A Murder at Rosamund's Gate - By Susanna Calkins Page 0,86
From beyond the door, Lucy heard Annie moan softly. For a long moment, Lucy and Cook looked at each other, complete understanding between them. They loved this household—there would be no sneaking out windows as Janey and other servants were doing, no doubt all over London. The magistrate deserved their loyalty and courage, even though Lucy wanted to run crying to her mother. Even the mistress, with all her vanity and silliness, was a good woman and deserved better.
“Right, sir,” Cook said briskly. “You can count on Lucy and me; we will take care of the mistress as if she were our own kin.”
Unexpectedly, the magistrate blinked and swallowed, looking quite overcome. For a moment, the three were quiet. Lucy wished she could embrace him, offer him some comfort in this terrible time. Annie’s soft moans called Lucy back to her bedside, and the magistrate returned to his wife’s chamber, to sit vigil by her side.
* * *
It was nearing seven o’clock when Lucy finally heard John and Adam rap at the kitchen door.
“It’s us!” John called. “We’ve got some chickens that need to be put up and wood. I do not want to leave them on the stoop.”
Lucy went to the crack in the door. “Nay, Master Adam, John. I cannot let you in.”
“Lucy, what nonsense are you speaking? Hurry, we have our hands full and still much to do,” Adam said.
Lucy shook her head fiercely at them, as though they could see her through the door. “No, I cannot! The mistress, she has come down with the plague. I dare not let you in. Cook and me, we will take care of her, but we are afraid that you and John could get the sickness. It would be best”—she paused, a catch in her voice—“if you go on to the Warwickshire estate without us.”
There was a short silence on the other side of the door. “My mother? She has the sickness?” Adam asked, his voice husky. “The … plague?”
“Yes,” Lucy replied, trying not to cry. “Your father has bid us to be quarantined. You are to paint a cross on the door, so the neighbors will know to stay away.”
On the other side of the door, she heard a muffled oath and some muttered discussion. “Wait, Lucy,” Adam called out. “Do not be rash. I will fetch the surgeon. He can confirm—”
“No, sir,” Lucy interrupted. “We’ve already had the surgeon. He told me and Cook some things to brew, but there’s little else we can do for the mistress or little Annie, except prayer. And posies.”
The sound of a fist hitting the heavy oak door made her jump. “Lucy, let me in!” Adam demanded. “John must stay away. He can get Sarah from my aunt’s and take her to Warwickshire. But Lucy, that is my mother in there. I should be with her.”
From beyond the door, she could hear John protesting. “And I should be with my sweet Mary, and little Annie and Lawrence.”
“No!” Cook said sharply, coming to stand behind Lucy at the door. Her hands were on her hips, and her face was stern.
“John, dear. Master Adam, sir,” Cook said, speaking as she might to small children. “It must be as the magistrate said. Lucy and I will tend the mistress and the others. Rest assured, sir, we will nurse them as we would our own family. If you were in here, you’d just take ill and be in our way.”
Lucy could almost laugh, if it were not so serious. Again a muffled discussion ensued beyond the door.
Then Adam called back. “We do not like it, but we accept my father’s wishes. We will bring you provisions, enough to make it through the next few days.”
A few days. Lucy shivered. The doctor had said the sickness would run its course in a few days. A sudden moment of terror overcame her. Would they survive? Would they be trapped? She wanted to scream for them to open the door, to not let the reaper come for them, but she remained silent.
Fiercely, she pushed the thoughts away. Knowing the men were just outside the door was making her weak. “You must go!” she cried. “Please!”
“Master Adam, sir,” Cook called back. “Do not forget. You must then nail our door shut and not return for three days.”
Again, silence. Whoever returned might find a grisly sight indeed in three days, if the plague did run its regular course. Lucy bit her lip. Someone coughed.