Chapter 15
‘Outhwaite! I’ll see you hang for this.’ Daniel sat bolt upright, his eyes wide and blazing with anger and fever.
Agnes caught his shoulders and tried to ease him back onto the bolsters but he fought her off, his flailing arm catching the side of her head. She staggered backwards, stars reeling before her eyes. The ague had returned, as he predicted, only worse than before.
‘Outhwaite!’ He screamed the name before falling back, his breath coming in laboured gasps.
Regaining her composure, Agnes returned to his side, with a wet cloth in her hand. ‘Daniel, hush. He’s not here. He’s gone.’
She attempted to lay the cloth on his burning forehead, but he knocked her hand away. She stroked his temple and wondered if this man, Outhwaite, bore the responsibility for the scars that marred Daniel’s back. So many secrets for such a young man.
The man beneath her hands quieted, and entwining her fingers with his, she laid her head on the bed. ‘Live,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t die.’
She must have dozed. The creak of the door jerked her awake and the faint grey light of dawn illumined the room. The smell of fresh-baked bread preceded Ellen, who paused in the doorway studying the disordered bed, the restless man, and the exhausted woman.
She set the covered tray she carried on the table and straightened, fixing Agnes with a hard, unsympathetic eye.
‘Ye’ve done enough,’ she said. ‘Got him through the worst of it. Now you need to rest. Can’t have two of you ill.’
Agnes nodded and rose to her feet, too weary for conscious thought.
‘You’ll wake me if there’s any change?’
‘Only if it’s for the worse. Ye’ll find your bag and a bed made up for ye two doors down from this one,’ the woman said and shooed her from the room.
Agnes followed the directions, suddenly so tired she could barely lift her feet.
She opened the door to a pleasant, light-filled chamber.
Hot water steamed in an ewer beside a basin and fresh towels had been laid out for her.
A clean, soft, much-mended nightdress that did not belong to Agnes lay across the bed.
She studied her disreputable reflection in the mirror.
Her hair badly needed a wash and her eyes were circled with dark rings.
She sank onto a stool and buried her face in her hands.
In the past month she had lost everything and everyone she held dear.
It would be easy to curl up on the floor and surrender. Too easy.
Taking a deep breath, she stripped off her travel-stained clothes.
Standing naked on a homespun rug that covered the floor, she inspected the innumerable bug bites that were the legacy of the inns they had stayed at.
The itching drove her to distraction and she thought to ask Ellen Howell if she had some sort of lotion to ease the discomfort.
Pouring the hot water into the basin, she found a bar of sweetly-scented soap had been left for her and washed thoroughly from head to toe. Pulling the too-big nightdress over her head, she fell into the warm embrace of a soft down mattress and was asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.