~ Fifteen ~
LOUISE TOSSED FITFULLY IN HER bed, lost to the fever.
Heather wiped her brow with a cool wet rag and whispered soothing words. She applied rosewater to her face and stepped aside when the doctor arrived.
However, when the doctor produced a glass bottle and produced a pair of tweezers, Heather stepped up, quite horrified. “You are not going to put those slimy creatures on her!”
The doctor sighed. He was old and tired. “Don’t be hysterical about it, miss. Leeching must be done.” He proceeded to pluck a leech from the bottle. “I understand your concerns, but rest assured, I do know what I am doing. You are not the first to object to this method and I am certain you won’t be the last, but it is tried and true.”
Heather put herself between the doctor and Louise. “No.”
“Now see here, miss. She must be bled,” the doctor insisted.
“No, neither Louise nor I believe in leeching. She has often said so, and I won’t allow it to be done to her.”
“Look, my dear, it will ease the fever, make her rest more comfortably,” he persisted.
“No, it will not. It will only drain her of her strength.” This was something Heather’s father had believed, and she did as well.
The doctor was exasperated. “You have not the authority to interfere…”
“Oh, but she has,” said a firm strong voice from the doorway. “Miss Martin has as much authority here at Brabant as I do.”
Heather ran to him. He was here, she thought thankfully, finally he had come. “Maurice, Louise collapsed in the garden. It appears as though she has contracted some kind of fever and the doctor wants to leech her.”
Maurice turned. “Doctor?”
“Indeed, as Miss Martin says,” he said somewhat testily. “Your sister has contracted a fever not unlike malaria. However, at this stage, I cannot be certain what it is. I am certain only of one thing, it is quite serious. We have had a few cases break out farther inland, and I have already lost two patients who have had similar symptoms.”
“Indeed, you say!” the comte snapped.
Heather could see he was seriously shocked and worried. “Maurice…you and she visited a place with a stagnant pond the other day. Could it be the water? Louise dipped her hands and handkerchief into the water when she was overheated. I recall her mentioning that to me. Could it be that?”
“If you won’t allow me to bleed her, you must keep watch, keep doing what Miss Martin has been doing with the rosewater and the soft damp rag. We can only hope the fever breaks.” He put a container on the night stand. “A little laudanum might help, but I wouldn’t depend on it. I shall look in on her tomorrow.”
“I will see you out,” the comte said as he politely led the doctor from the room.
Louise began to mumble. She opened her eyes and cried, “Blood…my husband…blood…”
Heather knew she was referring to the guillotine. Louise had confided in her about her grief, her fears, her dear husband, and her lost brother and his family.
Heather shooed the nightmare away with gentle words, and reapplied the cool rosewater. It seemed to calm Louise down and she rested quietly again. However, when the comte reappeared, he inclined his head to her and said softly, “I will see to her now.”
“Maurice, I will go down and brew her some sage tea. Papa often used it in the school whenever we had a child down with a fever.”
“Thank you, Heather,” Maurice said, and pulled up a chair to sit beside his sister.
She eyed him before she left the room and was filled with worry. Louise had to get well. She simply had to. How much could one man bear?
* * * * *
The kitchen was a huge rectangular room lined with pantry shelves and open shelving. One wall was totally dominated by a huge fireplace used as a stove. Within its crevices were niches holding copper kettles. Across its middle was an ingenious wrought-iron rotisserie, whose turning spit operated on the principle of heat and air. The heat would rise up the chimney and the rush of hot air would cause a blade within the height of the chimney to rotate, which in turn would cause a chain to revolve on its course, and voilà, an excellent rotisserie.
Heather had already met the cook, a large, round black woman with a floppy cap that always seemed to sit askew on her short dark curls. As Heather entered, the cook stood over an enormous pot of slowly simmering cherries, which she was preparing for jam.
The cook stopped her ministrations, left the wood ladle in the pot, and opened her eyes wide when she saw Heather.
“Ah, child, what is it?”
“Belle…her ladyship is ill, so ill,” Heather cried, and went into Belle’s waiting arms. They had become very close almost at once.
“Bless ya child, it is in the Lord’s hands.”
“Do we have sage?” Heather sniffed. “My father says sage tea does wonders.”
“Yessum, I’ll get on that right now. Her ladyship has been all kindness, and we’ll make her right, that we will.” Belle hurried about pulling out what she needed from the cupboard as she set the water to boil.
“Honey and lemon…yessum, we’ll add that,” Belle said as much to herself as she did to Heather. “It’s the swamp fever, it is. I’ve seen it afore, I have.”
“And did you…do you know of anything that was used that actually helped?”
“Yessum, but if I tells you, and then somethin’ goes wrong…?” Belle said uncertainly.
“Belle, do you trust the comte?”
“Yessum…we all does, but…the other white men?” She shook her head.
“Then I shall say I knew of this remedy from my books and asked you to prepare it. You have naught to fear. Only, what is it?”
“It grows right here at Brabant, it does,” Belle said.
Heather took her hands. “What is it?”
“Tamarind pulp,” Belle said tentatively.
Heather took up the tray Belle had prepared with the sage tea and said softly, “Belle, if her ladyship doesn’t improve…we’ll have to get a hold of this Tamarind pulp, so you think about that, yes?”
“Yessum,” Belle said, but looked worried all the same.
* * * * *
Abovestairs, Louise tossed violently. Now and then whimpering, calling for her dead husband, cursing Robespierre, and then sinking back against her pillow in a wretched sweat.
Maurice’s heart was wrenched and twisted as he wiped down his sister’s face with the cool rosewater, and spoke softly to her in his attempt to soothe her fitfulness.
“Non, ma petite soeur. Non…it is over, it is done. You are here with me. You must get well, be calm and rest. I need you, Louise. Please, for me, be calm,” he said quietly.
He settled back in his chair, feeling strangely exhausted. He put a hand to his face, as he was experiencing a great deal of discomfort. The breeze from the open windows did nothing to alleviate the fact that he felt hotter than usual. What was he going to do? Louise was fitful, and he couldn’t bear it if he lost her.
He stood from his chair in an attempt to walk to the balcony and get some air, but a dizziness took control of his limbs and he fell back onto his chair with a thump.
“Ah, no…” he said out loud as he realized he was dangerously ill. Not now.
Heather opened the door and started inside. The tisane with some crackers on a plate rested on the tray she carried towards Louise’s nightstand.
What met her gaze made her gasp and stop in place. She saw Maurice collapsed and unconscious in the chair beside Louise’s bed.
She called, “Maurice!” and hurried towards him, putting the tray down on the nightstand so she could reach and pull the bellrope. She yanked hard several times before she hurried back and knelt beside the comte. She touched his wrist and noted his pulse was slow, very slow. “Oh, no…Maurice.”
Bunky, who had been talking with one of the household servants, was the first to appear. “Miss Heather. What is it, what has happened?”
“He has the fever. Bunky…we need to get him to his bed,” Heather cried, and then watched the big black man, Roan, and Bunky manage the comte between them.
“Aye, we’ll see to him, get him into bed, and then what do you want us to do?” Bunky asked worriedly.
“I will be there in a moment. Take off his shirt and boots…make him comfortable, and I will be there as soon as I can get this into Louise.”
As she sat beside Louise, she felt a fear clutch her heart, but pushed it aside as she helped Louise lift her head so she could pour some of the lukewarm tisane into her.
Louise choked and cried out, “No…you are killing me. NO.”
“It will do you good,” Heather said. “Now…just a little more, darling, just a little more.”
Louise did manage to get some of the brew down before she fell back against her pillows.
Heather jumped to her feet and ran towards Maurice’s bedroom. Her beloved Louise and Maurice were in trouble, serious trouble, and she had to do something to make them well. She simply had to!