28

Running stitch: a simple stitch, quick to execute, often to hem or outline an embroidery design.

Laced running stitch: threads laced through the loops of running stitch to give a decorative effect.

Ambrose insisted that the three of us must eat together in the dining room that evening, as though everything was normal.

‘God has provided us with the fruits of the land so that we may be fit to serve him to the best of our abilities, and who are we to refuse his bounty? Come downstairs at once, both of you,’ he commanded. ‘For I have a great appetite upon me. The boy will take no harm left alone for an hour.’

The thought of eating anything at all made me queasy, but his orders must be obeyed. He said grace and we ate in silence. Maggie had produced a meal of decent, plain fare: a strong broth soup along with cold meats, pickled walnuts, heavy dark bread and butter. This good wholesome food should have been a blessing, but each mouthful tasted like ashes.

Ambrose seemed determined to draw out the agony for as long as possible, piling his plate high and chewing with such deliberation that I began to wish he might choke. Sitting there under his baleful eye felt like a punishment, and I could think of nothing but Peter alone upstairs, struggling for breath.

At last it was over, and he rose from the table. ‘I’m going out,’ he said.

That night, Peter was overtaken with a high fever and each time he cried out the blood seemed to freeze in my veins. Louisa and I worked together: talking in soft, calming tones, holding him in our arms, trying to make him take sips of water containing the herbal infusion the doctor had provided. We made a good team, doing all we could to keep alive the boy whom we both loved more than ourselves.

He began to babble, unintelligibly at first, but then I heard a name that I recognised. ‘He’s talking about angels, Louisa,’ I said, panic-stricken. ‘He’s not leaving us, is he?’

She frowned at me, confused.

‘He must be at the gates of heaven,’ I said, close to tears. ‘He can see the Angel Gabriel.’

‘Oh dearest, don’t worry. It’s his friend he’s calling for. He’s done that before.’ She turned to Peter. ‘Gabriel’s not here at the moment, darling. But we are here, your mother and your Auntie Agnes. We’ll look after you, don’t you worry.’

After about two hours, his rigours calmed, the heat dissipated. Louisa held a feather to his mouth, where it fluttered slightly. ‘His breathing is more regular. He will sleep for a few hours now.’ She leaned across and stroked my cheek, tenderly as a mother. ‘Go to your bed, my dearest, you have had a very long day.’

I was too exhausted to protest, and it was already past midnight. I fell onto the bed fully clothed and slept soundly until the morning.

Shortly after breakfast, Doctor Willingshaw arrived. A tall, imposing man with a powdered wig and extravagant grey whiskers, he strode into the house as though he owned the place.

‘Ambrose, my good fellow,’ he boomed. ‘How is the boy today?’

My brother-in-law spoke with such authority that you would believe he had watched over Peter’s bedside all night. ‘He suffered the high fever again last evening, and we feared for his life once more, I’m afraid, but he is calm again this morning.’

The doctor pursed his lips. ‘In my long experience, there is only so much fever a small frame can survive,’ he said, gloomily. ‘We shall have to administer further purging, I’m afraid. I have them here.’ He patted the large leather case beneath his arm.

‘No!’ Louisa leapt forward, taking her husband’s arm. ‘Not again. Please, Ambrose.’

He batted her away like an irritating fly. ‘Do you want the boy to live?’

I had to admire her courage. Once again she took his arm, pleading. This time he pushed her harder so that she tumbled back against me and I had to grab her shoulder to save her from falling.

‘You will obey me, wife,’ he said in a fierce whisper. ‘The doctor knows best. If it causes you to be squeamish then I suggest you stay away. Take your sister out for a walk or something, for goodness’ sake.’ He turned on his heel and followed the doctor upstairs.

As we left the house, there were tears in Louisa’s eyes. Even the power of her compassion for the boy whom we both loved so much was no match for her husband’s merciless desire for control. We trudged the orchards side by side without speaking, in the mutual acknowledgement that any subject other than Peter was simply too trivial to discuss. Beyond our shared anxiety for his welfare and longing for his safe recovery, there was nothing to say.

The clouds had disappeared overnight and the damp grass steamed in the warmth of the sun. The birds were celebrating loud enough to raise the dead, butterflies flittered on a light breeze and the hedges buzzed with bees hunting for nectar. At one point we spied a small deer and even in the brief moment before it slipped away into the undergrowth I caught a glimpse of its beautiful brown pelt, the bright eyes, the tall ears rimmed with black, the flash of its white tail.

In normal times I would have been cheered by this display of nature’s vibrancy and abundance, its complexity and beauty, but today it seemed illusory and unreal, even cruel. Did the world not know that just a few hundred yards away our boy was hovering between life and death? The incongruity was too painful to contemplate.

We had been walking just fifteen minutes and had reached the corner of the orchard when Louisa spoke. ‘It’s no good. I cannot bear to be away. Even watching him suffer is better than not being there at all.’ Without further words, we turned and set off in the direction from which we had just come.

As we climbed the stairs my heart quailed. What was this treatment Louisa feared so much? The bedroom door was ajar; she hesitated a second before gently easing it open. The sight before us could not have been more shocking; my boy was being subjected to what looked like a barbaric form of torture. Over his pale, naked torso writhed a legion of great black worms as fat as a man’s fingers and rivers of red blood streaked from his body, like those paintings of Christ on the cross.

In an instant, Ambrose was looming over us. ‘I thought I told you to stay away? How dare you disobey me?’ He slammed the door in our faces, and Louisa fell into my arms.

‘Oh Agnes, I cannot endure it,’ she cried.

I remembered how Aunt Sarah had recommended leeching for Anna. The French doctor had dismissed the idea as outdated and ineffective, but we were powerless to save Peter from his fate.

Any words of comfort would be gratuitous.

That afternoon, after the doctor had left and Ambrose had gone out on his rounds once more, Louisa and I returned to Peter’s bedside. We washed away the blood with warm water and I went to lift him so that she could replace the soiled undersheet. How light he was. Even as I held him he did not waken, and I feared that he might have left us. But his heart continued to beat and his chest to draw breath, if only slightly, then enough to sustain life.

Afterwards, as we rested, sitting each side of him, Louisa’s eyes began to close. ‘Go to your bed, sister,’ I said. ‘I will call you if there is any change.’

Once I was alone, I took out the book of Shakespeare sonnets that Jane had lent to me after our dinner with Mr Garrick, intending to read some of them aloud to Peter. They were rhythmic enough, their subjects not too controversial or distressing. The sound of my voice might reassure him, or even encourage him to open his eyes, I thought.

But it was too dark to make out the words so I drew back the curtains just a few inches so that if Ambrose returned I could quickly pull them closed once more.

It was then I saw, in a slim shaft of sunlight slipping between the drapes, the glass bowl set on the dresser, covered with a beaded muslin cloth. I lifted the cloth and instantly regretted it, for squirming around in the water were those huge black leeches, fattened from their feast on Peter’s precious blood. The very sight of them made my stomach churn. I quickly replaced the muslin cover, sat down and took up my book, trying to erase what I had seen, but their malign presence was already branded into my mind’s eye.

It didn’t take me long to decide what to do, even knowing that it would incur Ambrose’s inevitable wrath. I opened the casement, took up the bowl and threw its contents into the flowerbed below. Those disgusting creatures would make a fine meal for the birds. Then I refilled the bowl from the ewer and replaced it onto the dresser, covering it carefully with the beaded cloth once more, as though it had never been disturbed.

The reckoning arrived sooner than expected. After supper that evening there was a knock at the door.

‘Dr Willingshaw, what an unexpected pleasure,’ Ambrose said. ‘How kind of you to drop by again.’ As I said, he always plays the perfect gentleman.

‘How is the patient?’

This time, he deferred to Louisa. ‘Tell him, wife.’

‘Much the same,’ she whispered.

‘Depending on how he fares overnight, we can administer the treatment again in the morning if necessary,’ the doctor said, as he and Ambrose left the room and headed upstairs.

Louisa and I crept upstairs and waited outside the chamber door, listening with ears peeled. I prayed that he would not look under the beaded cloth, but this time my plea fell on deaf ears.

‘What is this?’ the doctor said. ‘Where have they gone?’

I imagined the two men scanning the floor and peering under the bed and the dresser, foolishly searching for the missing leeches.

‘They must have escaped somehow.’

‘Do you take me for an idiot? They must have been stolen, sir.’

‘That is impossible, for there has been no one in the house except ourselves, doctor.’ Ambrose sounded surprisingly calm. ‘But please do not be concerned. Of course if they cannot be found, we will recompense you in full.’

‘What on earth . . .?’ my sister mouthed. I grabbed her hand and drew her along the landing into my chamber.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered.

‘What? You took the leeches?’

I nodded. ‘I threw them out of the window into the flowerbed. I couldn’t bear to let him suffer a second time.’

To my great surprise, she gave a little laugh. ‘Good girl,’ she said.

‘But Ambrose . . .?’

‘Do not worry, dearest. I will deal with him.’ She squeezed my hand briefly, and we waited until we heard the two men descending the stairs and saying their farewells, followed by Ambrose’s footsteps along the corridor to his study, and the door closing.

All the while a powerful knot of fear twisted in my stomach; I was expecting him to storm back upstairs at any moment. But he was too cunning to display his rage so openly.

That night I persuaded Louisa to take some rest, and resumed my vigil at Peter’s bedside.

At around midnight I heard the door of Ambrose’s study open and held my breath as his footsteps ascended the stairs, expecting him to confront me. But he passed by and went to his own chamber, or so I thought. All was quiet.

And then I heard it. ‘What is this, wife? You have turned thief?’

There was an inaudible reply, followed by heavy footsteps and a kind of deep animal growl. ‘Do you know what happens when you disobey me?’

A horrible, heavy silence filled the house.

‘You must be punished, wife. To cleanse you of your sin.’

‘No, Ambrose, wait. I can explain.’

‘It is only because I love you.’

‘No, please, no.’ Her anguished pleading brought me to my feet, running along the corridor. I flung open the door to see a terrifying tableau set before me: Louisa standing defiant as Ambrose loomed over her with his arm raised and fist clenched.

‘No!’ I shouted, rushing between them.

His fist hit my face with a blow that seemed to lift me right off my feet and I felt my cheekbone crack. The force of it threw me backwards onto Louisa, and we both fell to the floor.

‘It was not Louisa,’ I managed to gasp. ‘It was me. Do what you will, Ambrose, but spare my sister. She’s done nothing wrong.’

‘You!’ His eyes were alight, red embers in the darkened room. ‘You?’ he bellowed. ‘So this is how you repay our generosity, is it, you little bastard?’

As he raised his fist once more I covered my head with my arms, waiting for the pain, but it never came. Beside me, Louisa began so sob.

‘Stop your whining, woman,’ he said, pacing the floor like a caged bear. And then, in a low snarl: ‘Whatever am I going to do with the pair of you?’ The footsteps ceased right beside us and my heart seemed to stop. The menace was almost more petrifying than the reality.

‘I suppose you know what the Bible says about thieves?’

Silence.

‘Speak, girl.’

The pain in my cheek was blinding. ‘No, sir,’ I managed to mutter. ‘I do not.’

‘If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off. Think on this, Agnes, and pray for your salvation.’

He turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

After a few moments Louisa raised herself and went to the dresser, dunking a towel into the jug.

‘Here, hold this to your eye.’ Every dab felt like the jabbing of a thousand needles. She poured water into a cup and handed it to me. Even though my throat burned with each swallow the coldness felt good. My body began to shake uncontrollably, and I burst into tears.

‘I am so sorry to have caused this, Louisa.’

‘Don’t you worry, it will soon pass. Here, dry your eyes.’ She passed me her kerchief and put her arms around me until the sobs subsided. ‘Now, let us go downstairs and I will warm some milk.’

‘He should not be allowed to treat you like this,’ I said, hauling myself unsteadily to my feet. She did not respond. How she found the strength to remain so composed under these circumstances I will never fathom. I could only assume that she had become accustomed to it.

Passing along the hallway, I caught a glimpse in the mirror. My cheek and eye socket were already starting to swell. Tomorrow I would have a black eye and a face like a pumpkin.

We rekindled the range, and as we waited for the milk to warm Louisa’s courage seemed to ebb away and she began to shiver. A ragged shawl hung from the back of the door – perhaps it had once belonged to their old cook – and I wrapped it around her.

‘As soon as Peter is well enough we’ll get you both away from here.’

‘Get away? Where on earth would we go?’

‘To London, perhaps?’

She shook her head. ‘I will never leave him, Agnes. I owe him everything, and would be nothing without him.’

The man was a violent monster. ‘He may hurt you really badly, one day. It is too dangerous to stay.’

‘It is only when I annoy him,’ she whispered.

Annoy? ‘Can’t you see that it is not your fault, Louisa? You did nothing wrong.’

She turned away to retrieve the pan as it began to boil, and I could feel my anger and frustration rising as she went to pour it, needing two hands to control her shaking. But now was not the right time to press my point. We would talk again once Peter was recovered.

It was approaching dawn and I had fallen into a light doze when he became delirious once more. This time was even more acute than the previous night. He writhed so much that I had to hold him in my arms to prevent him falling from the bed, but his limbs were so thin and fragile that it felt like trying to contain a bird desperate for freedom.

‘They’re calling for me,’ he shouted, over and over again. ‘I must go, I must go.’

Who was calling him and where? Was he hearing the angels after all, inviting him to follow them to heaven?

Talking in a low monotone, I tried to reassure him that no one was coming and that he was safe here, I would allow nothing to harm him. But he didn’t seem to hear me – at least he showed no sign of it – thrashing and twisting the sheets with his fists, wrenching his head from side to side with such ferocity that I feared he might cause himself an injury. His body burned hot as a fire: if he continued like this for much longer he would surely die.

This time I did not hesitate. Ambrose would tell me to leave in the morning, so I had nothing to lose.

I threw open the curtains and opened both windows as wide as possible to let in the cool night air. Then I took a towel and, wetting it in the ewer, bathed his face, arms, chest and legs just as we had done with Anna. If it had brought my friend out of her fever, surely it must be the right thing to do? I repeated the bathing over and over again, talking to him all the while. After nearly an hour my ministrations seemed to take effect: the moans quietened, the spasms of pain were less frequent. His body felt cooler too, although I could not be sure that this was not simply the effect of the bathing and the chill air.

Now he fell deathly still and I began fear that he was drifting away. But the feather fluttered when I held it above his mouth and when I felt his wrist the pulse was still there, faint, but more regular than before. I closed my eyes, and allowed myself to rest in the chair for a few brief moments. The next thing I knew was the sound of his voice, a barely audible croak: ‘Mother, mother?’

He spoke. What joy! The sickness had muted him ever since I arrived.

‘I’m here, my darling boy,’ I whispered, squeezing his hand. But his eyes stayed closed and he said nothing more, remaining still and lifeless as before. Had I dreamed it? I closed my eyes and fell back into sleep. Sometime later, I know not how long, it came again.

‘Mother, where are you?’

‘I’m here, darling. I’m here, right beside you.’

This time my touch was rewarded by the faintest response of his fingers, squeezing mine. His eyelids moved and then, miracle of miracles, his eyes opened wide in their dark sockets. In the dim light of the rising dawn I watched his gaze ranging around the room before coming to rest in my direction.

I beamed at him, giddy with gladness. ‘Hello, my darling.’

‘Mother?’

Why would I deny it now? ‘I am here, dearest.’

‘Water,’ he murmured. I lifted his head, oh so gently, and brought the cup to his lips. He took the smallest of sips before resting his head back again and closing his eyes once more.

‘I love you, Peter,’ I said.

‘I love you too.’ And then my beloved boy gave me the sweetest of smiles before slipping back into a peaceful, healing sleep.