Forever Amber by Kathleen Winsor

Barbara looked at Frances who, feeling her eyes shift to her, suddenly straightened and raised her head—meeting her glance with cold hostility. Suddenly Barbara slammed her fan to the floor.

  "I will not! I'll go to Richmond and be damned to you!"

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Amber went back into the kitchen and continued getting Bruce's meal. She wanted to do as much as she could for him, while she was still able to do anything at all. For by tomorrow she would be helpless and a new nurse would be there—someone perhaps much worse than Spong had been. She was more worried about him than about herself. He was still weak and in need of competent care, and the thought of a stranger coming in, someone who would not know him or care what happened to him, filled her with desperation. If she'd only come in time, she thought, maybe I could bribe her.

  Once the first horror of discovery was gone she accepted with resignation and almost with apathy the fact that she was sick. She did not, actually, expect to die. If one person fell ill of the plague in a house and lived, it was thought a good omen for all others in that same house. (Spong's death she ignored and had almost forgotten; it seemed to have occurred in some distant past unconnected with either her or Bruce.) But apart from superstition she had strong faith in her own temporary immortality. She wanted so much to go on living, it was impossible for her to believe that she could die now, so young and with all her hopes still to be realized.

  She had the same symptoms Bruce had had, but they came in swifter succession.

  By the time she started into the bedroom with the tray her head was aching violently, as though a tight steel band had been bound about her temples and was drawing steadily tighter. She was sweating and there were stabbing pains throughout her stomach and along her legs and arms. Her throat was as dry as if she had swallowed dust, but though she drank several dipperfuls of water it did no good. The thirst increased.

  Bruce was awake, sitting propped up as he could often do now, and though there was a book in his hands he was watching the door anxiously. "You've been gone so long, Amber. Is anything wrong?"

  She did not look at him but kept her eyes on the tray. Dizziness swept over her in waves, and when it came she had a weird sensation of standing in the midst of a whirling sphere; she could not tell where the floors or walls were. Now she paused for a moment, trying to orient herself and then, setting her teeth, she came determinedly forward.

  "Nothing's wrong," she repeated, but even to her her voice had a strange fuzzy sound. She hoped that he would not notice.

  Slowly, for she felt very tired and her muscles seemed heavy, she set the tray on the bedside table and reached down to pick up the bowlful of syllabub. She saw his hand reach out and close over her wrist and when at last she forced her eyes to lift and meet his, she found on his face the look of self-condemning horror she had been dreading.

  "Amber—" He continued to stare at her for a moment, his green eyes narrowed, searching. "You're not—sick?" The words came out with slow forced reluctance.

  She gave a little sigh. "Yes, Bruce. I am—I guess I am. But don't—"

  "Don't what!"

  She tried to remember what she had started to say. "Don't— worry about it."

  "Don't worry about it! Good God! Oh, Amber, Amber! You're sick and it's my fault! It's because you stayed here to take care of me! Oh, my darling—if only you'd gone! If only you'd— Oh, Jesus!" He let go of her wrist and distractedly ran one hand through his hair.

  She reached down to touch his forehead. "Don't torture yourself, Bruce. It's not your fault. I stayed because I wanted to. I knew it was a chance—but I couldn't go. And I'm not sorry— I won't die, Bruce—"

  He looked at her then with a kind of admiration in his eyes she had never seen before. But at that moment she felt the nausea begin to rise, flooding up irresistibly, and even before she could reach the basin halfway across the room she had started to vomit.

  Each time it happened it left her more exhausted, and now she hung for a minute longer over the basin, leaning on her hands, with her burnt-taffy hair concealing her face. All at once she gave a convulsive shudder; the room seemed cold, and yet the fire was burning, all the windows were closed, and the day had been an unusually hot one. At that moment there was a sound behind her. She turned slowly and saw Bruce beginning to get out of bed. With a last desperate surge of her strength she ran toward him.

  "Bruce! What are you doing! Get back—" She began to push at him, frantically, but her muscles seemed useless. She had never felt so weak, so helpless, not even after her children had been born.

  "I've got to get up, Amber! I've got to help you!"

  He had been out of bed only once or twice since he had fallen sick, and now his body was shining with sweat and his face was violently contorted. Amber began to cry, almost hysterical.

  "Don't, Bruce! Don't, for God's sake! You'll kill yourself! You can't get up! Oh, after everything I've done you're going to kill yourself—"

  Suddenly she dropped to her knees on the floor, put her head in her arms and sobbed. He fell back against the pillows, wiping his hand over his forehead, surprised to find that he was dizzy and that his ears rang, for he had thought himself farther recovered than he was. He reached over to stroke Amber's head.

  "Darling—I won't get up. Please don't cry—you need your strength. Lie down and rest. The nurse will be here soon."

  At last, with an intense feeling of weariness, she forced herself to get to her feet and stood looking about the room as though trying to remember something. "What was I going to do—" she murmured at last. "Something— What was it?"

  "Can you tell me where the money is, Amber? I'll need it for supplies. I had none with me."

  "Oh, yes—that's it, the money." The words slurred, one over another, as if she had drunk too much cherry-brandy. "It's in here—I'll get it—'sin secret panel—"

  The parlour seemed a great distance away, farther than she could possibly walk. But she got there at last, and though it took her a while to locate the panel, she finally found it and scooped out the leather wallet and small pile of jewellery that lay there. She brought them back in her apron and dropped them onto the bed beside Bruce. He had managed to lean over and pull out the trundle and now, when he told her to he down, she collapsed onto it, already half unconscious.

  Bruce lay awake through the night, cursing his own helplessness. But he knew that any violent strain now would only make him worse and might kill him. He could help her best by saving his strength until he was well enough to take care of her. He lay there and heard her vomit, again and again, and though each time when she had done she gave a heavy despairing groan, she was otherwise perfectly quiet. So quiet that he would listen, with mounting horror, for the sound of her breathing. And then the retching would begin again. The nurse did not come.

  By morning she lay flat on her back, her eyes fixed and wide open but unseeing. Her muscles were perfectly relaxed and she had no consciousness of him or of her surroundings; when he spoke to her she did not hear. The disease had made much swifter progress than it had with him, but it was characteristic of plague to vary its nature with each victim.

  He decided that if the nurse did not appear soon he would get out of bed and talk to the guard, but at about seven-thirty he heard the door open and a woman's boisterous voice called out: "The plague-nurse is here; where are ye?"

  "Come upstairs!"

  Within a few moments a woman appeared in the doorway. She was tall and heavy-boned, perhaps thirty-five, and Bruce was relieved to see that she looked strong and at least moderately intelligent. "Come in here," he said, and she walked forward, her eyes already on Amber. "I'm Lord Carlton. My wife is desperately sick as you can see, and needs the best of care. I'd give it to her myself, but I'm convalescing and not able to get up yet. If you take good care of her—if she lives—I'll give you a hundred pound." He lied about their marriage because he thought the truth was none of the woman's business, and he offered a hundred pounds because he believed it
might impress her more than a larger sum which she would probably not expect to get.

  She stared at him in surprise. "A hundred pound, sir!"

  She drew closer to the trundle then and looked at Amber, whose fingers were picking restlessly at the blanket Bruce had thrown over her, though but for the nervous movements of her hands she would have seemed to be totally unconscious. There were dirty green circles beneath her eyes and the lower part of her face was shiny with the bile and saliva which had dried there; she had not vomited at all for the past three hours.

  The woman shook her head. "She's mighty sick, your Lordship. I don't know—"

  "Of course you don't know!" snapped Bruce with angry impatience. "But you can try! She's still dressed. Take her clothes off, bathe her face and hands—get her into the sheets. She'll be more comfortable at least. She's been cooking for me and you'll find soup and whatever else you need in the kitchen. There are clean towels and sheets in that room— The floor must be mopped, and the parlour cleaned. A woman died there yesterday. Now get to work! What's your name?" he added, as an afterthought.

  "Mrs. Sykes, sir. Yes, sir."

  Mrs. Sykes, who told Bruce that she had been a wet-nurse but had lost her job because her husband had died of the plague, worked hard throughout the day. Bruce gave her no opportunity to loaf or rest, and despite the fact that she knew he was helpless and unable to get out of bed she obeyed his commands meekly—whether from respect of the nobility or one hundred pounds he did not know or care.

  But by nightfall Amber seemed, if possible, to be even worse. A carbuncle had begun to swell in her right groin and though it grew larger it remained hard and gave no indication that it would suppurate. Sykes was anxious about that, for it was the worst possible sign, and not even the mustard plasters she applied—which blistered the skin—seemed to have any effect.

  "What can we do?" Bruce asked her. "There must be something we can do! What have you done for your patients when the carbuncle wouldn't break?"

  Sykes was staring down at Amber. "Nothing, sir," she said slowly. "Most usually they die."

  "She's not going to die!" he cried. "We'll do something. We've got to do something— She can't die!" He looked less well than he had the day before but he forced himself to stay awake, as though he could keep her alive by holding a vigil over her.

  "We might cut into it," she said. "If it's still like this tomorrow. That's what the doctors do. But the pain of the knife sometimes drives 'em mad—"

  "Shut up! I don't want to hear it! Go out and get her something to eat."

  He was almost exhausted and his temper was quick and savage, for he suffered agonizingly over his own impotence. It went through his mind over and over again. She's sick because of me and now, when she needs me, I lie here like a sot and am able to do nothing!

  Almost to his surprise, Amber lived through the night. But by morning her skin was beginning to take on a dusky colour, her breathing grew more shallow and her heart-beats fainter. Sykes told him that those things meant approaching death.

  "Then we'll cut the boil open!"

  "But it might kill her!"

  Sykes was afraid to do anything, for it seemed that no matter what she did the patient would die and she would lose the greatest fortune she had ever imagined.

  He almost shouted at her. "Do as I say!" Then his voice dropped again, he spoke to her quietly but with a swift commanding urgency. "Over in the top drawer of that table there's a razor—get it. Take the cord off the drapes and bind her knees and ankles together. Wrap the cord around the trundle so she can't move, and tie her wrists to the corners. Get some towels and a basin. Hurry!"

  Sykes scrambled nervously about the room, but within a couple of minutes she had followed his directions. Amber lay bound securely to the trundle and still completely unconscious.

  Bruce was close to the edge of the bed. "Pray God she doesn't know—" he muttered and then. "Now! Take the razor and cut into it—quick and hard! It'll hurt less that way. Quick!" His right fist clenched and the veins in it swelled.

  Sykes looked at him in horror, the razor held tight in her hand. "I can't your Lordship. I can't." Her teeth began to chatter. "I'm scared! What if she dies under it!"

  Bruce was pouring sweat. He licked his tongue over his dry lips and gave a convulsive swallow. "You can, you fool! You've got to! Now—do it now!"

  Sykes continued to stare at him for a moment and then, as though hypnotized into obedience by the sheer force of his will, she bent and placed the edge of the razor against the hard red knob high up on Amber's groin. At that moment Amber stirred and her head turned toward Bruce. Sykes gave a start.

  "Cut it open!" said Bruce hoarsely, his clenched fist trembling with helpless rage. His face was dark with the rush of blood and the cords in his neck and temples were thick as ropes and throbbing.

  With sudden resolution Sykes jammed the razor into the lump, but as she did so, Amber moaned and the moan slid in crescendo to a quivering scream. Sykes let go of the razor and stepped back to stand staring at Amber who was struggling now to free herself, twisting frantically in an effort to escape the pain, shrieking again and again.

  Bruce began to get out of bed. "Help me!"

  Sykes came swiftly, put one arm around his back, the other beneath his elbow, and in an instant he had dropped on his knees beside the trundle and seized the razor.

  "Hold her! Here! By the knees!"

  Again Sykes did as she was told, though Amber continued to writhe, shrieking, her eyes rolling like a frenzied animal's. With all the strength he had left Bruce forced the razor into the hard mass and twisted it to one side. As he pulled it out again the blood spurted, splattering onto his body, and Amber dropped back, unconscious. His head fell helplessly onto his fist; his own wound had opened once more and the bandage showed fresh and red.

  Sykes was trying to help him get up. "Your Lordship! Ye must get back to bed! Your Lordship—please!"

  She wrenched the razor from his hand and with her help he managed to crawl back onto the bed. She flung a blanket over him and turned immediately to Amber whose skin was now white and waxen. Her heart was beating, very faintly. Quantities of blood poured from the opening, but there was no pus and the poison was not draining.

  Sykes worked furiously, at her own initiative now, for Bruce had lapsed into coma; she heated bricks and every hot water bottle in the house and packed them about Amber; she laid hot cloths on her forehead. If there was any way she could be saved, Sykes intended to get her hundred pounds.

  It was almost an hour before Bruce returned to consciousness and then, with a sudden start, he tried to sit up. "Where is she! You didn't let them take her!"

  "Hush, sir! I think she's sleeping. She's still alive and I think, sir, that she's better."

  He leaned over to look at her. "Oh, thank God, thank God. I swear it, Sykes, if she lives you'll get your hundred pound. I'll make it two hundred for you."

  "Oh, thank you, sir! But now, sir—you'd better lie back there and rest yourself—or you might not fare so well, sir."

  "Yes, I will. Wake me if she gets any—" The words trailed off.

  At last the pus began to seep up and the wound started to drain off its poison. Amber lay perfectly still again, drowned in coma, but the dark tinge was gone from her skin and though her cheeks had sunk against the bones and there were crapelike circles around her eyes, her pulse had a stronger, surer beat. The sound of tolling bells seemed suddenly to fill the room. Sykes gave a start, then relaxed; they would not toll tonight for her patient.

  "I've worked hard for my money, sir," Sykes said to him on the morning of the fourth day. "And I'm sure she'll five now. Can I have it?"

  Bruce smiled. "You have worked hard, Sykes. And I'm more grateful than I can tell you. But you'll have to wait a while longer." He would not give her any of the jewellery, partly because it was Amber's personal property, partly because it might have encouraged her to outright thievery or some other mischief. Sykes had served her
purpose, but he knew that it would be foolish to trust her. "There are only a few shillings in the house—and they've got to be spent for food. As soon as I can go out I'll get it for you."

  He was able to sit up now, most of the day, and when it was necessary he could get out of bed, but never stayed more than a few minutes at a time. His persistent weakness seemed both to amuse and infuriate him. "I've been shot in the stomach and run through the shoulder," he said one day to Sykes as he walked slowly back to the bed. "I've been bitten by a poisonous snake and I've had a tropical fever—but I'll be damned if I've ever felt like this before."

  Most of the time he spent reading, though there were only a few books in the apartment and he had already seen most of them. Some had been there as part of the furnishings and they were a respectable assortment, including the Bible, Hobbes's "Leviathan," Bacon's "Novum Organum," some of the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, Browne's "Religio Medici."

  Amber's collection, though small, was more lively. There was an almanac, thumbed and much scribbled in, the lucky and unlucky days starred, as well as those for purging or bloodletting, though so far as he knew she seldom did either. Her familiar scrawl was marked across the fly-leaf of half-a-dozen others: "L'Ecole des Filles," "The Crafty Whore," "The Wandering Whore," "Annotations upon Aretino's Postures," "Ars Amatoria," and—evidently because it was currently fashionable—Butler's "Hudibras." All but the last had obviously been well read. He smiled to see them, for though the same volumes would doubtless have been found in the closet of almost any Court lady they were nevertheless amusingly typical of her.

  He always sat near the edge of the bed where he could watch her, and she made no movement or slightest sound which he did not notice. She was, very slowly, getting better, though the constant sloughing of the wound worried him, for it continued to open wider and deeper until it had spread over an area with a two-inch diameter. But both he and Sykes were convinced that if the incision had not been made she would have died.

  Sometimes, to his horror, she would suddenly put up her hands as though to ward off a blow, and cry out in a piteous voice. "Don't! No! Please! Don't cut me!" And the cry would slide off in a shuddering moan that turned him cold and wet. After that she always lapsed again into unconsciousness, though sometimes even in coma she twitched and squirmed and made soft whimpering sounds.