But he was still only halfway up the staircase, mounting it with slow heavy steps that were strangely and almost frighteningly unlike him. As he reached the top he paused for just an instant, one hand lifting as if to touch her, but he did not and walked on, into the parlour. A cold wet chill went over her and for a moment Amber stood, sick with disappointment, staring at the wall. She turned slowly then and saw him drop wearily into a chair, and at that moment her selfish feeling of jilted expectation was gone in shock of horror.
He's sick!
But instantly she pushed the thought away, superstitiously furious with herself for having allowed it into her mind. No! she thought fiercely. He isn't sick! He's just tired and hungry. When he's rested a while and had something to eat he'll be well and strong again.
Determined that he should not suspect what treacherous fear she had had, she now came toward him with a broad gay smile, taking off her cloak and throwing it over one arm. He looked up at her with an answering grin, but gave a short involuntary sigh.
"Well—" she said. "Aren't you even going to say that you like my lodgings? Everything's in the latest style—and nothing's English." She made a comical little face and gave a sweep of one hand, but as he looked over the room her eyes watched him anxiously.
"It's lovely, Amber. Forgive my bad manners. To tell the truth I'm tired—I was up all night."
The news relieved her. Up all night! Why, who wouldn't be tired? Then he wasn't sick at all. Oh, thank God—thank-God!
"I've got just the thing for that. Here, darling, let me take your cloak and hat-—and the sword, too, you'll be more comfortable without it."
She would have bent to unbuckle it for him, but he did so himself before she could, and handed it to her. Then, laying everything on a nearby chair, she brought him a tray on which were two decanters, one of water and one of brandy. He gave her a grateful smile and picked up a bottle while she turned to take their wraps into the bedroom.
"I'll be back in a trice. And we can eat right away. Everything's here."
She ran into the bed-chamber, which opened out of the parlour, and while she took off her gown and unpinned her hair she talked to him from the doorway—still hoping that he was not so tired as he seemed, that he would get up and come to her. But he merely sat, watching her and drinking the brandy, saying very little. She stepped out of her dress, untied the bows on her shoes and stripped off her stockings, let her petticoats drop to the floor and bent to pick them up.
"I've got everything you like best for supper: Westphalia-style ham and roast duck and an almond pudding and champagne. It isn't easy to get French wines any more, either, since the war. Lord, I don't know how we'll shift for new styles if we go to war with France! Do you think we will? Buckhurst and Sedley and some of the others say we're sure to—" She talked fast, to keep both of them from thinking. She disappeared from sight for a moment and then came into the room wearing a white silk dressing-gown and a pair of silver mules.
She walked toward him, slowly, and his green eyes darkened like water. He swallowed the rest of the brandy and got to his feet, and though for a moment they stood staring at each other he made no move to touch her. Amber waited, almost afraid to breathe; but as he scowled and turned half away, picking up his glass and the brandy decanter again, she said softly: "I'll put the food on the table."
She went through the dining-room and into the kitchen where the waiter who had brought the food had left the hot soup simmering over some embers in the fireplace. When she had served the soup they sat down to eat and though both of them tried to keep up a lively conversation, it stumbled and lagged.
He told her that he had taken five Dutch merchant-vessels, all of them valuable prizes. He said that he thought there would be war with France because France did not want England to win a decisive victory, and had to protect Holland to keep her from forming an alliance with Spain. Amber told him some of the gossip she had heard from Buckhurst and Sedley: that the Lowestoft victory would have been a much greater one but that Henry Brouncker gave orders in York's name to slacken sail, so that the battered Dutch fleet escaped. And— more exciting, she thought—she told him how the Earl of Rochester had kidnapped the great heiress, Mrs. Mallet, and been put in the Tower by the King for his effrontery.
He said that the meal was delicious, but he ate slowly and obviously had no appetite. At last he laid down his fork. "I'm sorry, Amber, but I can't eat. I'm not hungry."
She got up from the table and went around to him, for her fears had been growing steadily. He did not look tired; he looked sick. "Perhaps you should sleep, darling. After staying up all night you must be—"
"Oh, Amber, there's no use pretending about this. I've got the plague. At first I thought it was only lack of sleep. But I've too may symptoms the other men had—no appetite, headache, dizziness, sweating, and now I begin to feel nauseated." He flung down his napkin and pushed back his chair, slowly, heaving himself to his feet. "I'm afraid you'll have to go alone, Amber."
She looked at him steadily. "I won't go without you, Bruce, and you know it! But I'm sure it isn't the plague. It can't be! You're well and strong— When you've had a night's sleep I know you'll feel better."
He smiled faintly, but shook his head. "No, I'm afraid you're wrong. I only hope to God I haven't exposed you. That's why I didn't kiss you. I was afraid—" He looked around. "Where's my hat and cloak?"
"You're not going anywhere! You're going to stay here with me! Lord, I've looked and felt as bad as you do a hundred times and next day I was up and about! Everybody who gets a pain or ache can't have the plague! If you're not sick we'll leave tomorrow morning. And if you are—I'm going to take care of you."
"Oh, Amber, my dear— You don't think I'd let you? I might be dead by—"
"Bruce! Don't say that! If it is the plague I'll take care of you and make you well again. I learned how to take care of a sick person from my Aunt Sarah."
"But it's infectious—you might catch it too. And it's highly fatal. No, darling, I'm going. Get my hat and cloak—go on."
He turned away and the look of worried anger he had tried to conceal before now showed plainly. His face was wet with sweat, so that the drops slid along his jaw, and he moved like a man half drunk. His muscles seemed almost useless. There was a pounding headache over his eyes and a dull aching pain had filled his back and loins and went down into his legs. At a sudden chill he shuddered involuntarily, and the feeling of nausea was overwhelming.
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 effi
cacy.
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.
Chapter Thirty-four
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.
Forever Amber Page 53
