“Her pulse is steady. Her breathing is even. She’s asleep,” Anna said. “Kyle, do you think you can carry her up to her room? She wouldn’t want to wake up here and find everyone gawking at her. We’ll tuck her into bed, build up the fire, and let her sleep it off.”
“Of course,” Kyle said. He lifted a limp Yvonne off the sofa and carried her up the stairs. I followed him and opened the door to Yvonne’s room, which was thankfully unlocked. Kyle placed her on the bed and used the other half of the duvet to cover her, creating a sort of sleeping bag, before turning his attention to the fire laid in the grate.
“Don’t worry. She’ll be all right,” he said. “Let’s leave her be, shall we?”
We returned downstairs to find Lisa and Alastair in the sitting room with Anna and Paul. Lisa looked pale, and I wondered if this incident might somehow raise their insurance premiums if word got out. I supposed they had to keep the wine cellar locked for safety reasons and neglected to, but how could they have anticipated that Yvonne would raid the cellar and get so drunk? And high.
“Thank you for your assistance, everyone,” Lisa said. “How about I make us all some coffee?”
“That would be lovely,” Anna said. “It was cold out there.”
Paul nodded and settled in one of the chairs. I took a seat on the sofa and looked toward Kyle, but he had already left the room.
Not in the mood for company, I excused myself and headed upstairs, my mind on the name I’d seen in the cellar. Alys, I thought affectionately as I lay down on the bed. She was truly real to me now.
Chapter 19
Alys
Alys pretended not to notice as Bess studied her frowning countenance in the beaten square of metal that served as a mirror. Her once flawless skin now had several red marks, but it wasn’t so bad, not really. Bess, being rather vain, was deeply upset but said nothing, knowing how close they’d all come to losing more than their complexions. It had taken nearly a fortnight for the three of them to come out on the other side of the illness, but they had survived, unlike many others, who now lay in the St. Botolph’s graveyard, their graves marked by makeshift crosses until those would be replaced by permanent markers.
Desperate for some air, Alys put a wide-brimmed hat over her cap to shade her face and headed outside. The kitchen garden needed weeding, a task that always fell to her, since Bess hated doing it. The August sun felt hot on her shoulders, but she didn’t mind. It was better than the endless rain that had fallen the previous week, the moisture making the weeds and mushrooms sprout wildly, their caps pale and spongy.
Alys was nearly finished when she saw Nell Donne, the miller’s daughter, who was out for a walk. Nell looked pale and drawn after her illness, her face liberally covered with angry red welts. She walked slowly, as if every step required great effort, but smiled in a friendly manner and sauntered over when she saw Alys. Nell was always eager for a chat.
“How are ye feeling?” Alys asked, taking a moment to stretch her aching back.
“Better,” Nell said. “The sickness seems to be abating. There were no new cases yesterday or the day before.”
“Thank God,” Alys said with feeling.
Nell gave her an odd look, her eyes narrowing speculatively as if she couldn’t quite decide whether to share something incendiary. Nell and her mother were the village gossips, so Alys made sure never to tell either woman anything she didn’t want repeated. Having decided, Nell tilted her head to the side, watching Alys much as a falcon fixates on its prey just before the dive.
“People are talking, Alys,” she said, lowering her voice dramatically.
“What about?”
“Ye.”
Alys peered at Nell from beneath the brim of her hat. “What can they possibly have to say about me?”
“They’re saying how it’s odd that ye and yer kin got off with only a mild case of the pox. Ye’re the only household not to lose anyone. And ye’re completely unmarked,” Nell added bitterly.
Alys’s hand subconsciously went to her face. “I got lucky, I reckon,” she said. “Bess has a few marks.”
“But not nearly as bad as some. How did ye manage it, Alys?”
Alys shrugged. “I nursed Will and Bess until I fell ill, and then Will nursed me. He was better by then.”
“It’s odd, though, ain’t it?” Nell said.
“I don’t take yer meaning,” Alys replied, her face growing warm with indignation. What was Nell getting at?
“Everyone knows ye weren’t keen to marry John Selby, and now he’s dead.”
“Are ye suggesting that I had something to do with his death?” Alys demanded, gaping at the woman.
“No, but it’s what ye wanted.”
“I never wanted him dead, Nell,” Alys snapped. “And there are dozens of people who’re dead. Did I supposedly kill them too just to disguise my true purpose?”
“I’m not saying that,” Nell demurred.
“Then what are ye saying, exactly?” Ye cold-hearted besom, Alys added mentally.
Alys glared at Nell, daring her to accuse her outright. She could understand people’s envy. The Baileys had got off easy; she knew that. Alys the easiest of all. Her illness had been limited to a fever and ache in her limbs that lasted for several days. She had never got the dreaded sores in her mouth, nor did she break out in a rash. Whatever the reason, she was grateful. Bess’s mother had died, as well as her cousin Christabel, who had left behind a newborn baby. And Nell had lost her younger brother. The smallpox didn’t discriminate, nor did it intentionally spare anyone.
