Virginia Henley (57 page)

He drew strength from his surroundings. The place was so sheltered and ancient, so peaceful and untouched by man, with its massive oaks and abundant wildlife, that he became tranquil enough to rest for a few hours. He knew that he had covered more than half the distance, but it had taken him two days. Patrick vowed to finish his journey in less than that.

He sat with his back against the bole of a tree and tried to envision where Catherine was. He felt certain that she had gone to Court for the coronation, but he recoiled from the thought that she was still in London. With the heat and the city’s overcrowded slums, the plague would be running a rampage.

Hepburn removed his leopard ring that Catherine had worn and, holding it between thumb and forefinger, focused the powers of his mind. “Come to me, Cat, come to me.” When she did not respond, he knew that he had failed to reach her spirit. His trancelike state produced other visions, however, that were disturbing. He saw Mr. Burke holding a spade. He also saw a river and prayed it was the Lea and not the river Styx. Hepburn probed no farther for fear of what he would learn. “I shall go to Hertford.”

Catherine held Maggie’s hand long after she had stopped breathing. She sat motionless, not wanting to let go, not daring to move or think or feel. She had lost all sense of time. Mr. Burke’s knock on the door roused her from her trance.

Cat gently laid the hand she held on Maggie’s breast. She stood up slowly, vaguely aware that her back ached from bending over her patient. She moved to the door and, without opening it, said quietly, “Maggie has left me, Mr. Burke.”

“Thank God her suffering is over. Her corpse is contagious, my lady. She must be buried with all haste. If you will choose her resting place, I will dig the grave immediately.”

Cat’s hand went to her throat. “Thank you, Mr. Burke. I will wash her body and ready it for burial.”

“I will have Cook heat water for your own bath, my lady. You must change your clothes after you have seen to Maggie.”

Catherine went through the motions, tenderly washing her old nurse and dressing her in a pristine cotton night rail that Maggie had sewn with her own hands. The swelling in her groin had gone down, but the blackness had spread out across her belly and down her leg, as if it had poisoned her from within. Catherine brushed Maggie’s gray hair back into a neat bun, then crossed her arms upon her breast.
Her body has already begun to stiffen.

As a single tear slid down her cheek, she opened the door and went up to her own chamber. After she bathed, she opened her trunk and lifted out a black dress. Cat rejected it immediately.
Maggie doesn’t like me in black!
Instead, she put on the white silk gown that she had worn for the coronation. As she began to brush her hair, she became aware of a searing headache that almost blinded her. She set the brush down, unable to fashion her tresses into an elegant style.
I must go to the library and find a prayer book. I will have to say the burial service.

The only groom who’d remained to look after the stables fashioned a rough coffin, and he and Mr. Burke carried it to the orchard and lowered Maggie’s body into the freshly dug grave. Catherine’s fingers trembled as she took a handful of earth and sprinkled it onto Maggie’s coffin. She opened the prayer book and said in a clear voice, “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me shall never die.” Her voice broke on a sob and it took her a minute to collect herself. Her head was pounding, and inside, her ears were screaming and the lump in her throat nigh choked her.

Catherine took a deep, quivering breath and forced herself to continue. “Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear Maggie here departed; we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ—”

The prayer book slipped from her nerveless fingers and Cat, sucked into a swirling vortex, collapsed in a small heap.

The blood drained from Mr. Burke’s face as he bent to pick her up. “I hope she has only fainted. I pray she hasn’t caught—” He was too superstitious to utter the dreaded word in connection with Catherine.

Cook met him at the front door. “I’ve burned the sheets that Maggie lay on and put fresh linen on the bed. My lady is exhausted from tending her serving woman. She isn’t sick!”

Mr. Burke laid his mistress on the clean bed in the nursery, and when she opened her eyes, he offered a prayer of thanks. “You fainted. Is there anything I can get you, Lady Catherine?”

She put her hand to her head and tried to rub away the pain. “I’m so thirsty, Mr. Burke. Would you get me some water?”

He ushered Cook from the room back to her kitchen domain. “I will tend her. I know you believe that this contagion only affects servants, but it is better to proceed with caution. I’ll take her some cold well water.”

Cat drank thirstily. “The shock of losing Maggie and burying her has left me feeling tired and listless, Mr. Burke. But I would rather sit in a chair than lie in bed.” When she stood up, Cat felt dizzy and somewhat disoriented. She gratefully sank down into the chair and reached for more water.

Catherine closed her eyes and slept. A few hours later, she was awakened by Mr. Burke when he brought her supper.

“Cook has prepared you some broth and a small breast of grouse. You need the nourishment to regain your strength, my lady.”

Catherine lifted her hand to her flushed warm cheek. “I cannot eat.” She tried to smile. “Dear Mr. Burke, you need not pretend. We both know that I have contracted the plague.”

Hepburn jolted awake. He had been dreaming of Maggie. She had prodded his shoulder.
Lord Stewart, my wee Catherine needs ye!
He rubbed his eyes and got to his feet. Dawn was just breaking, so he knew he had slept for about two hours. Renewed energy coursed through him as he realized that if he rode hard, he could reach Spencer Park before dark.

He saddled the mare, reserving Valiant for later in the day, knowing he could count on the powerful black’s speed and energy to get him to Hertford before dark. Patrick rode from the grounds of Thorney Abbey and headed toward Huntingdon.

He changed horses at Bassingbourn, and Valiant’s hooves seemed to fly over the sunbaked ground, swallowing the miles like a rapacious beast. The sun had just begun its descent as he skirted the town of Hertford, and Hepburn rejoiced that he would reach Spencer Park before twilight.

At the stables there was only one groom in attendance. He had no trouble recognizing the new master even though he was garbed in rough leathers and sported a four-day beard. He took the reins of the lathered horses and blurted, “Lord Stewart, we have
plague
!”

Hepburn nodded grimly, his heart constricting at the dreaded words. “See to my horses; there’s a good man.” As he left the stables his dark glance swept about the property. The courtyard and the gardens had a neglected look, and the house seemed deserted, as if the servants had fled.

He went inside quietly and found no staff on duty. He smelled food and went straight to the kitchens. His abrupt entrance made Cook drop her soup ladle. “I’m home,” he announced shortly. She poured him a mug of ale and he took it gratefully. “Where is Mr. Burke?” He drained the tankard and set it down.

Cook was afraid to impart bad news to the dark and powerful wild-looking Scot who towered before her. She pointed her finger and murmured hoarsely, “He’s in the nursery, my lord.”

Patrick walked a direct path to the east wing and opened the nursery door.

Cat roused from her warm, lethargic torpor and saw the dark figure that filled the doorway.
It’s Death! He has come for me.

“Catherine.”

The voice rolled the
r
and she recognized Hepburn instantly. “No! Go away, go away! Don’t come near me!”

He thought he had given her a permanent disgust of him, but her rejection didn’t stop him. He strode to her chair and only then did he see Mr. Burke in the shadowed room. “Get me some light.” He put his hand to Cat’s forehead and found it hot.

She recoiled. “Don’t touch me, Patrick, I’ll infect you!”

His heart did a somersault.
Does she not want me to touch her because she’s worried for me?
He took the candleholder from Mr. Burke and the light flooded over her face. He masked his horror when he saw that she was flushed a dark pink and her golden eyes glittered feverishly. “How long has she been sick?”

“She collapsed today—when we were burying Maggie.”

“Maggie’s dead? From plague?” he demanded.

“Lady Catherine nursed her. I hope and pray she is only suffering from exhaustion, and that Maggie hasn’t infected her.”

“I will infect you, Patrick,” Cat said.

He gave the candles back to Burke and swept Cat up into his arms. “I’m taking her upstairs. I’ll need tepid water for a bath. Tell Cook to pick some angelica and brew a tisane.”

Hepburn looked down at the delicate female in the lovely white silk gown. “Sorry I stink of sweat and horse, Catherine.”

She closed her eyes. He was too big, too dominant to fight, and she had no strength left.

He laid her on her own bed and carried in the slipper bath from the bathing room. Then he lit all the candles he could find. By this time Mr. Burke had brought up two buckets of water. Patrick took them from him and cautioned him not to come into the chamber. Burke went downstairs to get more water and made sure that Cook had picked the angelica herb.

Patrick half filled the bathing tub and removed Catherine’s white silk gown and her fine lawn undergarments. He was not a gentle man, but he tried to handle her carefully. He had forgotten how physically small and delicate she was and he could see that she had lost weight since the night he’d left Spencer Park. Guilt washed over him. It was an emotion he had seldom experienced. He examined her groin and her armpits, feeling for any sign of a bubo, and grunted with satisfaction when he found none.

As he lifted her and placed her in the tepid water, Cat whimpered, and he wished that his big hands were less calloused and clumsy. Patrick, with more patience than he had ever expended before, sponged her body over and over in a determined effort to bring down her fever.

Mr. Burke knocked on the door. “I have the tisane, my lord.”

“Thank you. Leave it outside the door.”

When he heard Burke’s footsteps retreat, he opened the door and carried the jug and goblet to the bedside table. Patrick stood Cat on her feet, wrapped her in a big towel and sat down on the bed, holding her in his lap. He poured some of the tisane into the goblet and held it to her lips.

Cat turned her head away and said thickly, “No ... I cannot.”

“The choice is not yours; it is mine. You will drink.”

When she looked up at him and opened her lips to refuse, he tipped the herbal tisane into her mouth. She choked a bit but some of it went down. Cat tried to push away the goblet, and he saw that she was not wearing her wedding ring. “Again ... drink.”

He hardened himself to her suffering, knowing that she would get a lot worse. “I must be cruel to be kind, Hellcat. Drink!”

Wearily, she closed her eyes and opened her lips, yielding to his command because she had no power to resist.

It took the better part of an hour before the goblet was drained. Though she felt no cooler to the touch, at least she was no hotter. He laid her down upon the bed. “Rest now, sweeting.” Patrick never took his eyes from her until she drifted asleep.

Mr. Burke brought him food and left it at the door along with more water. Hepburn wolfed down the cold beef, the chunk of homemade cheese, a loaf of crusty bread and a pot of ale. Then he took the bucket of water into the adjoining chamber, stripped off his soiled leathers, washed the sweat from his body, then shaved. He opened the wardrobe and reached for the clean doublet.
I wore this on my wedding day. Why in the name of God did I not tell her that I loved her? Christ Almighty, I still haven’t
’t
told her!

He dressed quickly and returned to Catherine. Her face was extremely flushed from fever, but she still slept. Hepburn stretched his long length on the floor beside his wife.

Patrick roused a few hours later when Cat became restless and began to toss about. He poured more tisane into the goblet, unwrapped the towel from her body and lowered her into the water. Her eyes flew open and she cried out at the indignity of being immersed in cold water, but her protests were in vain.

With the big sponge, Patrick repeated the ablutions, then took her onto his lap and by fair means and foul, made her swallow the concoction. When she had drunk most of it, she was exhausted, and he held her in his arms, rocking her and willing his strength into her body. He wanted to whisper that he loved her, but resisted.
Now is not the time for soft love words. It’s a time for strong words to make her fight.
“Back to bed, Hellcat, and don’t snore!”

It was almost morning, and while she dozed he unpacked her trunks and hung her lovely clothes in the wardrobe. He moved the slipper bath out of the way to a corner of the room, then left and went to the head of the stairs. “Burke!”

When Mr. Burke came to the foot of the stairs, Patrick signaled for him to remain where he was. “Tell me what has happened here.”

“A fortnight ago, one of the maids came down with the plague. Her family came for her, but the lass died. I sent the rest of the staff home, except for Cook, who has previously survived an epidemic. I sent messages to all the tenant farms to isolate themselves from us and from one another.”

“Good man.” Patrick nodded. “Where is David Hepburn?”

“On his last trip to Whitehall before the coronation, he was told to take the next shipment of beef and cheese to Windsor, where the royal children had been sent. He hasn’t returned. When Maggie fell ill, Lady Stewart fled London and brought her here with the aid of Lady Arbella’s coach driver. For more than four days my lady insisted on nursing her serving woman alone. Maggie died yesterday and we buried her immediately in the orchard.”