"Darling, tell me where it hurts."
"All over," she moaned.
He poured her out a tincture of laudanum, and made her drink it. She made a face and her head lolled back onto the pillows.
"There, you'll feel better in a minute. Are you thirsty? Hungry?"
"Thirsty."
He poured some water for her and held the glass to her lips as she drank.
Then she closed her eyes and lapsed into unconsciousness once more.
Blake waited in an agony of impatience nearly the whole day until she came to again, about four in the afternoon.
She croaked, "Water."
He held the glass to her lips once again. She drank it down and asked for more. She opened her eyes and looked around. Her eyes were rolling in every direction and she did not seem able to focus on anything.
Concussion for sure, Blake thought to himself as he gave her something for the pain and tried to make her more comfortable in the bed.
"Are you hungry? I can get them to bring you some broth, love."
"All right."
He shouted for the maid and gave his orders, and poured her more water.
He helped her to the chamberpot and left her for a few moments while he tidied the bed and fluffed up the pillows. He picked her up and changed her linens and shift, and washed her hands and face.
When the broth came, he spooned it into her mouth as carefully as he would feed a child. He made her drink more water, and at last she fell back against the pillow exhausted once more.
"How do you feel now, darling?"
"A bit better. But I don't understand."
"Understand what, my love?"
"Where are we? Who are you?"
Blake stared. "Pardon me?"
"I said, who are you, and where am I?"
He looked around the room, dim in the candle light, and rose it up higher to look at her confused expression. The light her eyes almost unbearably, as did even the slightest movement when she tried to shield them from the glare.
"You're at an inn with me in Bath. I'm your husband, Blake. Do you remember me?"
"No, no I don't. I suppose I must have been in some sort of accident because I know there was a doctor here looking after me and asking me where it hurt. But I can't remember what happened, or you. But I suppose if you say you're my husband then you must be."
"And one of your doctors."
"I see."
"Can you?"
"Yes. Not very well, but some."
"Can I look at your eyes?"
"They're so sore."
"I'm sorry, love. I need to see them."
The tears streamed down as he forced the lids open, and examined her eyes. They were sore, but they reacted to the light, and she could definitely see. "It's all right now, darling. You've been very brave. Rest now."
She closed her eyes then, and drifted off into a natural sleep.
"Poor thing, she's exhausted," he sighed to himself.
But at least she had not seemed to recall anything about the attack. Or him either, he thought with a sigh. Well, she wasn't blind at any rate. So perhaps her loss of memory was a blessing.
Unutterably weary, Blake moved over to the other side of the bed and lay down beside her, resting one hand on her arm gently. He would feel her if she awoke during the night. He was just so tired. He knew she would still have a long way to go before she was back to her old self, if she ever would be.
But for the moment she was calm and she had eaten and drunk. It wasn't much, but it was a start. He had checked the chamber pot. There was blood in her urine; he had no idea how much internal damage she had received, but all he could do was pray. He rested his head next to hers on the pillow, and let the tears fall at last.
The week they spent in The King's Arms had to be the longest of Blake's life. But at the end of it, her bleeding had stopped, and her urine was clear. She was still frequently confused, and did not recall him, or even sometimes the most basic information which he had given her, that he was her husband and they were at inn in Bath.
There was some glimmer of hope on the horizon. Her bruises were healing, and she was sleeping well and eating better with each passing day.
Now all he needed to worry about was disease-if whoever had attacked her had raped her, he needed to be vigilant. He had dosed her for gonorrhea just to be on the safe side, but the syphilis treatments were not to be resorted to except under the most extreme circumstances, only when he was certain.
He sighed. He might have known. Disease had blighted him haunted him all his life. It was bad enough being fearful of it for himself, even worse to think that his wife would be reduced to the screaming lunatic that his m-