The Wildest Rake: a stunning, scandalous Restoration romance Read online

  On such a glorious morning, the sight of the death cart was like a blow from death itself.

  She waited for Nan to bring her breakfast. But it did not come. A frown crossed her face. Nan was late today. Could another of the servants be ill, even dying?

  She went to the door and opened it carefully. She called out along the landing. ‘Hello?’ Her father answered, his own voice shaky. He had not set eyes upon her all this time, nor she on him. He kept himself so strictly to his chamber that she hardly remembered his existence.

  ‘Nan ... Where is Nan?’ he called back, then added urgently, ‘Do not come out, child. Go back inside.’

  Cornelia hesitated. Then she called Nan again, more loudly, and heard a slow dragging sound on the stairs, then a choked cry.

  For a second Cornelia stood, frozen, listening to that frightening sound. Then she flung all caution to the winds and ran down the stairs.

  Nan, hunched in agony, lay face downward, her back against the plastered wall, her arms stretched forward, as though she had been trying to drag herself up the stairs. Her fingers were arched, the nails dug down, like claws.

  Cornelia dropped down at her side and raised her. ‘Oh, Nan,’ she sobbed.

  Nan’s eyes opened. Filmed, dull, they had the deep light of fever.

  ‘I ... I am sorry,’ she mumbled through cracked lips.

  She was fever hot. Cornelia knew before she examined her that it was the plague. She had seen all these signs in her mother.

  She managed, somehow, to drag and carry her up the stairs and laid her on her own bed.

  Then she went to the window and called out to the watchman to send for Doctor Belgrave at once.

  ‘What? Another victim?’ The watchman spat on the ground and made a half-hearted cross upon his breast, snatching down his hand as he remembered that this old sign of faith might be misinterpreted.

  Cornelia went back to the bed and began to undress Nan. There were the familiar, hard swellings, the burning heat of the body. She gave Nan water to drink, washed her face and hands, wrapped her in warm bedclothes and built up the fire, flinging nitre on it and coughing at the scent.

  A shuffling sound at the open door made her turn. Her father, hunched in his loose robe, stared at her dully. He had aged considerably in the last weeks.

  ‘I am hungry,’ he wailed fretfully, with a childish selfishness which wounded her.

  She could so well remember her strong, sure father from her childhood. This old man, senile in his self-interest, was a stranger to her.

  ‘Keep off,’ she said, as gently as she could. ‘Nan has the plague.’

  He shrank back at those words, shivering beneath his robe. ‘I am frightened,’ he said. ‘I am afraid to die. I don’t want to die.’

  ‘I know, Father,’ she soothed him. ‘Go back to your chamber. I will find food and drink and leave it at your door. Try to sleep.’

  ‘I want cheese,’ he said greedily. ‘Cheese and ale. Nan will not give me cheese. Nan is not kind. She makes me eat meat and my teeth cannot chew it well.’

  ‘I will bring cheese if there is cheese,’ she promised. Their food was all procured for them by friends who left it with the watch each day. They were fortunate to have such friends. Many like them died of hunger, shut up within their plague houses, without money or friends, and even those who could get relief from the parish went hungry to bed, kept alive yet not so generously that they could forget want.

  The Alderman had turned to go when she heard knocking at the door downstairs.

  Her father ran to his own chamber and shut himself inside. He could not bear the sight of Andrew now. As a sick member of a stricken herd dreads the sound of a vulture’s flapping wings overhead, so did the Alderman fear the sight of Andrew, in his marked clothing, his plague stick in his hand, coming and going about his terrible business.

  Many of the city doctors had fled from the plague, leaving their patients without aid. Their physic, they were too well aware, had no effect in this most fearful contagion, and they were no readier to risk their lives in a hopeless cause than the King and Court. Thousands died without human comfort, sealed in their houses like walled-up monks, depending upon the small charity of the parish for sustenance, forced to watch their children die and unable to lift a finger to save them.

  Andrew was as over-worked as ever. He stretched himself to the limits in this worst epidemic of his career. Cornelia sometimes thought that he was almost grateful for this chance, like an early Christian going joyfully to martyrdom.

  As she ran downstairs now to open the door, she noticed with a pang of misery how silent the house lay about her. Were all the servants dead now? Nan had been scanty of news yesterday, barely speaking. Cornelia suspected that it had been the onset of the disease which had made her so silent.

  She looked at the tall figure, wrapped in the black cloak, a broad-brimmed hat pulled down over the eyes, the plague stick raised to knock again upon the door.

  ‘Oh, Andrew, thank God you were at home,’ she said, pulling at his arm.

  He walked past her and she shut the door.

  ‘I am so frightened,’ she told him, the tears rising to her eyes. Weakly she leant against his shoulder, turning her face against him. ‘Nan has it,’ she whispered. She was afraid to say the words too loudly. Some superstitious fear of defying fate made the words come low and hushed. ‘Andrew, Nan is so strong . . . she is the last. One by one they have died. All the servants. Like flies dying in autumn. God, God, shall I be the last living being in this terrible house?’

  He neither moved nor spoke, standing very straight, his arms at his side.

  She slowly lifted her head to look at him in alarm. She had expected his usual words of comfort, of reassurance. ‘My dear, what is it? Are you ill? Oh, God, you have not fallen to it, too?’

  As he lifted his head she saw his face, beneath the dark brim of his hat, and her heart plunged sickeningly. She gave a hoarse, horrified, bewildered moan.

  ‘Oh, no, God, no!’

  It was Rendel.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The long, thin mouth pulled into a cold smile. ‘Yes, Madame,’ Rendel drawled. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you. It is your husband, not your lover, who is beneath these trappings of death.’

  She shrank back from him, pushing out her hands to fend him off. ‘Are you mad to run such a risk? Do you not realise the consequences of your folly? This house is riddled with the plague. You should never have come here.’

  Her husband shrugged, as though careless of the danger. ‘I came as soon as I heard. Your beloved physician lent me these robes, so that I might pass the watch unsuspected.’

  Anger made her voice harsh. ‘Andrew did? How could he do such a wicked thing? He has sent you to your death. I will never forgive him, never.’

  Rendel’s eyes narrowed sharply on her white face. ‘He did not do so voluntarily. I am afraid I used some force—he will be here, no doubt, in a moment or two, when he has untied his hands.’

  ‘Untied his hands?’

  ‘I had to restrain the fellow. He became very angry when he understood my intent. I tied him to a chair, but I made the bonds loose enough for him to wriggle free in a short time.’ Rendel smiled sardonically. ‘You need not look so anxious. I did him no harm, Madame.’

  ‘You have done yourself much harm, however,’ she said wearily. ‘The watch will not let you pass out of here once they realise you are not a doctor.’

  ‘I do not mean to leave until you do, Madame,’ he said languidly. ‘Do you forget our marriage oath? Until death us do part?’ He bowed with a mocking irony. ‘I am here to fulfil my part of that bargain, Madame. Neither death nor Andrew Belgrave shall come between us, I promise you.’

  She stared, for this seemed like the ramblings of a crazed man.

  Half out of her mind with anxiety, she shouted at him. ‘It is madness, madness. Do you not see? This charnel house is no place for you.’

  ‘You prefer the company of Doctor
Belgrave, no doubt,’ he said, with the old sneering half-smile.

  She forgot to keep her distance from him, forgot the danger of passing on the contagion in which she had lived for so long, and ran at him, pummelling his broad chest with her small fists, looking up into his face with angry, distracted, terrified eyes.

  ‘Fool, fool, what is Andrew to me? Do you think I could live if you took the plague from me? If I had died, at least I could think that you were safe, but now what is there left but despair?’

  He trapped her hands and held them in a fierce grip, staring down at her intently.•

  ‘What are you saying?’ he asked softly.

  She relaxed, sighing, seeing with a stab of joy the hope in his face. ‘That I love you, of course, my dearest fool.’

  He drew a harsh, glad breath and pulled her into his arms. She flung her hands around his neck, half sobbing, and their lips met, hungrily at first, demanding, giving; then, with an altered feeling, a deep, certain abandonment of self, as though two rushing streams mingled at a watershed, with brief violence and turmoil which ends as the two become one and run on, joined in a single, powerful river.

  The angry knocking at the door behind them seemed at first, to them, in their exalted state, the knocking of their hearts. Then Rendel, grinning, boyish and cheerful, said, ‘Ah, the good Doctor Belgrave, no doubt.’

  Keeping his arm tight around her waist, he opened the door and Andrew fell inside, at his shoulders the ferocious stare of the watch, their halberds crossed to bar Rendel’s exit.

  ‘Are you insane?’ demanded Andrew, glaring at him.

  The watch began to shout. ‘You had no right, sir, to deceive us, and make an entry there. You shall not come out again. It is the law. The city is at war with this plague. You must abide by the plague regulations. It is your own fault.’

  ‘I am aware of all that,’ Rendel murmured lightly. ‘Be of good cheer, sirs. I shall remain within for the usual period.’ He threw them a small purse of money which they caught eagerly, then closed the door upon their argument over the distribution of the coins.

  Andrew stared at Rendel’s smiling face, then glanced at Cornelia. His sigh was brief but sharp, and she looked away, wishing that she did not feel so happy while Andrew looked so hag-ridden.

  It seemed lunacy to feel like this, yet her heart was as light as air, and flew on wings of joy, even though death surrounded her on all sides.

  Then, like a sting from a dart, she remembered Nan, and her new-found wings seemed to lose their power. She bit her lip and clutched at Andrew’s arm. ‘Oh, Andrew, Nan has collapsed. She has it, she has the plague. Come to her, come upstairs quickly.’ Remorse made her feel sick with shame. ‘How could I have forgotten her, even for a moment? Come quickly.’

  Andrew nodded and climbed the stairs without answering. Rendel and Cornelia followed.

  ‘You must not come into this chamber,’ Cornelia told Rendel at the door. ‘Go into one of the other chambers and wait there. The risk is too great. You must take some care, at least.’

  Andrew turned and nodded at Rendel. ‘Sir, you have gained entrance here by a trick. It was great folly. But I beg you, do not compound this madness by risking further. Do as your wife asks of you. I have enough work without the addition of another patient.’

  Rendel shrugged. ‘As you please. If you need me, call me. I assure you, I am not afraid.’

  Andrew looked scornfully at him. ‘There speaks ignorance. You have not seen the plague at work. It is a sight to chill the blood and damp the ardour of the bravest man.’

  ‘Yet you have not fled,’ Rendel remarked, his brows raised at this speech.

  ‘I am a doctor. I have no choice but to stay.’

  ‘Others of your trade have fled. You had a choice. You chose to stay.’

  Andrew merely shrugged.

  Cornelia, looking at Andrew as he turned away, thought sadly, he has chosen death. Since she’d had that moment of comprehension, when she realised that Andrew’s way of life had been determined by his hatred of what life did to human being, she had known that secretly he wished for death, preferring oblivion to the endless pain of seeing the blackness which, to him, threatened the living.

  His was the courage of despair, yet it was still courage of the highest order. She could not conceive how he kept going on, from house to house, from death to death, unable to stem the tide of decay, yet never abandoning the attempt. She knew that she would never have been capable of such heroism.

  Andrew walked into the great chamber, leaving them outside, and Cornelia looked at her husband. ‘He is a great man,’ she insisted gently.

  He nodded. ‘I know it,’ he said, no longer smiling. ‘Having you, I can afford to be generous and admit as much.’ His look was teasing though. ‘I have always despised a display of mean-spirited jealousy. While I believed you loved him I could only hate the fellow. I am glad to be able to feel sorry for him now.’

  ‘He is my dearest friend in all the world,’ she said, hoping he would understand. ‘He is like my brother. I was blind, Rendel. I thought my feelings were quite different to what they truly were—but I did love him dearly, and do still, yet in such a different fashion to the way I feel about you.’

  He lifted her hand and kissed it passionately. ‘I hoped it was so. I told myself it was so, but love is a jealous emotion. I could not be happy until I was certain of you.’

  When she went into the great chamber she found Andrew in the middle of an unpleasant operation, lancing the carbuncles which were one sign of plague, and which were found in the most tender and heated parts of the body.

  She turned her head aside in retching nausea as the long, thin scalpel did its work and a gush of evil-smelling pus ran out.

  Andrew reached round for a basin which stood behind him, and she hurried to assist him. He took a cloth from the warm water in the basin, gently cleansing the wound.

  ‘She is very ill.’

  Cornelia nodded. ‘Will she live?’ she asked, in a whisper, for fear Nan might hear her.

  ‘A week ago I would have given little hope for anyone who took the contagion,’ he said slowly. ‘But lately I have seen some faint signs of hope. Those who are catching it are not dying quite so rapidly. I do not know why—but more people are recovering, and even those who die are not dying so soon.’

  ‘You think the worst is over?’ she asked, her breath catching.

  He grimaced. ‘Oh, as to that, it is far too soon to say. It has just begun—the summer is at its height. People are still dying like flies. Yet I have an instinct, backed by what I have seen, that the pace is halting just a fraction.’

  ‘Then I will pray harder than ever that Nan may not die,’ she said fiercely.

  He wiped Nan’s hot face with a cool, damp cloth. ‘You will have to nurse her,’ he said, sighing. ‘I would not ask you, but there is no one else.’

  ‘I would not allow anyone to do so, anyway,’ she said, quite angrily. ‘Nan is my dear Nan. She would have nursed me if I had fallen sick. Do you think I would leave her now?’

  Andrew took the basin of filthy, soiled water, the foul cloths he had used. ‘These are infected and must be disposed of at once. Keep her warm. You know what to do now.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, half sighing, half smiling.

  ‘Are there any servants left alive? I have not heard for a day or two from Nan.’

  ‘None, I think,’ she said miserably. ‘Nan was very busy. Oh, Andrew, was it my fault she caught it? I did nothing to help her. She nursed the other servants alone. They were worse than useless and I knew it’

  ‘She would not hear of having your help,’ he said, soothing her. ‘You know that. Just as you would not allow her to help you nurse your mother. You all of you have acted for the best. Do not blame yourself. That would be merely a waste of your energy.’

  She sat down beside Nan, watching her with a mixture of hope and tension which made her whole body ache as though it were stretched on the rack.
/>   Andrew left, having other patients to tend about the city.

  She heard her father slowly moving about in the next room. He called her, in a voice as fretful as that of a sick child. ‘Cornelia? Where is my food? You promised to bring me some. Where is it? What is happening?’

  ‘In a little while, Father,’ she called, forcing herself to keep her voice calm. She could not permit herself to be angry with him. The disaster which had overtaken their whole household had made him hasten down the slope into premature senility. It was not his fault.

  ‘Where are you? What are you doing?’ he wailed, thumping on the floor with his feet.

  ‘I am nursing Nan,’ she whispered from the doorway, watching the twisting figure on the bed all the while for fear of awakening Nan from the fevered sleep she was held by now.

  ‘Nan?’ he shrieked. ‘What do you mean? Nursing the servants while I am dying of hunger? It is not right, do you hear me?’

  Rendel’s footsteps broke in upon the ragged, moaning voice.

  The Alderman fell silent, listening. ‘Who is that in the house? Is that Andrew?’

  She did not answer him.

  Rendel came towards Cornelia, who shrank back at the door, crying, ‘No, do not come in. No nearer, my dearest love, for God’s sake.’

  He stopped at the threshold, smiling at her with tender reassurance. ‘What can I do, then? What ails your father?’

  ‘He is hungry. Can you find food? I do not know if it would be safe for you to go into the kitchen. The servants died there.’

  ‘I will manage something,’ he promised, and went down the stairs.

  She told her father that he would soon have food, and went back to Nan. A sharp pang warned her that she, herself, was very hungry, but she pushed the thought aside. She had no time to worry about such a matter now. She began to wipe Nan’s head again, seeing the skin glazed with dry heat, the dark shadows beneath Nan’s closed eyes seeming to throb with fever.

  Time passed slowly. At last Rendel returned. He left a platter of bread and broken meats outside her door, knocked on the Alderman’s door and spoke to him, his level voice like a balm in the madness of the house.