A Murder at Rosamund's Gate (27 page)

Cook looked as stricken as Lucy felt. A bitter and heavy silence fell over the room. From beyond the door, Lucy heard Annie moan softly. For a long moment, Lucy and Cook looked at each other, complete understanding between them. They loved this household—there would be no sneaking out windows as Janey and other servants were doing, no doubt all over London. The magistrate deserved their loyalty and courage, even though Lucy wanted to run crying to her mother. Even the mistress, with all her vanity and silliness, was a good woman and deserved better.

“Right, sir,” Cook said briskly. “You can count on Lucy and me; we will take care of the mistress as if she were our own kin.”

Unexpectedly, the magistrate blinked and swallowed, looking quite overcome. For a moment, the three were quiet. Lucy wished she could embrace him, offer him some comfort in this terrible time. Annie’s soft moans called Lucy back to her bedside, and the magistrate returned to his wife’s chamber, to sit vigil by her side.

*   *   *

It was nearing seven o’clock when Lucy finally heard John and Adam rap at the kitchen door.

“It’s us!” John called. “We’ve got some chickens that need to be put up and wood. I do not want to leave them on the stoop.”

Lucy went to the crack in the door. “Nay, Master Adam, John. I cannot let you in.”

“Lucy, what nonsense are you speaking? Hurry, we have our hands full and still much to do,” Adam said.

Lucy shook her head fiercely at them, as though they could see her through the door. “No, I cannot! The mistress, she has come down with the plague. I dare not let you in. Cook and me, we will take care of her, but we are afraid that you and John could get the sickness. It would be best”—she paused, a catch in her voice—“if you go on to the Warwickshire estate without us.”

There was a short silence on the other side of the door. “My mother? She has the sickness?” Adam asked, his voice husky. “The … plague?”

“Yes,” Lucy replied, trying not to cry. “Your father has bid us to be quarantined. You are to paint a cross on the door, so the neighbors will know to stay away.”

On the other side of the door, she heard a muffled oath and some muttered discussion. “Wait, Lucy,” Adam called out. “Do not be rash. I will fetch the surgeon. He can confirm—”

“No, sir,” Lucy interrupted. “We’ve already had the surgeon. He told me and Cook some things to brew, but there’s little else we can do for the mistress or little Annie, except prayer. And posies.”

The sound of a fist hitting the heavy oak door made her jump. “Lucy, let me in!” Adam demanded. “John must stay away. He can get Sarah from my aunt’s and take her to Warwickshire. But Lucy, that is my mother in there. I should be with her.”

From beyond the door, she could hear John protesting. “And I should be with my sweet Mary, and little Annie and Lawrence.”

“No!” Cook said sharply, coming to stand behind Lucy at the door. Her hands were on her hips, and her face was stern.

“John, dear. Master Adam, sir,” Cook said, speaking as she might to small children. “It must be as the magistrate said. Lucy and I will tend the mistress and the others. Rest assured, sir, we will nurse them as we would our own family. If you were in here, you’d just take ill and be in our way.”

Lucy could almost laugh, if it were not so serious. Again a muffled discussion ensued beyond the door.

Then Adam called back. “We do not like it, but we accept my father’s wishes. We will bring you provisions, enough to make it through the next few days.”

A few days. Lucy shivered. The doctor had said the sickness would run its course in a few days. A sudden moment of terror overcame her. Would they survive? Would they be trapped? She wanted to scream for them to open the door, to not let the reaper come for them, but she remained silent.

Fiercely, she pushed the thoughts away. Knowing the men were just outside the door was making her weak. “You must go!” she cried. “Please!”

“Master Adam, sir,” Cook called back. “Do not forget. You must then nail our door shut and not return for three days.”

Again, silence. Whoever returned might find a grisly sight indeed in three days, if the plague did run its regular course. Lucy bit her lip. Someone coughed.

“Right, then,” Adam said. “We will stable the new horse and return with nails.”

Then John spoke. “God bless and preserve us all.”

Not much later, Lucy heard the grim sound of boards being nailed across the front door. Pounding, pounding, pounding …

Lucy’s heart raced. She felt like they were being sealed in a tomb. John was the coffin maker, and they were the dead. The dead must be kept from the living.

*   *   *

Deep in the night, Lucy stole softly into the mistress’s chambers, to check on her as she slept. She and Cook had taken turns tending Annie, the mistress, and now Lawrence, who had just fallen ill. The master had not left his wife’s side, holding her hand, gazing at her dimly lit form. With her curling hair spread across her face and bodice, and the lines of complaint gone from her mouth, she looked beautiful. Del Gado’s portraits popped into Lucy’s mind, but she pushed the image away.

“Sir,” she whispered. “Perhaps you should try to get some sleep.”

Master Hargrave lifted his anguished face to Lucy’s. “Lucy, I have to stay with her. God knows I’ve been away from her for so much of our life together; I must be with her now.” More to himself he added, “I know she sometimes found enjoyment with others, but I never blamed her. If anything, I blamed myself for being away from her side so much. She’s the only woman I ever loved.”

As if hearing him, from deep within her deathly stupor, the mistress smiled ever so slightly, and a small sigh escaped her lips.

Lucy nodded and stoked the fire in the hearth a bit. As she replaced the warm potatoes at her mistress’s feet, the magistrate looked up, recalling her presence in the room.

“Oh, Lucy. Adam told me that William was declared innocent, was he not? You must be much relieved.”

She nodded. The events of the day, of the trial, were so far off. With the mistress being so ill, she barely had time to think about her brother.

“Your friend was the one who presided over his case,” Lucy said, smoothing the cover around the mistress’s still form.

The magistrate smiled slightly, looking old and tired. “Yes, Ernest, he’s a good man. I knew he’d give your brother a fair trial. Adam insisted that he be the one to hear the case, you know. I don’t really have much say over these matters, but we justices usually work out the demands of the docket, and change things around when necessary.”

Lucy gazed into the fire, tiredly holding a mug of cooling mead, trying to stay warm and awake.

“The evidence was very circumstantial, I know, but heavily against William’s favor. Something must have decided Ernest’s mind. Do you know?”

“’Twas amazing, sir. Richard, the bast—, excuse me, sir, the man who had accused William, lied about him and, in fact, ended up recanting at the last moment.”

A glow came to her voice as she spoke. “Adam, well, he ended up asking the questions for Will. Richard came to admit that he had tied Will up, so it was impossible that my brother could have done the foul mischief upon Bessie.”

Lucy did not mention the Quakers’ involvement in “working Richard over,” as John had put it. She thought Adam might not like it if she told his father about his friendship with the Quakers.

“So Adam got Richard tied up in knots instead.” The magistrate chuckled. Then he cleared his throat, his face growing serious. “For what it’s worth, Lucy, none of us ever believed that your brother had any part in that dastardly business. But the law must run its course. I’m just sorry that he had to spend so much time in that bloody prison.”

Both fell silent. Lucy drifted a bit, trying to recall the bliss of the afternoon, those moments when she, John, Adam, and Will had walked home, before this new terror had gripped their hearts. The joy of Will’s release seemed to have swept away her earlier animosity toward Adam, and indeed, he seemed to have thawed a bit toward her.

A movement from the bed caused the magistrate and Lucy to stir. The mistress was awake, gazing at the magistrate. “What is going on, dear?” she asked, her voice raspy. “What are you doing in here?”

The magistrate pulled his chair close to her side and held her hand. “My dear,” he said, raising her hand to his lips, “you are ill, very ill.”

The mistress’s lips trembled. “What do you mean?”

In short, measured words he told her, his voice despairing. Lucy slipped from the room so that they could be alone.

19

“I believe she will die today,” the magistrate said as he walked heavily into the kitchen the next morning. “It is God’s will. She keeps calling for Adam and Sarah. At times, she is a madwoman—I scarcely know her.”

He gazed at her portrait and shook his head sadly.

“What is today?” he muttered, setting his diary on the table. “May 10, 1665. A day that shall never pass from my thoughts.”

He wiped his brow. Seeing his flushed face, Lucy ushered him off to his own chamber, promising to take care of the mistress. Cook, too, did not look well. Despite her inward despair, Lucy led Cook to her pallet behind the kitchen, where she tucked several blankets around Cook, Annie, and Lawrence. Although Cook protested, they both knew that Lucy alone had to bear the burden of the household.

As she prepared a bit of stock, Lucy heard a sharp rap at the kitchen door. It was Adam.

“How is my mother?” he demanded through the heavy door.

“I’m afraid, sir, that—” She stopped, unable to tell him what the master had said. “Your father was with her all night. And now”—she paused unhappily—“Cook, Lawrence, and your father have taken ill, too. Your father may just be exhausted and need to be refreshed in spirit and body.”

She heard Adam’s sharp intake of breath. “Lucy, let me in.”

“What? No, Adam! I cannot!” she protested. The magistrate had been very stern with her, saying that no one could be admitted until the sickness had passed.

“Lucy, this is not right, that you should take care of my parents alone, sacrificing yourself.”

“But Adam, you are still not sick; you could survive this. You should go to your family’s estate as your father wished. I can take care of everyone.”

“No, Lucy, you cannot. I will not allow this.” His voice was hard.

“Adam, there is no use in all of us dying!” She did not know when she had started referring to him so personally, but he did not seem to mind.

Lucy jumped back as he pounded the door in anger and frustration. Then he spoke. “Lucy?”

“Yes, Adam?”

“Are you sick, too? Do you have the sickness?”

How curious his voice sounds,
Lucy thought tiredly.
He sounds so concerned for me.
“Adam, I don’t really know. I think I’m still fine, though.”

“Lucy,” she heard him say, and then the terrible, wonderful sound of nails being ripped from the door. “There is no law against someone choosing to enter a quarantined house. ’Tis only against the law for someone to leave. Let me in. Now.”

With a sigh, Lucy unbarred the door. Adam looked haggard and unshaved, his clothes rumpled. His eyes had heavy rings about them. Had she seen him on the street, she’d not have known him for the elegant Adam Hargrave. She wondered where he had slept. Of course, she had not glanced in a looking glass for some time, so she assumed her appearance was no less disheveled. He barely looked at her.

She bid him to sit by the fire. “What news have you of the city, sir?” she asked.

“It’s not good. Thousands have fled, and they are no doubt spreading the plague themselves. The mayor of the city has ordered thousands of dogs and cats killed, so as to stop the plague.”

“Oh, poor Avery,” Lucy murmured. At Adam’s surprised look, she tried to explain. “I fear he shall lose his kitten in all this madness.”

“Cats?” he exclaimed. “Lucy, are you truly so concerned about cats? I tell you that thousands are dying, and you concern yourself with some poor besotted fool’s cat?”

“It’s all he has left!” she said, her voice trembling. “He lost everything in the war, his fingers, his sweetheart, his mind! The cat
is
his family! Can’t you understand that?”

“I’m afraid I’m more concerned with people, especially my own family and members of my household.”

He sighed, then continued as if the tense exchange between them had not occurred. “Bodies are being taken away by the wagonful. I’m beginning to think we’d do as well to wait this out here. At least Sarah is safe with our aunt in Shropshire, and hopefully John will get to her soon.”

A shadow passed across his face. “I should like to go see my mother now.”

“Yes,” Lucy said, knowing it would be useless to have it otherwise. “Perhaps you can feed her some broth. She must eat.”

Adam rushed up the stairs. She heard him knock and then utter a muffled exclamation.

A moment later, he shouted to her from the top of the stairs. “Lucy! Come here! I need you! Now!”

Frightened, Lucy flew up the stairs, fearing the worst.
The mistress must be dead,
she thought.

She burst in, and in a glance understood—and shared—Adam’s panic. The magistrate lay slumped on the floor beside his wife’s bed, his body at an unnatural angle. Though he had been fine but a half hour before, now his skin had taken on a sickly gray pallor. At least he was breathing, although his short, shallow bursts did not seem right.

Quickly, Adam turned his father onto his back, loosening his clothes and chafing his wrists. “He’s cold.” He looked around. “Bring me that blanket.”

As she laid the blanket across the master’s chest, she peered closer. “Dear God, Adam!” she said, frantic. “He’s not breathing! He can’t die! We can’t let him!”

Thinking furiously, Lucy suddenly remembered Will telling her once how a man had beaten life back into another man. Without stopping to think, she took a deep breath and sealed her mouth right against the magistrate’s and blew. Squeezing her eyes shut, she thumped on the magistrate’s heart.

Adam jerked her back. “What in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?”