the more likely to be heard and answered. As John spoke of suffering on earth for a far greater reward in Heaven, my stomach clenched too, clenched with dread, and I prayed for those whom I loved. For Bess and for Mary and John. For myself and my father. But even as I prayed I imagined the plague wind blowing and the deadly miasma drifting inexorably westward like smoke, so noxious that no amount of sweet-scented flowers could ward it off.
“How does slaughtering dogs and cats stop the plague spreading?” I asked when the prayer was done.
John Burges shook his head in despair. “It is believed the animals are the plague carriers.”
“How do they carry it?”
“This is no time for questions, Eleanor,” my father admonished gently.
I kept my mouth shut, but it seemed to me that it was very much the time. I thought of the giant flea in the beautiful book that must now be burned and it seemed that we knew so little still about nature and the world we lived in, so little about disease. Except, as my father constantly warned, that death has a thousand ways to guide us to the grave.
NEXT MORNING MY FATHER was late for prayers. John and Mary Burges arrived before first light as usual and I joined the rest of the household who’d fallen to their knees on the hard stone floor in the great hall in readiness for the candlelit routine with which we all began each day. It was unknown for my father not to be the first there and cold fear gripped my heart. I tried to hide it, as I knew my father would expect me to hide it, but I knew by the way that Bess looked at me that I had failed.
Please God, I prayed silently, do not let there be plague in this house, do not let my father be ill. Don’t let him have survived the Royalist muskets and cannons and bayonets to be struck down now. Don’t let him die. Oh, I know he must, one day. But do not let it be for a very long time. You already have Mama and Margaret. Please let me keep my papa for a little while longer.
I told myself how my father was robust and straight as a pikestaff from his regular exercise on horseback. He was much stronger than my mother and my sister. Wasn’t he?
There was much tittering while we all waited. Fear was in the air and would ignite like kindling at the slightest spark. Even those who couldn’t read the newssheets had heard of how disease was laying waste to London, had decimated whole streets, whole districts, claiming thousands. Everyone was afraid that it might spread west. Bess told me that her mother had made her wear three spiders in her shoes for protection. Everyone was ill at ease.
It made little difference when Papa sent the chambermaid down with word that he was suffering from a chill and had decided to remain in bed. I knew it would take more than a chill to keep him from prayers. I knew that, in any case, chills and fevers were cause for greatest concern, that the first sign of one could come in the morning and could herald death by night. “I’ll see if he needs anything,” I said, rising to my feet on legs as unsteady as my voice.
“I’ll go, Eleanor,” John Burges said, swiftly. “He’ll want a blessing.”
More waiting. People were standing now, rubbing their sore, cramped knees. I did not want them to act as if my father might not be coming to join us any minute, that the day would not go on as normal. And then at last I heard John Burges come back down the stairs from the solar. “How is he, sir?” I asked.
“I am no surgeon, Eleanor,” he said carefully. “But Ned will fetch one.”
“It’s not . . . ?”
“I doubt it very much but we will know soon enough, child. We will know soon enough.”
“Is he shivering?” I persisted quietly. “Does he have a headache? Has he vomited?”
A single nod.
Mary Burges instantly enfolded me into her arms, pressed my head against her chest. She must have seen my terror, everyone must have seen it. But they would not have known its cause. I didn’t
“How does slaughtering dogs and cats stop the plague spreading?” I asked when the prayer was done.
John Burges shook his head in despair. “It is believed the animals are the plague carriers.”
“How do they carry it?”
“This is no time for questions, Eleanor,” my father admonished gently.
I kept my mouth shut, but it seemed to me that it was very much the time. I thought of the giant flea in the beautiful book that must now be burned and it seemed that we knew so little still about nature and the world we lived in, so little about disease. Except, as my father constantly warned, that death has a thousand ways to guide us to the grave.
NEXT MORNING MY FATHER was late for prayers. John and Mary Burges arrived before first light as usual and I joined the rest of the household who’d fallen to their knees on the hard stone floor in the great hall in readiness for the candlelit routine with which we all began each day. It was unknown for my father not to be the first there and cold fear gripped my heart. I tried to hide it, as I knew my father would expect me to hide it, but I knew by the way that Bess looked at me that I had failed.
Please God, I prayed silently, do not let there be plague in this house, do not let my father be ill. Don’t let him have survived the Royalist muskets and cannons and bayonets to be struck down now. Don’t let him die. Oh, I know he must, one day. But do not let it be for a very long time. You already have Mama and Margaret. Please let me keep my papa for a little while longer.
I told myself how my father was robust and straight as a pikestaff from his regular exercise on horseback. He was much stronger than my mother and my sister. Wasn’t he?
There was much tittering while we all waited. Fear was in the air and would ignite like kindling at the slightest spark. Even those who couldn’t read the newssheets had heard of how disease was laying waste to London, had decimated whole streets, whole districts, claiming thousands. Everyone was afraid that it might spread west. Bess told me that her mother had made her wear three spiders in her shoes for protection. Everyone was ill at ease.
It made little difference when Papa sent the chambermaid down with word that he was suffering from a chill and had decided to remain in bed. I knew it would take more than a chill to keep him from prayers. I knew that, in any case, chills and fevers were cause for greatest concern, that the first sign of one could come in the morning and could herald death by night. “I’ll see if he needs anything,” I said, rising to my feet on legs as unsteady as my voice.
“I’ll go, Eleanor,” John Burges said, swiftly. “He’ll want a blessing.”
More waiting. People were standing now, rubbing their sore, cramped knees. I did not want them to act as if my father might not be coming to join us any minute, that the day would not go on as normal. And then at last I heard John Burges come back down the stairs from the solar. “How is he, sir?” I asked.
“I am no surgeon, Eleanor,” he said carefully. “But Ned will fetch one.”
“It’s not . . . ?”
“I doubt it very much but we will know soon enough, child. We will know soon enough.”
“Is he shivering?” I persisted quietly. “Does he have a headache? Has he vomited?”
A single nod.
Mary Burges instantly enfolded me into her arms, pressed my head against her chest. She must have seen my terror, everyone must have seen it. But they would not have known its cause. I didn’t
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