Winsor, Kathleen (87 page)

The
woman shook her head. "She's mighty sick, your Lordship. I don't
know—"

"Of
course you don't know!" snapped Bruce with angry impatience. "But you
can try! She's still dressed. Take her clothes off, bathe her face and
hands—get her into the sheets. She'll be more comfortable at least. She's been
cooking for me and you'll find soup and whatever else you need in the kitchen.
There are clean towels and sheets in that room— The floor must be mopped, and
the parlour cleaned. A woman died there yesterday. Now get to work! What's your
name?" he added, as an afterthought.

"Mrs.
Sykes, sir. Yes, sir."

Mrs.
Sykes, who told Bruce that she had been a wet-nurse but had lost her job
because her husband had died of the plague, worked hard throughout the day.
Bruce gave her no opportunity to loaf or rest, and despite the fact that she
knew he was helpless and unable to get out of bed she obeyed his commands
meekly—whether from respect of the nobility or one hundred pounds he did not
know or care.

But
by nightfall Amber seemed, if possible, to be even worse. A carbuncle had begun
to swell in her right groin and though it grew larger it remained hard and gave
no indication that it
would suppurate. Sykes was anxious about that, for it was the worst possible
sign, and not even the mustard plasters she applied—which blistered the
skin—seemed to have any effect.

"What
can we
do?"
Bruce asked her. "There must be
something
we
can do! What have you done for your patients when the carbuncle wouldn't
break?"

Sykes
was staring down at Amber. "Nothing, sir," she said slowly.
"Most usually they die."

"She's
not
going to die!" he cried. "We'll do something. We've got to do
something— She can't die!" He looked less well than he had the day before
but he forced himself to stay awake, as though he could keep her alive by
holding a vigil over her.

"We
might cut into it," she said. "If it's still like this tomorrow.
That's what the doctors do. But the pain of the knife sometimes drives 'em
mad—"

"Shut
up! I don't want to hear it! Go out and get her something to eat."

He
was almost exhausted and his temper was quick and savage, for he suffered
agonizingly over his own impotence. It went through his mind over and over
again. She's sick because of me and now, when she needs me, I lie here like a
sot and am able to do nothing!

Almost
to his surprise, Amber lived through the night. But by morning her skin was
beginning to take on a dusky colour, her breathing grew more shallow and her
heart-beats fainter. Sykes told him that those things meant approaching death.

"Then
we'll cut the boil open!"

"But
it might kill her!"

Sykes
was afraid to do anything, for it seemed that no matter what she did the
patient would die and she would lose the greatest fortune she had ever
imagined.

He
almost shouted at her. "Do as I say!" Then his voice dropped again,
he spoke to her quietly but with a swift commanding urgency. "Over in the
top drawer of that table there's a razor—get it. Take the cord off the drapes
and bind her knees and ankles together. Wrap the cord around the trundle so she
can't move, and tie her wrists to the corners. Get some towels and a basin.
Hurry!"

Sykes
scrambled nervously about the room, but within a couple of minutes she had
followed his directions. Amber lay bound securely to the trundle and still
completely unconscious.

Bruce
was close to the edge of the bed. "Pray God she doesn't know—" he
muttered and then. "Now! Take the razor and cut into it—quick and hard!
It'll hurt less that way. Quick!" His right fist clenched and the veins in
it swelled.

Sykes
looked at him in horror, the razor held tight in her hand. "I can't your
Lordship. I can't." Her teeth began to chatter. "I'm scared! What if
she dies under it!"

Bruce
was pouring sweat. He licked his tongue over his dry lips and gave a convulsive
swallow. "You
can,
you fool! You've got to!
Now
—do it
now!"

Sykes
continued to stare at him for a moment and then, as though hypnotized into
obedience by the sheer force of his will, she bent and placed the edge of the
razor against the hard red knob high up on Amber's groin. At that moment Amber
stirred and her head turned toward Bruce. Sykes gave a start.

"Cut
it open!" said Bruce hoarsely, his clenched fist trembling with helpless
rage. His face was dark with the rush of blood and the cords in his neck and
temples were thick as ropes and throbbing.

With
sudden resolution Sykes jammed the razor into the lump, but as she did so,
Amber moaned and the moan slid in crescendo to a quivering scream. Sykes let go
of the razor and stepped back to stand staring at Amber who was struggling now
to free herself, twisting frantically in an effort to escape the pain,
shrieking again and again.

Bruce
began to get out of bed. "Help me!"

Sykes
came swiftly, put one arm around his back, the other beneath his elbow, and in
an instant he had dropped on his knees beside the trundle and seized the razor.

"Hold
her! Here! By the knees!"

Again
Sykes did as she was told, though Amber continued to writhe, shrieking, her
eyes rolling like a frenzied animal's. With all the strength he had left Bruce
forced the razor into the hard mass and twisted it to one side. As he pulled it
out again the blood spurted, splattering onto his body, and Amber dropped back,
unconscious. His head fell helplessly onto his fist; his own wound had opened
once more and the bandage showed fresh and red.

Sykes
was trying to help him get up. "Your Lordship! Ye must get back to bed!
Your Lordship—please!"

She
wrenched the razor from his hand and with her help he managed to crawl back
onto the bed. She flung a blanket over him and turned immediately to Amber
whose skin was now white and waxen. Her heart was beating, very faintly.
Quantities of blood poured from the opening, but there was no pus and the
poison was not draining.

Sykes
worked furiously, at her own initiative now, for Bruce had lapsed into coma;
she heated bricks and every hot water bottle in the house and packed them about
Amber; she laid hot cloths on her forehead. If there was any way she could be
saved, Sykes intended to get her hundred pounds.

It
was almost an hour before Bruce returned to consciousness and then, with a
sudden start, he tried to sit up. "Where is she! You didn't let them take
her!"

"Hush,
sir! I think she's sleeping. She's still alive and I think, sir, that she's better."

He
leaned over to look at her. "Oh, thank God, thank God. I swear it, Sykes,
if she lives you'll get your hundred pound. I'll make it two hundred for
you."

"Oh,
thank you, sir! But now, sir—you'd better lie back
there and rest
yourself—or you might not fare so well, sir."

"Yes,
I will. Wake me if she gets any—" The words trailed off.

At
last the pus began to seep up and the wound started to drain off its poison.
Amber lay perfectly still again, drowned in coma, but the dark tinge was gone
from her skin and though her cheeks had sunk against the bones and there were
crapelike circles around her eyes, her pulse had a stronger, surer beat. The
sound of tolling bells seemed suddenly to fill the room. Sykes gave a start,
then relaxed; they would not toll tonight for her patient.

"I've
worked hard for my money, sir," Sykes said to him on the morning of the
fourth day. "And I'm sure she'll five now. Can I have it?"

Bruce
smiled. "You have worked hard, Sykes. And I'm more grateful than I can
tell you. But you'll have to wait a while longer." He would not give her
any of the jewellery, partly because it was Amber's personal property, partly
because it might have encouraged her to outright thievery or some other
mischief. Sykes had served her purpose, but he knew that it would be foolish to
trust her. "There are only a few shillings in the house—and they've got to
be spent for food. As soon as I can go out I'll get it for you."

He
was able to sit up now, most of the day, and when it was necessary he could get
out of bed, but never stayed more than a few minutes at a time. His persistent
weakness seemed both to amuse and infuriate him. "I've been shot in the
stomach and run through the shoulder," he said one day to Sykes as he
walked slowly back to the bed. "I've been bitten by a poisonous snake and
I've had a tropical fever—but I'll be damned if I've ever felt like this
before."

Most
of the time he spent reading, though there were only a few books in the
apartment and he had already seen most of them. Some had been there as part of
the furnishings and they were a respectable assortment, including the Bible,
Hobbes's "Leviathan," Bacon's "Novum Organum," some of the
plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, Browne's "Religio Medici."

Amber's
collection, though small, was more lively. There was an almanac, thumbed and
much scribbled in, the lucky and unlucky days starred, as well as those for
purging or bloodletting, though so far as he knew she seldom did either. Her
familiar scrawl was marked across the fly-leaf of half-a-dozen others:
"L'Ecole des Filles," "The Crafty Whore," "The
Wandering Whore," "Annotations upon Aretino's Postures,"
"Ars Amatoria," and—evidently because it was currently
fashionable—Butler's "Hudibras." All but the last had obviously been
well read. He smiled to see them, for though the same volumes would doubtless
have been found in the closet of almost any Court lady they were nevertheless
amusingly typical of her.

He
always sat near the edge of the bed where he could watch her, and she made no
movement or slightest sound which he
did not notice. She was, very slowly,
getting better, though the constant sloughing of the wound worried him, for it
continued to open wider and deeper until it had spread over an area with a
two-inch diameter. But both he and Sykes were convinced that if the incision
had not been made she would have died.

Sometimes,
to his horror, she would suddenly put up her hands as though to ward off a
blow, and cry out in a piteous voice. "Don't! No! Please!
Don't
cut
me!" And the cry would slide off in a shuddering moan that turned him cold
and wet. After that she always lapsed again into unconsciousness, though
sometimes even in coma she twitched and squirmed and made soft whimpering
sounds.

It
was the seventh day before she saw and recognized him. He had come in from the
parlour and found her propped against Sykes' arm swallowing some beef-broth,
languidly and without interest. He had a blanket flung over his shoulders and
now he knelt beside the trundle to watch her.

She
seemed to sense him there and her head turned slowly. For a long moment she
looked at him, and then at last she whispered softly: "Bruce?"

He
took her hand in both of his. "Yes, darling. I'm here."

She
forced a little smile to her face and started to speak again, but the words
would not come, and he moved away to save her the effort. But the next morning,
early, while Sykes was combing out her hair she spoke to him again, though her
voice was so thin and weak that he had to lean close to hear it

"How
long've I been here?"

"This
is the eighth day, Amber."

"Aren't
you well yet?"

"Almost.
In a few days I'll be able to take care of you."

She
closed her eyes then and breathed a long tired sigh. Her head rolled over
sideways on the pillow. Her hair, lank and oily with most of the curl gone, lay
in thick skeins about her head. Her collar-bones showed sharply beneath the
taut-stretched skin, and it was possible to see her ribs.

That
same day Mrs. Sykes fell sick, and though she protested for several hours that
it was nothing at all, merely a slight indisposition from something she had
eaten, Bruce knew better. He did not want her taking care of Amber and
suggested that she lie down in the nursery and rest, which she did immediately.
Then, wrapping himself in a blanket, he went out to the kitchen.

Sykes
had had neither the time nor the inclination and probably not even the
knowledge for good housekeeping and all the rooms were littered and untidy.
Puffs of dust moved about on the floors, the furniture was thickly coated,
stubs of burnt-down candles lay wherever she had tossed them. In the kitchen
there were stacks of dirty pans and plates, great pails full of soaking bloody
rags or towels, and the food had not been put away but left out on the table or
even set on the floor.