Revenge in a Cold River Read Online Free PDF Page A

already at the hospital. The footman climbed down with easy grace and held the door open for her. The cold air made her wish momentarily that she had brought furs, too. Then she remembered Ingram giving them to her one Christmas, and she thought she would rather be cold as she walked across the pavement and up the wide steps into the hospital entrance.
    She was expected, and the doctor in charge was standing waiting for her. She had developed a reputation for promptness, and he stepped forward, smiling gravely, inclining his head in a slight bow. She was accustomed to it. She was the wife of one of the High Court’s most respected judges. It was the convention that none of them acknowledged his altered state as irreversible.
    “Good afternoon, Lady York,” he said soberly. “I’m afraid the weather has turned much colder.”
    “Indeed,” she replied, as if it mattered in the slightest to either of them. It was just easier to stick to the ritual than to have to think of something different to say.
    “How is my husband?” She always said that also.
    “I am afraid there has been a slight change,” the doctor answered, turning to lead the way to the now-familiar room that, as far as she knew, Ingram had not left since he had first been carried there. “I’m very sorry…perhaps he will be in less distress.” He forced a lift into his voice, as if it were of some cheer.
    He could have no idea at all how deeply she wished Ingram dead. Not only for her sake, but for his own. She had never loved him, although once, years ago, she had imagined she did. But he had had a certain dignity, and such high intelligence then. She would not have wished on anybody what he suffered now, plunging from sanity to confusion, and climbing desperately back again. It was awful to watch. No hunger for revenge could make him deserve this.
    They had reached his room, mercifully without any more meaningless conversation. The doctor opened the door for her and held it.
    She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and went in.
    As always, the smell was the first thing she noticed. It was a mixture of human body odors and the sharp, artificial cleanliness of lye and antiseptic. Everything was too white, too utilitarian.
    Ingram was propped up on the pillows. At first glance nothing seemed any different, as if she had been here only yesterday, when in fact it was weeks ago.
    Then as she came closer to the bed, she saw his eyes. They were hollower around the sockets than before, and cloudy, as if he could not see through them.
    “Hello, Ingram,” she said gently. “How are you?”
    He did not reply. Had he not heard her? Looking at him, she was almost certain he was conscious. Could he see her?
    She touched the thick-fingered white hand on the covers. She half expected it to be cold, but it was warmer than her own.
    “How are you?” she repeated a little more loudly.
    Suddenly his hand closed on hers, gripping her. She gasped, and for an instant thought of pulling away. Then with immense effort she relaxed her arm and let it be.
    “You look a little better,” she lied. He looked terrible, as if something inside him had perished.
    He was still staring at her with cloudy eyes. It was as if there were a window between them, of frosted glass that neither of them could see through.
    “Come again, have you, Beata?” His voice was no more than a whisper, but the anger was there in it, almost a gloating. “Got to, haven’t you, as long as I’m still alive? And I am! You’re not free yet….”
    “I know that, Ingram,” she answered, staring at him. “And neither are you.” The moment the words were across her lips she regretted them. It was her fault as well as his. How could she have been blind enough to have married him all those years ago? No one had forced her. She had been married before, for several years, and her first husband had died. It had been time she chose again. She had seen what she wished to see, as perhaps he had also.