Page 52 of Feathers in the Wind
‘Oh Simon, you can’t be ill,’ wailed Bess. ‘The wedding. The banns have been called.’
‘I shall be hale by the wedding,’ her brother said with what he no doubt thought was a reassuring smile. It gave his face a twisted ghoulish look and despite herself, Perdita shivered. A premonition as cold as the fog that still enshrouded them touched her shoulder.
‘A bath and my own bed and I will be a new man.’ Simon took Perdita’s hand. ‘Now I’m here with you. Good of Coulter to let me go like that. What did you say to him?’
‘He has proved himself a good friend. Now let’s get you cleaned up and into bed,’ she said, slipping an arm around his waist.
The redoubtable Ludovic was already by her side. Under his firm guidance, Simon was bathed and put to bed with a warm brick and a dose of one of Perdita's febrifuges.
But by the next morning, Simon had a high fever, and he shook so violently his teeth chattered. More worryingly a rash had begun to spread across his body. Perdita sent for a doctor from Stratford who looked at Simon, bled him and confirmed Perdita’s worst fear.
‘You say he’s been a prisoner at Warwick? I have had reports of fever among the prisoners there.’ He paused. ‘Spotted fever.’
Perdita took a deep breath. Her father had been an apothecary in London where spotted fever was not uncommon. It ravaged towns and armies where too many bodies were forced into close contact with each other. Unless God was merciful, the doctor may as well have delivered a death sentence.
Hardly knowing what to say, Perdita shared the news with Joan and Bess and gave orders they were both to stay away. She and Ludovic would see to Simon’s nursing.
‘But you, Perdita,’ Bess said. ‘You don’t want to catch it.’
Perdita lifted a face devoid of hope. ‘What does it matter, Bess?’
If she contracted the fever, no one would grieve.
By the evening, Simon’s fever had worsened into delirium. Ludovic's grim face confirmed her diagnosis. He too had seen it too many times to have any doubts.
‘Is there nothing we can do?’ Perdita pleaded. ‘Should we send for the doctor again?’
Ludovic shook his head. ‘There is nothing he can do except pray.’
On the third day it was clear that unless the fever broke, it would kill Simon. Even Ludovic's extreme measures of fresh air and cold water proved no assistance. Simon's moments of lucidity came more rarely and he tossed and turned so violently that it took both Ludovic and Perdita to subdue him.
In the darkest hours of the night that should have been her wedding night, Perdita maintained her vigil by his bed. She slept, sitting in a chair, her face in her arms on the bed.
She awoke with a start at the touch of a hand on her hair.
‘Simon?’ she blinked up at him.
‘You’re so lovely,’ he whispered.
Hope sprang into Perdita's heart. Had the fever broken at last? But when she held the light to his face, she saw the shadow of death in the face of the man who was to have been her husband.
‘Perdita?’
‘Dearest.’
‘I’m dying. Don't lie. I can see it in your face.’
‘It’s the spotted fever,’ she said quietly. ‘Some do recover from it.’
‘Some, but not many,’ Simon whispered. ‘Perdita, I would have seen you as my bride.’
‘You will yet,’ Perdita said fiercely.
‘No,’ he sighed. ‘In the last year I have seen more death than any man should see in a lifetime and I know I’m dying. My only regret is that I must leave you.’
Tears filled her eyes. She clutched his hand, holding on to the life of this dear good man.
‘I like to think we would have got on well together, even if you don’t love me.’
