Destitute On His Doorstep by Helen Dickson Page A

vision became blurred, she stopped to overcome a wave of dizziness. She summoned her will-power to keep upright, but she had no strength left and her thoughts refused to obey her. Dimly she heard Mary call her name and was aware that ColonelRussell was striding towards her, then she swayed and slumped to the floor with no memory of falling.
    From far away she heard one of the servants gasp and say, ‘Is it the plague?’ and Colonel Russell briskly order the doctor to be sent for.
    No, a voice shrieked in Jane’s throbbing head. No—not that. Not the plague. It couldn’t be. Dear God, no, it screamed as she was swept up into a pair of strong arms, where she struggled before she was enshrouded in darkness.
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    Jane sensed the presence of someone in the darkened room as she floated in a comfortable grey haze. Always there were hands and voices near her, muffled and meaningless, flowing past her in a whispering stream, but she could not pay attention and was incapable of joining them. She was content to linger in this blissful state, because it allowed her to evade the haunting questions and nameless fears lurking at the back of her mind.
    Reason and memory played no part in the timeless vacuum in which she existed. She was living and breathing, but set apart from the world. With a natural buoyancy her mind began to rise slowly upwards, and then there was a tiny aura of light. Voices drifted towards her down a long tunnel, the words muted, encouraging her to respond.
    â€˜Jane? Can you hear me?’
    The voice was soft and close to her ear and familiar. She felt panic as she was a drawn up into the world of awareness. She felt quite odd, but for the first time in unaccountable days, the fever clouds had rolled back. A great weariness weighted down her limbs.
    â€˜Jane?’
    She tried to open her eyes, but they were stuck tight. Suddenly she remembered where she was and what had happened before she had collapsed. She also remembered the words the servant had uttered and in her dark world the reality that she might have the dreaded plague hit her.
    â€˜Where does it hurt?’
    The question was so irrelevant in the context of the discomfort that consumed her that, if she hadn’t known she was dying, she would have laughed. Fear, the weakness she despised above all others, spread through her, evading all her efforts to subdue it, and a tremor passed through her at the thought of her life being cut short by such a terrible disease.
    â€˜I—I cannot open my eyes. They’re so sore,’ she whispered. Her voice was weak and hoarse and her throat and lips were dry. Her body was burning hot. Hearing the sound of a cloth being dipped in water, she breathed a sigh of relief when she felt someone bathe the stickiness from her eyes that kept them glued together.
    â€˜There, is that better?’ Mary murmured.
    Jane’s eyes flickered open and she nodded and blinked. Painful shards of brightness caused her to close them again and she winced, quickly shading them with her hand.
    â€˜It’s the light,’ a man’s voice said. ‘Pull the curtains.’
    Again she blinked her eyes. The room was darker now. The air in the room was strangely still, the colours in the fabrics muted. The indistinct shadow of the man gradually became clearer. He gained her full attention.Inexplicably a sharp pang of anxiety ran through her even before she saw his face clearly.
    Disconcerted, she pressed back against the pillows and eyed him warily as he came closer. Probing her memory, she fathomed the cause of her dismay. The darkly handsome face should have stirred feelings in her woman’s breast. Yet there was something about the moment that made her heart lurch and grow cold within her chest.
    She opened her mouth to speak, but a hoarse croak was the only sound she could manage. Mary, recognising her need, slipped an arm beneath her shoulders and raised her up and placed the rim of a cup