China by Edward Rutherfurd (historical books to read TXT) 📕

It grew hotter during the afternoon. The air felt heavy and humid. Twice Agnes looked in on John and sat with him for a while. The second time he seemed uncomfortable, fretting the bedsheets as he slept; but she put this down to the weather. A little before teatime, a wind arose. It shook the fronds of the trees, but did nothing to cool the garden. She looked up at the sky. It was still blue. The clouds passing swiftly overhead were white.

Aunt Harriet returned. And they were all sitting down to tea when the doctor arrived. Offered tea, he declared that he’d like to see the patient first and disappeared into the bedroom. After a little while, he asked Aunt Harriet to come to help him change the hand bandages and dressing.

When they came down to tea, they both looked grave.

“Infection, I’m afraid.” The doctor pursed his lips. “You must keep him cool, as far as possible. He may become feverish. If he’s really burning up, apply cold compresses. That’s really all we can do. I’ll return first thing in the morning.”

—

The monsoon rain arrived with a roar that evening. It beat upon the ground in such a deluge that it turned the garden into a pond within minutes and drummed upon the roof with fury, as if it meant to hammer its way through and drown all the inhabitants within.

Agnes sat in a chair with her shoulders hunched. Aunt Harriet said, “Just what we need. It’ll cool things down.”

Then they both got up and went into the bedroom where John lay. How he could be dozing with the rain making such a mighty din, Agnes didn’t know. They agreed that Agnes would watch John that night and Aunt Harriet would take over in the morning.

The rain continued until dawn, when Aunt Harriet relieved her. But Agnes was still awake when the doctor came to dress John’s wounds. He had brought an ointment with him. “It’s a remedy against infection,” he announced. “Iodine and potassium. I developed it myself. Nearly always does the trick.” He smiled. “Once the fever breaks, he’ll be on the mend.”

Agnes slept fitfully that morning. When she finally rose, the wind had died down and the heat was worse. A sickly, humid torpor seemed to have enveloped the house. Aunt Harriet had installed a servant to work the fan in the sickroom.

When Agnes woke late in the afternoon, the doctor had already visited again and gone. A light breeze had arisen, so Aunt Harriet had stopped the servant from working the fan, opened the windows, and allowed the air to circulate through the sickroom.

John was lying quite still. He was awake, but he didn’t seem to want to talk. As the evening set in and Agnes lit a small lamp on a table in the corner, his face looked gaunt in the soft light it cast. Standing by the window, she could smell the scent of the pale jasmine in the garden. “Do you smell the jasmine?” she asked, but he did not reply.

It was half an hour later that he gave a little shiver. She went to the bed and felt his brow. It was burning.

Her first thought was to call Aunt Harriet. But she stopped herself. Aunt Harriet had looked so tired when she handed over John’s care to her. There was a pitcher of water, still cold from the well, in the corner. She poured some water into a basin and soaked two cloths. Raising John’s head, she put one cloth behind the back of his neck. The second she laid on as much of his forehead as she could and held it in place there. It seemed to do some good. But a quarter of an hour later, she had to do it again.

Half an hour after that, she went quietly down to the larder to refill the pitcher. She also got fresh cloths.

And so, for the next several hours, she kept up her lonely vigil. Each time she managed to cool him down a little, he soon seemed more feverish than ever, and she was frightened and wished she was not alone.

—

It was nearly midnight when he became delirious. He mumbled odd words, of no significance, so far as she could tell. She wondered whether she should wake Aunt Harriet after all.

And she might have done so, if he had not suddenly cried out: “I’ve killed him.”

“John? What is it?”

“Killed him…Killed him…Murder…Got to hide.”

“Killed who, John?”

“Run…Run…Hide.”

“John?”

“I’ll be hanged…Hide…”

She stared at him. What could it mean? She almost forgot about Aunt Harriet. Was it just a nightmare? It must be a nightmare.

Again she cooled him down. She pulled the sheet back to expose his chest and abdomen to the air. She even wished it would rain.

He was really burning up now. There was no point even in calling Aunt Harriet. What could her aunt possibly do that she couldn’t do herself? She knew she mustn’t be afraid of fever, as long as it didn’t get too high. But she suspected that high point might be very close. She swabbed his chest with cool water, as well as his brow. He’d fallen silent. Was that a good sign or a bad one?

And then he spoke again. Softly this time. “Agnes.”

“What is it, John?”

“Agnes!” This time it was a sudden cry. “Agnes! Oh, Agnes.”

“Yes, John. It’s Agnes.”

“Oh.” His eye opened, staring up, but not seeing her. “Oh, Agnes. Give me your hand.”

So Agnes gave him her hand. “Everything’s all right,” she said. “I’m here.”

“Ah.” A gentle smile crossed his face, as though he had seen an angel. “That’s all right, then.”

And a few minutes later Agnes realized that the fever had broken.

—

The following day, as she sat in the carriage with her mother, on their way to the hill station, Agnes was rather sleepy. Even if she had wanted to talk, she wouldn’t have raised the subject with her father.

So it wasn’t until after breakfast, on their first day