“Long enough. Oh, forever it seems. It is not so much that I am ill as that I am never well. I am sick, and then I get a bit better, but as soon as I try to do anything, I am sick again, and worse than ever. I am so weary of being sick, boy. So tired of always feeling tired.”
“Come, sir. This will make you feel better.” I damped the cloth and wiped his face gently. He recovered himself enough to motion me aside as he washed his own hands, and then wiped his face again more firmly. I was appalled at how the wash water had yellowed as it cleansed him.
“I’ve found a clean nightshirt for. you. Shall I help you into it? Or would you rather that I sent for a boy to bring a tub and warm water? I would bring clean linens for the bed while you bathed.”
“I, oh, I haven’t the energy, boy. Where is that Wallace? He knows I cannot manage alone. What possessed him to leave me?”
“A warm bath might help you to rest,” I tried persuasively. Up close, the old man smelled. Shrewd had always been a cleanly man; I think that his grubbiness distressed me more than anything else.
“But bathing can lead to chills. So Wallace says. A damp skin, a cool wind, and whisk, I’m gone. Or so he says.” Had Shrewd really become this fretful old man? I could scarcely believe what I was hearing from him.
“Well, perhaps just a hot cup of tea, then. And a pastry. Cook Sara said these were your favorites.” I poured the steaming tea into the cup and saw his nose twitch appreciatively. He had a sip or two, and then sat up to look at the carefully arranged pastries. He bade me join him, and I ate a pastry with him, licking the rich filling from my fingers. I understood why they were his favorites. He was well into a second when there were three solid thuds against the door.