At the end of the first week the dairy maid died, and soon afterwards a saddler. By now there were twelve sick, but so far it was all among the servants. There was great divergence in the degree of the illness. Ida was still out of her senses, but Dick Stable was up again and helping to wait on the others. Some broke out in a rash. Some were troubled with shivering and fever for a day or two and then mended. One man died in wild delirium; two or three lay for days having lost their senses but with eyes wide open as if awake. Maud Vance muttered about ‘the putrid fever’ while Henry Knyvett even mentioned the dreaded word ‘plague’. But Mary Killigrew, my aunt, who was so shaken by the illness about her that she quite forgot her hawks, said it was not either. She had been through the London plague of ‘63, when twenty thousand had died, and this complaint bore no resemblance; she ought to know. To her it was, she said, more like the spotted death; those noisy drunken pirates; no good ever came of giving evil loose men house room. It would not surprise her at all if this were a judgment.
At the end of October twenty-one people in the household were sick with the disease, including Thomas Rosewarne, our steward, and three had died. Twelve were mending. Then, at last, one of the children took it. It was Paul Knyvett, my cousin, who was near sixteen. Then Maud Vance took it. Then Mrs Killigrew.
Maud Vance had it very bad and lingered for days between life and death, Mrs Killigrew had it just as light, though it pulled her down and caused her to look more frail than ever. Paul Knyvett had fearful pains in the head and could not pass water. His tongue was covered with sores, and on the second of November in great pain he died.
So another long walk, this time in showers of hail, and this time behind a coffin of polished pine made by Timothy Carpenter, the house handyman and furniture maker, who had to use up wood for it he had been saving for new cupboards in the still-room. Death I had always conceived of as something which could happen to other people, not to me; but Paul’s dying so suddenly, while I still had his metal pencil case, and while we had been carrying on a make-believe feud, came too close home.
In the middle of November, when many were at last recovering and there had been but two new cases in the last six days my stepmother was brought to bed of her ninth child. As Aunt Mary said, it was an inconvenient season. Mr Knyvett, since the death of his son, was never out of a drunken stupor he wanted to return to Rosemerryn but his wife would not have him for fear of the infection, barring the windows and doors against him; Maud Vance our midwife was still too weak to walk; and with Rosewarne in the same condition the last discipline had fallen out of the house.
Belemus told me about Mrs Killigrew, whispering it behind his hand when we were supposed to be listening to Elizabeth reciting a passage from Cicero. Mrs Killigrew had been taken with the first pains during the afternoon and Jane Job and Kate Penruddock were with her. “Trembling in their shoes, I’ll lay a crown, and not knowing what to do next.”
“And would you?” I asked.
“When I grow up I shall be a surgeon. It’s a useful trade. And the first belly I shall open will be yours.”
“They’ve families of their own,” I said after a minute.
“Who? “
“Mrs Job, Mrs Penrudduck.”
“Oh, yes, that’s true. I’ve no doubt we shall soon have another little cousin. Ink-horn will come around and tell us in the morning as if he’d done it all himself.”
But in. the morning Parson Merther had nothing to say. Outside it was blowing a half gale and the wide river mouth frothed with white. The house, as usual when the weather turned wild, was full of draughts and creaking windows. As we went along the passage to break our fast we could hear Mrs Killigrew moaning, and Odelia burst into tears and wanted to run in to her.
After lessons and just before dinner I wandered into the kitchen. Instead of preparing dinner they were baking bread, which should have been done early in the morning.
The great bread oven into which the huge faggots of wood had been put hours ago was just open, and the ashes were being raked over before the loaves were thrust in. I hung about not speaking, not getting in anyone’s way. The heat from the oven quickly spread all about the kitchen, and it was a relief when the last batch went in and the oven door could be shut. Sarah Keast, who was making the bread because Simon Cook was ill, went across and thrust her bare feet into old felt slippers and took a long drink of buttermilk.
“Rose back yet?” she asked of Stevens, who came in carrying a cauldron for the soup.
“Aye. Ten minutes gone. Pendavey won’t come.”
“Why not?”
“Afraid of the fever, he say.”
“What an’ him a leech. Shame on ‘im. What then?”
“Rose went all around Penryn. Clapthorne he d’ ask next. Clapthorne say he’ve no skill wi’ Iyings in. He say to send to Truro.”
“They’m all scared. That’s what’s trouble wi’ they. Mrstll have to manage as best she may.”
Another woman in the kitchen said: “Reckon she’ll be as well witout any of ‘em. I was twenty hours wi’ my third. They leeched me twice, but twas no help. Twas the rowan berries Sam hanged over the bed that give me the strength to bring the child forth.”
“But Jane d’ say tis all the wrong way round. If the child be the wrong way round there’s no ‘elp for it. I tell ‘ee tis they men coming ‘ere, as Mistress Mary d’ say. Tis they coming as put the evil eye on we. Four dead already, and gracious knows where it will stop. Two more afore nightfall, like as not!”
“Well, if tis so, I shouldn’t wish to be in Jane’s shoes. If Mrs and child was to die, God knows what Master would say; fault or no fault, it isn’t in him to take it kindly.”
“Reckon he should be ‘ere to look after his own, stead of whoring after others. Like as not none of this would’ve happened else.”
They stopped and one of them glanced warningly at me. I went out into the larder which was lined with flour barrels and salting tins and earthenware preserving jars and deep wooden tubs of meal. No one was there so I made my way back by another route into the house. Then I saw Meg, but she was carrying a posses of colewort up for Mrs Killigrew and would not stop except to shake a scared head at me. Upstairs I heard Mrs Killigrew screaming.
I did not like the sound. Dinner was late and we were nearly forgot. I wandered into my father’s private study. Mr Knyvett had used it of late. It smelt cold and stale, and it had not been cleaned for days; a dozen glasses were littered about the room, some still stained with the remnants of wine. The rain was beating on the lattice window like a birchen broom.
On the desk was an open book in which Mr Knyvett had been writing. I did not think he had touched it since the day when Bewse, the head falconer, had come to him with the news that Paul was dead.
I looked at the writing.
“21st Oct rec. John Michell sale of 200 yds fine velvet cloth at 18/- per yd. œ180. Paid Capt Elliot one fifth = œ36. Paid J. Michell one fifth = œ36. Divers other payments = œ18. Nett œ90.
“29th Oct rec. T. Roscarrock 80 yds purple silk cloth at œ2. 10. 0 per yd. = œ200. Pd. J. Roscarrock one fifth = œ40. Divers other payments = œ12. Aside for Captain Elliot one fifth = œ40. Nett œ108.”
I shut the book. I did not know who else was in and out of this room; in any event few could read; but it seemed a matter best kept private.
On the desk was a smaller book bound in black leather, and I opened it where a straw was stuck in to mark the place. Entries this time in my father’s hand.