The Blackstone Chronicles - By John Saul Page 0,94
for her to dress for the evening.
Turning away from the window, she wafted back to the bed and stretched out once more, picking up the square of finest linen she’d been embroidering for several weeks now.
It was edged with lace, every stitch perfectly worked into a floral design so exquisitely wrought that she could almost smell the flowers’ scent. In one corner she was working a single initial, an ornate R to signify the rank of the handkerchiefs eventual recipient. Regina.
The queen would be pleased with her gift, and perhaps even summon her to court—a most pleasurable diversion, inasmuch as it had been months since she’d been away from her own country seat.
Spreading the handkerchief on her lap, she set about the final embroidery. Surrounding the R was another intricate pattern of flowers, these woven into the linen in the finest and palest of silk thread, lending the handkerchief a faint aura of color that was almost more illusion than reality. The stitching was so delicate that it seemed to emerge from the weave itself, and each side was as perfect as the other. Even the monogram had been mirrored so the handkerchief had no wrong side.
An hour later, as she worked the last thread into the design, then snipped its end away so deftly that it instantly disappeared into the pattern, she heard a sharp rap at the door, announcing the arrival of her maid. Setting the handkerchief aside, she drew her robe more tightly around her throat. “You may come in,” she announced.
The door opened and the servant appeared, bearing a silver tray upon which she could see a plate covered by an ornately engraved silver dome.
An afternoon repast.
Which meant that tonight would be the fancy-dress ball. She must begin thinking about a costume.
“What have you brought me, Marie?” the woman asked. “A pâté perhaps? Some caviar?”
The nurse’s hands tightened on the metal tray.
Pâté?
Caviar?
Not likely.
And not that it mattered either. Even if she’d brought half a pound of pâté de foie gras or a whole can of Beluga caviar, it wouldn’t be good enough for this one! She hadn’t eaten anything at all for a week. And how many times had she told the woman her name was Clara, not Marie? “It’s spaghetti,” she said as she bent at the waist, intending to set the tray down on the woman’s lap. “With some nice salad with oranges, and a roll.”
“Be careful!” the woman ordered, her voice sharp. “This robe was handmade for me, and if you stain it—”
“I know.” The nurse sighed, straightening again, the tray still in her hands. “I’ll be dismissed.” She eyed the rough terry-cloth robe the patient wore over her flannel nightgown, and wondered just what material the woman’s delusions had created. Silk? Ermine? Who knew? Or cared? “And if you spill it all over yourself, don’t try to blame me. It won’t be anybody’s fault but your own.”
The patient drew herself up, her eyes narrowing into slits of anger. “I will not be spoken to like—”
“You’ll be spoken to any way I want,” the nurse interrupted. “And if you’re smart, you’ll eat this.”
Finally setting the metal tray on the patient’s lap, she lifted the cover off the plate.
The silver dome lifted to reveal a tangle of worms writhing in a pool of blood, and a rat, its red eyes glaring balefully up at her. As she hurled the silver tray off her lap and flung it aside, the rat leaped away to scuttle across the floor, and the blood and worms cascaded down Marie’s uniform. Feeling no sympathy at all for the servant who had subjected her to such torture, the woman reached out to slap the hapless girl, but to her utter astonishment, the maid caught her wrist, immobilizing it in a grip so strong the woman was suddenly terrified her bones might break.
“How dare—” she began, but the maid cut in without letting her finish.
“Don’t ‘how dare’ me, Miss High-and-Mighty! I’ve had just about enough of your acting like I’m your servant. Look what you’ve done to my uniform! How would you like it if these were your clothes?”
Rendered speechless by the impertinence, the woman watched as the maid dropped her wrist, then reached out and snatched up the handkerchief she’d finished embroidering only a few minutes ago. As the woman looked on in horror from her bed, the servant pressed the fine linen square to her chest, using it to soak up the blood on her uniform.