Winsor, Kathleen (78 page)

Amber
took hold of his arm, determined to keep him there
somehow if she
had to knock him unconscious. For if he went out onto the street she knew that
he either would be taken up by a constable for drunkenness—a mistake which was
frequently made—or would be sent to a pest-house. If he was sick, and she was
finally convinced that he was, she intended to take care of him.

"Lie
down here for a moment on the settee by the fireplace and rest while I make you
a tea of some herbs. You can't stir a step in this state. It'll make you feel
better, I swear it, and I'll have it ready in a trice."

She
took his arm and he crossed the room with her to the corner fireplace. He was
still obviously reluctant to stay but was rapidly losing the ability to make a
decision; by the minute he grew more dazed and weak. Now he dropped onto the
cushioned couch with a heavily drawn sigh, his eyes already closed. He
shuddered frequently, as though very cold, but sweat had soaked through the
back of his coat—Amber left him and ran swiftly and softly into the bedroom,
returning with a satin quilt which she flung over him.

Then,
sure that he could not get up and would probably fall asleep, she ran into the
kitchen and began to search the cabinets for the herbs Nan had stocked there.
As she found them she sprinkled some of each that she needed into a kettle:
hawk-weed and hound's-tongue and sorrel for the nausea; marigold and purslane
for fever; hellebore, spikenard and nightshade for headache. Each had been
gathered according to astrological tables, under exactly the right planetary
influences, and she had considerable faith in their efficacy.

She
poured some warm water into the kettle and hung it on a crane, but the fire had
almost gone out and she threw on some more coals from the scuttle and a few
chips of wood to make it burn, kneeling while she worked the bellows. At last a
bright flame sprang up and she ran back into the parlour to make sure that he
was all right, though she had not heard any sound.

He
was lying flat on his back but the quilt had fallen off and he was moving
restlessly, his eyes closed but his face contorted. As she bent over him,
tucking in the quilt again, he looked up at her; and then suddenly he reached
out and grabbed her wrist, giving it a savage jerk.

"What
are you doing!" His voice was thickened and hoarse and the words slurred
one over another. The green-grey irises of his eyes glittered, but the eyeballs
were congested and red. "I told you to get out of here— Now, get
out!" He almost shouted the last words and flung her arm from him
furiously.

Amber
was scared, for she thought he was losing his mind, but she forced herself to
answer him in a calm reasonable voice. "I'm brewing the tea for you,
Bruce, and it'll be ready in a little while. Then you can go. But lie still
til] then, and rest."

He
seemed to return all at once to full rationality. "Amber— please!
Please
go and leave me alone! I'll probably be dead by tomorrow—and if you stay
you'll get it tool" He started to sit
up but she forced him down again with a
sudden swift shove and he collapsed back onto the cushions. At least, she
thought, I'm stronger than he is; he
can't
get away.

For
a moment she waited, hanging over him anxiously, but he lay perfectly still,
and at last she turned and tip-toed swiftly from the room. She was so nervous
that her hands and even her knees shook; she picked up a pewter mug and dropped
it with a loud clatter that made her heart jump sickeningly. But as she stooped
to get it, she heard noises from the other room.

Grabbing
up her skirts she rushed back into the parlour and found him standing in the
middle of the floor, looking about in a dazed bewildered way. With a cry she
ran toward him.

"Bruce!
What are you doing!"

He
turned and gave her a defiant glare, raising one arm to ward her off, muttering
a curse beneath his breath. She grabbed hold of him and he gave her a shove
that almost knocked her off her feet, but as she staggered backward she
clutched frantically for him and dragged him along with her. He stumbled, tried
to save himself from falling, and both of them crashed to the floor, Amber half
pinned beneath him. He lay there perfectly still, eyes and mouth open,
unconscious.

For
a moment Amber remained where she was, stunned, and then she crawled out from
beneath him and got to her feet. Bending, she put her hands under his arm-pits
to try to drag him to the bed-chamber; but he was a foot taller and eighty
pounds heavier than she and she could scarcely move him. She pulled and tugged
frantically and was beginning to cry with terror and desperation, when she
remembered that Tempest and Jeremiah were most likely upstairs in their
quarters.

Whirling
about she sped through the kitchen and up the back flight of stairs, bursting
into their room without even a knock. They were lounging, looking out the
windows and smoking, and they stared at her in amazement.

"Tempest!
Jeremiah!" she cried. "Come with me!"

She
turned and rushed back out of the room and down the stairs so fast she seemed
almost to glide. The two men knocked out their pipes and followed her, through
the kitchen and the dining-room back into the parlour where they found Bruce
once more standing erect, though his feet were spread wide to brace himself and
his shoulders weaved slowly from side to side. Amber ran to place her self
before him and the two men followed, but remained at a timid distance, watching
him uncertainly. He started forward, glaring menacingly from one to the other,
as though to clear a path for himself. He looked like a man so drunk that he was
about to pitch forward onto his face.

Amber
watched him like one hypnotized, and as he came toward her she stepped aside to
let him pass. Her hands went out involuntarily, for he looked as though he
would fall at any moment, but she did not touch him. He went through the
doorway and into the anteroom, then out onto the landing and for
a moment he
stood at the top of the staircase, like a colossus looking down. He took one
step and then another, but suddenly he gave a groan and staggered, clutching at
the railing. Amber screamed and the two men rushed past her in time to keep him
from falling, headlong. Supported by one on either side, he allowed himself to
be half dragged back into the apartment; his head had dropped forward onto his
chest and he was again in an almost unconscious stupor.

She
led the way into the bedroom, throwing back the counterpane and quilts and
indicating that they were to lay him there on the white silk sheets. Then
immediately she pulled off his shoes and peeled down his stockings. They were,
she noticed, coloured strangely yellow by his sweat which had a sharp
unpleasant smell that was not natural to him. She unwound the sash from about
his waist and had begun to work off the coat, when all at once she remembered
Tempest and Jeremiah and glanced up swiftly to find them staring at her with
white-faced horror. They had just realized, she knew, that they had been
helping a man who was not drunk—but sick of the plague.

"Get
out of here!" she muttered at them, furious to see the craven terror on
their faces, and with their mouths still open they turned and dashed from the
room, slamming the door violently behind them.

His
shirt was so wet that it clung to his skin and she picked up her smock which
had been left lying on the floor to wipe him dry. When she had removed all of
his clothes she covered him again and took the pillow from beneath his head,
for she knew that he never used one. He lay quietly on his back now, though
from time to time he muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath.

She
left him again and ran swiftly back to the kitchen. The water on the herbs had
boiled down, but not far enough, and while she waited she searched the
cupboards for what provisions might be on hand. But she had had all her meals
sent in and could find only some orange-cakes, a bowl of cherries, several
bottles of wine and one of brandy. While she made a mental list of the things
she must get she stood and watched the bubbling mess, her ears alert for any
sound he might make. And then at last she swung the crane out and filled the
pewter mug she had ready. The smell was nauseating, but she wrapped the handle
in a towel and went back to the bedroom.

Bruce
was lying there, leaning on one elbow and looking at her as she came in. She
saw that he had just vomited onto the floor. His expression was humble and
contrite and as guilty as though he had just done some shameful thing, for the
sickness humiliated him. He seemed to want to speak to her, but could only drop
back exhausted onto the bed. Amber had heard of men who felt well in the
morning and were dead of the plague by night—but until now it had not seemed
possible to her that a disease could make such swift terrible progress.

The
sense of her own inadequacy seemed suddenly to overpower her.

Sarah
had taught her how to take care of someone sick of an ague or the small-pox,
what to do for a burn or the stomachache—but the plague was a mysterious thing,
strange and evil. Some thought it rose out of the ground like a poisonous
exhalation, entering through the pores of the skin, and that it spread
thereafter by personal contact. But no one knew or pretended to know what
really caused it, why it sometimes came in a great epidemic, or how to cure it.
Still, she felt that she
must
have help of some kind, advice from
someone.

Kneeling,
she began to mop up the vomit with his shirt. I'll send Jeremiah for a doctor,
she thought. At least he'll know more than I do.

When
she tried to get Bruce to drink some of the tea he pushed it away, muttering
thickly, "Some water? Thirsty. Thirsty as hell." He put his tongue
between his lips as if to wet them, and she saw that it was swollen and the tip
bright red.

She
brought a pewter pitcher of cool water from the kitchen and he drank three
glassfuls, swallowing avidly as though he could not get enough; and then with a
deep sigh he dropped back onto the bed. When he had lain quietly for a few
moments Amber ran up to the garret once more and pounded at the door. She
waited impatiently for a few seconds but when she got no answer flung it open.

No
one was there. A few soiled articles of clothing were strewn about the floor
but an old wooden chest which stood open was completely empty, as were the
pulled-out drawers of a dresser. They had packed and gone.

"Scoured!"
muttered Amber. "Damn them for a pair of ungrateful pimps!" But she
turned that instant and ran back down the stairs, for she was afraid to leave
him alone even a minute.

He
was lying as she had left him—moving about restlessly and muttering beneath his
breath, but it was no longer possible to understand him and he seemed in a low
delirium. She wrung out a cloth in cold water and laid it across his forehead,
smoothed the sheets and blankets which were already disordered, and wiped away
the sweat which continued to pour from him. Then she began to clean up the
room. She picked up her own clothes and put them away, spread his over some
chairs to dry, brought a basin to use next time he vomited, and a silver
urinal. She did not dare stop working or let herself begin to think.

It
was now almost ten and the streets had grown quiet but for the occasional
rumble of a passing coach or the sound of a link-boy singing as he walked
along. And after a while she heard the watchman go by, ringing his bell and
crying: "Past ten o'clock of a fine summer's night—and all's well!"

Once
or twice Bruce began to retch and each time she ran to hold the basin and help
him sit up, covering his chest with a clean white linen towel, and at last he
vomited again. When
he tried to get out of bed she forced him back and brought the urinal, and now
she saw that there was a tender-looking red swelling in his right groin—the
beginning of the plague boil. The last of her hopes died quietly.

The
night passed with incredible slowness.

When
she had cleaned the room and brought fresh water from the big jug which stood
in the kitchen she washed her face and scrubbed her teeth, brushed her hair
vigorously, and finally wheeled the trundle out from under the bed. But, though
she lay down, a sense of guiltiness followed her—and each time she began to
slide off to sleep she woke up with a sudden start and the terrible feeling
that something had happened to Bruce.

But
when she got up and held the candle down close so that she could look at him he
was always lying as he had been, moving constantly, muttering from time to time
beneath his breath, his face twisted into an expression of angry anxiety. She
could not tell whether he was conscious or not, for though his eyes were partly
opened he did not seem to hear her when she spoke to him or to be in any way
aware of her. Sometime in the middle of the night the sweating stopped and his
skin became hot and dry and his face and neck violently flushed. His pulse beat
rapidly and his breath came in quick shallow gasps, and sometimes he gave a
slight cough.

About
four it began to grow light and Amber decided to stay up, though her eyeballs
ached and she was dizzy with tiredness. She put on her smock and one petticoat,
stuck her bare feet into a pair of high-heeled shoes, and got into the dress
she had been wearing the day before which, without her busk, she could not
fasten all the way up the front. She pulled a comb hastily through her hair and
rinsed her face, but she did not powder it or stick on a patch. For once it
made no difference how she looked.