A Murder at Rosamund’s Gate, page 21
Her insides churning, she looked closely at her mistress, noticing for the first time how flushed she looked, how her eyes glittered with fever. Lucy’s eyes returned to the black mark. Everyone knew that meant the Black Death had seized upon a new victim. Then, without saying a word, the mistress vomited into her urn, wiping her mouth daintily afterward. She smiled at Lucy as if nothing unusual had occurred.
“Oh, missus,” Lucy said as calmly as she could. “There’s plenty of time before you need to prepare for the ball. You look a bit peaked. Perhaps you’d care for a bit of rest before then? I’ll get a nice fire going.”
She patted the coverlet, hoping to entice her mistress back into bed. The mistress smiled. Like a child, she obediently lay down in the bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. “Yes, perhaps I am a bit tired,” she murmured. “Pray return in an hour, if you please, Lucy. I don’t know why Bessie is not back yet; it’s rather late even if it is her day off.”
“Yes, missus,” Lucy replied, tucking the blanket around the mistress. She smoothed the hair back from her flushed face. “I’ll be back soon.”
After she backed out of the room, she raced down to the kitchen. Cook was showing Lawrence how to salt pork and pack it into the barrels as she chopped vegetables for their supper that evening.
For a moment, Lucy could not move her mouth. Finally, she managed to croak, “She’s got it. The mistress, she does.”
“Got what, girl?” Cook asked, dropping some old mutton into the pot.
“The Black Death!”
In a flash, Cook had flown up to the mistress’s room, returning not five minutes later, panting heavily.
“Lawrence!” she called to the little boy, who was now peeling potatoes, oblivious to the despair about him. “You must run to the physician’s house. Drag ’im away from his supper, if you must. Say the mistress is very ill.”
“Should I tell him Annie is sick, too?” the boy asked, hooking his hands in his pants. Cook and Lucy exchanged a worried glance.
Not wanting to alarm the boy, Lucy asked him casually, “What do you mean, Lawrence? Annie is sick?”
“Yup,” the boy said, unconcerned. “She’s been lying down there this last hour.” He pointed to the shelf behind the kitchen. “Dizzy-like, she said.”
The two women quickly conferred.
“No,” Cook decided. “No, don’t tell the physician about Annie. Lucy, you go check on her. Lawrence, just tell the physician that the mistress is sick. Don’t mention your sister. And, lad, run!”
The boy took off then, banging the door behind him. Cook went to tell the master, who was still nailing down windows. He ran immediately to be at his wife’s side to await the physician. Lucy sat by the little girl’s pallet, stroking her head. Annie had no black marks that Lucy could see, but she was shivering violently. Lucy went to her own room and brought blankets down to wrap around Annie’s scrawny frame. She was holding a cup of tea to the little girl’s head when the physician came.
He glanced at the child, but his attention was on Mistress Hargrave. “Now, Lucy,” the physician said. “Tell me, does your mistress have any black spots on her neck, or under her arms, or in her”—he coughed—“private areas?”
“Yes,” Lucy replied. “She does. She also has fever and has been vomiting; I scarce know what to do.”
Without any more questions, the doctor hastened to the mistress’s chambers, where he remained for about a quarter of an hour. When he was done, he found them in the kitchen. Hearing Annie moan on her pallet in the pantry, he bent over her as well with a frown.
Straightening up, he turned back to them, his voice weary. “Well, there is little enough you can do, I’m afraid. As I told your master upstairs, you must keep her warm and comfortable. Dry. If she gets to flailing about, as some do, then tie her arms and feet to the bedposts with strips of cloth. Keep her linens clean.”
Cook and Lucy nodded their heads. Dr. Larimer regarded them intently. “Heed my words. Three days it is, from when the symptoms first appear, to the end. If you can survive it, then you should be fine. You must take care of yourself, too; eat, drink, think happy thoughts. Have you any posies to hang about?”
“Posies? Why, yes, sir,” Lucy said. “We kept the blossoms from last summer’s garden.”
“Well, keep them below her nose. Add some lavender if you have it. Also, rub some of this on her chest.” He handed Lucy a small pot. She sniffed it, making a face. “It will help her breathe. All right, Lucy? Can I depend on you to keep your head about you? The life of your mistress may well be in your hands. And that of the little girl there, too.”
“Yes sir,” Lucy stammered. “I understand.”
“I’ve told the magistrate that I shan’t report this as plague, but he knows what to do.”
Shortly after the physician left, the magistrate seated himself rather uncomfortably on the low bench by the fire.
“Have some soup, sir,” Lucy urged him, somewhat unnerved by the presence of the master in the kitchen. She cut a large slice from a new loaf and handed him the plate. “And some bread.”
He nodded. “How’s Annie?” he asked, somewhat absently.
“Feverish, chills. No black marks like—” She broke off. “Sir, I’m sorry!”
As if he had not heard the last comment, he simply said, “Right. Well, that’s good.” Then he looked at Cook and Lucy. “Well, Mary. Lucy. We’re in a spot of trouble here, I’m afraid. Your mistress does indeed have the plague, and maybe little Annie, too. As a justice of the peace, I am obliged to think of the public good.”
Master Hargrave crumbled a bit of bread in his fingers, looking distantly at the crumbs. “Believe me, I want nothing but to load us all into the carts and pack us all off to my family home in Warwickshire as we planned. Escape this damnable mess. However, I very much believe we’d not be escaping the plague, but we’d be bringing it along with us.”
Leaning over, he began to poke the fire with a stick. Cook and Lucy looked at each other.
“No, indeed,” he continued. “I believe we must do what is right. That means we must quarantine ourselves. No one must enter this household, and I’m heartfelt sorry to say, no one must leave, until the sickness has passed.”
They gasped. What if the sickness does not pass? Lucy thought miserably.
“We must have courage, and have faith in the good Lord,” the magistrate continued, noting their pale faces. “Above all, we must do our part to contain the sickness. That means that we must all be very brave and resolute.”
He looked at Cook, his face anguished and drawn. “Mary, I’m sorry, but we cannot let John come back in the house, if but to save him.” Blinking back tears, he swallowed. “My own son, I cannot look upon.” Straightening his shoulders, he took a deep breath. “When they return tonight, we must send them out of the city to fetch Sarah and to take her to the family seat and keep her safe. Mary and Lucy, I’m so sorry. You both deserve better than this, but with perseverance and courage, I believe we will survive.”
Cook looked as stricken as Lucy felt. A bitter and heavy silence fell over the room. From beyond the door, Lucy heard Annie moan softly. For a long moment, Lucy and Cook looked at each other, complete understanding between them. They loved this household—there would be no sneaking out windows as Janey and other servants were doing, no doubt all over London. The magistrate deserved their loyalty and courage, even though Lucy wanted to run crying to her mother. Even the mistress, with all her vanity and silliness, was a good woman and deserved better.
“Right, sir,” Cook said briskly. “You can count on Lucy and me; we will take care of the mistress as if she were our own kin.”
Unexpectedly, the magistrate blinked and swallowed, looking quite overcome. For a moment, the three were quiet. Lucy wished she could embrace him, offer him some comfort in this terrible time. Annie’s soft moans called Lucy back to her bedside, and the magistrate returned to his wife’s chamber, to sit vigil by her side.
* * *
It was nearing seven o’clock when Lucy finally heard John and Adam rap at the kitchen door.
“It’s us!” John called. “We’ve got some chickens that need to be put up and wood. I do not want to leave them on the stoop.”
Lucy went to the crack in the door. “Nay, Master Adam, John. I cannot let you in.”
“Lucy, what nonsense are you speaking? Hurry, we have our hands full and still much to do,” Adam said.
Lucy shook her head fiercely at them, as though they could see her through the door. “No, I cannot! The mistress, she has come down with the plague. I dare not let you in. Cook and me, we will take care of her, but we are afraid that you and John could get the sickness. It would be best”—she paused, a catch in her voice—“if you go on to the Warwickshire estate without us.”
There was a short silence on the other side of the door. “My mother? She has the sickness?” Adam asked, his voice husky. “The … plague?”
“Yes,” Lucy replied, trying not to cry. “Your father has bid us to be quarantined. You are to paint a cross on the door, so the neighbors will know to stay away.”
On the other side of the door, she heard a muffled oath and some muttered discussion. “Wait, Lucy,” Adam called out. “Do not be rash. I will fetch the surgeon. He can confirm—”
“No, sir,” Lucy interrupted. “We’ve already had the surgeon. He told me and Cook some things to brew, but there’s little else we can do for the mistress or little Annie, except prayer. And posies.”
The sound of a fist hitting the heavy oak door made her jump. “Lucy, let me in!” Adam demanded. “John must stay away. He can get Sarah from my aunt’s and take her to Warwickshire. But Lucy, that is my mother in there. I should be with her.”
From beyond the door, she could hear John protesting. “And I should be with my sweet Mary, and little Annie and Lawrence.”
“No!” Cook said sharply, coming to stand behind Lucy at the door. Her hands were on her hips, and her face was stern.
“John, dear. Master Adam, sir,” Cook said, speaking as she might to small children. “It must be as the magistrate said. Lucy and I will tend the mistress and the others. Rest assured, sir, we will nurse them as we would our own family. If you were in here, you’d just take ill and be in our way.”
Lucy could almost laugh, if it were not so serious. Again a muffled discussion ensued beyond the door.
Then Adam called back. “We do not like it, but we accept my father’s wishes. We will bring you provisions, enough to make it through the next few days.”
A few days. Lucy shivered. The doctor had said the sickness would run its course in a few days. A sudden moment of terror overcame her. Would they survive? Would they be trapped? She wanted to scream for them to open the door, to not let the reaper come for them, but she remained silent.
Fiercely, she pushed the thoughts away. Knowing the men were just outside the door was making her weak. “You must go!” she cried. “Please!”
“Master Adam, sir,” Cook called back. “Do not forget. You must then nail our door shut and not return for three days.”
Again, silence. Whoever returned might find a grisly sight indeed in three days, if the plague did run its regular course. Lucy bit her lip. Someone coughed.
“Right, then,” Adam said. “We will stable the new horse and return with nails.”
Then John spoke. “God bless and preserve us all.”
Not much later, Lucy heard the grim sound of boards being nailed across the front door. Pounding, pounding, pounding …
Lucy’s heart raced. She felt like they were being sealed in a tomb. John was the coffin maker, and they were the dead. The dead must be kept from the living.
* * *
Deep in the night, Lucy stole softly into the mistress’s chambers, to check on her as she slept. She and Cook had taken turns tending Annie, the mistress, and now Lawrence, who had just fallen ill. The master had not left his wife’s side, holding her hand, gazing at her dimly lit form. With her curling hair spread across her face and bodice, and the lines of complaint gone from her mouth, she looked beautiful. Del Gado’s portraits popped into Lucy’s mind, but she pushed the image away.
“Sir,” she whispered. “Perhaps you should try to get some sleep.”
Master Hargrave lifted his anguished face to Lucy’s. “Lucy, I have to stay with her. God knows I’ve been away from her for so much of our life together; I must be with her now.” More to himself he added, “I know she sometimes found enjoyment with others, but I never blamed her. If anything, I blamed myself for being away from her side so much. She’s the only woman I ever loved.”
As if hearing him, from deep within her deathly stupor, the mistress smiled ever so slightly, and a small sigh escaped her lips.
Lucy nodded and stoked the fire in the hearth a bit. As she replaced the warm potatoes at her mistress’s feet, the magistrate looked up, recalling her presence in the room.
“Oh, Lucy. Adam told me that William was declared innocent, was he not? You must be much relieved.”
She nodded. The events of the day, of the trial, were so far off. With the mistress being so ill, she barely had time to think about her brother.
“Your friend was the one who presided over his case,” Lucy said, smoothing the cover around the mistress’s still form.
The magistrate smiled slightly, looking old and tired. “Yes, Ernest, he’s a good man. I knew he’d give your brother a fair trial. Adam insisted that he be the one to hear the case, you know. I don’t really have much say over these matters, but we justices usually work out the demands of the docket, and change things around when necessary.”
Lucy gazed into the fire, tiredly holding a mug of cooling mead, trying to stay warm and awake.
“The evidence was very circumstantial, I know, but heavily against William’s favor. Something must have decided Ernest’s mind. Do you know?”
“’Twas amazing, sir. Richard, the bast—, excuse me, sir, the man who had accused William, lied about him and, in fact, ended up recanting at the last moment.”
A glow came to her voice as she spoke. “Adam, well, he ended up asking the questions for Will. Richard came to admit that he had tied Will up, so it was impossible that my brother could have done the foul mischief upon Bessie.”
Lucy did not mention the Quakers’ involvement in “working Richard over,” as John had put it. She thought Adam might not like it if she told his father about his friendship with the Quakers.
“So Adam got Richard tied up in knots instead.” The magistrate chuckled. Then he cleared his throat, his face growing serious. “For what it’s worth, Lucy, none of us ever believed that your brother had any part in that dastardly business. But the law must run its course. I’m just sorry that he had to spend so much time in that bloody prison.”
Both fell silent. Lucy drifted a bit, trying to recall the bliss of the afternoon, those moments when she, John, Adam, and Will had walked home, before this new terror had gripped their hearts. The joy of Will’s release seemed to have swept away her earlier animosity toward Adam, and indeed, he seemed to have thawed a bit toward her.
A movement from the bed caused the magistrate and Lucy to stir. The mistress was awake, gazing at the magistrate. “What is going on, dear?” she asked, her voice raspy. “What are you doing in here?”
The magistrate pulled his chair close to her side and held her hand. “My dear,” he said, raising her hand to his lips, “you are ill, very ill.”
The mistress’s lips trembled. “What do you mean?”
In short, measured words he told her, his voice despairing. Lucy slipped from the room so that they could be alone.
19
“I believe she will die today,” the magistrate said as he walked heavily into the kitchen the next morning. “It is God’s will. She keeps calling for Adam and Sarah. At times, she is a madwoman—I scarcely know her.”
He gazed at her portrait and shook his head sadly.
“What is today?” he muttered, setting his diary on the table. “May 10, 1665. A day that shall never pass from my thoughts.”
He wiped his brow. Seeing his flushed face, Lucy ushered him off to his own chamber, promising to take care of the mistress. Cook, too, did not look well. Despite her inward despair, Lucy led Cook to her pallet behind the kitchen, where she tucked several blankets around Cook, Annie, and Lawrence. Although Cook protested, they both knew that Lucy alone had to bear the burden of the household.
As she prepared a bit of stock, Lucy heard a sharp rap at the kitchen door. It was Adam.
“How is my mother?” he demanded through the heavy door.
“I’m afraid, sir, that—” She stopped, unable to tell him what the master had said. “Your father was with her all night. And now”—she paused unhappily—“Cook, Lawrence, and your father have taken ill, too. Your father may just be exhausted and need to be refreshed in spirit and body.”
She heard Adam’s sharp intake of breath. “Lucy, let me in.”
“What? No, Adam! I cannot!” she protested. The magistrate had been very stern with her, saying that no one could be admitted until the sickness had passed.
“Lucy, this is not right, that you should take care of my parents alone, sacrificing yourself.”
“But Adam, you are still not sick; you could survive this. You should go to your family’s estate as your father wished. I can take care of everyone.”
“No, Lucy, you cannot. I will not allow this.” His voice was hard.
“Adam, there is no use in all of us dying!” She did not know when she had started referring to him so personally, but he did not seem to mind.
Lucy jumped back as he pounded the door in anger and frustration. Then he spoke. “Lucy?”
“Yes, Adam?”
“Are you sick, too? Do you have the sickness?”
How curious his voice sounds, Lucy thought tiredly. He sounds so concerned for me. “Adam, I don’t really know. I think I’m still fine, though.”
“Lucy,” she heard him say, and then the terrible, wonderful sound of nails being ripped from the door. “There is no law against someone choosing to enter a quarantined house. ’Tis only against the law for someone to leave. Let me in. Now.”
