Mrs. Bentley woke Tiffany by screaming profanities which were in no way suitable for a gentlewoman.
Davy came hurrying from a door that seemed to run deeper under the burned-out inn. “Here now, Mrs. Bentley,” he said, deftly catching her waving hands. “What’s all this?”
“It hurts! It hurts so bad.” Mrs. Bentley clutched her stomach, and began rocking back and forth, sobbing like a child.
“Fetch the coal hod,” Davy said, wrapping his long arms around the frail woman, keeping her from waving her arms or harming herself. “She’s about to lose her dinner.”
Tiffany pulled herself up from the pallet that had been placed in front of the fireplace. She grabbed the coal hod from where it stood beside the hearth and arrived just in time for Mrs. Bentley to empty the little she had eaten into the receptacle.
“Is she ill?”
Davy picked up a rag from the bedside and wiped Mrs. Bentley’s mouth before gently laying her back down.
“In a manner of speaking. She is likely to become worse before she gets better.”
“Were they giving her opium in the poorhouse? I would not have thought that it would be possible.”
“I think they were giving it to the people who were argumentative or aggressive as a means of keeping them calm and productive. But I am not sure of that. I know that they had decided to send Mrs. Bentley to Bedlam because of her outbursts.”
“An old woman with no income? Why would anyone do such a thing?”
“It does seem odd,” Davy agreed. “But it isn’t that hard to get. Just go down to the docks. Any of the workers who came into the poorhouse might have gotten it for her.”
“But . . .” Tiffany frowned. “She must have been taking it before Father Bentley died. Perhaps it started for pain?”
“Who can say?” Davy uncorked a bottle of cold tea.
“More valerian?”
He shook his head. “Just lemon balm and sugar. Perhaps it will ease her stomach. We can rub lavender oil on her temples to help sooth her.”
That was the beginning of a long day. Mrs. Bentley would call out for her husband, then she would cry when he didn’t appear. She began running a high fever.
Old Elizabet came down to see her. She touched Mrs. Bentley’s forehead, and temples, then made a tisane of feverfew which grew wild around the burned-out hull of the old inn.
They did not dare take Mrs. Bentley above ground for fear her cries and groans would be heard.
Toward evening, the pain seemed to ease. By dinner time, she was able to take a little thin gruel and keep it down.
Mrs. Bentley slept a little then, to Tiffany’s great relief. Emily came to sit by her so that Tiffany could walk around outside for a few minutes.
Shadows were beginning to grow long under the trees. Tiny wild strawberries were growing along the edge of the path. Tiffany gathered a few for herself, then collected more on a large leaf to take down to Mrs. Bentley.
The older woman seemed to be asleep when Tiffany returned with her frugal gathering, and sat down beside Mrs. Bentley’s cot.
“Mother Bentley?” she said softly.
Mrs. Bentley opened her eyes. “Tiffany? I dreamed that you had come back.”
“I am here,” Tiffany said simply, not volunteering anything more.
“Tiffany. I am so afraid.”
“What are you afraid of, Mrs. Bentley?”
“Nothing. Everything. I don’t suppose there is any chance that Henry came back, too?”
“That would be wonderful,” Tiffany replied. “But no. He is truly gone. You can come back from running away, but not from death.”
