Winsor, Kathleen (82 page)

"I'm
sorry, madame, but the parish-clerk is too busy now to consider the problems of
each individual. The nurses are all incompetent and most of them are old—if
they could get a living
any other way they wouldn't be doing this. The parish sends them out to nurse
to avoid the charge of keeping them on charity. Still, madame, as you must
know, you may fall sick yourself at any time—it's better not to be alone."

He
left and Amber, shrugging and deciding that since she could not get rid of
Spong she would find some use for her, went into the kitchen. The soup was
ready now, a rich heavy pottage with the fat swimming in hot oily circles on
top of it, and she ladled out a bowlful to eat herself. It made her feel
better. Her headache disappeared and she felt almost optimistic again. She was
sure once more that she could keep him alive by sheer force of will-power.

I
love him so much, she thought, he
can't
die. God won't let him die.

When
she was ready to go to bed she decided to try bribing Spong. "If you'll
stay awake till three and then call me I'll give you a bottle of brandy."
If the old woman would watch and let her sleep at night she was willing to have
her drunk all day.

The
arrangement satisfied Spong who vowed again that she would not so much as close
an eye. Once Amber woke suddenly and sat bolt upright, glaring accusingly at
her—it was light in the room for the fire was kept burning all night. But the
nurse was sitting there beside him, arms folded on her belly, and she grinned
across at Amber.

"Fooled
ye, mam, eh?"

Amber
flopped back down and instantly fell asleep again. She was wakened by a
gurgling scream that brought her to her feet at a leap, her heart pounding
sickeningly. Bruce, kneeling on the edge of the bed, had grabbed Spong by the
throat and she was lashing and flailing about, helpless as a flounder. With his
face contorted, teeth bared savagely, shoulders hunched, he was forcing all the
strength of his arms into his fingers and they were crushing out the old
woman's life.

Quickly
throwing herself onto the bed behind him Amber grabbed his arms and tried to
drag him backwards. Cursing, he dropped the nurse, and turned on Amber, his
fingers closing around her throat—squeezing the blood into her face and temples
until the top of her head felt ready to burst. Her ears cracked and she went
blind. Desperately she put up her hands and finding his eyeballs she gouged her
thumbs into them. His grip weakened slowly, and then all at once he collapsed
onto the bed, sprawling weirdly.

Amber
slowly sank to the floor, helpless and stupidly dazed. It was several seconds
before she realized what Spong was trying to tell her.

"—it's
broke, mam! It's broke—that was what drove 'im mad!"

She
dragged herself to her feet then and saw that the great swollen mass of the
carbuncle had burst, as though the top had been blown off a crater. There was a
hole deep enough and large enough to thrust a finger into, and the blood poured
out
in a dark scarlet stream that ran into a spreading pool on the bed and clotted
thickly. A watery gland-fluid came with it, and yellow pus was beginning to
work its way upward.

Amber
sent Spong to the kitchen for some warm water and began immediately to wash off
the blood, wiping it away as it ran out. The bloody rags accumulated in a heap
and the nurse was kept busy tearing bandages from some clean sheets. But it
would have done no good to bind them on; they would have soaked through in less
than a minute. Amber had never seen a man lose so much blood, and it scared
her.

"He's
going to bleed to death!" she said desperately, throwing another red
sopping rag into the pail beside her. His face was no longer flushed but had
turned white beneath the short growth of black bristle and it felt cold and wet
to the touch.

"He's
a big man, mam—he can lose a lot of blood. But ye can thank God it broke. He's
got a chance to live now."

At
last the blood stopped flowing, though it continued to seep slowly, and she
bound up the wound and turned to wash her hands in a basin of clean warm water.
Spong approached her with an ingratiating whine.

"It's
half-after-three now, mam. Can't I go to sleep?"

"Yes,
go on. And thanks."

"It's
almost mornin', mam. Could I have the brandy now, d'ye think?"

Amber
went out to the kitchen to get it for her; and though for a while she heard her
behind the closed door, droning a song, finally she fell silent and then set up
a clattering snore that went on hour after hour. Amber was kept busy changing
the bandages and refilling the hot-water bottles. Along toward morning to her
enormous relief the colour began to return to his face, his breathing became
more regular, and his skin was dry again.

By
the eighth day she was convinced that he would live, and Mrs. Spong agreed with
her, though she said frankly that she had expected him to die. But the plague
took them quickly, if at all. Those who lived until the third day could be
reasonably hopeful, and whoever lived a week was almost certain to recover. But
the period of convalescence was long and tedious and characterized by a deep
physical and mental depression, an almost complete prostration, during which
any sudden or undue exertion could have rapidly fatal results.

Since
the night the carbuncle had opened Bruce had lain supine, never making a
voluntary move. The restlessness, the delirium, the violence were gone and his
strength had wasted until he was not able even to stir. He swallowed obediently
whatever food or drink she put into his mouth, but the effort seemed to exhaust
him. Much of the time, she knew, he slept, though his eyes were almost closed
and it was never possible to tell when he was awake or even whether he was
conscious of being awake.

Amber
worked ceaselessly, though after the bursting of the carbuncle she was able to
get enough sleep, and she did her tasks with enthusiasm and even a kind of
pleasure, certainly with satisfaction. Everything that Sarah had ever taught
her about cooking and nursing and housekeeping came back to her now and she
prided herself that she did a better job of all three than her maids could have
done.

She
did not dare bathe Bruce, but otherwise she kept him as clean as possible, and
with Spong's help she managed to change the sheets on the bed. The rest of the
apartment was kept as immaculate as if she expected a visit from a maiden-aunt.
She mopped the kitchen floor, washed the towels and sheets and napkins and her
own smocks and ironed everything; every day she scoured the pewter dishes with
bran and soap and set them before a hot fire to dry, which was the way Sarah
had taught her to keep them shining and spotless. Her hands were beginning
already to roughen and she had several small blisters, but that mattered no
more to her than did the fact that her hair was oily and that she had not worn
a speck of powder for a week and a half. When he begins to notice me, she told
herself, I'll take time for those things. Meanwhile, her only audience was
Spong and the shop-keepers she saw when she went out to buy provisions, and
they did not matter.

She
had heard nothing at all from Nan and though she worried about her and the baby
she tried to make herself believe that they were all right. As far as she knew
there was no plague in the country. And of course it was very likely that the
letter had not reached her at all. She knew Nan well enough to know that she
could trust her loyalty and resourcefulness, and now she must do so and refuse
to think anything but that they were safe and well.

Her
own health continued as good as ever, a fact which she attributed to the
unicorn's horn, the Elizabethan gold coin she kept in her mouth, and her daily
practice of taking a snip of her own hair, cutting it up fine and drinking it
in a glass of water. This last was Spong's suggestion and both of them followed
it religiously, for it had seen Spong safely through eight houses full of
plague. Occasionally she said a prayer, for good measure.

Dr.
Barton had not come since his second call, and both Spong and Amber decided
that he had either died or run away —as the plague got worse more and more doctors
were leaving. But, as Bruce continued to improve, she did not trouble to find
another one.

Every
morning when she had fed Bruce his breakfast— usually a caudle—she changed the
bandage on the great sloughing wound, washed his hands and face, cleaned his
teeth as well as she could, and then sat down beside him to comb his hair. It
was the moment she enjoyed most in each day, for her work kept her so busy that
she had very little time to spend with him. Sometimes he looked up at her, but
his eyes were
dull and expressionless; she could not tell whether he even knew who it was
bending over him. But each time that he looked at her she smiled, hoping for an
answering smile. And at last it came.

It
was the tenth day after he had fallen sick and she sat on the bed, facing him,
intent on combing his hair, which was as crisp and healthy as it had ever been.
She laid the flat side of her hand gently into one of its waves, smiling as she
did so, deeply and truly happy. She realized then that he was watching her and
that he actually saw her, knew who she was and what she was doing. A swift
thrill ran over her flesh and as his mouth tried to smile at her she touched
his cheek with her fingers, caressing.

"God
bless you, darling—" His voice was soft and hoarse, scarcely more than a
whisper, and he turned his head to kiss her fingers.

"Oh,
Bruce—"

She
could just murmur his name, for her throat had swollen until it ached, and a
tear splashed down onto his cheek. She brushed the next one away before it
could fall, and then his eyes closed again, his head turned wearily and he gave
a light sigh.

But
after that she always knew when he was conscious, and little by little he began
to talk to her, though it was many days before he could say more than a few
words at a time. And she did not urge him to talk for she knew how great was
the exertion and how tired it left him. His eyes often followed her when she
was in the room and in them she saw a look of gratitude that wrenched her
heart. She wanted to tell him that she had not done so very much—only what she
had to do because she loved him, and that she had never been happier than
during these past days when she had used all her energy, all the strength she
had, every thought and waking minute for him. Whatever had been between them in
the past, whatever was to come in the future, she had had these few weeks when
he belonged to her completely.

Day
by day London was changing.

Gradually
the vendors disappeared from the streets, and with them went the age-old cries
which had rung through the town for centuries. Many shops had closed and the
'prentices no longer stood before their stalls, bawling out their wares to the
passerby—the shop-keepers were afraid of the customers, the customers were
afraid of the shop-keepers. Friends looked the other way when they passed, or
crossed the street to avoid speaking. Many were afraid to buy food, for fear it
might be contaminated, and some of them starved to death.

The
theatres had closed in May and now many taverns and inns and cook-shops were
shut up. Those which continued to do business were ordered to lock their doors
at nine o'clock and to put all loiterers off the premises. There were no more
bear-
baitings, cock-fights, jugglers' performances, or puppet-shows; even the
executions were suspended, for they invariably drew great crowds. Funerals were
forbidden, but nevertheless long trains of mourners were to be seen winding
through the streets at almost every hour of the day or night.