Virginia Henley (59 page)

At his touch, she opened her eyes, and then her lashes fell as if they were too heavy.

“Catherine. Do you know me?” he murmured.

Her mouth opened. “Th ... thirsty.”

“Thank God!” His gaze swept the chamber, searching for a suitable drink. He had the wine with rue, but that herb was exceedingly bitter. There was still some angelica tisane, but that was to reduce fever and her body already seemed too cold. He reached for the ale he had been drinking yesterday, raised her head and held the tankard to her lips.

Cat drank thirstily, but the effort exhausted her strength.

He sat down on the bed and took her hand. “Catherine, you have survived the plague. Do you understand? You’re going to recover. All you need now is food and rest.” It wrung his heart to see how fragile she looked with the violet smudges beneath her eyes. “Try to sleep, and I’ll be back with some nourishment soon.”

Patrick bundled up the soiled sheets and towels and dropped them from the window so that he could burn them. He hurried downstairs to let the others know that Catherine had survived the nightmare. “I don’t think she’s infectious, but I’ll do the nursing myself for the next few days. Try and think of something that will tempt her appetite.”

“You haven’t slept in days, my lord,” Mr. Burke reminded him.

“I’m suddenly energized and hungry as a wolf. I’ll be back soon.” He went outside and set fire to the soiled linen. When the pile was reduced to ashes he strode down to the river Lea, breathing in the cool fresh air. He undressed and took a brisk swim, symbolically washing away his sins. When he emerged, it seemed that the cold water had cleansed his body and spirit at the same time.

For the next few days, Patrick spent every moment focused on making Catherine well. At first he fed her chamomile tea, barley broth, calf’s-foot jelly and lots of honey to give her energy and satisfy her sweet tooth. Then she graduated to chicken, fish and fruit, and then finally she was able to eat small portions of bread and meat. He mixed up a soothing ointment by crushing calamint leaves into a wax honeycomb and spread it over the nasty wound in her armpit. When he tended it on the third day, he saw that it was almost healed. “I’m afraid you’ll have a scar.”

Catherine’s eyes flooded, and he sat down on the bed and kissed her teardrops away. “Don’t cry, love.”

“I failed Maggie,” she whispered. “I let her die.” She pressed her face into his chest and began to sob.

“No, no,” he soothed, “you did everything in your power to save her, Catherine. You loved her—you risked your life for her and almost lost it—none of us can do more than that.” He hesitated, then lifted her chin with his fingers and looked into her eyes. “Maggie came to me in a vision and told me you needed my help.”

Catherine nodded sadly. “She talks to me too.”

Patrick knew his wife was much better, but she looked so fragile he was almost afraid to touch her. She was still deathly pale, with violet smudges beneath her eyes, and though her hair was a dull, disheveled tangle that diminished the exquisite, elegant beauty that usually shone from her, Patrick thought her the loveliest sight he’d ever seen.

Gingerly, she explored beneath her arm. “Is it ugly?”

“Nothing about you could ever be ugly, Catherine.”

“Would you bring me my hand mirror?” she asked softly.

“Mirror?” Patrick began to panic. He could not let her see herself—she would be devastated. He went over to her dressing table, made a pretense of searching and shoved the hand mirror behind her jewel case. “I can’t find it—it’s not here.” He saw her pull the bedcovers aside and quickly returned to her. “Oh, no, you cannot get out of bed today, Cat.” His thoughts chased each other like quicksilver. “Tomorrow. I’ll find you something pretty to wear, and tomorrow you can get up and look at yourself in the big mirror.” He watched her sink back against her pillows and knew he’d postponed the reckoning for only one day. The feeling of panic remained.
When she sees herself, she will be horrified.

After supper he sat and read to her from
Julius Caesar.
He knew some passages by heart. Finally, her lashes lowered and he thought she was asleep. He closed the book and set it aside.

“You look so haggard, Patrick. Come and lie beside me.”

Hepburn felt extremely reluctant, wondering how he could lie beside her and not touch her. Yet how could he demur and not hurt her? He removed his boots and stretched out on top of the covers.

Catherine’s fingers sought his and he enfolded her small hand in his. He heard her sigh deeply before she drifted into slumber.

He lay in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, knowing sleep would elude him while he was this close to his heart’s desire. “I love you more than life, Catherine.”

In the darkness, he did not see the smile that curved her lips.

Early next morning, Patrick slipped from the bed noiselessly and went downstairs to fix her a breakfast tray. From the garden he plucked her some apricots and picked her some roses. He had a plan, but knew he needed all the help he could get.

Cook gave him a lace tray cloth, and he set the roses in a small vase and the fruit on a delicate porcelain dish. She cut the freshly baked bread into small fingers and handed him a pot of honey. He poured a goblet of mead and took the tray upstairs.

He was relieved when he saw that though Cat was awake, she was still abed. Her face lit up when she saw the flowers. “Today we are celebrating your recovery.”

Patrick plumped up her pillows, set the tray before her and took delight in watching her. Before she started to eat, she smelled the roses. Her appetite was so small, her movements so delicate, her sips of mead so minute, he was held in thrall.

“Next on the agenda is milady’s bath.” He carried the tub from the corner and Mr. Burke brought two buckets of water. Patrick took them from him at the door and half filled the slipper bath. He lifted her into the tub and pretended that he did not notice her blush. She was so thin he felt alarm, but he hid his concern.

She picked up the sponge. “I can do it myself.”

Relief rushed over him. His hands were so rough and calloused he feared scratching her fragile skin. “I’ll get you a bed robe.” He went to the wardrobe and chose one he hoped would give her some needed color. “Here’s a pretty pink one.”

Catherine giggled. “That’s not pink; it’s peach.”

He looked at her blankly. “Peach is a color?”

“Yes, a lovely color, the same as the roses you brought me.”

He shook his head at the mysteries of the female mind. How the devil he was going to accomplish the next part, he hadn’t the faintest notion, but he was determined to try. He wrapped her in a towel, gently patted her dry, sat her on the edge of the bed, and then helped her put on the
peach
bed gown. “Don’t move.”

Nervous, and feeling like a bull in a boudoir, he went to her dressing table and looked down uncertainly at the items upon it.

He picked up her brush, which was the smallest one he’d ever seen, and its matching comb. Then he scooped up a handful of hairpins. He cursed the clumsiness of his fingers as he dropped a couple and had to carefully retrieve them.
Send me divine help,
he prayed.

Tentatively, Patrick lifted a tress of her dark hair and began to gently brush it. Then he lifted another and repeated the motion. He did it over and over until some of the dullness began to disappear.
Now comes the hard part, Hepburn.
He looked down, appalled at his large clumsy hands with their thick fingers.
Hard? It’s bloody impossible!

Doggedly, he rolled a curl around his finger and pinned it to her head. He knew he was inept, and it took all his willpower to keep his hands from trembling like leaves in a gale. Patrick wanted with all his heart to make her hair look as elegant as he had always seen it. Catherine took such deep pride in her lovely black hair. It had truly been her crowning glory.

Some of the curls unraveled, but painstakingly he did them over again, holding the tiny hairpins in his mouth, until at last he had used them all. Even to his undiscerning eye, the hairdo looked somehow askew. Then he remembered the roses. He took them from the vase and, handling them with the greatest care so he wouldn’t crush their delicate petals, pinned them into her curls.

Patrick swallowed hard and, taking her hand, led her to the dressing table and sat her down before the mirror.

Cat almost gasped with shocked dismay when she saw her sallow skin, thin cheeks, and huge dark smudges beneath her eyes, but she caught a glimpse of Patrick’s anxious face in the mirror and then she looked at her hair. What he had done was amazing; the effect was bizarre in a beautiful sort of way. Her throat tightened as she realized he had done his utmost to make her appear more attractive before she looked at herself in the mirror. Her heart melted. What he had done this morning proved that her husband loved her! “I love you, Patrick,” she whispered softly.

Hepburn flushed. “What you feel is gratitude. Because I saved your life, you believe you owe me love, but you do not, Catherine.”

She shook her head at the mysteries of the male mind. “Come,” he said briskly, “let’s show you off downstairs.” He picked her up to carry her down. “You are insubstantial as thistledown. You must eat more, Catherine.” He set her down at the bottom of the stairs and allowed her to walk to the kitchens.

When Cook bobbed a curtsy, Cat chided her. “Please don’t do that. It is I who must thank you for staying at Spencer Park and risking your health.”

“You are a sight for sore eyes, Lady Stewart.” Mr. Burke held a chair so she could sit down.

“Dear Mr. Burke, how will we ever repay you for your selfless devotion? What you did for Maggie was beyond the call of duty.”

“You both have my eternal thanks also,” Patrick said sincerely. “I’ll go and check on the horses. See if you can tempt her to eat something while I’m gone.”

During the week that followed, Catherine gained strength and vitality and her face lost its wan look of fragility. At night Patrick lay beside her on top of the covers until she slept, then he quit the bed, keeping a safe distance between them, as he prowled about like a caged animal for most of the night.

During these long hours he could not stop thinking of the vow he had made.
I will go and leave her in peace if you will show mercy to Catherine.
Last night he had found it almost impossible to leave her in peace. A dozen times he’d had to stop himself from gathering her in his arms and kissing her senseless.

Maggie’s words haunted him too.
Ye have the power, Hepburn. Use it! But this time ask naught in return!
The words kept repeating in his brain,
ask naught in return ... ask naught in return.
Finally, Patrick knew what he must do. He had no idea if he could be truly selfless, but he knew he must try.

Taking pen and paper, he wrote out his confession to Catherine and gave back all he had gained from their marriage. He put the letter in an envelope, and before he sealed it, he put her wedding ring inside. He laid it on the bedside table and looked down at his sleeping wife.
God keep you safe, my little Hellicate.

C
atherine awoke, turned her head on the pillow and smiled. Patrick was such an early riser; he was never there when she opened her eyes. She stretched and sighed happily, guessing that he wouldn’t be far away.

Cat got out of bed and went to the window. She didn’t see him, but a frisson of joy went through her as she saw David Hepburn had returned from Windsor. She dressed quickly, brushed and tied back her hair with a ribbon and went to the stairs. Until today, Patrick had always carried her down, making sure she didn’t overexert herself. Today she would do it alone. She grasped the oak banister firmly and slowly descended the steps.

Catherine went outside to greet the young Scot. “David, I am so relieved to see that you are well. I’ve been extremely worried about my mother. Have you any news of her?”

“My lady, Windsor Castle completely escaped the dreaded contagion. It was a miracle, really. London and a lot of the towns were not so lucky, I’m afraid. Your mother and Lady Carey are both well, but they have been worried about you. I promised to send them a message to let them know how you are faring.”

“Maggie and I were not as fortunate. We both caught the plague. Maggie died, but Patrick nursed me and saved my life.”

“I’m so sorry for yer loss, my lady. It’s miraculous to survive the plague. I’m thankful his lordship returned.”

“So am I, David. You must be starving; come and have breakfast. Since the weather has turned cool, the contagion seems to have left these parts. Mr. Burke sent all the staff home to protect them, but they are gradually returning.”

“Aye, I think the epidemic has started to abate everywhere.”

Cat accompanied David to the kitchens. “I haven’t seen my husband this morning. Does anyone know where he is?”

David quaffed some ale and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Valiant wasn’t in the stables.”

“He must be visiting the tenant farms. Until now we’ve all been in isolation.”

Cook was in her glory, frying eggs and gammon for the ravenous young Scot, but when she put the huge platter before him, Catherine suddenly turned pale, stood up and excused herself.

She climbed the stairs slowly, hoping her nausea wouldn’t erupt to befoul the steps. She had thought the debilitating symptoms of plague were behind her, and her happiness fled. As she reached her chamber, Cat thought she heard Maggie’s voice.
It’s the bairn!

She went over to the window, breathed deeply and was relieved when the sick feeling passed. “I wonder if Maggie was right. Can it be possible that I am carrying a baby?” She thought about the last time she and Patrick had made love and began to count. “It was the beginning of May when Queen Anne visited. Tomorrow is the first day of September.” She looked down at her slim form dubiously. “I can’t possibly be four months gone with child.”