The Shifting Tide (40 page)

“You didn’t hold your tongue long enough to give me the chance,” Claudine responded tartly. “But if you can’t work out the answer for yourself, then I’ll tell you. You’ll die of it, that’s what. Exactly the same as the rest of us.”

“Yer’d like that, wouldn’t yer!” he accused her, glaring at her where she stood just inside the door, her head high, hair untidy, hands on her wide hips.

“Of course I wouldn’t like that!” she snapped. “If you were dead I would have to carry all the water myself, instead of just most of it, as I do now. Apart from that, who’d carry you out?”

“Yer a cold and ’eartless woman,” he said miserably. “An’ yer don’ carry most o’ the water, yer carries ’alf, just like I does.”

“Well, carry half that poor woman’s body,” she ordered. “Not the bottom half, the top!”

“Why?”

“Because it’s heavier, of course. Use the wits you were born with, man.”

“Poor woman, is it?” he sneered. “That’s not wot yer called ’er a couple o’ days ago. Nothin’ weren’t bad enough for ’er then, ’cos she made ’er livin’ on ’er back, like most of ’em ’ere. Yer just despises ’er ’cos yer wouldn’t a made an ’a’penny yerself, not even in the dark!”

Hester tensed, ready to stem the onslaught she expected in reply to this insult.

But Claudine remained perfectly calm. “Don’t put words in my mouth, you stupid little man,” she said wearily. “Just pick her up and help me carry her down the stairs. And do it discreetly! She’s not so much dirty laundry to be slung about.”

Squeaky obeyed. “You’ve changed yer tune, ’aven’t yer? So tarts off the street are all right again, as long as they’re dead, eh?” He bent and picked up the wrapped bundle approximately where her shoulders were, and staggered a little under the weight.

“Well there isn’t much point in criticizing the dead, is there?” Claudine challenged him. “Poor soul is God’s problem now.”

Squeaky let out a high-pitched expletive. “She’s my bleedin’ problem if I rips me guts out carryin’ ’er! D’yer put a couple o’ lead bricks in wi’ ’er?”

“For heaven’s sake, man!” Claudine exploded. “Bend your knees! Straighten your back! What’s the matter with you? Haven’t you ever picked up anything before?” She gave an exasperated sigh. “Here!” She bent down carefully and with surprising grace, keeping her back perfectly straight, and picked up the dead woman’s feet. “Come on!” she ordered.

Squeaky copied her exactly, his face twisted in concentration, then lifted the other end of the corpse. He did it with comparative care, hesitated, transparently doubting within himself whether to thank her or not, and very graciously decided to do so. “Yeah!” he said. “It in’t so ’ard.”

“Oh, get on with it!” Claudine told him impatiently. “What are you waiting for, a round of applause?”

He glared at her and set off backwards down the candlelit corridor towards the stairs.

Hester followed, calling out and warning just as Squeaky reached the top of the stairs and looked like he’d fall backwards down them.

“You fool!” Claudine said in utter exasperation, probably because she had not thought to warn him herself.

“I dunno why we bother wi’ Sutton an’ ’is bleedin’ dogs!” Squeaky said indignantly. “Got a mouth like a rattrap, you ’ave! Catch all the bleedin’ rats in the place, yer would! Mebbe that’s wot’s wrong wi’ yer! Swallowin’ too many bleedin’ rats!”

“Stop complaining and carry this poor woman to her grave,” Claudine responded, apparently unmoved.

Squeaky steadied himself and started backwards down the stairs. Claudine went gently, with considerable regard for his balance and speed, waiting whenever it was necessary, and without further criticism. When they reached the bottom she told Squeaky when to go left, when right, and when he seemed lost, she waited.

Finally they reached the back door and Sutton, who was standing beside it, opened it on to the rain-soaked night. The lamplight gleamed on the stones, and the gutters were awash. Under the eaves two men were waiting, dogs sitting patiently at their heels. Two more detached themselves from the shadows, ready to come forward for the body when the door was closed. The rat cart would be waiting at the curb, but it was out of sight.

Squeaky let go of the body with relief and then Claudine let go of her end in turn. To everyone’s amazement she stood quite still, in the rain, her head bowed.

“May the Good Lord have mercy on her soul and remember only what was good in her,” she said quietly. “Amen.” She jerked her head up. “What are you staring at?”

Squeaky glowered at her, his body hunched and tight, shivering in the cold.

“Amen!” he replied, then splashed back over the cobbles to the kitchen door, scattering water everywhere, Claudine immediately behind him.

Hester smiled, thanking them both, just as Bessie appeared, announcing her arrival to take over for a while. Hester excused herself and went upstairs again to find a quiet place and snatch a few hours of sleep, sinking into oblivion with immeasurable gratitude.

She awoke what seemed only a few minutes later, but it must actually have been several hours, because the thin, winter daylight came in through the window. Flo was standing beside her, her long, freckled face filled with misery.

Hester dragged herself into consciousness and forced herself to sit up. The air was cold and her head ached. “What is it, Flo?” she asked.

“I went ter waken Miss Mercy,” Flo replied. “She looks ’orrible pale, an’ I can’t get ’er ter waken proper.”

“She’s probably exhausted,” Hester answered, pulling the bedclothes around herself. “She’s been working almost without a stop for days. We can leave her for a little longer. I’ll get up. Has anything happened during the night? How is everyone?” As she straightened up she touched her fingers to the skin under her armpits, dreading to feel the tenderness and only half believing it was not there.

“That Minnie looks worse,” Flo replied, pretending she had not noticed the gesture. She understood it perfectly. “Coughin’ fit to bring ’er guts up, she is,” she went on. “But still got plenty ter say fer ’erself, so I reckon’s she’s good fer another day or two, poor little cow. Kettle’s on when yer ready.”

“Thank you.”

Flo went out, closing the door behind her. Stiffly, shivering as the air hit her skin, Hester got up. She dressed again and splashed her face from the small dish of cold water she had spared herself. Then she started to go downstairs for the tea Flo had offered and a slice or two of toast. Thanks to Margaret’s constant efforts, they had sufficient food and fuel. She pushed the thought of Margaret out of her mind because she missed her company, her encouragement, just the knowledge that she could glance at her and know that they understood each other in unique ways. The loneliness might cripple her if she allowed it.

If she thought of Monk, she would find herself in tears. She could not bear to think of being with him again—his voice, his touch, the feel of his lips on her face—because the sweetness of it was everything she longed for. Nor could she think of the possibility that she would not, because that robbed her of hope. He was the only reward that mattered and it was enough to drive her through exhaustion and pity and grief.

She was halfway down the stairs when she thought she had better have a look at Mercy. She was probably just exhausted. She was a young woman of good birth and a fairly sheltered upbringing. This kind of physical labor, let alone the constant fear, would have crippled most girls like her.

Hester knocked lightly on the door, and there was no answer. She pushed it open and went in. Mercy looked to be sound asleep, but not motionless. She moved slightly, took an unsteady breath, then turned her head.

“Mercy?” Hester said quietly.

There was no answer.

Hester walked over to her. Even in the dim daylight through the curtains she could see that Mercy was not awake. She was tossing and turning in fever, her cheeks flushed, a beading of sweat on her lip.

Hester felt a slow settling of pain inside her and fear took hold of her stomach, knotting it tight. With a trembling hand she reached over and pulled the bedclothes back. Her fingers rested lightly over the place where the sleeve of the nightgown met the bodice. She felt the hard lumps. Perhaps it was going to happen to all of them. It was only sooner or later, that was all. Now for Mercy it was a terrible certainty.

Hester’s throat was thick with tears. She found it suddenly hard to breathe. Looking down at the flushed face and the fair, tangled hair, she realized how much she liked Mercy. She was angry that this should happen to her, and not someone who had less to lose or who would not be missed so much. It was a stupid emotion, and she should have known better than to allow herself to feel it, but all the reason in the world made no difference.

Slowly she turned and walked away, closing the door of the room behind her and going down the stairs as if in a dream. She must get something to eat, stay strong. She would nurse Mercy herself, make sure she never woke alone. No one could help; no one could remove the physical pain, the horror or the inevitability of death. Lies would be no comfort, only dig a gulf between them. She could do nothing but simply be there.

She walked into the kitchen. They all turned to look at her, but it was Sutton who spoke. He came over to her, his face pinched with concern.

“Tea!” he ordered Flo. “Then get yerself off.” To Claudine he just waved a hand, and, white-faced, she went to resume the endless laundry. There was little water left, but she did not mention it, and certainly did not complain. She would reuse what was there if it proved necessary. Squeaky was nowhere to be seen. Fear was in the air, like the cold.

Flo poured the tea and excused herself. Hester sat down, still without having spoken. She placed her hands around the steaming mug and let the warmth run through them.

“D’yer know ’oo did it?” Sutton said quietly.

“Killed Ruth?” She was surprised. It seemed to matter so little now. “No, I don’t. I’m not sure how much I care. The poor woman was dying anyway, she just took longer than some of the others. Partly it was because of the way the disease went, and partly because she was strong, not living on the streets half starved. I think if I had plague, I wouldn’t mind a lot if someone just snuffed me out a little faster. And don’t bother to tell me you shouldn’t do that. I know. I’m just admitting that I haven’t even thought about it lately. Have you?”

“Not much,” he replied. “She quarreled a lot with Claudine and Flo. Mercy was the only one ’oo ’ad the measure of ’er, but then seems it were Mercy ’oo looked after ’er. As it were ’er brother ’oo brung ’er ’ere, so mebbe she know’d plenty about ’er. Could bin ’er as done it.” He pulled his face into a gruesome expression of disbelief. “Or it could a bin anyb’dy else. She were a nasty piece o’ work, Gawd rest ’er.”

“I don’t think it’s going to matter if Mercy did,” Hester said quietly, her voice flat.

Sutton caught the tone, and he looked at her with intense sorrow. “She got it too?”

Hester took a shuddering breath. “Yes . . .” It ended in a sob.

He put out his hand, automatically, to touch hers, very lightly, as if he did not want to intrude. She felt the warmth of it and ached to be able to hold on to him. But it would have embarrassed him. She was there to be a leader, not to turn to others for comfort as if she were just as terrified as they were. They might guess it, but they must never know.

She sat there silently for a moment longer, forcing her breathing to become even again, and the tears to choke back out of her throat. Then she brought her head up and began to drink her tea.

Ten minutes later she went back upstairs to sit with Mercy. She spoke to her every so often, not certain if she was awake enough to hear or understand. She talked about all sorts of things: past experiences, things she had seen, like the first Christmas in the Crimea, the beauty of the landscape, snowbound under a full moon. And she described other things, closer to home, wandering in her memories at random, simply for the sake of talking.

Once or twice Mercy opened her eyes and smiled. Hester tried to get her to drink a little beef tea, and she managed a mouthful or two, but she was very weak. How she had kept going for so long was hard to imagine. She must have been in great pain.

Hester thanked her for all she had done, above all for her gentleness, for her friendship. And she praised her, hoping she would understand at least some of it. Late in the afternoon she seemed to find almost an hour of sleep.

In the evening Hester went downstairs again to see how everyone else was doing—if there was enough water, food, soap—and to fetch another candle. Her head was aching, her eyes prickled with weariness, and her mouth was dry. She had just started back upstairs when she was aware of the room blurring a little, sliding away from her vision. The next thing she lost her balance and slipped into darkness, only vaguely aware of something hitting her hard on the left side.

She opened her eyes to see the smoke-stained patch on the ceiling, then Claudine’s face, ashen with fear, tears on her cheeks.

With a wave of terror so intense the room spun around again, she remembered the moment she had touched Mercy’s armpit and felt the hard swelling. Had she looked as Claudine did now? It was the end; she had gotten it after all. She would never see Monk again.

Sutton was beside her, his arm around her, holding her head up a little. Snoot was pushing against him, wagging his tail.

“Yer’ve no right to give up yet,” Sutton said scathingly. “Yer’ve nothin’ ter give up for! Yer not ill, yer just daft!” He gulped. “Beggin’ yer pardon fer the familiarity, but there in’t nuffin’ under yer arms. Yer just too skinny ter stand the pace!”

“What?” she mumbled.

“Yer not got the plague!” he hissed at her. “Yer just got a fit o’ the vapors, like any other lady wot’s bin brung up right! Claudine’ll get yer ter yer bed, an’ yer stay there until yer told yer can come out. Sent ter yer room, like. In’t that wot yer ma did to yer when yer was full o’ lip?”

“Sent to my room . . .” Hester wanted to giggle, but she hadn’t the strength. “But Mercy . . .”

“The world in’t gonner stop just ’cos yer in’t pushin’ it ’round,” Sutton said disgustedly, but his hand on her was as gentle and his eyes as soft as when he fondled his little dog. “Just do as yer told, for once!” he snapped, his voice suddenly choking. “We in’t got time ter be pickin’ yer up off the floor every five minutes!” He turned away quickly, blushing hard.