Why are you weeping? Am I worse? I thought I felt a little better.” She touched her dry brow. “I have had the most dreadful headache, but it is gone now. The pain in my chest is gone too.” She took a breath. There was no corresponding rattle.
“Oh, Joanna, you are better! The Saints be praised, you are better! That is why I weep.” Bridget grasped Joanna’s hands. “You have been so dreadfully sick, and we were all so frightened that you would not recover, that we would lose you. But we have prayed, Sister Margaret here most of all, and God has answered those prayers. He has spared you. Now then, even though your fever has broken, I want you to keep warm.” She pulled the covers over Joanna’s exposed arms. “I will fetch the abbess. She will want to know of your improvement at once.”
Joanna nodded in agreement , and Bridget moved quickly across the room and over to the door. Before she left, she glanced at Sister Margaret. The older woman was staring down into the fire, her gaze fixed and unwavering, as the last of the letters was turned to ash.
Chapter Seven
The whole household rejoiced at Joanna’s escape from the clutches of death. They could never be sure whether she had had the Sweat or not, but they preferred not to dwell on that. Bridget suspected she had contracted a mild dose of it, due to her natural defences being lowered by her previous cold. Whatever the nature of the malady had been, it had severely reduced Joanna’s reserves of strength, and it took her a full fortnight before she could eat proper meals, get through an evening without coughing and walk from one end of her chamber to the other unaided.
Due to her infirmity, they had been forced to remain shut up at Thorns, and Bridget had been unable to join her husband at Windsor. Not that she would have been permitted to do so in any case. There was a plague in London, and that alone would have prevented her from coming within the verge of the court. She was not unduly concerned about remaining at home for a while longer. She wanted to make sure that Joanna had completely regained her health, and of course an enforced absence had another advantage—it saved her from having to attend upon the queen and endure whatever petty indignities Jane, and her ladies, had devised for her.
It was also pleasant to spend some time with Joanna, the abbess and Sister Margaret, and relate to them in person all that had occurred at court. They was agog when she told them of the incident involving Lady Rochford and the French hood, and saddened when Bridget told them of Will’s indifference, though Sister Margaret merely sniffed and looked at her in disapproval. The abbess and Joanna were sympathetic though, and then Joanna’s eyes brightened.
“So that is what you were burning in the fire the night my fever broke!” she exclaimed . “I had not been able to decide whether what I saw was a dream or not until now. So much that took place when I was ill seems unreal, like it happened to someone else, but I can distinctly remember you standing by the fire, dropping letters one at a time into the flames, and I could not for the life of me understand what you were doing. But now I do. You were burning Will’s letters. You no longer wish to be reminded of him and I do not blame you. I would not keep his missives either.”
It was now the end of summer and the four of them, Bridget, Joanna, the abbess and Sister Margaret had all stationed themselves outside in the late agreeable sunshine, but Joanna’s words fell between them like winter rain. The abbess, who had been pottering in her garden, stopped what she was doing and stood very still. Slowly she turned her head and looked at Sister Margaret, and some kind of silent message passed between them. Sister Margaret’s mouth flattened
“Oh, Joanna, you are better! The Saints be praised, you are better! That is why I weep.” Bridget grasped Joanna’s hands. “You have been so dreadfully sick, and we were all so frightened that you would not recover, that we would lose you. But we have prayed, Sister Margaret here most of all, and God has answered those prayers. He has spared you. Now then, even though your fever has broken, I want you to keep warm.” She pulled the covers over Joanna’s exposed arms. “I will fetch the abbess. She will want to know of your improvement at once.”
Joanna nodded in agreement , and Bridget moved quickly across the room and over to the door. Before she left, she glanced at Sister Margaret. The older woman was staring down into the fire, her gaze fixed and unwavering, as the last of the letters was turned to ash.
Chapter Seven
The whole household rejoiced at Joanna’s escape from the clutches of death. They could never be sure whether she had had the Sweat or not, but they preferred not to dwell on that. Bridget suspected she had contracted a mild dose of it, due to her natural defences being lowered by her previous cold. Whatever the nature of the malady had been, it had severely reduced Joanna’s reserves of strength, and it took her a full fortnight before she could eat proper meals, get through an evening without coughing and walk from one end of her chamber to the other unaided.
Due to her infirmity, they had been forced to remain shut up at Thorns, and Bridget had been unable to join her husband at Windsor. Not that she would have been permitted to do so in any case. There was a plague in London, and that alone would have prevented her from coming within the verge of the court. She was not unduly concerned about remaining at home for a while longer. She wanted to make sure that Joanna had completely regained her health, and of course an enforced absence had another advantage—it saved her from having to attend upon the queen and endure whatever petty indignities Jane, and her ladies, had devised for her.
It was also pleasant to spend some time with Joanna, the abbess and Sister Margaret, and relate to them in person all that had occurred at court. They was agog when she told them of the incident involving Lady Rochford and the French hood, and saddened when Bridget told them of Will’s indifference, though Sister Margaret merely sniffed and looked at her in disapproval. The abbess and Joanna were sympathetic though, and then Joanna’s eyes brightened.
“So that is what you were burning in the fire the night my fever broke!” she exclaimed . “I had not been able to decide whether what I saw was a dream or not until now. So much that took place when I was ill seems unreal, like it happened to someone else, but I can distinctly remember you standing by the fire, dropping letters one at a time into the flames, and I could not for the life of me understand what you were doing. But now I do. You were burning Will’s letters. You no longer wish to be reminded of him and I do not blame you. I would not keep his missives either.”
It was now the end of summer and the four of them, Bridget, Joanna, the abbess and Sister Margaret had all stationed themselves outside in the late agreeable sunshine, but Joanna’s words fell between them like winter rain. The abbess, who had been pottering in her garden, stopped what she was doing and stood very still. Slowly she turned her head and looked at Sister Margaret, and some kind of silent message passed between them. Sister Margaret’s mouth flattened
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