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SIX
The weather stayed cold all month, and the wind whipped down the streets of London, making whirlwinds of leaves, dust, and debris. Bess gave Robert Barlow the warm muffler that her aunt Marcy had knitted, but it didn't prevent his cough from turning into bronchitis.
Bess took over the page's duties and did her best to nurse him with hot soup and chest rubs, but eventually she had no option but to speak with Lady Zouche. “Ma'am, I don't wish to alarm you, but Robert is quite ill. It's more than just a cough, I'm afraid.”
“Oh, dear, it's such a heavy responsibility to take these young people into service to give them a start in life. Sometimes it works out well, as in your case, Bess, but often the youngsters are more trouble than they are worth. You are very good with herbs and such, can't you dose him with something?”
“I've made him possets and rubbed him with camphor, but it hasn't helped. Lady Margaret, I think he needs a doctor.”
“Heaven forbid, you don't think it could be plague?” she cried in alarm.
“The weather is too cold for the plague, but he could have some other contagion.”
“I'll send for the doctor, and in the meantime keep him isolated upstairs, well away from the girls.”
When Dr. Belgrave arrived, Bess escorted him up to Robert Barlow's attic room while Lady Zouche hovered at the door to the tiny chamber. The boy's fair cheeks showed two bright red spots of fever, and Belgrave tapped his chest and examined his sputum. The doctor produced some packets of fever powder and instructed Bess to administer them with water. Then he turned to the woman at the door. “A word with you in private, if I may, Lady Zouche.”
Margaret escorted the doctor down the stairs to her own private sitting room and closed the door. Bess went down immediately and put her ear to the keyhole.
“The boy is from Derbyshire, Doctor; I employ him as a page. He's always had a delicate look about him.”
“Hmmph.” Belgrave cleared his throat. “He's fevered at the moment, but the powders I left should take care of that. However”—he cleared his throat once again—“in my learned opinion, the boy suffers from a chronic distemper of the lungs. He won't make old bones, and I strongly suggest you get rid of him.”
“Oh, dear, oh, dear.” Lady Margaret wrung her hands. “You don't think he could pass it on to me or my daughters, do you, Doctor?”
“We have made great strides in medical science in this century, Lady Zouche, but the truth is we still don't know enough about these illnesses. He could recover, of course, but he'll always be a weakling. Better to be safe than sorry.”
Bess ran back upstairs; she had heard more than she wanted to know. Poor Robert, whatever would become of him? She was so thankful she hadn't told him that his father was too ill to work his own fields. What was the point in adding worry to his woes?
Within a couple of days Robert Barlow's fever abated, but the youth looked far from well when Lady Zouche summoned him and Bess to her sitting room. Though he was only fifteen, he had shot up like a gangly weed this past year and he towered above Bess's five feet, three inches.
Since Bess had heard the doctor advise Lady Zouche to get rid of Robert, she knew he was going to be sent home, and she braced herself to help her young friend through his dismissal.
Margaret Zouche did not get too close, and her face was set in a rigid mask of determination. “Master Barlow, I am thankful your fever has been cured, but Dr. Belgrave believes you should be home with your family in Derbyshire.” She withdrew a letter from her pocket. “I have written to your mother explaining to her that you are returning home. I will send you by my own coach, and I will ask Bess to accompany you.”
The look on Robert's face turned to relief; the look on Bess's face was pure astonishment. She realized she should have seen it coming, but she hadn't. Who else was there to nurse the semi-invalid and see that he arrived home alive? Bess saw that Lady Zouche was awaiting her compliance. One part of her selfishly wanted to refuse. When William Cavendish returned to London, Bess wanted to be here to welcome him. A glance at Robert Barlow's face melted her hard heart. “I will accompany Master Barlow, my lady.”
“Good, good. I've arranged for you to start out tomorrow. Bess will soon have your belongings packed up.” Lady Margaret dismissed him from her thoughts and turned to Bess. “It will give you a chance to visit with your family, but then you must come straight back to me. By that time Christmas will be only a month away, and you know the preparations that will entail.”
Bess smiled, relieved that Lady Zouche found her services indispensable. “Oh, indeed I do, Lady Margaret.”
Before she began packing, Bess dashed off a note to her family in Derbyshire, telling them she was accompanying Robert Barlow home because of his ill health. The post would arrive at least a day before she would, giving them notice of her impending arrival. Bess wanted to write to Cavendish, but she had no address for him. She knew that Lady Frances Grey would pass a letter to him but decided against it in case Lady Zouche found out she was writing to Cavendish and dismissed her. If luck was with her, Bess could be back in London by the time Rogue Cavendish returned from Dover. She smiled a secret smile and made a wish that absence would make his heart grow fonder.
The next morning, with their baggage tied on top of the carriage, Bess and Robert Barlow set off for Dunstable, the first stop on their journey to Derbyshire. Earlier she had filled a brass foot warmer with hot coals, which she now placed beneath Robert's feet, then tucked the lap robe about him.
It was slow going until London was left behind, but there were so many places of interest to see from the coach windows that time did not lag. Once they were in the countryside, Bess kept up a running conversation, and Robert was content to leave his book unread as he sat back listening to her and watching her with adoring eyes.
After an intense coughing spell, Bess felt his forehead to assure herself Robert was not fevered. He captured her hand and smiled at her, seemingly happy to be wrapped in the private cocoon of the coach with her. Then he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, clutching her hand possessively.
As he slept, Bess allowed her glance to roam over him. He was a beautiful youth, with the fine complexion of an English rose and a shock of thick, fair hair. A year ago, when Bess had arrived at the Zouches, he hadn't been any taller than she; now he was so tall and slim he towered over her.
Surely the doctor was wrong when he said Rob wouldn't make old bones, Bess thought with a frown. He'll recover, she reassured herself. His mother will nurse him back to health! But then she remembered Jane's letter telling her that Robert's father was too ill to work his land. Rob's mother, poor lady, was going to have her hands full.
The posting inn at Dunstable did not have rooms available next to each other, so Bess told the Zouche coachman to pay for only two. When he raised his eyebrows, Bess was affronted. “How the devil could you think such a thing?” she demanded. “Master Barlow has been so ill, I dare not leave him alone all night.” To Bess, Rob Barlow was a boy, while she was a woman full-grown.
They dined on lamb and barley stew with hot crusty bread, followed by a pear tart with clotted cream. She ordered that a fire be lighted in the room she and Rob would share but found she had to pay for it herself. While she doled out her carefully hoarded money, she paid for a tot of brandy at the same time. When Robert had eaten his fill, Bess bade him go up and get into bed. When she entered the chamber ten minutes later, carrying the brandy, she warmed it at the fire, poured a little into her palm, and she rubbed Rob's back and chest. Then she made him drink the rest.
“Thank you for nursing me so well, Bess. I'd rather be here with you tonight than anywhere else in the world,” he said worshipfully.
