Tears gathered in Abigail’s eyes, tears of sympathy and compassion. She hated to see her friend like this, in the clutches of pain and despair. And worst of all, she was right. She had nothing to lose. Cleon had been gone almost four months, had been ill a fortnight before that. No one would believe it was his child, and it would not take much consideration to figure out whose it was. And Julia would have been furious, not so much that her maid had gotten pregnant, but that it was by her husband. Elizabeth would have been stoned, at the least.
She gripped her hand tightly and whispered, “I will tell no one, Elizabeth. I swear to you. I will stay with you until the bleeding stops, and I will see that the clothes are destroyed. And you will not die. Tell me how to treat you, my friend. What was it you took? What can I give you to ease the pain?”
Elizabeth feebly tugged on a ribbon tied around her neck, which was enough to tell Abigail to pull it from under her robe. Attached at the bottom was a small sack that opened to reveal some herbs that Abigail did not recognize.
“Brew,” Elizabeth muttered faintly.
Abigail nodded, stepped out into the hall, and flagged a servant woman. “I need hot water for a tea, and more to clean up in here. Get me some rags that can be thrown away, as well.”
The woman did not seem to mind being ordered around by her; she wasted no time in carrying out the mission. Abigail slipped back into the room while she waited for the supplies, murmuring meaningless, soothing phrases to her friend as she ran her fingertips over her forehead. When the tap sounded on the door ten minutes later, she hurried to fetch the things from the servant, remembering to offer a smile of gratitude.
She brewed the herbs in the water and helped Elizabeth sip it; if her grimace was any indication, it was not a tasty concoction, but she downed it all slowly, with determination. Once that was done, Abigail set about cleaning up the vomit, scrubbing everything as best she could and putting the soiled rags in the hall. Then, she sat down to wait.
She had never been on a death watch before. She prayed she would never be on one again. With each hour that ticked by, she wondered if it would be her friend’s last, and with each minute in that hour she alternately supplicated and cursed her God for letting such things befall his children. For the next day, she got very little rest, and she did not leave Elizabeth’s room for more than five minutes at a time. She knew that Ester returned home, assumed that she would tell Jason what kept her here, and otherwise kept to her vigil.
By sunset the following day, Elizabeth was out of danger. Her sleep was steady and her fever gone. The bleeding had stopped. Abigail dutifully took the stained clothes from bed and woman, hiding them so that she could get them on her way out, then destroy them. She dressed Elizabeth in a clean garment, put fresh sheets beneath her, and woke her long enough to tell her she was leaving.
Elizabeth smiled softly and pressed her friend’s hand. “Thank you, Abigail.” Her eyes said far more than her words.
Abigail kissed her brow, then stood. “I will send others in to see to you, now. You will be well soon. Go back to sleep.”
Elizabeth nodded and was drifting off again by the time Abigail could open the door.
*
When Abigail returned Andrew was the first to greet her; he was outside cleaning some of Cleopas’s equipment and rose when he saw her approaching.
“Abigail,” he greeted, his voice tight. “How is Elizabeth?”
Abigail nodded once. “Better. She will recover.”
“You look exhausted.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Let us hope you do not get ill, as well.”
She gave him a small, distant smile. “I have no need to worry, my friend. What struck her is not catching. She ate something she should not have and reacted very violently, that is all.”
Andrew studied her for a long minute. “That is good,” he said at last, his tone telling her it was but an introduction to what he truly wanted to say. “I was worried, Abigail. You are a good friend, and you would not think of your own health. It made me think, dear one, of how terrible it would be to lose you. And that made me realize that I have been acting very poorly. I have been treating you as though you are no longer that friend I so love, as though I have already lost you. Forgive me.”
She covered his hand with her own. “Of course, Andrew. It has been a trying time for us all.”
“But I have only made it harder.” His eyes were apologetic and contrite. “I should be supporting you. I will do better, my love. I will be the friend I have always been.”
She had no doubt that he meant it. What she doubted was his ability to make it so.
*