Winsor, Kathleen (80 page)

Amber
went back and set immediately about her new tasks, for tired as she was she was
glad to have work to do. It helped her to keep from thinking, and each thing
that she did for him gave her a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment.

She
poured some of the water which she kept hot in the kitchen into several stone
bottles—wrapped them in towels and packed them all about him, and she brought
out half-a-dozen more blankets from the nursery. He protested, pushing them
down again and again, but each time, patiently, she covered him and went on
with what she had been doing. The sweat began to run off his face in rivers,
and the sheets beneath him were soaked and yellow. The fire roared and she
heaped it with coals, making the room so hot that though she took off her
petticoat, pushed her sleeves high and opened her gown, the silk clung to her
ribs and there were wet spots beneath her breasts and in her arm-pits. She
pulled the heavy hair up off her neck and skewered it on top of her head, and
she mopped at her face and chest with a handkerchief.

She
poured the emetic into his mouth and then, without waiting for it to take
effect, administered the clyster. This was a difficult and painful process, but
Amber was beyond either disgust or fastidiousness—she did what was necessary as
well as she could, and without thinking about it. Afterward, she cleaned up the
mess it had made, washed her hands, and went out to the kitchen to prepare the
mustard-plaster and to make a sack-posset of hot milk, sugar and spices and
white wine.

He
made no protest when she laid the poultice on the boil and did not seem to know
that it was there. Relieved—for she
had been afraid that it might hurt
him—she went back to finish making the posset.

She
tasted the curdled drink, sprinkled on just a bit more cinnamon, and then
tasted again. It was good. She poured it into the double-spouted posset pot and
started for the bedroom. At that moment she heard a yell, a strange terrible
sound that sent a quivering chill along her spine. Then there was a thud and a
loud crash.

She
slammed the pewter pot onto the sideboard and ran toward the bedroom. He was
half-crouched on the floor, just getting to his feet—he had apparently fallen
as he climbed out of bed, and overturned the table beside it.
"Bruce!" she screamed at him, but he was not conscious of her or of
what he was doing. Slowly he lunged to his feet and turned to push open the
casement window which she had left unlocked. She rushed on toward him, grabbing
up a candlestick from a chest-of-drawers and just as he put one foot on the
recessed sill she grabbed his arm and swung the heavy stick, striking him hard
across the base of the skull. Vaguely she realized that there were people below
in the street, looking up, and she heard a woman scream.

He
started to fall, sagging slowly, and she flung her arms about him, trying desperately
to push him back onto the bed. But he was too heavy for her and in spite of her
efforts slid slowly toward the floor. Knowing that she would never be able to
lift him from there onto the high bed, she gave a sudden violent shove and he
fell sideways, sprawled half across it; she stumbled and pitched down onto him.
Swiftly she was on her feet again, and she jerked a quilt from the bed to fling
over him, for he was naked and streaming sweat. Pulling and hauling, swearing
with fright and rage, at last she got him back into the bed. She collapsed then
into a chair beside it, completely exhausted, her muscles quivering and jumping
resentfully.

Then,
as she looked at him, she saw that a dark streak of blood was beginning to make
a crooked path down his neck, and she got wearily to her feet again. With
cotton and cold water she sponged it off, and wrapped a clean linen band— torn
from a towel—around his head.

"Pox
on that nurse!" she thought furiously.
"Why
doesn't she get
here?" She replaced the mustard-plaster and filled the hot-water bottles
again, for they had begun to cool.

On
her way back to the kitchen she stopped and took a long drink of the posset. It
was supposed to be highly invigorating and, at least for a time, did make her
feel stronger. Putting the pot down she wiped her mouth with the back of her
hand. If only that pestilent wench would arrive! she thought. Maybe I could
sleep then. I'll die if I don't get some sleep. Exhaustion came over her in
waves and for several minutes she would think she could not make another move,
or take another step. And
then it would pass, leaving her no less tired but able to do what had to be
done.

It
was several minutes before Bruce regained consciousness and then he was even
more restless and violent. He tossed and threshed about, throwing off the
blankets; his voice was loud and angry, and though she could not understand
very much of what he said she knew that he swore continuously. She was not able
to pour much of the posset down him before he gave a sudden swing of his arm
that sent the pot clattering violently to the floor.

When
at last he grew quieter she took a pen and paper and sat down at a table close
by the bed to write a letter to Nan. It was difficult, for she wanted to tell
the girl the truth without scaring her, and she worked over it for half an
hour, scrawling out the words laboriously, making several drafts before she had
one that suited her. She blew it dry and dripped on a great blob of gold
sealing-wax. Then, picking up a shilling from the table, she went to the window
and opened it, thinking that if she could find some youngster passing in the
street below she could give him the coin to take it to the post-office for her.
The price of postage would be paid upon delivery.

The
sky was turning pale blue and a star or two had come out. There were not very
many people abroad now, but as Amber leaned out she saw a boy, going down the
middle of the street, holding his nose as he passed her house.

She
looked down and saw a guard there, lounging against the wall with his halberd
on his shoulder. That meant the red cross had been marked on her door too and
they were shut in together for forty days and nights, or until both of them
were dead. A few days before she would have been terrified; now she accepted it
almost with indifference.

"Guard!"
she spoke softly, and he heaved himself away from the wall and stood out from
it to look up at her. "Will you give this letter to someone to post for
me? I'll give you a shilling." He nodded his head, she tossed down the
letter and the coin, and closed the window again. But for a moment she stood
looking out, like a prisoner, at the sky and the trees. Then she turned and
once more spread the quilts up over Bruce.

It
was almost nine when the nurse arrived. Amber heard someone below talking to
the guard and then a rap on the door. She took a candle and hurried down to
admit her. "Why are you so late?" she demanded. "The doctor told
me he'd send you here in the middle of the afternoon!"

"I
come from my last patient, mam, and he wasn't a quick one to die."

Amber
ran up the stairs ahead of the nurse, holding the candle high to make a light
for her, but the old woman mounted slowly, breathing hard and bracing her hands
on her knees at every step to boost herself. At the top Amber turned and looked
down, surveying her narrowly. What she saw was not reassuring.

The
woman was perhaps sixty, and fat. Her face was round and flabby, but she had a
sharp-pointed nose and her mouth was compressed into a thin line. She was
wearing a gnarled yellow wig set crookedly on her head and a dark-red velvet
dress, soiled and worn shiny, which exposed her sloping shoulders and fitted
too tight across the great loose breasts. She had an evil smell, reasty and
stale.

"What's
your name?" Amber asked her, as she came puffing to the top.

"Spong,
mam. Mrs. Spong."

"I'm
Mrs. Dangerfield. The patient's in here." She walked into the bedroom and
Mrs. Spong waddled after her, her stupid blue eyes rolling over the splendid
furnishings. She did not even glance at Bruce until at last, in exasperation,
Amber said, "Well!"

Then
she started slightly and gave a foolish half-grin, exposing a few blackened
teeth in her gums. "Oh—that's the patient." She observed him for a
moment. "He don't look so good, does he?"

"No,
he doesn't!" snapped Amber, angry and disappointed to have been sent this
stupid old woman. "You're a nurse, aren't you? Tell me what to do. How can
I help him? I've done everything the doctor said—"

"Well,
mam, if you've did everything the doctor said there's nothin' more I can tell
ye."

"But
how does he look? You've seen others sick of it—how does he look compared with
them?"

Spong
stared at him for a moment, sucking on her teeth. "Well, mam," she
said at last, "some of 'em looked worse. And some of 'em looked better.
But I tell you truly—he don't look good. Now, mam, have ye got some food for a
poor starvin* old woman? Last place I was they didn't have nothin' to eat. I
vow and swear—"

Amber
gave her a glare of disgust, but as Bruce suddenly began to retch again she
rushed to hold the pan for him, motioning toward the kitchen with one hand.
"Out there."

She
felt more tired than ever, and completely discouraged. This filthy vulgar old
creature would be no use to her at all. She would not have let her touch Bruce,
and it did not seem likely the nurse would do so anyway. The best Amber could
hope would be that she might induce her to watch him tonight so she could have
a few hours of sleep, and tomorrow send her away and get someone better.

Half
an hour went by and she heard not a sound from Spong. A last, in a fury, she
rushed out to find her immaculate kitchen littered and dirty. The food hutch
stood open; there was a broken egg on the floor; great chunks had been cut from
the ham and the quarter-wheel of cheese. Spong looked around at her in
surprise. She had a piece of ham in one hand and the bottle of stale
champagne—which they had opened the night before—in the other.

"Well!"
said Amber sarcastically. "I hope you won't mighty near starve here!"

"No,
mam!" agreed Spong. "I'd rather nurse the quality, let me tell you.
They always got more to eat."

"Go
in there and watch his Lordship. I've got to get some food ready for him. Call
me if he throws off the blankets or starts to vomit—but don't do
anything
yourself."

"His
Lordship, is it? And you're her Ladyship, I doubt not?"

"Mind
your own business, and get on in there. Go on!"

Spong
shrugged her shoulders and went off, and though Amber clenched her teeth
together, a sullen scowl on her face, she began immediately to prepare the
tray. A few hours earlier she had given him a bowlful of the soup left over
from their supper. Resentful at being disturbed, he had sworn at her and tried
to shove the spoon away, but she had persisted until she poured it down him.
Within a quarter of an hour he vomited it up again.

This
time, as she held the basin beneath his chin while he threw up the soup, she
was so filled with frustration and despair that she wept softly. Spong was not
at all concerned. She sat sprawled in a chair five or six feet from the bed,
drinking her wine and gnawing at the last of the cold duck. She flipped the
bones out of the window, exchanging bawdy pleasantries with the guard below,
until Amber rushed in from the kitchen in a blazing anger.

"Don't
you dare open that window again!" she cried, and slammed it shut and
locked it. Spong jumped. "What are you trying to do?"

"Lord,
mam, I wasn't doin' the gentleman no harm."

"Do
as I say and keep the window closed—or I'll make you sorry for it! Filthy old
sot!" she muttered beneath her breath, and went back to finish washing the
dishes and putting her kitchen in order. Sarah Goodegroome had been a
meticulous housekeeper, and now that Amber had the work to do herself again she
intended to have her rooms spotless if it meant working eighteen hours a
day—which it probably would.

Bruce
was increasingly restless and violent, which Spong informed her was most likely
the effect of the rising carbuncle. Two of her patients, she said placidly, had
been unable to stand the pain and had gone mad and killed themselves.

To
watch him suffer and to be unable to help or ease his pain was an agony. She
hung over him constantly, trying to anticipate his every need. She replaced the
blankets each time he flung them off and put the mustard-plaster back again and
again—once, as she bent above him, he struck out violently at her with his
clenched fist, and if she had not moved quickly the blow would have knocked her
down. The plague-boil had risen steadily out of his groin until now it was the
full size of a tennis-ball and the taut-stretched skin over it had thickened
and turned dark.

Spong
sat humming or chanting to herself, softly beating her
thigh with an
empty wine-bottle. Most of the time Amber was so busy, or so haunted with worry
over Bruce, she forgot that she was there—and otherwise she ignored her.

But
at eleven o'clock, when she had everything clean for the night and was herself
undressed and washed, she turned to the old woman. "I only got about three
hours sleep last night, Mrs. Spong, and I'm tired as a dog. If you'll watch his
Lordship for three or four hours you can call me and then I will. We'll have to
take turns, because someone's got to be with him every moment. Will you cover
him again if he throws the blankets off?"