched dress, and a score of others like it.

He turned away again and obeyed her, sitting on the bed, his back to her.

“Enid,” he said a little awkwardly. “Enid?”

For several minutes there was no response. He shifted and seemed about to move away again, when she muttered something.

He leaned forward. “Enid!”

“Milo?” Her voice was barely audible, a whisper with a dry wheeze in the middle. “Don't be so angry… you frighten me!”

“I'm not angry, my dear,” he said gently. “You are dreaming! I'm not angry in the slightest.”

“He didn't mean to…” She sighed and was silent for several minutes.

Ravensbrook turned to look at Hester, his eyes demanding an answer. Hester moved to the other side of the bed. Enid was very white, her skin stretched over her cheekbones, her eyes far back in her head as if the sockets were too large for them. But she was still breathing, barely visibly, perhaps too lightly for Ravensbrook to be certain.

“It hasn't comforted her at all!” He choked on the words. “It's made it worse! She thinks I'm angry!” It was a charge, a blame against Hester for her misjudgment.

“And you have assured her you are not. Surely that must be of comfort,”

Hester replied.

He looked away impatiently, temper darkening his face.

“Angus,” Enid said suddenly. “You must forgive him, Milo, however hard it is. He tried, I swear he tried!”

“I know he tried!” Ravensbrook said quickly, turning towards her, his own fear of the disease temporarily forgotten. “It is all past, I promise you.”

Enid let out her breath in a long sigh and the faintest shadow of a smile touched her lips and then faded away.

“Enid!” he cried out, taking her hand roughly.

Hester picked up the damp cloth again and wiped Enid's brow, then her cheeks, then her lips and throat.

“That's bloody useless, woman!” Ravensbrook said loudly, lurching backwards and standing up. “Don't go through your damned rituals in front of me.

Can't you at least have the decency to wait until I am out of the room. She was my wife, for God's sake!”

Hester held her hand on Enid's throat, high, under the chin, and pressed hard. She felt the skin cooler, the pulse weak but steady.

“She's asleep,” she said with certainty.

“I don't want your bloody euphemisms!” His voice was cracking, but close to a shout, and filled with helpless rage. “I won't be treated like a child by some damn servant, and in my own house!”

“She is asleep!” Hester repeated firmly. “The fever has broken. When she wakens she will begin to get better. It may take some time. She has been very ill, but with care she will make a full recovery. That is if you don't distress her now and break her rest with your temper!”

“What?” he said, still angry, confused.

“Do you wish me to repeat it?” she asked.

“No! No.” He stood perfectly still just inside the door. “Are you sure? Do you know what you are talking about?”