Rosamund was relieved to find the hall of Blithe Manor empty and called for Ashe. She’d already determined that Filip and Solomon could have her husband’s old room, the one Aubrey had claimed but had no present use for. Thomas could have Helene’s. She would ask Ashe to see to it the beds were made, the rooms aired—though, at present, that term took on a whole new meaning.
“Ashe?” she called again, before remembering her manners and welcoming Filip, Solomon and Thomas. The two boys stared at their surroundings, reminders that for all her hard work and lack of formality, Rosamund was a bona fide lady.
“Wait here,” she said to them and signaled to Bianca. Where was everyone? The corridor to the kitchen was dark and cool. At any time of day there were usually the sounds of chopping and bubbling pots, and the voices of the maids, footmen and certainly the cook could be heard. All was quiet. As Rosamund peered into the kitchen she could see the fire was lit, a pot sat over the hearth and evidence of activity was scattered all over the table—flour, half-peeled turnips, chopped carrots, a skinned coney as well as half-drunk bowls of chocolate and coffee and empty glasses. Rosamund picked one up and smelled it. Who would drink the cellared wine at this time of day down here? What was going on? Rosamund’s stomach fluttered. She liked this not.
Calling again, there was still no answer. She looked at Bianca, who shrugged. “Shall we try upstairs?”
Filip insisted on ascending first. The boys waited at the base of the stairs, their faces anxious. Certain they could all hear her heart beating, Rosamund used the bannister to propel herself forward as all her instincts shouted at her to retreat. A trickle of sweat slithered between her shoulder blades.
“Ashe?” she called again. Oh, thank the Lord! There was a response. It came from the withdrawing room.
With more confidence than she felt, Rosamund smiled at the others as Filip reached past her and opened the door.
With a cry, Bianca and Filip staggered backward. Rosamund pushed into the room, not quite believing what she saw.
Food was scattered across the floor. A jug of wine had been spilled on the rug. Empty glasses rolled nearby. But that wasn’t the worst. Slumped in the chairs by the window, eyes shut, mouths fallen open, were Fear-God and Glory.
Within three steps, she struck a wall of stench. She pressed her nose and mouth into the crook of her elbow. Wine, piss, vomit—a veritable soup lay spread across Glory’s lap—sweat and the unmistakable odor of sickness permeated the room the further she went in. Unable to help herself, she gagged and drew closer. Livid purple tokens were scattered across their cheeks and cascaded down their necks like a hell-spawned rash. Their half-undone shirts revealed it sprayed across their midriffs. Their legs were wide apart, as if some force didn’t allow them to close anymore. They were filthy.
They were infected.
She began to cough, the reek making her eyes water.
Fear-God jerked and opened his eyes. Rosamund let out a small scream. They were the color of claret.
“Rosie,” he croaked, trying to sit upright. “Ah, wondered where ye were. Sorry ’bout the mess. Said we’d be back. Only, before we could take shore leave, we were left to guard those bloody Quakers who’d been sat in the hull for weeks—fuckin’ bastards. Half the Godforsaken wretches were infected.” He spat. There was blood and a thick mucus.
Rosamund recoiled.
“Once we realized, we ran. Been hiding a few days. Be damned if we were getting back on board, ’specially since the cap’n’s been arrested. They have to find us ’fore they can hang us, innit that right?” He took a jagged breath. “Never find us here, in Lady Blithman’s fancy digs.” He struggled to sit up, close his legs. “Help us, Rosie, won’t ya?” he asked plaintively, hauling himself up, swaying a few times before stumbling toward her, arms outstretched. “Don’t feel so good. Not even yer wine helped . . .”
With a whimper, Rosamund turned and ran. She felt Fear-God grab hold of her collar; his strength hadn’t failed him. She swiftly undid the lace, and it came off in his hand. She fell forward. Filip caught her and swung her off her feet through the door. Bianca slammed it shut, and they leaned against it as she locked it with shaking hands.
“Rosie.” Fear-God’s muted voice was cracked, hoarse. “Rosie!” His hands pummeled the wood. “Help us.”
Rosamund fell to her knees and stared at Filip and Bianca.
Bianca slid down beside her. “What do we do now?”
Unable to trust the lock, Filip held the door; his eyes were wide with fear, his usually sallow cheeks leeched of color.
Rosamund leaned her head against the wood as bitter tears stung her eyes and her heart deflated. The dull thud of Fear-God’s fists tolled in her brain.
“Do?” She wanted to scream. Why did she have to be the one to decide? But she must. Matthew would expect it of her. Dear God, she expected it of herself.
She took a deep breath and said, “What we must.” She peeled herself away from the door. “We cannot leave and risk others. Anyway, the servants will have notified the authorities.”
“We’ll be quarantined,” whispered Filip, glancing down the stairs to where the boys waited. “Forty days.”
“With them.” Bianca’s terror made her accent thick.
Rosamund saw her own fear echoed in their eyes and reached once more for the comfort of Bianca’s fingers, twining them through her own. It was too late to worry about contact. The infection had already entered the house.
“Only if we last that long,” she said.