The Wildest Rake

She told her father that he would soon have food, and went back to Nan. A sharp pang warned her that she, herself, was very hungry, but she pushed the thought aside. She had no time to worry about such a matter now. She began to wipe Nan’s head again, seeing the skin glazed with dry heat, the dark shadows beneath Nan’s closed eyes seeming to throb with fever.

Time passed slowly. At last Rendel returned. He left a platter of bread and broken meats outside her door, knocked on the Alderman’s door and spoke to him, his level voice like a balm in the madness of the house.

Cornelia ate a little. Her stomach kept rising in protest at the food although she was hungry. She found it very hard to keep the food down. The plague odours which made the room so foul were affecting her.

Andrew came back a while later, looked at Nan without tending her, shook his head slowly and went away with hardly a word spoken.

It grew dark. The bright day fell into night without a murmur. The very birds seemed to have stopped singing. Only the hushed whispers of the watch and the slow tramp of their feet on the cobbles disturbed the silence.

Nan began to be violent, fighting silently for her life, her crooked body tossing to and fro, her hands and head rigid in her struggle for survival. Cornelia gently rubbed her bare feet, finding them oddly chilled. She kept up her ceaseless vigil, moistening Nan’s temples and cheeks, forcing water between her clenched teeth, and Andrew’s physic mixed with warm wine to make it palatable.

The longest hours, as she had learnt with her mother, were the night hours. Each minute then seemed an eternity. Time seemed almost to hang in suspense.

At last Nan tried to sit up, screaming wordlessly, her lips frothed with dark blood. Cornelia was so frightened that she barely knew what to do. She wanted to run, but she made herself grip Nan by her shoulders and force her down upon the bed.

Nan was far stronger though, despite her infirmity, and she no longer knew who it was with her. She fought back, that terrible sound coming from her all the time, kicking with her legs, tearing with her fingers.

Then her back arched, she opened her eyes wide in surprise and the deep stillness of approaching death, and with a sharp cry fell backwards.

Cornelia thought for a moment that she had fainted, then she saw blood trickling down Nan’s chin, and the faint upward slant of her eyeballs.

‘Oh, God,’ she whimpered, moving back one step at a time. ‘Oh, no, God, no, not Nan too . . .’

CHAPTER TWENTY

Returning at dawn, Andrew found them both lying still. Nan in the last sleep of death, her jaw fixed rigid, her body at an unnatural angle, and Cornelia asleep in a corner of the room, exhausted and curled round like a foetus in the womb, her back to the world.

He went to the living first, but Cornelia would not wake, although her breathing seemed quite normal and her colour was pale rather than feverish.

Rendel came to the door. ‘What is it?’ he cried, seeing Andrew bending over his wife anxiously.

Andrew spun, breathing hard, very white in the face. ‘Keep out,’ he said angrily.

‘She is my wife,’ Rendel said, walking forward.

Andrew stood between them. ‘She is my patient. If she has the plague, she would never forgive me if I let you come to her and you caught it. Keep off, I tell you. For once in your life, sir, do what is asked of you, rather than following your own selfish desire.’

‘Selfish?’ echoed Rendel, flushing hard.

Andrew stared into his face, sharp-eyed. ‘Yes, selfish. You know very well she would not want you to venture your life for her. If you want to be of use, see to it that the kitchen is fumigated. Burn everything in it. Smoke out the walls. Then keep yourself healthy. Walk in the garden at night. Exercise and food will keep you fit.’

‘My wife,’ Rendel said, looking past him. ‘Has she the plague?’

‘I do not think so. I will nurse her.’

Rendel’s face was grey. ‘You will tend her,’ he repeated dully. ‘Very well.’

Then he turned and walked away.

Andrew lifted Cornelia and carried her out of the chamber into a small, bare room at the end of the passage. There was no bed. He laid her on a straw pallet, then went in search of a truckle bed for her. She was still asleep when he returned, her breathing still as regular.

He made up the bed with clean sheets and laid her between them gently. Then he stripped her body and examined her slowly. Her skin was white and cool, unblemished. His face relaxed as he watched her.

A sound behind him made him look round. Rendel stood there, a savage jealousy in his dark face, his eyes glinting.

‘You sly, hypocritical bastard,’ he snapped. ‘Get your hands off my wife. ‘

Andrew drew the sheet up over Cornelia’s naked body. He looked with indifference at the dagger Rendel held, and shrugged. ‘I am a doctor. I have attended her since she was a child. Do not be a fool.’