Chapter Eight
For Cynthia, the first three days nursing her patient were an anxious time.
Mr. Fielding was fed teaspoon after teaspoon of feverfew tea, and he would seem quite comfortable, drifting in and out of sleep.
But then he would suddenly start coughing, his temperature would rise, and he would become almost delirious.
They would wrap him in cool cloths and he would calm down.
Curiously, what seemed to help the most with the coughing was Teacup lying on his chest. Cynthia had nursed her mother through inflammation of the lungs and knew that warm cloths and poultices applied to the chest had helped with her breathing.
She surmised that the little cat’s warm, purring body did the same.
By the fourth day, the fevers had abated.
The patient was still coughing, but he wasn’t moaning or tossing his head on the pillow.
Cynthia waited a day, but then decided that now the fever was staying down, she could help relieve the inflammation of his lungs by cupping him.
She had administered this treatment successfully to her mother.
One heated the inside of small glass cups with a candle and, open side down, quickly put them all over the patient’s naked back.
After a few minutes, they were removed with a pop.
She didn’t know how it worked, but it did.
Embarrassed at the idea of his waking up to feel a woman undressing him, Cynthia asked Will to pull Mr. Fielding’s nightshirt down over his shoulders then help him to turn onto his stomach.
She heated the cups one by one, and put them firmly onto his smooth, muscled back.
She left them on for about five minutes, then popped them off.
The suction left red rings on his skin. She had an almost irresistible urge to kiss them better, but covered it up by bustling to fetch several blankets warming at the kitchen hearth, while Will pulled up the patient’s nightshirt.
After this treatment, Mr. Fielding fell into a deep sleep, from which he awoke not only clear-eyed, but willing to drink a bowl of broth. “D…do it m…myself,” he stammered, when Cynthia tried to feed him. But when he took the spoon, his hand trembled so violently that she quickly took it back.
“You have been very poorly, and it will take time for you to regain your strength,” she said. “You must do nothing but sleep and eat for a few more days before trying to do things for yourself.”
Will had been helping the invalid with his intimate needs, and reported that the poor young fellow could hardly stand, even when he was holding him up.
“I reckon if ’e ’adn’t collapsed on our doorstep, ’e’d ’ave bin a goner. Weak as a kitten, ’e is,” he said, shaking his head.
Talking of kittens, Teacup had taken up permanent residence with Mr. Fielding, either on his chest or under his hand, where he softly stroked her little head.
She would get up to investigate the broth Cynthia fed him, and having given it a sniff of approval, would settle back down and watch him swallow it, spoonful by spoonful.
She left him only to go to the kitchen to eat and outside for her own needs, then came stalking back, waving her tail with her head held high, as if to let everyone know she was back at her post. She would walk all over her charge sniffing, to make sure no one had interfered with him, before settling back down on his chest.
At first, between them, the household kept twenty-four watch over the invalid.
In spite of Ruby’s objections, Cynthia would watch him overnight, then, at dawn, hand him over to her and Will.
She would sleep until dinner time, then sit with him the rest of the day and overnight.
But once he was on the mend and spent most of the day dropping in and out of peaceful sleep, they all resumed their normal occupations.
Cynthia would pop into the sickroom between her usual chores in the morning, then eat her dinner and spend the afternoons and evenings with him, encouraging him to drink the broth they made for him daily.
When he was awake, she would tell him of the little things occurring in the house or around the village: the plump pigeon Will had trapped for their dinner, the number of eggs the hens had laid, how the baker had singed the tops of the loaves by leaving them in the oven too long.
All the while, she continued with the endless mending that was her usual occupation.
Socks needed to be darned, cuffs turned, hems and worn patches reinforced, sheets that had been turned sides-to-middle had to be carefully separated and re-sewn top-to-end, then re-hemmed.
Linens and clothing that simply could not be used any more were carefully cut into usable pieces to be pieced and quilted into bedcovers.
And there was always knitting: warm camisoles, scarves, gloves and mittens for the colder months, and socks year-round.
Her fingers were never idle, but Cynthia was content.
They had enough to eat and were able to keep warm in winter. They were luckier than many.
Amongst the mending now was the invalid’s clothing.
She darned his socks and mended the weak seams in his breeches.
She then patched the elbows and turned the cuffs of his fine linen shirt.
Ruby laundered and ironed the linen, brushed the wool coat and breeches, and hung it all up in the office bedroom.
Cynthia quietly returned the pocket book and contents to the coat pockets.
Mr. Fielding spoke little, since the least exertion brought on a fit of coughing.
But as the days went on and his wakeful periods grew longer and the fits of coughing shorter, Cynthia began to read to him from their limited stock of books.
Apart from a copy of Debrett’s Peerage which her father had bought when it was published in 1802, who knew why, these included Shakespeare and Milton, which he had never read, but considered appropriate for a gentleman’s home.
Other than that, the collection featured chiefly the novels of Frances Burney and Maria Edgeworth, both much admired by her mother.
Mr. Fielding expressed limited enthusiasm for the classics, but enjoyed the work of the two female writers.
He smiled at Miss Burney’s humorous descriptions of Evelina’s passage through late 18th century society, and made one of his rare comments after listening to Miss Edgeworth’s picture of the life of the Irish peasantry.
“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse, “in my experience, too many landowners only take from the land and those who work it. They never give back.”
Cynthia wondered where he had gained that experience, but did not like to ask.