He had not come back.
She sneezed and wondered if she had indeed caught the Plague. She wiped her nose and suddenly felt nauseous. She doubled over, hugging her stomach. Saliva flooded her mouth. An instant later, she vomited. She wretched until her stomach was empty, and she dry-heaved several times after, before the nausea finally waned. She inspected the ends of her long, dark blonde locks to see if her hair was wet and soiled. Relieved to find that it wasn’t, she pulled it back into a ponytail. She tried not to stare at the steaming pile of vomit on the straw next to her. She decided to write in her diary to take her mind off her frozen toes, her nauseous stomach, and the anger brewing at Paul for being absent for so long. She retrieved a jar of ink from her coat breast pocket, where she stowed it so it would not freeze. She opened her diary to a fresh page, dipped her feather pen, and began to write:
November 28, 1665
Dearest diary,
I am writing from inside a dreadful barn where I have spent all of last night and this morning. I am sneezing and shivering. I just emptied my angry stomach and feel no relief in the aftermath. Henry is convinced that I caught the Black Death when I rode into town to visit Papa’s grave yesterday. I spoke only with Rector Mompesson and his wife, and they were in good health and good spirits. I am distressed that cruel Henry may be right, but I have not wept about it. I am not strong of courage, so the only explanation of merit is that I have shed a lifetime’s worth of tears for Papa these last weeks, and I have no more tears left to weep.
I do not want to die.
Paul is brave. He slept in the barn with me, even though it might be the death of him. I love him for that. I do not know what the Plague feels like, but I can only imagine that something so dreadful would feel so much worse than this. I have been afflicted with nausea for several days now, even before I rode into town. Also, it has been nearly two months since I last bled. I have not told Paul or Mother Alice this. Time will decide my fate. Will I be dead within a fortnight, or am I to become a mother?
CHAPTER 7
It was the first day in over a week that Eyam had been without rain. The sun blazed bright in a blue and cloudless sky. A cool steady breeze rattled the lush green arbor foliage of Cucklett Delf. Waves of fragrant aroma — wafting from the petals of late-blooming English Bluebells — sweetened the country air. Woodlarks and nuthatches whistled and chirped happily, as they flittered from branch to branch and back again. By all accounts, it was the most beautiful spring day that Mother Nature could have gifted upon rural England. Rector William Mompesson looked down from the sky to focus on the faces of the village elders who were seated in the grass in a broad arc in front of him.
No one was smiling.
The subject of the meeting was not a surprise to any of the attendees. Mompesson had spoken to every person present on the matter individually, and privately, at some time during the previous two months. It was not something he could spring on the town and expect a calm, rational response. No, a proposal as radical as this needed to seep into a person’s consciousness slowly, until at last virtue triumphed over instinct. In the end, however, Mompesson felt it was the staunch support of his fellow clergyman, the Puritan Thomas Stanley, that had made the difference. Without a united front at the leadership level, dissension in the ranks would have been inevitable. Dissension begets schism, and schism gives way to conflict. Together, Mompesson and Stanley had kept the townspeople united and prevented the situation from spiraling out of control.
The meeting played itself out as Mompesson had imagined it would, with plenty of shouting and crying, but in the end, when he called for a vote, the show of hands ‘in favor’ of the motion comprised a supermajority of the representing body. It was now official. The town of Eyam was under strict, self-imposed quarantine. None of the residents were permitted to leave; outsiders were prohibited from entering. He had tried to enact quarantine protocols nine months earlier, after George Vicars’ death, but the town had resisted. The village elders believed they could minimize the spread of the scourge by limiting contact with infected families. They hoped that if sick families kept to themselves through the winter, the infirm would pass into God’s kingdom, and the strong would emerge into a healthy spring. But the plague returned in May with a vengeance, and after dozens of new cases, it was apparent to all that Mompesson’s quarantine was necessary.
Other measures to quell the spread of the scourge were enacted as well. Families were now responsible for burying their own dead. Public gatherings were prohibited — save official town meetings and church services. Worship was henceforth to be held at Cucklett Delf, in the outdoors, to minimize risk of communicable infection. Lastly, the schoolhouse was closed, and would remain so until the quarantine was lifted. The quarantine was, in no uncertain terms, a communal suicide pact. Eyam would sacrifice itself for the rest of the Derbyshire. The Plague had come, but it would not be allowed to leave.
Mompesson extended his hands to the crowd and addressed them.
“The pact each of you has made today is the most courageous, selfless, and Godlike act I’ve had the privilege to witness in my lifetime. By honoring the tenets of this quarantine, we not only protect and safeguard our neighbors, but also our countrymen at large, from the evil pestilence that has taken hold of our fair town. It is the responsible decision, the moral decision, and the same decision Christ made sixteen-hundred and sixty-six years ago: That we may die, so others can live. May God bless you and your families for all of eternity. Amen.”
“Amen,” said the crowd in somber unison.
He watched as friends and neighbors stood and began to take their leave. He nodded reverently whenever he happened to make eye contact. He felt the distinct weight of someone’s gaze upon him, and then spied Henry Foster staring at him. Henry had been one of the few who had not raised his hand in support of the quarantine. Mompesson didn’t blame him; he was aware of the situation at the Foster homestead. Kathryn Foster had given birth to a baby boy only three weeks ago, and even though the family had insulated itself from infection to date, Mompesson could read the fear in the man’s face. He was certain that Henry Foster’s plan had been to drive the young family back to Chesterfield as soon as both mother and child were strong enough to make the journey. With the quarantine in effect, that was no longer an option. The child would have to test fate with the rest of the townspeople and hope that Death’s gaze passed him by. Unfortunately, the Eyam plague was getting worse, instead of better.
What Henry Foster did not realize, nor anyone else in Eyam for that matter, was that Mompesson abhorred the idea of the quarantine. In his mind, the quarantine was a death sentence and he the executioner. His actions today had, in all probability, guaranteed his own demise, and he was not immune to fear. There were two Mompessons: William Mompesson, devoted husband and doting father; and Rector Mompesson, clergyman and de facto town leader.
In the eyes of the town, Rector Mompesson was an enlightened disciple of God, a virtuous man with an unwavering sense of duty. He was a lone oak in a forest of saplings. Behind closed doors, however, he operated according to a different set of principles. No matter the cost, he would safeguard the family he loved. Which is why, under the cover of darkness, he had loaded his two daughters into a carriage bound for Sheffield, two nights ago. He had begged his wife to accompany them, but she was as stubborn as a mule, and she refused to abandon her husband. Now, they could do nothing but pray their respective decisions would not make orphans of their daughters.