A Murder at Rosamund's Gate - By Susanna Calkins Page 0,82

beautiful and free and as far removed from earthly desires and hatreds as Lucy could ever wish to be. She did not realize that tears were slipping down her cheeks until she felt a handkerchief pressed into her hand. Gratefully, she looked at Adam, but he was frowning, watching a distant figure stumble toward them.

“What’s this?” John asked.

Lucy squinted. It was a woman, running, clutching her skirts. Something was clearly amiss. The woman puffed heavily toward them where they stood on the hill, her gray hair falling messily from her cap. Judging from her dress, she was probably a merchant’s wife. The hill proved overmuch for her, and with a hand to her chest, she staggered a bit before falling to her knees.

Instantly, their small group was on their feet, racing toward her.

Adam, a half step behind, called to the woman, his voice imperious. “Woman! What is wrong?”

“Can we help?” Lucy asked at the same time.

The woman tried to catch her breath. “It’s happened,” she said, panting heavily. The others waited impatiently. She seemed unable to speak, her eyes deeply distressed.

“What? What’s happened?” Will asked, shifting his feet.

The woman threw up her hands. Her next words chilled Lucy to her very bones. “The plague,” she said helplessly. “It’s reached the west side.”

18

Lucy’s brief moment of happiness was cut short, a terrible sense of dread muddling her senses. Everyone knew that the last time the plague hit the city, thousands had died. There had also been Flanders and Paris.

“John,” Adam said, “you must escort Lucy home. I must go to the courts to see Father home safely. Will, you can come—”

“Will,” Lucy interrupted, “must go home, to mother and Dorrie.” She turned to her brother. “Promise me. I’ve got the protection of the magistrate and John, but they need you.”

“Mother, who did not even come to the trial,” Will said, kicking a clump of dirt.

Lucy embraced him, pecking his cheek. “Please,” she whispered, helping him swing his pack over his narrow shoulders. “You must give her the chance to make amends for the wrong she has done you.”

She watched her brother for a moment as he briskly walked off. No one would ever have known that he had been almost condemned to hang a few hours before or, seeing his jaunty step, that the world might be coming to an end. Will I ever see him again? She said a little prayer for him.

Turning back to Adam and John, she found Adam’s gaze on her. He looked away. “Well, I’ll be off,” he said. “I’ll see you back at the house. Take care.”

* * *

Indeed, their hurried journey home, no more than two miles, was strange. Just as the magistrate had foretold, all of London began to panic as the threat of plague, long hanging over their heads, finally became reality. Everywhere, people were running, crying, despairing—everyone trying to figure out what to do, where to go. Doomsayers and prophets wandered the streets, predicting God’s wrath.

“London, you are Nineveh before the great flood!” one man shouted, his hair matted with sweat. “Sinners all! Heed me as you would Jonah, lest the Almighty smite you down!”

Catching Lucy’s eye as they stumbled by, another woman tugged at her sleeve. “You’re going to hell, you know,” she said, almost pleasantly. “Unless you turn your ways.”

Church bells began to toll, some deep, others bright, but all strangely mournful, their cacophony heightening everyone’s unease. The fog seemed uncertain, too, at times cloaking the city’s misery, at other times lifting like a curtain to reveal life in all its sordid frenzy.

Finally, John and Lucy reached the Hargraves’ house, where a flustered Cook greeted them at the door. A short while later, Adam returned from the Inns of Court with the magistrate.

Within moments of their arrival, Master Hargrave convened the household in the drawing room. His grave voice bespoke the seriousness of the situation. “We will pack what we can into the carriage, mostly provisions and clothing. Adam and John, you must get another horse and a cart. In the morning, we will journey together to our family estate in Warwickshire.” To his wife he added, “Thankfully, Sarah is still with her aunt in Shropshire.”

Cook and Lucy started to prepare for the long journey with heavy hearts, cooking, packing clothing and victuals, and tying dried herbs into bundles. The mistress disappeared to her room to put a few things together. Master Hargrave set aside his copy of Gadbury’s Alogical Predictions and his almanacs and began to shutter the