Since the night the carbuncle had opened Bruce had lain supine, never making a voluntary move. The restlessness, the delirium, the violence were gone and his strength had wasted until he was not able even to stir. He swallowed obediently whatever food or drink she put into his mouth, but the effort seemed to exhaust him. Much of the time, she knew, he slept, though his eyes were always closed and it was never possible to tell when he was awake or even whether he was conscious of being awake.
Amber worked ceaselessly, though after the bursting of the carbuncle she was able to get enough sleep, and she did her tasks with enthusiasm and even a kind of pleasure, certainly with satisfaction. Everything that Sarah had ever taught her about cooking and nursing and housekeeping came back to her now and she prided herself that she did a better job of all three than her maids could have done.
She did not dare bathe Bruce, but otherwise she kept him as clean as possible, and with Spong’s help she managed to change the sheets on the bed. The rest of the apartment was kept as immaculate as if she expected a visit from a maiden-aunt. She mopped the kitchen floor, washed the towels and sheets and napkins and her own smocks and ironed everything; every day she scoured the pewter dishes with bran and soap and set them before a hot fire to dry, which was the way Sarah had taught her to keep them shining and spotless. Her hands were beginning already to roughen and she had several small blisters, but that mattered no more to her than did the fact that her hair was oily and that she had not worn a speck of powder for a week and a half. When he begins to notice me, she told herself, I’ll take time for those things. Meanwhile, her only audience was Spong and the shop-keepers she saw when she went out to buy provisions, and they did not matter.
She had heard nothing at all from Nan and though she worried about her and the baby she tried to make herself believe that they were all right. As far as she knew there was no plague in the country. And of course it was very likely that the letter had not reached her at all. She knew Nan well enough to know that she could trust her loyalty and resourcefulness, and now she must do so and refuse to think anything but that they were safe and well.
Her own health continued as good as ever, a fact which she attributed to the unicorn’s horn, the Elizabethan gold coin she kept in her mouth, and her daily practice of taking a snip of her own hair, cutting it up fine and drinking it in a glass of water. This last was Spong’s suggestion and both of them followed it religiously, for it had seen Spong safely through eight houses full of plague. Occasionally she said a prayer, for good measure.
Dr. Barton had not come since his second call, and both Spong and Amber decided that he had either died or run away —as the plague got worse more and more of the doctors were leaving. But, as Bruce continued to improve, she did not trouble to find another one.
Every morning when she had fed Bruce his breakfast—usually a caudle—she changed the bandage on the great sloughing wound, washed his hands and face, cleaned his teeth as well as she could, and then sat down beside him to comb his hair. It was the moment she enjoyed most in each day, for her work kept her so busy that she had very little time to spend with him. Sometimes he looked up at her, but his eyes were dull and expressionless; she could not tell whether he even knew who it was bending over him. But each time that he looked at her she smiled, hoping for an answering smile.
And at last it came.
It was the tenth day after he had fallen sick and she sat on the bed facing him, intent on combing his hair, which was as crisp and healthy as it had ever been. She laid the flat side of her hand gently into one of its waves, smiling as she did so, deeply and truly happy. She realized then that he was watching her and that he actually saw her, knew who she was and what she was doing. A swift thrill ran over her flesh and as his mouth tried to smile at her she touched his cheek with her fingers, caressing.
“God bless you, darling—” His voice was soft and hoarse, scarcely more than a whisper, and he turned his head to kiss her fingers.
“Oh, Bruce—”
She could just murmur his name, for her throat had swollen until it ached, and a tear splashed down onto his cheek. She brushed the next one away before it could fall, and then his eyes closed again, his head turned wearily and he gave a light sigh.
