Love's Pilgrimage by Phyllis Caggiano

Author:Phyllis Caggiano
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: history, bible, england, christians, queen elizabeth, great britain, 16th century, london bridge, lifes meaning, deftness
Publisher: UCS PRESS

Chapter Ten

THERE WAS NO ONE to greet Rose as she rode alone into the courtyard of Grendal Hall. Sybil, who was laying a fire in the parlor, looked up at her blankly as she entered and then went back to her work, but Bess came out, drying her hands on her apron, “Oh, Mistress, I’m so glad you’re back. Little Derry has taken a fever. Some childhood disease, I’m certain, but he has been calling for you. We had planned to send for a—”

Rose bounded up the stairs to the nursery. The curtains were drawn and there was just a little light from a stub of a candle flickering in a pool of melted wax on the clothes chest. Both Anne and Derry were asleep, Derry in his bed and Anne slumped beside it, her hand on Derry’s.

“Anne, Anne,” Rose whispered, gently shaking the girl’s shoulder.

Anne awoke and stood up weakly. “Oh, madam, I didn’t hear you come in.” She rubbed her eyes. “I was up with Derry all night.”

“But what is it? What ails my son?”

“A fever of some sort. It took him of a sudden two nights ago. He tosses and turns, and ofttimes holds his head in pain. He cried so after you left for Norwich. At first I thought it was just inward grief and would pass. Bess said it might be the beginning of chin cough or the scarlet skin that afflicts the young, but he’s had no such signs.” The young girl swayed on her feet. “I hope that woman from London didn’t infect Master Derry with some dreadful disease.”

“Woman from London? Was it Joan Denly?”

“That might have been her name, madam. Tall, she was, and very demanding, but Sybil didn’t let her near the child.”

Joan—if only she were here now, thought Rose. “She left a letter. I placed it in your bedchamber.”

“I can’t bother with it now.” Rose gently touched the young girl’s hand. “Go downstairs and refresh yourself,” Rose told her. “I’ll tend to my son.” She knelt by his bed and touched his head. “Derry, Derry, lad,” she called softly. “ ‘Tis Mama, Mama’s home.” He stirred, but when he barely opened his eyes they were glazed and unseeing. She held her face close to his. “Wake up, sleepy head.” He tried to speak but his lips were cracked and bleeding. He lifted his arms weakly up to her. She scooped him up and felt his body burning through the heavy nightshirt he wore. He was limp as a newborn as she sat him in her lap on the bed. She held him tightly and with one hand moistened her handkerchief in the water jug on the bedstand. She dabbed his lips. “ ‘Tis all right now. You’ll be all right,” she said soothingly. “Mama will care for you.”

But inwardly she was fighting panic. What should she do for him?

She had never nursed him through an illness. In the months since she was released from prison and reunited with her son, he hadn’t been ill, just an occasional bout of catarrh.

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