Alys felt great pity for the woman. She had always been kind, unlike her daughter, who probably didn’t even know any of the servants’ names, except for that of Mistress Helmsley. But it seemed she knew Alys’s, since it was her express wish that Alys tend to her mother. Maybe it was a punishment for the humiliation Alys had caused her months ago, or maybe Lady Marjorie believed Alys had some skill with nursing and justified her own lack of involvement by leaving her mother in the care of someone she trusted to look after her. Millie relieved Alys for an hour in the afternoon and an hour in the evening, so that she could see to her personal needs and have her meals, but otherwise, Alys was stuck in the sickroom with nothing to do but wait for the older woman to die. She wasn’t even allowed to sleep in her own room, instead bedding down on a truckle bed by the fire.
Jeremy had offered to speak to Marjorie and demand that Alys and Millie take turns nursing Mistress Ashcombe, but Alys had convinced him not to. Normally, a man in his position wouldn’t involve himself in these domestic arrangements, and to show any favoritism toward Alys would only alert his wife to his feelings for her, which were too close to the surface as it was. Jeremy had reluctantly conceded that Alys was right, but his resentment toward his wife increased daily.
Having helped the invalid to use the pot, Alys covered it with a linen towel and headed outside to empty it out in the woods. Mistress Ashcombe consumed so little, she barely made water or moved her bowels, but when she did, the results were so foul that Alys thought she’d be sick by the time she made it outside. She emptied the pot, rinsed it in the brook, and leaned against a stout tree, looking up at the leaden sky. She thought it would snow before nightfall. Alys gulped in the frigid air, wishing she could remain outside for a while longer. The sickroom was stiflingly hot, the stench of Mistress Ashcombe’s unwashed body and greasy hair overwhelming. Even the bedlinens, which were changed once a week, reeked of stale sweat, vomit, and piss.
Alys closed her eyes. She had to get back inside but couldn’t seem to find the strength. She felt so tired these days, so weak. One moment she was ravenously hungry, and the next she’d vomit everything she’d eaten, heaving until she was completely empty, like the chamber pot she was still holding. She was grateful that Mistress Ashcombe slept for hours on end, since it gave her an opportunity to take a quick nap as she huddled in the chair by the bedside. She’d felt so healthy and strong only a few months ago, but it was as if the mistress’s illness had somehow infected Alys and robbed her of her vitality.
Jeremy was concerned for her. He visited his mother-in-law daily as an excuse to see Alys and bring her treats. Alys wished he could lie down with her on the truckle bed and hold her close, but anyone could walk in at any time, so she usually waited until Mistress Ashcombe was in a deep sleep, induced by the juice of the poppy that Dr. Williams had prescribed for the pain, and sneaked out during the night, creeping to Jeremy’s room to spend a half hour alone with him. Those stolen moments kept her sane in the face of increasing melancholy.
Peeling herself away from the tree, Alys turned back, her steps slow and measured. If only she could go to her room for an hour or so, lie down, and close her eyes. The attic room was freezing compared to the overheated chamber she spent most of her day in, but the cold would be welcome, as long as it didn’t smell of a decaying body.
Alys suddenly stopped walking, her breath catching as a frightening realization settled in her mind. Her courses had never been regular, not like her mother’s or Millie’s, but they usually did make an appearance at least once every two months. She hadn’t bled since early September, and it was now nearly the middle of December. Three months. She’d had no reason to worry before, but now there could be a different reason for her lack of menses.
“Oh, dear Lord,” Alys moaned. “How could I have been so stupid?”
Her hand went to her belly, which was flat and taut from lifting buckets of water and carrying armloads of firewood. There was only one way to know for certain if she was with child, but she’d have to put her trust in Old Maude, who had curtailed her activities to midwifery since having to poison her beloved cat to prove to the villagers that Fig wasn’t her familiar and she’d had nothing to do with the outbreak of the smallpox. Alys had feared Maude since she was a child. Maude’s eyes were so dark in her pale, wrinkled face that it made one feel as if she could see straight into one’s soul and feed on one’s sins. She didn’t need a cat to prove she was a witch, nor did she need to fear the villagers. The Devil would protect her, or so Bess
