A Murder at Rosamund's Gate

18

Lucy’s brief moment of happiness was cut short, a terrible sense of dread muddling her senses. Everyone knew that the last time the plague hit the city, thousands had died. There had also been Flanders and Paris.

“John,” Adam said, “you must escort Lucy home. I must go to the courts to see Father home safely. Will, you can come—”

“Will,” Lucy interrupted, “must go home, to mother and Dorrie.” She turned to her brother. “Promise me. I’ve got the protection of the magistrate and John, but they need you.”

“Mother, who did not even come to the trial,” Will said, kicking a clump of dirt.

Lucy embraced him, pecking his cheek. “Please,” she whispered, helping him swing his pack over his narrow shoulders. “You must give her the chance to make amends for the wrong she has done you.”

She watched her brother for a moment as he briskly walked off. No one would ever have known that he had been almost condemned to hang a few hours before or, seeing his jaunty step, that the world might be coming to an end. Will I ever see him again? She said a little prayer for him.

Turning back to Adam and John, she found Adam’s gaze on her. He looked away. “Well, I’ll be off,” he said. “I’ll see you back at the house. Take care.”

* * *

Indeed, their hurried journey home, no more than two miles, was strange. Just as the magistrate had foretold, all of London began to panic as the threat of plague, long hanging over their heads, finally became reality. Everywhere, people were running, crying, despairing—everyone trying to figure out what to do, where to go. Doomsayers and prophets wandered the streets, predicting God’s wrath.

“London, you are Nineveh before the great flood!” one man shouted, his hair matted with sweat. “Sinners all! Heed me as you would Jonah, lest the Almighty smite you down!”

Catching Lucy’s eye as they stumbled by, another woman tugged at her sleeve. “You’re going to hell, you know,” she said, almost pleasantly. “Unless you turn your ways.”

Church bells began to toll, some deep, others bright, but all strangely mournful, their cacophony heightening everyone’s unease. The fog seemed uncertain, too, at times cloaking the city’s misery, at other times lifting like a curtain to reveal life in all its sordid frenzy.

Finally, John and Lucy reached the Hargraves’ house, where a flustered Cook greeted them at the door. A short while later, Adam returned from the Inns of Court with the magistrate.

Within moments of their arrival, Master Hargrave convened the household in the drawing room. His grave voice bespoke the seriousness of the situation. “We will pack what we can into the carriage, mostly provisions and clothing. Adam and John, you must get another horse and a cart. In the morning, we will journey together to our family estate in Warwickshire.” To his wife he added, “Thankfully, Sarah is still with her aunt in Shropshire.”

Cook and Lucy started to prepare for the long journey with heavy hearts, cooking, packing clothing and victuals, and tying dried herbs into bundles. The mistress disappeared to her room to put a few things together. Master Hargrave set aside his copy of Gadbury’s Alogical Predictions and his almanacs and began to shutter the house so that it would not be broken into while the family was away.

All of them were grim in their tasks, trying not to think of the despair and terror that lay beyond the safety of their home. Lucy hoped they were safe, anyway. She had heard that in Amsterdam, looters began to break into homes as the plague spread. She hoped Will was with her mother and Dorrie. Perhaps they would be safe out on the farm. At least he would not die with a noose around his neck.

Lucy also tried not to think of the other things she had heard; people murdering one another in the streets for a bit of moldy bread or rotting horseflesh, as their limbs dropped off. The dancing was the worst; the rhythmic contortions that she had heard tell would happen to a body when the grim reaper came to call. Lucy shuddered as she tied the dried meat into a sack.

Against her will, Lucy could not resist peering out the drawing room window at the fantastic sights. People were screaming at one another, loading up carts, trying desperately to decide what they needed to do to survive. Everyone was boarding up windows, nailing doors shut, hoping that looters would not break in.

Wagons and carts kept passing by, women, children, and servants clinging crazily to the sides, as the menfolk sought to rush their families out of the city. Some people cried; others held on tightly with pinched pale faces. One child pulled a wet thumb from her mouth and gave Lucy a little wave, even as bread and blankets fell out the back of her family’s cart.

At one point, Lucy even saw Janey sneak out a side window of her master’s house, with two other servants close behind, their arms laden with packages and clothing. Lucy narrowed her eyes, thinking they probably had the candlesticks hidden under their cloaks.

Their neighbor, Mistress White, stopped by for a moment. Her family had opted to stay. “’Tis all in God’s hands anyway,” she said.

Lucy felt a great lump in her throat. “That’s probably true,” she muttered to Cook. “Still, I’m glad we’re leaving.”

By early evening, they had seen most of their neighbors shut up their homes and flee, some heading to the docks, hoping to find passage on a boat or barge. For the umpteenth time, Lucy checked her pocket for her certificate of health, which the master, with great foresight, had sought to procure several weeks ago. The certificates would allow them to pass safely through the streets and get sufficient lodging and victuals as they passed through the towns to the magistrate’s country estate. “I have it on good authority that the Crown will bar all passage from London without these passes,” he had told them all. “You must keep them on your person at all times.”

* * *

Lucas stopped by once, too, to check in on them. “I do not think you should wait long,” he said. “I am greatly worried. Can you not go now? I’m afraid death will be upon you and it will be too late.”

“Adam and John have gone for a second cart and horse,” Lucy explained. “The master thinks the morning will be soon enough, and if we have sufficient provisions, we shall not have to stop often along our journey.” She changed the subject. “Will you be coming with us, Lucas? To the family’s seat in Warwickshire?”

Lucas shook his head. “Reverend Marcus is convinced this scourge is a test of our mettle. It is God’s will that we remain and tender solace to the afflicted. We shall be keeping the church open, as a refuge for those in need. I daresay, too, there shall be many sinners seeking absolution.” His eyes gleamed. “Lucy, I believe I shall be needed here, to help those who’ve been touched by the wages of sin. It is my duty—my calling!—to stay and minister to them.”

“Oh.” There seemed little else to say. After bidding her to keep safe, Lucas took his leave of her, and she could not help but feel alone.

* * *

“Miss? Lucy?” A small voice came from behind her. Lucy turned around. Annie was standing there, her face puckered in a frown. “The mistress is in a state,” she said. “Lucy, she needs you.”

“I’ll go and see to her.”

She found her mistress tearing through her skirts and petticoats, throwing them into a heap upon her bed. “Oh, Lucy, you’re here. I need you to press these dresses before you pack them for the journey.”

Lucy suppressed a groan. Such pressing would take hours, precious time that could be better spent on more important tasks. Truly, what was the woman thinking? Smiling through gritted teeth, Lucy began to lay the dresses out for pressing.

“Lucy,” the mistress called. “I think you forgot to pack my new hat.”

“Ah, mistress,” Lucy said carefully. “I fear there will be no room for your hat.”

“Nonsense,” the mistress replied. “Isn’t the master going to get us a second cart and horse? That should be able to hold all three of my trunks, I think—quite nicely, I might add.”

It wasn’t for her to tell the mistress what she could and could not bring, and she imagined that the magistrate would talk some sense into her.

As she packed the trunk, the mistress prattled on, her speech increasingly rushed. “My, it’s hot. Lucy, don’t you find it very hot in here?” The mistress fanned herself. “I haven’t even begun to dress for the ball.”

“The ball, missus?” Lucy asked, confused.

“Yes, of course. Please send for Bessie. Where is that silly girl? I’ve not seen her all day! Where could she be?”

A growing fear spread over Lucy. Something was very wrong. She forced herself to remain calm. “Oh, Bessie, missus, it’s her day off today.”

“Bah!” the mistress said, sitting down at her dressing table. “Come do my hair, Lucy. I want it pinned up.”

As Mistress Hargave pulled up her hair, Lucy noticed a large black welt on her long slender neck. Her mouth gaped. The black mark!

Her insides churning, she looked closely at her mistress, noticing for the first time how flushed she looked, how her eyes glittered with fever. Lucy’s eyes returned to the black mark. Everyone knew that meant the Black Death had seized upon a new victim. Then, without saying a word, the mistress vomited into her urn, wiping her mouth daintily afterward. She smiled at Lucy as if nothing unusual had occurred.

“Oh, missus,” Lucy said as calmly as she could. “There’s plenty of time before you need to prepare for the ball. You look a bit peaked. Perhaps you’d care for a bit of rest before then? I’ll get a nice fire going.”

She patted the coverlet, hoping to entice her mistress back into bed. The mistress smiled. Like a child, she obediently lay down in the bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. “Yes, perhaps I am a bit tired,” she murmured. “Pray return in an hour, if you please, Lucy. I don’t know why Bessie is not back yet; it’s rather late even if it is her day off.”

“Yes, missus,” Lucy replied, tucking the blanket around the mistress. She smoothed the hair back from her flushed face. “I’ll be back soon.”

After she backed out of the room, she raced down to the kitchen. Cook was showing Lawrence how to salt pork and pack it into the barrels as she chopped vegetables for their supper that evening.

For a moment, Lucy could not move her mouth. Finally, she managed to croak, “She’s got it. The mistress, she does.”

“Got what, girl?” Cook asked, dropping some old mutton into the pot.

“The Black Death!”

In a flash, Cook had flown up to the mistress’s room, returning not five minutes later, panting heavily.

“Lawrence!” she called to the little boy, who was now peeling potatoes, oblivious to the despair about him. “You must run to the physician’s house. Drag ’im away from his supper, if you must. Say the mistress is very ill.”

“Should I tell him Annie is sick, too?” the boy asked, hooking his hands in his pants. Cook and Lucy exchanged a worried glance.

Not wanting to alarm the boy, Lucy asked him casually, “What do you mean, Lawrence? Annie is sick?”

“Yup,” the boy said, unconcerned. “She’s been lying down there this last hour.” He pointed to the shelf behind the kitchen. “Dizzy-like, she said.”

The two women quickly conferred.

“No,” Cook decided. “No, don’t tell the physician about Annie. Lucy, you go check on her. Lawrence, just tell the physician that the mistress is sick. Don’t mention your sister. And, lad, run!”

The boy took off then, banging the door behind him. Cook went to tell the master, who was still nailing down windows. He ran immediately to be at his wife’s side to await the physician. Lucy sat by the little girl’s pallet, stroking her head. Annie had no black marks that Lucy could see, but she was shivering violently. Lucy went to her own room and brought blankets down to wrap around Annie’s scrawny frame. She was holding a cup of tea to the little girl’s head when the physician came.

He glanced at the child, but his attention was on Mistress Hargrave. “Now, Lucy,” the physician said. “Tell me, does your mistress have any black spots on her neck, or under her arms, or in her”—he coughed—“private areas?”

“Yes,” Lucy replied. “She does. She also has fever and has been vomiting; I scarce know what to do.”

Without any more questions, the doctor hastened to the mistress’s chambers, where he remained for about a quarter of an hour. When he was done, he found them in the kitchen. Hearing Annie moan on her pallet in the pantry, he bent over her as well with a frown.

Straightening up, he turned back to them, his voice weary. “Well, there is little enough you can do, I’m afraid. As I told your master upstairs, you must keep her warm and comfortable. Dry. If she gets to flailing about, as some do, then tie her arms and feet to the bedposts with strips of cloth. Keep her linens clean.”

Cook and Lucy nodded their heads. Dr. Larimer regarded them intently. “Heed my words. Three days it is, from when the symptoms first appear, to the end. If you can survive it, then you should be fine. You must take care of yourself, too; eat, drink, think happy thoughts. Have you any posies to hang about?”

“Posies? Why, yes, sir,” Lucy said. “We kept the blossoms from last summer’s garden.”

“Well, keep them below her nose. Add some lavender if you have it. Also, rub some of this on her chest.” He handed Lucy a small pot. She sniffed it, making a face. “It will help her breathe. All right, Lucy? Can I depend on you to keep your head about you? The life of your mistress may well be in your hands. And that of the little girl there, too.”

“Yes sir,” Lucy stammered. “I understand.”

“I’ve told the magistrate that I shan’t report this as plague, but he knows what to do.”

Shortly after the physician left, the magistrate seated himself rather uncomfortably on the low bench by the fire.

“Have some soup, sir,” Lucy urged him, somewhat unnerved by the presence of the master in the kitchen. She cut a large slice from a new loaf and handed him the plate. “And some bread.”

He nodded. “How’s Annie?” he asked, somewhat absently.

“Feverish, chills. No black marks like—” She broke off. “Sir, I’m sorry!”

As if he had not heard the last comment, he simply said, “Right. Well, that’s good.” Then he looked at Cook and Lucy. “Well, Mary. Lucy. We’re in a spot of trouble here, I’m afraid. Your mistress does indeed have the plague, and maybe little Annie, too. As a justice of the peace, I am obliged to think of the public good.”

Master Hargrave crumbled a bit of bread in his fingers, looking distantly at the crumbs. “Believe me, I want nothing but to load us all into the carts and pack us all off to my family home in Warwickshire as we planned. Escape this damnable mess. However, I very much believe we’d not be escaping the plague, but we’d be bringing it along with us.”

Leaning over, he began to poke the fire with a stick. Cook and Lucy looked at each other.

“No, indeed,” he continued. “I believe we must do what is right. That means we must quarantine ourselves. No one must enter this household, and I’m heartfelt sorry to say, no one must leave, until the sickness has passed.”

They gasped. What if the sickness does not pass? Lucy thought miserably.

“We must have courage, and have faith in the good Lord,” the magistrate continued, noting their pale faces. “Above all, we must do our part to contain the sickness. That means that we must all be very brave and resolute.”

He looked at Cook, his face anguished and drawn. “Mary, I’m sorry, but we cannot let John come back in the house, if but to save him.” Blinking back tears, he swallowed. “My own son, I cannot look upon.” Straightening his shoulders, he took a deep breath. “When they return tonight, we must send them out of the city to fetch Sarah and to take her to the family seat and keep her safe. Mary and Lucy, I’m so sorry. You both deserve better than this, but with perseverance and courage, I believe we will survive.”

Cook looked as stricken as Lucy felt. A bitter and heavy silence fell over the room. From beyond the door, Lucy heard Annie moan softly. For a long moment, Lucy and Cook looked at each other, complete understanding between them. They loved this household—there would be no sneaking out windows as Janey and other servants were doing, no doubt all over London. The magistrate deserved their loyalty and courage, even though Lucy wanted to run crying to her mother. Even the mistress, with all her vanity and silliness, was a good woman and deserved better.

“Right, sir,” Cook said briskly. “You can count on Lucy and me; we will take care of the mistress as if she were our own kin.”

Unexpectedly, the magistrate blinked and swallowed, looking quite overcome. For a moment, the three were quiet. Lucy wished she could embrace him, offer him some comfort in this terrible time. Annie’s soft moans called Lucy back to her bedside, and the magistrate returned to his wife’s chamber, to sit vigil by her side.

* * *

It was nearing seven o’clock when Lucy finally heard John and Adam rap at the kitchen door.

“It’s us!” John called. “We’ve got some chickens that need to be put up and wood. I do not want to leave them on the stoop.”

Lucy went to the crack in the door. “Nay, Master Adam, John. I cannot let you in.”

“Lucy, what nonsense are you speaking? Hurry, we have our hands full and still much to do,” Adam said.

Lucy shook her head fiercely at them, as though they could see her through the door. “No, I cannot! The mistress, she has come down with the plague. I dare not let you in. Cook and me, we will take care of her, but we are afraid that you and John could get the sickness. It would be best”—she paused, a catch in her voice—“if you go on to the Warwickshire estate without us.”

There was a short silence on the other side of the door. “My mother? She has the sickness?” Adam asked, his voice husky. “The … plague?”

“Yes,” Lucy replied, trying not to cry. “Your father has bid us to be quarantined. You are to paint a cross on the door, so the neighbors will know to stay away.”

On the other side of the door, she heard a muffled oath and some muttered discussion. “Wait, Lucy,” Adam called out. “Do not be rash. I will fetch the surgeon. He can confirm—”

“No, sir,” Lucy interrupted. “We’ve already had the surgeon. He told me and Cook some things to brew, but there’s little else we can do for the mistress or little Annie, except prayer. And posies.”

The sound of a fist hitting the heavy oak door made her jump. “Lucy, let me in!” Adam demanded. “John must stay away. He can get Sarah from my aunt’s and take her to Warwickshire. But Lucy, that is my mother in there. I should be with her.”

From beyond the door, she could hear John protesting. “And I should be with my sweet Mary, and little Annie and Lawrence.”

“No!” Cook said sharply, coming to stand behind Lucy at the door. Her hands were on her hips, and her face was stern.

“John, dear. Master Adam, sir,” Cook said, speaking as she might to small children. “It must be as the magistrate said. Lucy and I will tend the mistress and the others. Rest assured, sir, we will nurse them as we would our own family. If you were in here, you’d just take ill and be in our way.”

Lucy could almost laugh, if it were not so serious. Again a muffled discussion ensued beyond the door.

Then Adam called back. “We do not like it, but we accept my father’s wishes. We will bring you provisions, enough to make it through the next few days.”

A few days. Lucy shivered. The doctor had said the sickness would run its course in a few days. A sudden moment of terror overcame her. Would they survive? Would they be trapped? She wanted to scream for them to open the door, to not let the reaper come for them, but she remained silent.

Fiercely, she pushed the thoughts away. Knowing the men were just outside the door was making her weak. “You must go!” she cried. “Please!”

“Master Adam, sir,” Cook called back. “Do not forget. You must then nail our door shut and not return for three days.”

Again, silence. Whoever returned might find a grisly sight indeed in three days, if the plague did run its regular course. Lucy bit her lip. Someone coughed.

“Right, then,” Adam said. “We will stable the new horse and return with nails.”

Then John spoke. “God bless and preserve us all.”

Not much later, Lucy heard the grim sound of boards being nailed across the front door. Pounding, pounding, pounding …

Lucy’s heart raced. She felt like they were being sealed in a tomb. John was the coffin maker, and they were the dead. The dead must be kept from the living.

* * *

Deep in the night, Lucy stole softly into the mistress’s chambers, to check on her as she slept. She and Cook had taken turns tending Annie, the mistress, and now Lawrence, who had just fallen ill. The master had not left his wife’s side, holding her hand, gazing at her dimly lit form. With her curling hair spread across her face and bodice, and the lines of complaint gone from her mouth, she looked beautiful. Del Gado’s portraits popped into Lucy’s mind, but she pushed the image away.

“Sir,” she whispered. “Perhaps you should try to get some sleep.”

Master Hargrave lifted his anguished face to Lucy’s. “Lucy, I have to stay with her. God knows I’ve been away from her for so much of our life together; I must be with her now.” More to himself he added, “I know she sometimes found enjoyment with others, but I never blamed her. If anything, I blamed myself for being away from her side so much. She’s the only woman I ever loved.”

As if hearing him, from deep within her deathly stupor, the mistress smiled ever so slightly, and a small sigh escaped her lips.

Lucy nodded and stoked the fire in the hearth a bit. As she replaced the warm potatoes at her mistress’s feet, the magistrate looked up, recalling her presence in the room.

“Oh, Lucy. Adam told me that William was declared innocent, was he not? You must be much relieved.”

She nodded. The events of the day, of the trial, were so far off. With the mistress being so ill, she barely had time to think about her brother.

“Your friend was the one who presided over his case,” Lucy said, smoothing the cover around the mistress’s still form.

The magistrate smiled slightly, looking old and tired. “Yes, Ernest, he’s a good man. I knew he’d give your brother a fair trial. Adam insisted that he be the one to hear the case, you know. I don’t really have much say over these matters, but we justices usually work out the demands of the docket, and change things around when necessary.”

Lucy gazed into the fire, tiredly holding a mug of cooling mead, trying to stay warm and awake.

“The evidence was very circumstantial, I know, but heavily against William’s favor. Something must have decided Ernest’s mind. Do you know?”

“’Twas amazing, sir. Richard, the bast—, excuse me, sir, the man who had accused William, lied about him and, in fact, ended up recanting at the last moment.”

A glow came to her voice as she spoke. “Adam, well, he ended up asking the questions for Will. Richard came to admit that he had tied Will up, so it was impossible that my brother could have done the foul mischief upon Bessie.”

Lucy did not mention the Quakers’ involvement in “working Richard over,” as John had put it. She thought Adam might not like it if she told his father about his friendship with the Quakers.

“So Adam got Richard tied up in knots instead.” The magistrate chuckled. Then he cleared his throat, his face growing serious. “For what it’s worth, Lucy, none of us ever believed that your brother had any part in that dastardly business. But the law must run its course. I’m just sorry that he had to spend so much time in that bloody prison.”

Both fell silent. Lucy drifted a bit, trying to recall the bliss of the afternoon, those moments when she, John, Adam, and Will had walked home, before this new terror had gripped their hearts. The joy of Will’s release seemed to have swept away her earlier animosity toward Adam, and indeed, he seemed to have thawed a bit toward her.

A movement from the bed caused the magistrate and Lucy to stir. The mistress was awake, gazing at the magistrate. “What is going on, dear?” she asked, her voice raspy. “What are you doing in here?”

The magistrate pulled his chair close to her side and held her hand. “My dear,” he said, raising her hand to his lips, “you are ill, very ill.”

The mistress’s lips trembled. “What do you mean?”

In short, measured words he told her, his voice despairing. Lucy slipped from the room so that they could be alone.