Page 61 of Feathers in the Wind
‘Ye’re awake then?’
Perdita turned her head and opened her eyes to see a small, red-faced woman standing over her. The woman placed a hand on her forehead.
‘Cool too. That’s good. Now drink this.’
Perdita swallowed. Her head and body no longer ached and the world no longer lurched and swam but her mouth tasted like the vats of hell and she doubted she had the strength to raise her head.
The woman slipped her arm under Perdita's shoulders and helped her to sit up, placing a mug to her lips.
‘Let’s see if ye can hold it down.’
Perdita drank the thin gruel and the woman set her back on the bolster.
‘How long have I been here?’ Perdita asked.
‘This is the second day,’ the woman replied, busying herself with plumping the bolster and smoothing down the bed clothes.
Perdita looked around the room, probably one of the best rooms the inn provided. The bed was comfortable and a fire burned in the hearth.
Adam's room. Of its occupant, she saw little evidence, save a wooden chest on which a pair of well-polished shoes stood, a pile of papers, a couple of books and a pen stand on the table. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, seeking some scent of him but all she could smell was dust and beeswax polish mingled with the rank smell of sickness.
‘Is Adam Coulter returned?’ Perdita forced herself to ask.
The woman shook her head. ‘Not yet. Obadiah expects him today.’ She paused and smiled. ‘Ye’re probably wondering whom I am. Captain Obadiah Hewitson is my husband. I’m Mary Hewitson.’
Perdita expected that Obadiah Hewitson was the solid, unremarkable officer she had first encountered downstairs and in whose arms she had been so violently ill.
‘Thank you for your kindness, Mistress Hewitson. Both of you.’
She shrugged. ‘Praise be to God for your swift recovery. I must confess, Mistress Coulter, ye caused me no small concern. I feared ye may be carrying plague.’
Perdita started at the use of the stolen name. When Adam returned, she would be unmasked and she feared his wrath as much as the shame of the pretence.
‘Have ye come a long way?’ Mary enquired.
‘Warwickshire.’
The woman put her hands on her hips and regarded her. ‘And why, pray, have ye trekked half way across England, risking life and limb in these perilous times?’
‘I have family business with him.’
Mary narrowed her eyes. ‘Is it ill news?’
Perdita nodded. ‘The worst news.’ To forestall what she knew would be the next question, she added, ‘It is for his ears only.’
‘Well lass, I doubt that ye’d have risked coming here if it were good news,’ Mary remarked. ‘I must leave you. There’s a bowl beside the bed, should you have need of it but I think the worst has passed.’ She briskly tucked in the sheets around Perdita. ‘Now sleep. Ye’ll need yer strength for when yer husband returns.’
The door clicked shut behind her good Samaritan and Perdita let out a breath. In the days since she had left Warwick, she had rehearsed her meeting with Adam and what she would say. Flat on her back, reeking of recent illness, was not part of the plan but there was precious little she could do about it. Obedient to Mary Hewitson's instructions she let herself drift into a peaceful, untroubled sleep.
* * *
Adam slidoff his horse's back, tossing the reins to the inn's ostler. Pulling off his gauntlets he strode into the inn.
‘Hewitson!’
His second-in -command rose from his chair by the hearth, knocking the ash from his pipe. Adam threw his gauntlets on to the table, followed by his hat.
‘What news, sir?’ Hewitson enquired.
