There was a noise in the doorway and she looked up to see Mary come limping in carrying two pails of water she had drawn from the well in the next street. In the candlelight she looked like a grotesque milkmaid, her shoulders bent, her hair blowing over her face from the wind and rain outside. Her plain stuff dress was wet across the top and her skirts trailed in the mud. She lived locally and had come to help because her sister was one of those afflicted. She set the pails down with an involuntary grunt of relief, then smiled at Hester.

“There y'are, miss. Bit o' rain in 'em, but I s'pose that don't 'urt none.

Yer want them 'ot?”

“Yes, I'll add them to this,” Hester accepted, indicating the cauldron she was stirring on top of one of the potbellied stoves.

“Were it like this in the Crimea?” Mary asked in a husky whisper, just in case some poor creature should be sleeping rather than insensible. “Yes, a bit,” Hester replied. “Except, of course, we had gunshot wounds as well, and amputations, and gangrene. But we had lots of fever too.” “Think I'd like to 'ave bin there,” Mary said, stretching and bending her back after the weight of the water. “Gotta be better than 'ere. Nearly married a sol'jer once.” She smiled fleetingly at the memory of romance. “Then I went and married Ernie instead. Just a brickie, 'e were, but sort o' gentle.” She sniffed. “ 'E'd a' never made the army. 'Is legs was bad. Rickets Wen 'e were a kid. Does that to yer, rickets does.” She stretched again and moved closer to the stove, her wet skirts slapping against her legs, her boots squelching. “Died o' consumption, 'e did. 'E could read, could Ernie. Captain o' the Men o' Death, 'e called it. Consumption, I mean. Read that somewhere, 'e did.” She eyed the gruel and lifted one of the pails to pour in a gallon of water to thin it.

“Thank you,” Hester acknowledged. “He sounds special.”

“'E were,” Mary said stoically. “Miss 'im I do, poor bleeder. Me sister Dora wanted to get out of 'ere. Never thought it'd be in a coffin, leastways not yet. Not that there's many as gets out ter anythink much different. There were Ginny Motson. Pretty, she were, an' smart as yer like. Dunno wot 'appened to 'er, nor were she went, but up west somewhere.

Real bettered 'erself, she did. Learned ter talk proper, an' Wave like a lady, or least summink like.”

Hester refrained from speculating that it was probably into a brothel. The dream of freedom was too precious to destroy.

“Reckon as she got married,” Mary went on. “'Ope so. Liked 'er I did. D'yer want more water, miss?”

“Not yet, thank you.”