A Murder at Rosamund's Gate (28 page)

Ignoring him, she breathed into the magistrate’s mouth again, holding his nose, so that her breath would not escape. She hit his chest again. This time she saw his chest rise, and so did Adam.

“Good God, Lucy! What did you do?”

The magistrate’s eyes flickered and opened. He opened his mouth, his breaths short and raspy. Lucy laid a hand on his arm, half comforting, half restraining. “Shh, sir. Shh. You’re all right. Please just rest.”

“Help me get him into the bed,” Adam ordered.

Together, they struggled to lift him onto the bed. Within moments, the master had dropped off to sleep, his breathing regular and even, and his color no longer ghastly pale. He seemed all right.

Adam, however, still seemed stunned. “Lucy, I don’t know what to say. I’ve never seen anything like what you’ve just done. Where on earth did you learn to do that?”

She could only shake her head. He stepped closer to her. “Thank you,” he said.

Unsteady, Lucy backed away from the bed, trying to hide her shaking hands. “I’d best check on the little ones and Cook now, sir, if you can sit with your father and mother. I’ll be back soon. You should get some rest.”

*   *   *

The rest of the day and evening passed in a blur. Lucy slept in patches, checking on the little ones who nestled with Cook. Occasionally, she looked in at the Hargraves, where Adam half slept in a chair in their room. The mistress was increasingly incoherent, thrashing violently, but the master seemed to just be sleeping mostly. His face still looked healthy beneath his fast-growing beard. She saw no sign of the deathly pallor from the previous evening. She wondered at this and asked Adam, when she came to the chambers with hot tea and soup.

“It’s odd, I agree. For what it’s worth, I do not believe he has the sickness that my mother has. He has none of my mother’s black spots; I think it was something else that stopped his breathing and his heart.” Changing the subject, he asked, “How are the others?”

Lucy wrung her hands desperately. “I do not know, sir, indeed I don’t.” Sometimes Cook and Annie looked better, but little Lawrence—oh, poor unhealthy Lawrence. The image of his feverish little face and body hurt Lucy desperately.

Half in a daze, Lucy drifted from person to person, changing poultices, emptying pots, replacing covers, bathing foreheads, changing soiled linens, wiping off vomit, and placing warming potatoes in their beds. Gratefully, she saw that Adam was taking care of his father’s necessities and was keeping careful watch over his mother. He also helped by keeping the kitchen fire going and trying to feed his parents the stew Lucy had made. Mostly they did not speak, caught in a common nightmare for which there were no words. Sometimes he helped her hold someone who thrashed about, caught in the mindless throes of fever, but even then their words were terse. “Hold her head!” “Do not let him bite his tongue.” “Watch it!”

Dimly, Lucy worried what she would do if Adam took ill, but he still looked fine, if haggard. Early Saturday morning, though, when she came to check on the mistress, she found Adam had finally fallen asleep. To be sure, he was slumped awkwardly in his chair, his head on his mother’s bed. Gently, she moved him into a more comfortable position, covering him with a soft blanket so he would not catch a chill. She could not resist touching his cheek, feeling the stubble that had arisen in the three days since he had seen a razor. Seeing him stir a bit at her touch, she stole away. A few minutes later, as she sat beside Annie, waves of dizziness came over her.

“I can’t get sick!” she whispered frantically to herself. As the nausea filled her, she laid her head down and, for the first time, finally slept.

*   *   *

Jerking awake, Lucy did not know what time it was or how long she had been asleep. She thought it might be Sunday’s dawn, but with the shutters nailed down, it was hard to know. Church bells still tolled steadily, but for the dead, and there was no bellman calling the hour. Mindlessly, she checked the fire and saw that Adam must have banked it in the few hours she had slept.

Annie and Cook both looked better. Their fevers had broken, and they were sleeping heavily, their bodies exhausted from the battle against death.

As she smoothed Lawrence’s matted hair from his head, she hummed a tuneless little song. Poor little urchin. She could tell he was about to die, and he’d never had a chance to truly live. She was holding the boy’s hand when Adam came down, his face stricken as he peered in at her, a mute plea in his eyes as he passed.

From the next room, she heard Adam sink down on the kitchen bench. Wordlessly, she left the pantry, knowing in that instant that his mother had passed. She sat beside him and put her arms around his neck, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Instinctively, he nestled his face in her shoulder. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he wept.

She didn’t know how long their tears flowed, or how long he held her tightly. Gradually, the room began to take on light. Lucy was starting to feel strange in his arms, dreamy and wonderful, especially when she felt Adam brush his lips against her forehead.

Lucy heard herself murmur something, but with the queerness of it all, she didn’t know what she had said.

The next instant, he had grasped her by the shoulders and looked closely at her. “Lucy!” he exclaimed. “You’re sick! You must go to bed!”

“No,” she protested weakly. “I can’t, they need me.”

“No, child.” Cook’s voice came from the kitchen wall. Though it lacked Cook’s normal blustery raucousness, Lucy was very glad to hear her speak at last. Lucy and Adam hurried into the pantry to look at her.

“I believe I’m starting to be fine now.” Cook began to raise herself from the bed but fell back into the covers.

Adam hurried over to pull another blanket over her and Annie, who was still slumbering peacefully. “No one is getting up right now,” he said firmly. “I’m going to get Lucy to bed and—oh, my sweet, I’m so sorry.”

Lucy was staring dumbly down at little Lawrence. His cherubic face still had a bit of a rosy flush, but he had taken on the fixed features of death. Little Lawrence had died! The room began to swirl, and she gave in to the light-headedness.

*   *   *

When she awoke, it was dark again and she was confused by her surroundings. She heard Adam’s voice as though from a distance. “Please eat, Lucy. Please take some soup.”

She opened her mouth obediently and swallowed, hot liquid coursing in a welcome way down her throat. She felt it all the way into her stomach. She blinked at Adam. “Where am I?” she asked.

Adam smiled, a quick harried grin. “You’re in my chamber. My father insisted that you rest here, considering how you took care of everyone.” Reading her thoughts correctly he added, “Now, no more questions until you’ve taken some more soup.” He raised the spoon to her mouth. Again she swallowed obediently, but then everything came back to her with a start.

“Your mother, I’m so sorry! Oh, and little Lawrence! What about your father, and—?”

“Everyone else is fine,” Adam broke in. “Don’t worry. You’re the only one who’s sick now.”

She felt weak. “Am I going to die?” She gulped.

“Oh, I expect so.” Unexpectedly, he grinned. “But not today. You did give me, us, a scare, though. You don’t have the plague. You’re just worn out from taking care of us.”

Lucy looked about his room. One of the windows had been opened, and with the blankets on top of her, she felt comfortable and warm. “Oh, Adam, you shouldn’t be here like this, tending to me and all. It isn’t right! I’m the servant, not you!”

“Hmm … perhaps. I was hoping, though, that you might repeat some of the things you said to me when you were still stricken by the madness of fever.”

What!
Lucy thought wildly to herself.
What did I say to him?
He must have read her question, because he just grinned and brushed the hair back from her forehead. Surprised and confused by the gesture, she turned her head on the pillow so that he could not see her face.

*   *   *

Three days later, the household huddled together at the kitchen table, poring over the weekly Bill of Mortality. With the deaths of the mistress and dear little Lawrence, they found themselves drawing together, like soldiers after a siege. Dr. Larimer had stopped by once, his last visit on his way out of London, and had brought them the latest news. Thank goodness, he had lifted their house from quarantine since there was no sickness among them any longer.

Despair seeped over Lucy as she ran her fingers down the number of deaths that had occurred last week. “Dear God,” she whispered, “7,165 deaths from plague in one week alone!”

Three hundred and nine poor souls had died from fever, fifty-one from griping in the guts, and another nine from stopping of the stomach. One was “planet struck.” One poor man in St. Giles Cripplegate had burned himself to death in his very own bed, having left a candle alight nearly. Another unfortunate had gotten himself killed by a fall from the belfry at Alhallows-the-Great. All the tolling the church bells were doing these days, it was no small wonder.

The magistrate looked sober. “We have survived the plague by the grace of God. Now, we must leave. Good Dr. Larimer has assured me that other diseases and miseries will soon follow, and these we might not be equipped to withstand. We shall ready the carriages and leave in the morning.”

Adam was silent but looked steadily at his father. Some understanding passed between them. His father sighed and nodded, as if accepting a decision in court. The magistrate looked sad, though, leaving Lucy to wonder over their wordless exchange.

*   *   *

As they loaded the carts the next morning, the magistrate gravely informed them they would surely see some grisly and terrible sights while still in London. “I can only imagine the devastation and misery that lie before us, but we are fortunate to have excellent horses and a sturdy carriage to get us on our way. I would advise you, Lucy dear, and Mary, to avert your eyes, for there are some sights no women should have to see. Indeed, no humans should have to see such things.”

Lucy remembered the carnage she had witnessed in the battle as a child and shivered. “We are strong,” she said stoutly, and Cook squeezed her hand.

“I know you are, my dear,” the master said kindly, and a little sadly. “You are becoming an old soul.”

After the carts were loaded, Lucy came in to make a last check of the house. She stood in the kitchen for a moment, remembering how Adam had clung to her in the moments after his mother’s death, remembering what it felt like to have his arms around her. As if she had conjured him, she heard Adam enter the room and stand behind her. She did not turn around.

His voice close to her ear, he whispered, “Are you still wondering what you said to me that night?”

Lucy nodded, the tempo of her heart harmonizing with the quickness of her breath. He turned her around gently to face him, and she looked up hesitantly. His eyes laughed into her own. He leaned down, his breath soft against her cheek. “You told me to kiss you again. So I will.”

Even as a deep flush heated her cheeks, he pressed his lips to hers, softly at first but with a growing urgency. Lost in amazement and confusion, for a moment she could only think,
but he’s the magistrate’s son! I am just a servant! This cannot be!

She put a hand to his chest to push him away just as he set his hands on her shoulders to gently hold her apart from him.

“Perhaps I should not have done that, but I damn well wanted to.” Then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, he added, “We’ll resume this conversation when this is all over. Right now, I’ve some business to take care of that can’t be put off.”

“What? In London?” she gasped, still reeling.

“Yes. I may join the family later, if I can.” He gave a short laugh.

Lucy stared at him. Was he daft? He might not survive London, given the death and certain misery surrounding its inhabitants.

“Father is calling. You must go. For now, Lucy, take care, and Godspeed.”

WARWICKSHIRE

March 1666

20

Taking a break from packing, Lucy wandered out to her favorite stone bench at the Hargraves’ home in Warwickshire. It had been a long ten months since those terrible days in May, when the family had fled the city. Tomorrow, they would finally be journeying home, having had word that the plague had let up in London. To what they’d be returning, no one dared to guess.

The household had grown smaller—just herself, the master, Cook, John, and little Annie, who had become like her own true sister. Lucas, of course, had first stayed in London to minister to the sick and sinful, then spent some time in Oxford, where he had begun his theological studies. Adam had never come to the family home at all. He had chosen to remain in the city, for reasons only he and his father seemed to know.

She flushed now to think of his kiss and, even worse, her own foolishness. She forced herself to think instead of Sarah, who had stayed through the winter but then returned to her aunt in Shropshire. The magistrate had let his daughter leave, of course, but was puzzled by her request. Only yesterday, they had found out what Sarah had intended.

Lucy pulled Sarah’s letter from her pocket and smoothed it out. As was common, letters got passed around the family members and the household. No one noticed that several had ended up in her hands.

Dearest family,

I am most thankful to hear that you are well and in good spirits. Although I still miss dear Mother every day, I find that I am refreshed in my spirit, having become a handmaiden of the Lord. Ever since I found the light and joined the Friends (should you pass this letter to Lucas, our godly fellow, pray do not let him call me a Quacker! Although I will answer to Quaker), I have found my calling. It was God’s will, Father, that you sent me to Shropshire. I am preparing now to journey to Jamaica and Barbados with my dear aunt! Perhaps, after that, we will journey to Boston, and trumpet the Lord’s word there. I shall not come to London for a while, so that, Father, you will not feel you must send me to Newgate, under that terrible Conventicle Act. I hope, though, that we are together in spirit.