He’s sick!

But instantly she pushed the thought away, superstitiously furious with herself for having allowed it into her mind. No! she thought fiercely. He isn’t sick! He’s just tired and hungry. When he’s rested a while and had something to eat he’ll be well and strong again.

Determined that he should not suspect what treacherous fear she had had, she now came toward him with a broad gay smile, taking off her cloak and throwing it over one arm. He looked up at her with an answering grin, but gave a short involuntary sigh.

“Well—” she said. “Aren’t you even going to say that you like my lodgings? Everything’s in the latest style—and nothing’s English.” She made a comical little face and gave a sweep of one hand, but as he looked out over the room her eyes watched him anxiously.

“It’s lovely, Amber. Forgive my bad manners. To tell the truth I’m tired—I was up all night.”

The news relieved her. Up all night! Why, who wouldn’t be tired? Then he wasn’t sick at all. Oh, thank God—thank God!

“I’ve got just the thing for that. Here, darling, let me take your cloak and hat—and the sword, too, you’ll be more comfortable without it.”

She would have bent to unbuckle it for him, but he did so himself before she could, and handed it to her. Then, laying everything on a nearby chair, she brought him a tray on which were two decanters, one of water and one of brandy. He gave her a grateful smile and picked up a bottle while she turned to take their wraps into the bedroom.

“I’ll be back in a trice. And we can eat right away. Everything’s here.”

She ran into the bed-chamber, which opened out of the parlour, and while she took off her gown and unpinned her hair she talked to him from the doorway—still hoping that he was not so tired as he seemed, that he would get up and come to her. But he merely sat, watching her and drinking the brandy, saying very little. She stepped out of her dress, untied the bows on her shoes and stripped off her stockings, let her petticoats drop to the floor and bent to pick them up.

“I’ve got everything you like best for supper: Westphalia-style ham and roast duck and an almond pudding and champagne. It isn’t easy to get French wines any more, either, since the war. Lord, I don’t know how we’ll shift for new styles if we go to war with France! Do you think we will? Buckhurst and Sedley and some of the others say we’re sure to—” She talked fast, to keep both of them from thinking. She disappeared from sight for a moment and then came into the room wearing a white silk dressing-gown and a pair of silver mules.

She walked toward him, slowly, and his green eyes darkened like water. He swallowed the rest of the brandy and got to his feet, and though for a moment they stood staring at each other he made no move to touch her. Amber waited, almost afraid to breathe; but as he scowled and turned half away, picking up his glass and the brandy decanter again, she said softly: “I’ll put the food on the table.”

She went through the dining-room and into the kitchen where the waiter who had brought the food had left the hot soup simmering over some embers in the fireplace. When she had served the soup they sat down to eat and though both of them tried to keep up a lively conversation, it stumbled and lagged.

He told her that he had taken five Dutch merchant-vessels, all of them valuable prizes. He said that he thought there would be war with France because France did not want England to win a decisive victory, and had to protect Holland to keep her from forming an alliance with Spain. Amber told him some of the gossip she had heard from Buckhurst and Sedley: that the Lowestoft victory would have been a much greater one but that Henry Brouncker gave orders in York’s name to slacken sail, so that the battered Dutch fleet escaped. And—more exciting, she thought—she told him how the Earl of Rochester had kidnapped the great heiress, Mrs. Mallet, and been put in the Tower by the King for his effrontery.

He said that the meal was delicious, but he ate slowly and obviously had no appetite. At last he laid down his fork. “I’m sorry, Amber, but I can’t eat. I’m not hungry.”

She got up from the table and went around to him, for her fears had been growing steadily. He did not look tired; he looked sick. “Perhaps you should sleep, darling. After staying up all night you must be—”

“Oh, Amber, there’s no use pretending about this. I’ve got the plague. At first I thought it was only lack of sleep. But I’ve too many symptoms the other men had—no appetite, headache, dizziness, sweating, and now I begin to feel nauseated.” He flung down his napkin and pushed back his chair, slowly heaving himself to his feet. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go alone, Amber.”

She looked at him steadily. “I won’t go without you, Bruce, and you know it! But I’m sure it isn’t the plague. It can’t be! You’re well and strong—When you’ve had a night’s sleep I know you’ll feel better.

He smiled faintly, but shook his head. “No, I’m afraid you’re wrong. I only hope to God I haven’t exposed you. That’s why I didn’t kiss you. I was afraid—” He looked around. “Where’s my hat and cloak?”

“You’re not going anywhere! You’re going to stay here with me! Lord, I’ve looked and felt as bad as you do a hundred times and next day I was up and about! Everybody who gets a pain or ache can’t have the plague! If you’re not sick we’ll leave tomorrow morning. And if you are—I’m going to take care of you.”

“Oh, Amber, my dear—You don’t think I’d let you? I might be dead by—”

“Bruce! Don’t say that! If it is the plague I’ll take care of you and make you well again. I learned how to take care of a sick person from my Aunt Sarah.”

“But it’s infectious—you might catch it too. And it’s highly fatal. No, darling, I’m going. Get my hat and cloak—go on.”

He turned away and the look of worried anger he had tried to conceal before now showed plainly. His face was wet with sweat, so that the drops slid along his jaw, and he moved like a man half drunk. His muscles seemed almost useless. There was a pounding headache over his eyes and a dull aching pain had filled his back and loins and went down into his legs. At a sudden chill he shuddered involuntarily, and the feeling of nausea was overwhelming.

Amber took hold of his arm, determined to keep him there somehow if she had to knock him unconscious. For if he went out onto the street she knew that he either would be taken up by a constable for drunkenness—a mistake which was frequently made—or would be sent to a pest-house. If he was sick, and she was finally convinced that he was, she intended to take care of him.

“Lie down here for a moment on the settee by the fireplace and rest while I make you a tea of some herbs. You can’t stir a step in this state. It’ll make you feel better, I swear it, and I’ll have it ready in a trice.”

She took his arm and he crossed the room with her to the corner fireplace. He was still obviously reluctant to stay but was rapidly losing the ability to make a decision; by the minute he grew more dazed and weak. Now he dropped onto the cushioned couch with a heavily drawn sigh, his eyes already closed. He shuddered frequently, as though very cold, but sweat had soaked through the back of his coat—Amber left him and ran swiftly and softly into the bedroom, returning with a satin quilt which she flung over him.

Then, sure that he could not get up and would probably fall asleep, she ran into the kitchen and began to search the cabinets for the herbs Nan had stocked there. As she found them she sprinkled some of each that she needed into a kettle: hawkweed and hound’s-tongue and sorrel for the nausea; marigold and purslane for fever; hellebore, spikenard and nightshade for headache. Each had been gathered according to astrological tables, under exactly the right planetary influences, and she had considerable faith in their efficacy.

She poured some warm water into the kettle and hung it on a crane, but the fire had almost gone out and she threw on some more coals from the scuttle and a few chips of wood to make it burn, kneeling while she worked the bellows. At last a bright flame sprang up and she ran back into the parlour to make sure that he was all right, though she had not heard any sound.

He was lying flat on his back but the quilt had fallen off and he was moving restlessly, his eyes closed but his face contorted. As she bent over him, tucking in the quilt again, he looked up at her; and then suddenly he reached out and grabbed her wrist, giving it a savage jerk.

“What are you doing!” His voice was thickened and hoarse and the words slurred one over another. The green-grey irises of his eyes glittered, but the eyeballs were congested and red. “I told you to get out of here—Now, get out!” He almost shouted the last words and flung her arm from him furiously.

Amber was scared, for she thought he was losing his mind, but she forced herself to answer him in a calm reasonable voice. “I’m brewing the tea for you, Bruce, and it’ll be ready in a little while. Then you can go. But lie still till then, and rest.”

He seemed to return all at once to full rationality. “Amber—please! Please go and leave me alone! I’ll probably be dead by tomorrow—and if you stay you’ll get it too!” He started to sit up but she forced him down again with a sudden swift shove and he collapsed back onto the cushions. At least, she thought, I’m stronger than he is; he can’t get away.

For a moment she waited, hanging over him anxiously, but he lay perfectly still, and at last she turned and tip-toed swiftly from the room. She was so nervous that her hands and even her knees shook; she picked up a pewter mug and dropped it with a loud clatter that made her heart jump sickeningly. But as she stooped to get it, she heard noises from the other room.