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Cornelia sat beside her bed, gently wiping her face with a damp cloth, giving her the physic and cooling drinks of water. The room grew overpoweringly warm. The heat of the fire, the closeness of the room, with its closed windows and door, even the keyhole being blocked with rag to keep the plague odour within, made her feel faint. But she retained a grip upon herself and forced herself to stay awake.
The long night hours were the worst. She could hear outside the muffled talk of the watchmen, with their long halberds, put to guard against any escape from the house. She could hear the creak of her father’s slow footsteps as he paced in his own chamber, praying under his breath, and weeping. From the kitchen, she heard stifled bursts of wild laughter. The servants were drinking themselves into oblivion, too frightened to go to sleep for fear of waking with the dreaded signs of the contagion.
The only other human being in the world seemed to be Nan, who, although Cornelia barred her firmly from the sickroom, came at intervals to the door with necessary food and drink, pleading each time to be let inside the chamber.
She scolded, begged and coaxed, but Cornelia would not open the door to her, and would not fetch in the food until she had heard Nan’s footsteps going down the stairs.
Once Nan tricked her by going noisily, but on silent tread returning quickly. Cornelia, as she unbolted the door, heard the soft flurry of Nan’s skirts as she hurr
ied, and slammed it shut again, railing indignantly at her through the crack.
‘Nan, I will not let you into the sickroom, so go away. Do you want me to starve? I will not open this door at all if you do not obey me.’
Weeping, Nan went away.
‘Who will nurse you if you take the plague?’ she threw back up the stairs at her.
But Cornelia, firming the tremble of her lower lip, glad that Nan could not see her face, said with false confidence, ‘I shall not take the plague.’
Andrew returned in the cool dawn. His white rod, mark of the plague doctor, and the red cross stitched on his cloak, kept passers-by at bay as he walked through the streets. Shrinking, whispering, they eyed him in terror.
The watch drew back from him, too, as he knocked for admittance at the house.
Nan opened the door and at once began to argue with him. ‘Why cannot I go into the chamber? My lady is too delicate for such a sad task. Let me go in and help her. She is worn to a shadow. She will die. I am strong. I will not sicken. If you do not let me go in to her I will break down the door, I swear it.’
‘Where are the other servants?’ he asked, without replying to her pleading.
‘Them? They are drunk as stoats who have sucked blood. They lie in stupor in the kitchen.’ She grimaced. ‘They are too terrified to move out of the room.’
‘Then if you go in to your mistress, who will fetch and carry for her? We must keep the contagion within that room if we are able. No, Nan, you must be free to move to and fro for your mistress.’
Nan growled angrily, but said no more.
The hard carbuncles had burst. Mistress Brent was breathing fast, shallow, her face contorted with the effort.
‘It has attacked her lungs,’ said Andrew heavily.
Cornelia looked from him to her unconscious mother in terror. ‘Is it serious?’
He hesitated, then said harshly, ‘It is the end.’
Cornelia gave a sharp cry, then forced her clenched fist against her teeth, biting on her knuckles until the blood sprang along them.
She made herself breathe slowly, deeply, until she was calm enough to ask, ‘And Ellen?’
His white face grew fixed. ‘Dead,’ he said. ‘She died an hour since in my arms. It was a hard death.’ He closed his eyes briefly, then bent over Mistress Brent and touched her forehead. ‘Your mother is weakening by the hour.’
Cornelia looked towards the door. ‘Should . . . should I call my father?’
Andrew shrugged. ‘Wait here. I will speak to him.’ He went out. Cornelia held her mother’s restless, fretful hand. The hot fingers could not stay still within her grip, but beat frantically for escape, and plucked at the sheets endlessly. The babbled words were unintelligible, but Cornelia answered gently.
‘Yes, Mother, yes.’ She moistened the cloth, and drew it again across her mother’s face.
Andrew came back, frowning.
Cornelia looked at him. ‘My father?’
‘He would not open his chamber door,’ Andrew said, expressionless. ‘He is too frightened to speak to her even from the threshold of this room.’
