‘I do care, Matthew. I love you… I believe I have always loved you.’ It was a cry from the heart, her heart that was breaking.
‘Love? Do not defile the word by using it to lie to me. It will not work, Henrietta. Do you know what I have been doing, these days in London? I have been listening to the voices of those extremists who feel justified in their extremes by the damage done by your King and his heedless supporters. I have been attending to the affairs of people who have lost husbands and sons at Worcester. And when I return home to my lands and my people and my wife I find her flouting everything I believe in, undermining everything I have worked to achieve.’
He swung away and stood, his back to her, one hand clenched on the stone mantelshelf, staring down into the heat of the fire. ‘Do not tell me you love me, Henrietta. I cannot believe you. I believed it once, fought against the evidence of my own eyes when I saw that letter. But I have been away, away from you, where I could think clearly.’
If he rejected her words of love she would have to show him how she felt. Henrietta moved slowly to his side, but he continued to stand there, his face averted. She touched his sleeve compelling him to turn and face her, and she saw his eyes dark, not now with anger but hurt and pain.
A tear slid slowly down her cheek as she reached up a hand to stroke the hollows under his cheekbones. His skin was dry, taut, burning to her touch, and she felt a pang of alarm.
Matthew flinched away, shaking her off. ‘Do not touch me. Do not think you can seduce me with your body as you have done before, you jade. You know I cannot resist you…’ His eyes were bright, fixed on her face, then he staggered, clutched helplessly at the table, and fell full-length, unconscious, to the boards at her feet.
Chapter Twenty Five
His forehead burned hot and dry under her palm. ‘Matthew, my love.’ Henrietta lifted his dark head on to her lap and smoothed back the wet hair from his temples. ‘Matthew, speak to me! Wake up.’ What can be wrong with him?
She could see no wound to account for his collapse, no rash or mark on his pale skin. ‘Martha! Letty! Come quickly,’ she cried, trying to shift him so he lay straight and she could pull away the sodden cloak.
The two girls arrived together, breathless and frightened, followed by John. ‘Mistress, what is it?’ After one quick glance he fell to his knees beside her but made no move to touch the unconscious man. ‘Mistress, have a care, he may have the plague.’
Henrietta stared at him aghast. ‘The plague?’
‘’Tis always rife in London town,’ the groom responded grimly, scrutinising Matthew's face without touching him. ‘Does he have a fever?’
‘He is burning up. We must get him upstairs to bed. Martha, prepare the chamber quickly. Fresh sheets and light the fire.’
Martha pulled her skirts back, her lip quivering. ‘I'll not stay, Mistress, not if he's got the plague. You come away, Mistress, leave him to die. There's nothing you can do, God save us all!’
‘You wicked girl.’ Henrietta rounded on her furiously. ‘You do as I tell you or you leave this household tonight with no character. The master is not going to die, nor has he got the plague.’ She spoke with more assurance than she felt, never having seen the dreaded disease. ‘John, help me get him to our chamber.’ The groom stood up and made for the door. ‘John, I beg you, do not leave me, Letty and I cannot manage him by ourselves.’
‘I’ll not leave you, Mistress, never fear, but I'll need another of the lads to help carry him.’ He paused beside the tearful figure of Martha. ‘And you, silly wench, get about your business as your mistress tells you or I will give you a beating to remind you of your duty.’
Martha fled upstairs with a wail of dismay, leaving Henrietta and Letty kneeling over the supine figure. ‘It is not the plague, is it, Letty?’ Henrietta begged. ‘You have seen it, haven't you?’
‘My uncle died of it in Aylesbury and my mother told me of the signs.’ Her fingers hesitated over Matthew's shirt front, then with a visible effort of will she unlaced it, pulling it open to reveal his chest. ‘There are no swellings I can see, Mistress.’ Emboldened, she insinuated her fingers under his arms. ‘This is where they begin, but I can feel nothing.’
‘Then it is not the plague?’
‘Mayhap not.’ Letty bit her lip in an effort to remember the symptoms. ‘What is his breathing like?’
Henrietta put her ear to his chest and listened to the rasping intake of breath. ‘It is not right, Letty, his lungs must be afflicted.’
‘Letty pulled her mistress upright. ‘If it is the plague the surgeon can do nothing, even if he were willing to enter the house, but Mistress Perrott will know what to do.’
‘Run and send Sim,’ Henrietta urged, falling to her knees again and cradling Matthew in her arms. His face in the firelight was drawn and thin, his eyes sunken. How had she missed it when he had first co
me in? How had she not seen how ill he was? His anger had given him the strength to stay on his feet, but what had given him the strength on the journey from London to Winterbourne?
‘My love, my love, don't die; please don't die,’ she whispered over and over like a litany. ‘I need you, our child needs you.’
It seemed an age before John and Tom appeared and carried the still-unconscious Matthew upstairs between them to the master bedroom. Martha had worked quickly, more out of fear than duty. The fire burned brightly and the bed was crisp with fresh linen. The maidservant backed from the room as they entered, a handful of pot-pourri held to her nose.
‘Put him down,’ Henrietta ordered. ‘John, help me undress him. Tom, get Cook to heat bricks and wrap them in flannel, his hands are freezing.’
John pulled off the muddy riding boots, swearing under his breath as he cut himself on the spurs in his haste. ‘His feet are cold too, Mistress.’
Henrietta raised her eyes to look at her groom across her husband's semi-clad figure. ‘He is so pale and drawn, John.’
‘If this is the plague it will be all over for better or worse in five days. That being so, we will soon know if he is afflicted.’