Alessandra placed a firm hand over her wrist and said, ‘I will send for the doctor at once. Be of good heart, dearest. Perhaps it may be nothing.’ Her voice wavered as she said it, betraying her fear.
The doctor came two hours later, examined his patient gravely, bled her from the toe, and then drew Alessandra outside to speak to her. She looked at him in mute appeal, but he only shook his head.
‘It is as I feared’ he said.
‘Smallpox?’ she whispered. He nodded. ‘What can you do?’
‘Madam, there is no cure for smallpox. There is nothing I can do’
‘Then … she will…?’
‘Many die from smallpox. Many survive. It is impossible to tell at this stage whether the attack is light or serious. All that can be done is to keep her warm and quiet, try to get her to take some nourishment, and above all keep her isolated. You would be advised to leave the house as soon as possible, and fumigate the clothes you have been wearing in the sickroom.’
‘Leave?’ Alessandra said with a puzzled frown. ‘How can I leave?’
‘There is nothing that you or I can do,’ the doctor said. ‘She must be nursed, but that is no task for a lady. I can find you a professional nurse willing to take on a smallpox case, if you offer her enough money.’
Alessandra hesitated. ‘I should have to meet her, to see if she was suitable.’
The doctor’s smile was grim. ‘Madam, anyone who would take a smallpox case would not be the sort of woman you would wish to meet. Do you not understand that whoever nurses that sick woman in there will almost certainly catch the sickness herself?’
Alessandra drew herself up. ‘Give me your instructions. I shall nurse her myself.’
‘Madam, have I not made myself clear …’ the doctor began in expostulation, but Alessandra cut him short.
‘You have made yourself very plain,’ she said. ‘I cannot abandon that woman to a stranger’s hands. If nursing is the only thing that can help her, she shall have it from one who cares enough to do it well. Give me your instructions.’
‘No one owes such a debt,’ the doctor said, and then shrugged. ‘Well, I have warned you. I can do no more.’
When the doctor had gone, Alessandra went back into the bedchamber. Nicoletta turned her head on the pillow to look at her, and Alessandra saw that she already knew, that the task of breaking the terrible truth to her was unnecessary.
‘You will come through,’ Alessandra said, holding her gaze steadily. ‘You and I together will see to that. We won’t let you die.’
The rest of the household withdrew to the other end of the house, isolating the sickroom, and Alessandra prepared as if for a siege, with enough water and food for days, candles and firewood, ointments and dressings.
She tried to persuade Marie-Louise to leave the house entirely, but she refused. ‘As long as you are here and in danger, I will not go,’ she said. ‘Do you think I do not know what I owe to you, who have cared for me for so long, since my mother left?’ Alessandra thought of the doctor’s words, ‘No one owes such a debt’, but she could not insist when she herself would not leave Nicoletta. Rupert, however, did go away, to stay at Morland Place with Thomas, which he seemed not only willing, but eager to do. Alessandra made up suitable messages from him to his mother, but Nicoletta smiled sadly at them. She adored her son, but any illusions she had about him were entirely wilful.
On the fourth day of her illness the rash, which had spread from her face and hands over her entire body, changed its appearance, and any remaining hope that it was not smallpox quietly died. The pocks became raised up, and filled with a clear fluid, with a slight depression in the centre of each. Alessandra and Nicoletta regarded them with horror, and Nicoletta broke into a storm of weeping which lasted for almost half an hour. Alessandra comforted her as best she could, and when the tears were over, she tried to keep her occupied by reading with her and playing cards and chatting. It was in some ways the worst part of the illness for Nicoletta, for the fever was almost entirely gone, and she felt normal enough to be rational and therefore to have all a rational person’s fears and dreads.
On the sixth day the fever returned, and with it came another change in the nature of the rash. The pocks grew in size, and the fluid in them changed into yellow pus, and each was surrounded by a ring of inflamed and swollen skin. Nicoletta tossed irritably on her pillows, her eyes glazed with the fever, her tongue swollen, and as the inflammation grew worse it distorted her features. Alessandra could do nothing for her but to give her sips of water and try to keep her quiet, but as the fever increased and the irritation of the rash grew less bearable, it became difficult.
On the seventh day she was evidently very much worse, and a new complication revealed itself. The rash was not only on her skin, but also on the inside of her mouth and throat, and though Alessandra propped her up on a number of pillows, it was plain that she was finding it hard to breathe. After watching her for an hour, gasping for breath, tossing her head back and forth, and snatching with her hands at her swollen throat, her eyes squeezed almost closed by the inflammation of her face, Alessandra sent again in desperation for the doctor. But this time he did not come, sending instead a note which regretted that there was nothing he could do for the patient, and again recommending that Alessandra leave Nicoletta to the care of a professional nurse. When she read the note, Alessandra wept; having wept, she dried her eyes, rolled up her sleeves, and used her own wits. Since the doctor evidently despaired of Nicoletta’s life, it seemed to Alessandra that she would try to make her more comfortable. She let the fire die down, and opened the sickroom windows so that the fresh April air blew in. She tied back the bedcurtains, and stripped off most of the bedclothes, bathed Nicoletta carefully and put a clean bedgown on her, brushed her hair, and brewed up a herbal febrifuge from the recipe in Annunciata’s Household Book. All these things had the effect of quieting Nicoletta. She seemed to breathe more easily, and became less restless, as if the fever and irritation had declined; and so Alessandra felt she had been justified.
During the night she seemed to sleep, but on the next day, the eighth of her illness, Nicoletta grew worse again. It seemed that the blebs that covered the membranes of her mouth and throat were swelling to the extent that they were suffocating her. Alessandra sent again for the doctor, and while she waited, she sat beside Nicoletta, fanning her face in the vain effort to give her more air. Nicoletta lay propped up, her face turned towards the open window, her mouth open, dragging in painful, hoarse breath after painful, hoarse breath. Her eyes were open now only a slit, and though Alessandra could see the dark gleam of her eyes moving behind the swollen lids, she had no way of knowing if Nicoletta was conscious or recognized her.
The breaths grew more and more laboured, and Alessandra fanned more and more desperately. The moment finally came when Nicoletta’s hands went up, scrabbling feebly towards her face, her body heaved upwards in the vain effort to draw air into her tortured lungs through the suppurating throat, and she fell back onto her pillows. Her feet kicked once under the bedclothes, and then she lay still. In the silence Alessandra became suddenly aware of the birdsong outside and the maddeningly sweet smell of the spring air. The doctor had not come, had not, this time, even replied to the message. It must have been a quarter of an hour before Alessandra realized that she was still fanning Nicoletta’s swollen and deformed face.
It was several more days before anyone realized the smallpox had not been confined to Shawes, but had transferred itself to Morland Place. In the more confined and crowded spaces there, it wreaked more havoc. It revealed itself first of all in one of the servants, the boy who took care of Thomas’s clothes, and as soon as the rash made its appearance, Lady Mary went in hysterical fear to Jemmy, to demand that Rupert be send forthwith back to Shawes.
‘It is he that has brought this horrible sickness to our house,’ she cried. ‘You must send him away at once, before he infects us all.’
Jemmy tried to calm her. ‘I
t is possible, of course, that he has brought the sickness. But you know, we were all at Shawes for the ball – any one of us might have been the carrier.’
‘But that was weeks ago,’ Lady Mary said. It did not seem worth Jemmy’s while to explain to her that smallpox took time to reveal itself. ‘Besides.’ she went on, ‘the boy has been taking care of Rupert’s clothes as well as Thomas’s while he has been staying here, and it is plain enough that it was from those clothes he took the sickness. If you don’t send him away, I shall.’
‘Very well, Mary, but—’
Mary rounded on him furiously. ‘He has been sleeping in the same room, in the same bed as Thomas! Do you wish our son to catch this horrible disease?’
‘I will send him back to Shawes at once,’ Jenny said pacifically.
So Rupert went back to Shawes, and justified Mary’s outburst by immediately developing a rash. Alessandra, who so far had escaped the infection, nursed him, and this time did not consult the doctor at all, but used the methods she had used, towards the end, with Nicoletta, keeping him cool and giving him fresh air. The attack he had was a light one, and either because of that or because of Alessandra’s nursing, he recovered quickly and emerged barely marked.
But his removal from Morland Place did not save its occupants. Ten of the servants took the sickness, including the nursery maid who had been wet-nursing both of Augusta’s babies; and despite the removal of Rupert, first Thomas and then Harry fell sick. Jemmy did what he could to isolate the victims and sent away as many of the healthy people as he could. Mary at first declared that she would nurse her sons herself, weeping hysterically and cursing Lord Meldon and Nicoletta and, by association, Marie-Louise, swearing revenge if anything should happen to her boys. Jemmy restrained and calmed her, and forbade her to go into the sickroom. ‘You cannot help them, you who have a mother’s feelings – it would be too much for you.’
‘But I want to see my sons,’ she cried. ‘A mother’s care, a mother’s love shall heal them.’
‘Nursing is no task for a lady, particularly this sort of nursing,’ Jemmy said firmly. ‘You can help them best by staying away and remaining healthy. How could it help them for you to catch the sickness too? And how could that help me?’ She looked at him sourly, with a look that said she knew he had never cared for her or for her sons. He went on gently, ‘Let them find you healthy and unblemished when they recover, Mary dear. Let me arrange for you to go to Scarborough, away from this infected air, until they are well again.’
He knew what she thought of him, but it could not be helped. Jemmy had been to the sickroom, he had seen the boys and he knew she must not be allowed to see. Thomas had the type of the disease called confluent smallpox, a more severe form, in which the pocks were so numerous and close together that they ran into one another. His face and body were disfigured by huge, running, suppurating sores.
He had his way, for once exerting his right to command as Master, and sent Mary, with Rachel to attend her, to Scarborough along with Augusta. He also prevailed upon Marie-Louise to leave Shawes for a while, and pay a visit to Harrogate until the danger was past, and with a happy thought sent Allen along with her as escort. They all left on the morning of the day that Augusta’s babies died. After the flurry of the departure came the sad business of the deaths, and it was well past dinner time when Jemmy at last came down to the drawing room with the intention of sitting quietly for a moment and composing himself. To his astonishment he found his brother George, whom he had entirely forgotten in all the confusion, standing by the empty fireplace, waiting for him.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I thought you’d be down soon. Must be dinner time, or past.’
Jemmy only stared. He had sent away Mary and Augusta, Jemima was safe in Dorset, Robert and Rachel had made their escape at the first whiff of sickness, but he had quite forgotten George.
‘Dinner time?’ he said vaguely. George nodded.
‘Quite an appetite today. I’ve been out shooting at Wilstrop. Got a few birds for the larder. Make nice eating.’
‘Don’t you realize there’s sickness in the house? And you talk of dinner and birds for the larder?’ Jemmy said, amazed at his callousness.
‘Got to keep your strength up, or you’ll fall sick too,’ George said. Jemmy looked at him with distaste.
‘I think you’d better make arrangements to leave as well. You could go with Robert and Rachel, or to Scarborough with Mary, if you prefer.’
Now George looked surprised. ‘Leave?’ he said. He took a step closer and laid a meaty hand on Jemmy’s wrist. ‘I’m not leaving. Someone’s got to stay here with you, help you and so on. Can’t leave you here all alone. Come on now and get some dinner. Things always look worse when you’re hungry. The boys’ll be all right, you’ll see.’
Tears came to Jemmy’s eyes at the unexpected sympathy. ‘I didn’t even think you realized they were ill,’ he confessed. George did not look offended.
‘You give me a home here – do you think I’m not grateful? I know there’s not much I can do, but anything I can, you just say the word.’
Later, when Jemmy mentioned it to Father Andrews, the priest gave a wry smile.
‘If prayer can help the boys, they’ll certainly recover,’ he said. ‘Your brother has been spending two hours a day in the chapel on his knees – and with his figure, that takes some doing.’
Maurice was having an affair with Molly Estoyle – at least, officially. He drove with her in her carriage, dined with her publicly, shared her box at the theatre, supped alone with her, and frequently stayed the night. As far as society was concerned, he was her lover. As far as Maurice was concerned he had reached an age where sex was theoretical rather than physical, and he had in any case never been attracted to matronly charms, being a lover of child-madonnas.
Molly Estoyle was, however, an amusing companion, witty, well-educated, and flatteringly devoted to him, and he was perfectly happy to become one of her fabled century, especially when it became obvious that she was equally content with a communion of the minds only. Mere pride had compelled Maurice to consummate their relationship on the first few occasions, but when he desisted, she had not insisted. The daughter of a clergyman, she had been brought up in genteel poverty and had married a rich but uncultured merchant much her senior, who had let her have her own way and then died leaving her in possession of his fortune while she was still young enough to enjoy it. She revered society, fame, gentility, and especially nobility, and devoted her life to being associated with it. She must give the best dinners, mix with the best people, be talked about in the best circles. Anyone who was the current talk must appear at her table before anyone else’s; any man who was much admired must be reputed to be her lover. She was rich, charming and beautiful, and she had never yet failed, not even with George Handel who, though he would not become her lover, was happy enough to accept her patronage and her invitations to dinner.
She had wanted Maurice for his reputation before she ever saw him, for he was not only famous on his own account, but also for being the son of one of the most notorious women of the age, and he was also an Earl. Molly Estoyle had a proper respect for titles. When she saw him, however, she wanted him for himself, for Maurice had the looks and the charm of the Stuarts whose blood ran so interestingly in his veins. She was not, despite her reputation, a passionate woman – possession was what interested her – and since it was men she wished to possess, because men held the power in the world, and she was a woman, she used the most obvious means at her disposal to possess them. A man whom society knew to be her lover was hers in a way that no amount of mere friendship or patronage could ensure; but the sexual act did not interest her in itself, and provided the indecencies were observed, she was perfectly satisfied with the fact rather than the act.
So she and Maurice got along famously, especially as, now she did not need to entrap him, she behaved more naturally with him, and allowed her considerable intelligence to emerg
e from behind the battery of her physical charms. This morning, for instance, they had been awake and talking for more than an hour before her maid and her man brought in their breakfast to them in bed. While Maurice, resplendent in scarlet silk dressing gown and night cap, sat up lordlywise in bed, Molly wandered about the room in her drifting draperies of sky blue, that made her tumbled hair look redder and more glorious than ever, and amused him with the story of how she had tried to ensnare Handel.
‘Oh it was too ridiculous! There I was, doing everything a woman can do, to get him into my bed, and all the time he thought I wanted him to write me an opera! He did not in the least understand what I was about, and I was so stupid that I did not see for weeks that the way to ensnare him was to praise his music.’
‘George is a very devoted musician,’ Maurice said gravely. ‘He married his muse long ago, and he is a faithful lover. While I – I am a very different proposition.’
‘You certainly demanded different tactics,’ Molly said thoughtfully.
‘Oh, I am the merest sensualist,’ Maurice said lightly. ‘A child of this world, subject to all its vices and vanities. I make my way by writing music just as a cobbler makes his way by making shoes – it is my trade.’
Molly came across to the bed and sat on the edge, picking up one of Maurice’s hands, turning it over in hers and running her fingers over his palm.
‘What beautiful hands you have,’ she said softly. “Not a cobbler’s hands at all. Yes, you like to make-believe you are a simple, worldly man. I have seen you play-acting at my salons, and you convince a great many people—’
‘But not you?’ Maurice smiled.
‘I know you a little better than they, my dear Earl. What I do not know is why you do it? Why you are at such pains to make your talent seem ordinary?’
Maurice looked into her face for a moment, into the bright, rather protruberant green eyes, so full of considering intelligence, and said, ‘Perhaps for the same reason, my dear Molly, that you are at pains to seem like an ordinary woman.’
Dynasty 8: The Maiden: The Maiden (The Morland Dynasty) Page 20