Page 21 of A Taste of Miss Honey

His fury died as pain racked his body, his muscles seizing as he cried out. He lay still, breathing heavily until gut-wrenching sobs that seemed to rise from somewhere deep inside him replaced his anger. Izzy reached for him, holding his hands, stroking his face — anything to calm him.

“It’s all right. Everything will be all right. You’re sick and in pain, but soon you will be well again. Everything will be well. You’ll see. I promise. I promise it will.”

She kept talking, comforting him like she might comfort Caspar if he had a bad dream, promising him he’d be well again, promising she’d make everything right again, though she knew it was nonsense, but she feared she would have made a deal with the devil himself if she could have been certain he would live and be strong again. Izzy stroked his hair, his face, all the while promising him all was well. She wiped his blazing skin with the damp cloth until it was as hot as he was, before wetting it again and starting over. Yet no matter how many times she dragged the cloth over his body, leaving the skin wet and glistening in the freezing attic, he never seemed to cool. All the time she spoke to him, low words of reassurance, promises that he was safe, that he would be well again soon.

Whether he heard her words or comprehended them, she did not know, but he calmed enough that she could spoon some water into his mouth. He slept then, still restless as the fever ran its course, but whatever demons tormented him seemed to be gone for now.

Outside, the church bells rang the hour: four a.m. How strange. She had not heard them ring two or three and was strangely uncertain if it was the same night or the next. Time had taken on an endless, nightmarish quality from which there was no escape. She watched him for hour upon hour, hardly daring to blink for fear he would die if she looked away. Occasionally she woke with a start, realising she had nodded off and cried out in terror, only to discover he still breathed, harsh and shallow, but he was still there, still fighting.

Her life became an endless circle of forcing sips of water or laudanum through his parched lips, of cooling his overheated body, or piling the blankets on as he trembled violently.

Shivering, Izzy wished she had brought her cloak, but she refused to leave him for long enough to fetch it. Instead, she hugged her arms about herself, trying to keep warm. Her limbs were stiff and aching from having knelt too long at his side and she shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position on the cold wood floor.

The night dragged on and on, each hour and half hour marked by the church bells as she fought to stay awake, forcing herself to listen out for them. Her mind seemed to view the scene from a long way off, the lamplight illuminated the sickbed and cast a soft golden glow over the dreadful picture. It had not long chimed six in the morning, and she knew the household would stir soon.

“Izzy.”

Izzy jumped, startled from exhaustion, as someone said her name. With horror, she looked around, expecting to see someone had discovered them, but there was no one there. Turning towards Boreas, she blinked, her eyes burning and dry from fatigue.

“Izzy.”

“Yes! Yes, I’m here.” She scrambled to her knees, bending over him, but he slept still.

Reaching out a hand, she touched his chest to find it wet. His skin was clammy, dripping with sweat, the bedclothes beneath him sodden, his hair plastered to his face.

Izzy blinked back tears. Was this it? Was he dying?

She reached for his hand, holding it against her chest, clasped in both of hers. Holding on tight, she wept, though she had promised herself not to. “Don’t die. Please… please don’t die. I n-never even got to know y-you.”

Izzy did not know how long she sat there, clutching his hand and sobbing, but suddenly she realised that his breathing was steadier. She gasped, hardly daring to hope.

“Am I dead?”

The voice was scratchy and weak, but it was his.

“Oh!” Izzy exclaimed. Too overwhelmed to know what she was doing, she brought his hand to her lips and kissed it fervently. “Thank God. Thank God. Oh, thank you, thank you.”

“I must be dead. No one would be that glad I was alive.”

Izzy laughed, looking down at him. His eyes, weary and bloodshot but no longer febrile, gazed back at her. “I am,” she told him unsteadily. “I am so very, very glad.”

He let out a huff that might have been laughter. “—aim to please,” he mumbled, and fell asleep once more.

The Vicarage, Little Valentine, 24th January 1816

“Izzy? Izzy, love?”

Izzy woke with a start, terror lancing through her, only to see her father’s kindly face gazing down at her. He reached out his hand, bracing her shoulder.

“Izzy, it’s me. There’s no fire. All is well.” His voice was warm and reassuring, his gaze fond but concerned.

All is well. All is well. Izzy let out a breath and relaxed back into the chair by the fire. She had retreated to the living room to rest by the fire after getting another stern talking to from Mrs Mabbs. In desperation, she had fibbed and said she had succumbed to the sore throat going about, so she could get some peace.

“Mrs Mabbs tells me you are poorly, love. I must say, you don’t look yourself. No, indeed. Which is a shame, as we have a visitor and he seemed rather keen to meet you.”

Izzy sat up straighter, putting a hand to her hair, which she knew was a greasy haystack after the last few days. She’d simply not had the time nor the energy to see to herself. Fumbling for her glasses she put them on and tried to focus. “Oh, no, Papa. I really don’t—”

“No, I can see that you don’t,” he said, smiling at her. “I shall say you are indisposed, but do you think you might manage dinner tonight? He’s an illustrious fellow, and I felt rather obliged, but to tell the truth, I’d rather not entertain him alone.”