I’ve seen outbreaks of smallpox. At first the blisters are filled with a watery fluid, and the fever subsides. Very shortly, though, they fill up with pus and the fever returns along with delirium. Prepare yourself for this dangerous stage.
She heard someone at the bottom of the stairs and shouted, “Lord Montgomery has about twenty-six pox at the watery stage.”
Mr. Burke called back, “Once they turn into pustules, they take at least five days before they start to dry up, if—”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but Velvet knew he had been about to say, “If he lives that long.”
“Thank you. Is anyone else showing symptoms?”
“No, my lady, but if you start with a headache, I want you to promise me that you won’t hide it from me.”
“I promise, Mr. Burke.”
Velvet returned to the bedchamber, dispirited at the thought of Greysteel’s fever returning. She knelt at the hearth and lit a new fire with paper and kindling.
How provident that I learned how to light a fire when I lived in Saint-Germain.
She smiled sadly as she remembered the difficult times in exile, but realized that she was a better person because of the lessons hardship had taught her. She thought back to her childhood and laughed.
Oh, Lizzy, you were so spoiled!
She washed her hands and face, quickly ran the brush over her hair and donned the peach-colored gown. Then she returned to the chair beside the bed.
“Thank you,” Greysteel murmured.
She smiled into his eyes. “You may not talk—only listen. You have to save your strength.”
“I love you, Velvet.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. He had never told her that before.
Perhaps he mistakes love for gratitude.
“I love you, Greysteel. I’m sorry, but by tonight you will have your fever back. You have always been a warrior and I want you to fight the coming battle with all your might. You are not alone. I am here with you and if we join our forces, we will be victorious!”
“You are my shield, my buckler,” he murmured. His eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep.
Velvet used this time to break her fast. She ate the food that had been left at the top of the stairs. She set down the empty platter and took the wine back to the bedchamber.
By nightfall, the vesicles on Greysteel’s body had filled with pus, and his temperature soared. She sponged him over and over with cooling water, but in spite of her efforts he became delirious. He threw off his covers and began to rave. It was all about death and dying and Velvet realized he was speaking of the young soldiers who had served under him. He ranted about surrendering them to General Monck.
The revelations tore at her heart. “You surrendered control to save their lives!”
He sat up and grabbed her arms. “He never loved her! She died for me. . . . I’ll see her at last.”
Velvet did not pull away. She guessed he was speaking of his mother. “No, Greysteel! I need you here. Our child needs his father. You must fight
Death
; it is our enemy!”
His grip tightened. “You’ll leave me.”
“No, no, I won’t. I’ll stay here with you,” she vowed.
“You love Charles.... You’ll go to Charles.”
“I promise on my soul I will not go to Charles. I will stay with you forever. I love
you
, Greysteel. . . . I
need
you!”
“Velvet?”
“Yes, it’s
Velvet
,” she assured him.
Gradually, his desperate hold on her slackened and he fell back to the bed. His raving stopped and though he did not close his eyes, his restless movements quieted.
Is he leaving me?
The thought terrified her so much she poured herself some wine to give her courage for what might come. She drained the glass and then she lay down beside him and took his hand. She put her other hand on her belly and gained a little comfort from knowing that all three of them were together and touching. “I’m here, love. I won’t leave you.”
The next thing she knew, it was morning, and Velvet realized that she had slept. She jumped up in alarm and rushed to the other side of the bed to see if her husband was still alive. As she bent close, his eyes opened and she heaved a sigh that the crazy light had gone out of them. His fever was coming down, his senses were returning to him, and she dared to hope that the crisis had passed.
I shouldn’t have had that damned wine. My head is throbbing!
“You are going to live, Greysteel! The danger is over. You are going to recover from smallpox!” She didn’t know if it was true, but she wanted him to hear it and believe it.
At St. James’s Palace, King Charles knelt in prayer at his sister ’s bedside, while a priest administered the last rites.
“She’s gone, Sire.” Dr. Fraser placed his hand on Charles’s shoulder. “Her suffering is over.”
Charles got wearily to his feet.
Disease and Death play no favorites. A princess has no more sway than a page.
“Thank you, Dr. Fraser, I know you did all that was humanly possible. Her husband died from smallpox, you know, and how ironic that I survived it when I was a boy, yet within weeks it has taken my brother and my sister.”
“You had a
mild
dose of smallpox, as did I. All my nurses have survived the pox. It is no wonder that servants who are pockmarked are in high demand.”
“How is Lady Beatrice?”
“I have hopes she will survive, but one of the Royal Guards who accompanied Princess Mary from Dover has come down with it. I hope Lord Montgomery wasn’t infected.”
Charles remembered the look of fear on Velvet’s face when she learned it was virulent smallpox. “Pox plays no favorites.”
Charles spoke to the priest. “Would you accompany me to my mother’s apartments, Father? The queen will be inconsolable.”
An hour later, the king returned to his own chambers at Whitehall. He had many difficult letters to write. The first and foremost would have to be to his late sister’s son, William.
Is there a kind way to tell a boy who is not yet eleven that his mother has died?
Charles knew that there was not.
Though the king did not wish to become embroiled in a diplomatic squabble, he knew he would do his best to fulfill Mary’s last request. He would write in support that William be made captain general of the Dutch Republic.
With a heavy sigh, he dipped his quill and wrote to his beloved sister Minette. It was the second time in as many months that he had had to inform her about a sibling’s death. Charles sent up a silent prayer to keep his youngest sister safe from all things that might harm her, including her effeminate French husband, Philippe.
I’d love to invite Minette to visit England, but if she caught smallpox, the guilt would kill me.
Charles wrote hurried notes to his brother James, who had taken himself off to Hampton Court, and to Barbara, who was also absent from Whitehall.
Both have excellent survival instincts!
He summoned Will Chiffinch and asked him to deliver the notes.
Before he forgot and other pressing matters took his time and attention, Charles wrote a letter to Velvet at Roehampton.
My dearest Velvet:
It is with great sadness that I tell you my sister Mary has gone to her eternal rest. She must have picked up the virulent smallpox infection from the ship on which she sailed to England. To my great sorrow, sailing vessels cannot be thoroughly cleansed of these dreaded contagions.
I have written to Minette with the sad news and hope you will write her also. I know a letter from you will greatly cheer her. Dr. Fraser has every hope that Mary’s maid of honor Lady Beatrice will survive, and we are praying for her recovery.
I most sincerely hope with all my heart that Greysteel escapes this pestilence. I will never forget the look of fear on your face for your husband when you learned that he had been in close contact with a victim of smallpox. It told me how deeply you love him. You should never have gone to Roehampton to warn him, risking the infection to yourself, but I know nothing in this world could have prevented you from going to him. I envy Montgomery your devotion, because I know I will never have so great a love.
Please let me know that all is well with you. After my coronation, when Catherine comes from Portugal to be my wife and queen, I know I could have no more worthy Lady of the Bedchamber to serve her than you, Velvet. Whitehall is not the same without the Earl and Countess of Eglinton.
Your devoted servant,
Charles Rex
He sanded the letter, melted the wax and pressed his seal ring into it. Charles had never felt so alone in years. He went into the anteroom and spoke to Prodgers. “Would you see that a messenger takes this letter to Lady Montgomery at Roehampton?” He rubbed his hands together as if to rid them of something that clung. “I shall bathe and change my clothes. Then would you be good enough to find Buckingham for me? I don’t wish to dine alone tonight.”
Charles walked across to the window and looked out at London. The snow, which only days ago had made everything look pristine, had now turned to dirty slush. He knew and accepted that a pristine world was an illusion. Dirty slush was the reality.
Greysteel pushed the covers from his body and sat up. He looked down at his chest with critical eyes, assessing the crusted scabs that decorated his flesh. His hands went to his cheeks and forehead and he realized that Velvet had been telling him the truth: His face had escaped the scarring vesicles.
He swung his legs to the carpet beside her chair and reached out to gently touch his sleeping wife’s hand. His fingers jerked back in alarm.
She’s on fire!
“Velvet—sweetheart—wake up!” It was then that he realized she was not asleep. Her lids were only half closed and beneath them her eyes were glazed with fever. “Christ’s blood, I’ve given you the smallpox!”
He left the bedchamber, went to the head of the stairs and called down. “Mr. Burke!”
In a moment he heard Burke’s joyous voice carry up the staircase. “My lord, you are going to recover!”
“Don’t come up. Velvet is burning with fever. I’m going to get fresh sheets, then put her to bed. I’m weak as a bloody kitten, Burke—can you get me something to put in my stomach?”
“Right away, my lord. Your wife wouldn’t listen—she insisted on nursing you herself.”
“Yes, we both know she can be an imp of Satan.”
“I’m so glad you understand. Do you fancy some ale?”
“I’d kill for a jug of ale. Can you brew me some borage for Velvet’s fever?”
“We have some in the kitchen. It’s so bitter, you refused to drink much of what we made for you.”
“Leave it at the top of the stairs.” Greysteel hurried to the linen press for clean sheets and towels, then returned to Velvet. He stripped the bed and remade it. Then he filled the washbowl with cool water and knelt before his wife.
He removed her clothing with gentle hands and his gut knotted when he saw how flushed her skin was beneath her garments. He sponged her face, arms, shoulders and breasts, over and over with the cool water, and then dabbed her dry with the towel. He touched his lips to her temple. “My angel love.”
He picked her up tenderly and laid her on the bed naked. There was no way he was going to struggle putting on and taking off a nightgown. A sheet would do to cover her nakedness until she began to shiver.
When he heard noises in the hall, he went out to retrieve a kettle of stew, a jug of ale, and the decoction of borage and water.
Thank God he brought stew and not broth. I’ll likely need all my strength to get that vile potion into Velvet.
Greysteel ate the food slowly. He didn’t want to aggravate his empty stomach. When he had eaten, he quaffed the ale, relishing every mouthful. He set down the empty tankard and focused his full attention on Velvet.
“You asked me to give my control to you and though it was difficult, I did it, sweetheart. You saved my life, and now I am going to save yours. But I need your help, Velvet—I cannot do it alone. Do you understand me?”
Her eyes, which were a dark glittering green, sought his. Her fevered lips could form no words.
His big calloused hands raised her head and he tipped the borage drink against her lips. When she took a few sips, he praised her and encouraged her to take more. He knew she still understood him. Later on, when she became delirious, he knew, she would not.
“Velvet, my love, in the past I know you have had trouble putting your trust in me. This time, however, I am giving you no choice. You must trust me with your entire mind, your heart and your soul when I tell you that you
will
recover. I would never lie to you about something this crucial.”
May God forgive me!
He tipped the cup once more and was amazed that she did not balk at the bitter potion.
Perhaps females are better patients than males. This particular female has every bit as much courage as a soldier.
The thought brought a lump to his throat.
Greysteel sat beside her until she slept. Then he went to the mirror and examined his torso, twisting about and counting his smallpox scabs.
It’s a miracle I survived!
He picked up a pot of the face cream Velvet had made and daubed a little on each of his sores. It was common belief that they were better off left open to the air, to dry, but his experience had taught him that wounds healed better if they were soaked until the scabs came off, and then kept moist with ointment. Firsthand knowledge had taught him that a moist environment sped healing and reduced scarring. He decided to experiment with his own pox, so that he could use the knowledge on Velvet, if she survived. He slipped on a shirt.
Take that thought out of the air immediately. She will survive!
During the next three days, Velvet’s survival became doubtful as her fever raged higher until she became delirious and then began to vomit.