‘How is he, Aunt? Has there been any change?’
Her aunt straightened up, one hand in the small of her back. In the searching morning light she looked every one of her fifty years. ‘No change, then again, he is no worse. You look better, my dear.’
Henrietta kissed her aunt's cheek and took the sponge from her hand. ‘I slept too long,’ she reproached herself. ‘Thank you for staying with him. Your husband is breaking his fast in the small parlour. Why do you not join him and then go to bed?’
‘I shall.' Susan took her niece's cold hands in hers. I am overjoyed to hear you are with child. Pray God Matthew lives to share your joy.’
Henrietta managed a brave smile. 'He will.’ But as she looked at the still figure lying in the big bed all her hope ebbed away, leaving her desolate, sure she had been deceiv
ing herself.
For the rest of the day she hardly left his side, seated at his bedside on a low stool, holding his hand, talking to him of all the things she had never said, all her plans for the child he would never see.
As the evening drew in Letty came in to make up the fire again and draw the hangings closed. Her aunt tried to persuade her to go downstairs and eat, but Henrietta refused in case Matthew woke to find her not there. ‘Go to bed, Aunt, I will sit with him tonight.’
Mistress Stone opened her mouth as if to protest, her gaze travelling between Matthew's waxen face and Henrietta's quiet desperation and with a last kiss she left, closing the door behind her.
Towards midnight Henrietta dozed, her head dropping sideways to lie on the coverlet beside their clasped hands. She woke to the sound of a log falling in the grate and was instantly aware that the rasping, laboured breathing from the bed had ceased.
Chapter Twenty Six
A touch as soft as a moth’s wing brushed her hair. For a second Henrietta thought she was dreaming, but the moth's touch became firmer and she was suddenly aware of Matthew’s breathing – deeper, quieter, regular.
Hardly daring to hope, she raised her head and found herself looking into his eyes. Sunken and shadowed as they were, they still held a glimmer of vitality and as he saw her face his lips moved in a painful half-smile. ‘Henrietta.’ His voice was the merest thread of a whisper.
‘Don't try and talk.’ Her heart soared in her breast as she mixed brandy and water, splashing it in her eagerness. She supported his shoulders and held the cup to his mouth. ‘Try and take this slowly, you must be so thirsty.’
Matthew managed to drink most of the cupful in slow, difficult sips. It was only when he had finished and she laid him back against the pillows that Henrietta dared let him speak.
‘What happened? How long have I been here?’ he croaked.
‘It is almost four days since you arrived home, racked with fever and wet through. You collapsed in the hall and have been insensible ever since.’ Henrietta chafed his hands between hers, willing her strength and life back into him.
‘I remember riding… being cold and wet, wanting to be at home with you… but that is all.’ He put a shaky hand to his forehead as though to rub away the fog in his mind. ‘And yet I seem to recollect your face. You were fearful… I had frightened you.’
‘I was frightened because you were so ill,’ Henrietta said soothingly, afraid that he would become agitated in his weakened state if she reminded him of the scene at his homecoming. ‘You have had a fever of the lungs. How do you feel? Have you pains anywhere?’
‘My chest is sore,’ he managed to rasp. Henrietta nodded, that was what Mistress Perrott had told her to expect. ‘And I feel so… weak.’
‘Could you manage some broth?’
Matthew moved his head slowly on the pillow. ‘No… more water. I am so thirsty.’
When he had drunk again Henrietta bathed his face gently, the cloth rasping through the growth of beard over his hollow cheeks. ‘Try and sleep, my love.’ She brushed her lips softly across the back of his hand.
‘Wait.’ He touched her cheek. ‘What did you call me?’
‘My love.’ She managed a smile through the tears of relief. ‘You are my love. I have never loved anyone more, nor ever will in my life.’
His eyelids drooped, he was almost asleep again, but his lips managed to form the words, ‘And I… love you too.’
‘Matthew.’ She had to tell him the wonderful news she had kept in her heart. ‘Matthew, I am carrying your child.’ But he was asleep, a touch of colour on each cheekbone. His breathing was steady, and his skin was warm and damp, the fever broken.
Henrietta dropped to her knees beside the bed, hid her face in the covers and said a heartfelt prayer of thankfulness. He was going to live, of that she was certain beyond doubt. And, her heart leapt as she got to her feet again, he loved her, he had said so.
The moment of still thankfulness burst like a bubble of joy and she lifted her skirts and dashed to the head of the stairs. ‘Aunt! Lawyer Stone! Letty! Come here!’
Doors were flung open all along the corridor. Aunt Susan her robe dragged on anyhow, her plaited hair flying, rushed to her side followed by her husband, his face a picture of concern. ‘Henrietta… what is it? Surely he is not…’