Chapter 14

It was a much happier evening for Catherine and Henry both, though the lady might have been more grateful for the change in circumstance than the gentleman. She was able to appreciate every conscious action, every look and gesture, with the knowledge of just how much progress had been made. For his part, Henry was glad not to feel a complete invalid, as he was at least sensible to the world around him rather than buried beneath drugged or fevered dreams.

Yet this very alertness only made him more sensible of the infirmity still keeping him bound to his sickbed. He could not quite order his thoughts to his liking, and was ashamed when his wife needed to repeat herself before he understand what was asked of him. For a man who prided himself on always having a ready reply to any situation, this imbecility was galling. Still there were other miseries to distract him from injured pride. As he remained awake the soreness of his shoulder and back increased; the slightest movements aggravated his limbs, and even when Catherine helped him adjust his position he could not keep a gasp from escaping his lips. Then there were his coughs, which crept back upon him as daylight waned. At first he tried to stifle them, but eventually was unable, helpless to do more than accept Catherine's assistance as he fought to breathe.

Through these trials she never wavered, never even appeared tired. Somehow she was always able to anticipate his needs: he had only to look and she was fetching him a drink, or distracting him with reading or a recounting of her last letter from her family. "How miserable she must become," was the suggestion which occurred to him when he felt at his lowest. And yet since her outburst she had been nothing but comforting, a cheerful sprite keeping him company through the valley of the shadow of death.

Morbidity and depression were not natural to Henry's disposition; he believed in laughing at trouble instead of worrying over it, and enjoyed satire better than tragedy. However it would be either a very brazen or foolish man not to consider his own mortality at such a point. Once or twice in the night Henry wondered if perhaps his wife had practised on him, hiding the full extent of his injuries out of pity. Even when he sunk to such maudlin reflections, though, Henry was unable to fully believe them: what logic he was able to marshal counselled against it, and where rationality failed, his reliance on Catherine's honest nature furnished the argument. She would never knowingly deceive him, of that he was certain: so long as she believed he would improve, he must at least make the attempt.

These happy thoughts allowed him to finally fall asleep of his own accord, so that he awoke with full knowledge of his surroundings. It was such a relief to feel in command of his senses again that Henry smiled despite his discomfort.

Seeing how well he looked Catherine called the maid early, taking time to whisper most mysteriously before turning back to her husband.

"Are you taking advantage of my state to gain mastery of the home?" Henry asked, voice still weak but his wit back in full force. "Perhaps you are in league with a foul servant who has nursed a grudge against that young fool Henry for years, and who you have met while I dozed to assure that the time is nigh for your combined revenge."

He was pleased to find her still susceptible to his drollery, bringing first a startled glance and then a welcome touch of colour to her wan features, even as she warned against fatiguing his voice lest his coughing start again. It was a proper warning, for Henry did not wish a repetition of those torments, and so made do with an arch look to communicate the remainder of his feelings. When the tray returned it was the gentleman who was surprised, for beyond the expected medicinal gruel and drink was a dish of marmalade. Catherine smiled at his amazement as she took up her own bowl. "I do not think the doctor will begrudge you a little variation in diet; we have often had such treats when ill back at my father's home, and the honey you had yesterday appears to have done you good."

"O true apothecary thy drugs are sweet, as is thy visage. Thus with a kiss I live."

"I do not believe that is quite how the the line is written," was his wife's only reply, and she studiously ignored any hint to provide further signs of her favour than by helping him consume that which she had already procured.

When the maid returned it was to announce the much referenced man of medicine had sent word ahead, and was expected to make his foreshadowed entrance later that day. Henry was no less glad of this development than Catherine, and both looked to receive encouragement by his favourable report. In high spirits Henry could barely restrain testing his newfound joy for life, and when Catherine made to take up reading again, begged a play they might share instead of more verse. "But I do not think you should read any of it," was her concern as she looked through the volume, "for the doctor did say not to exert yourself."

"It cannot harm me to try a minor role. I believe it would in fact do me good, as exercise." At his wife's dubious glance, he retreated from further hyperbole, and bowed to her judgment in the matter. "I will only listen if you think it wise."

"Perhaps, if not a very large part," she admitted after consideration, "and you must let me know if you find yourself tiring."

He readily agreed, and when they had settled on Twelfth Night, next campaigned to read not only the sea captain, but all of the servants, messengers, and even the priest too. "For none of them appear often."

You or I might have gratified the earnest pleas of a stricken man dearly loved. It was fortunate for Henry that Catherine, as an oldest girl in a large family, had endured such needling before and was not so easily swayed. She refused to let him exert himself with so many different characters, saying he must be content with one, "and it may not be the Duke Orsino or Malvolio or Sir Toby," and at his saucy look, she quickly added to her list of prohibitions Viola and Olivia as well.

Therefore he had to content himself with Sebastian, a mere brother to the heroine and second rate lover, appearing late in the story and with few scenes or speeches to distinguish himself. Fortunately, he realized as the play progressed, there was plenty of room for embellishment. So it was that when rescued from the clutches of the sea, he rolled his eyes with exaggerated languor and attempted to make waves on his blanket with a wriggle of his toes.

Despite her stern preamble Catherine could not help laughing, encouraging Henry to race ahead in his mind to plan further amusement. When offered money by his rescuer, he threaded his fingers through hers, tickling them, as he promised to be her "purse-bearer," and managed a trumpeting call on agreeing to meet again at "the Elephant." It was difficult for Olivia to appear worried on her next entrance when she was so merrily distracted and murmuring "You must stop Henry" between lines.

The duel was a strain upon his genius but he had a lengthy interval to consider his course of attack, so that by the time they reached the fourth act Henry had gradually worked their joined hands to his lips. "Why, there's for thee, and there, and there," and the lady's heart would need be stone not to enjoy the felicitous means by which this Sebastian issued his challenge on each tender "there." Catherine was so entranced she forgot the fight altogether and turned the page early, denying Henry the opportunity to declare her a dream.

His disappointment did not last long, for he was able to indulge in a full soliloquy some scenes later. He began in mockery, bringing her to smiles again with raised brows and loud sniffs on the state of his sanity. But he did not let up his grip on her hand as she delivered Olivia's declaration of love, and gesturing for her to bring the book closer, got her exactly next to him as he declared he would "go with you; and, having sworn truth, ever will be true," gazing at her with as much ardour as a man on his sickbed could do.

Catherine was well and truly snared, and when she glanced at the next lines Henry managed to bring her head to rest beside his on the pillow, so she murmured nearly into his ear, "Then lead the way, good father; and heavens so shine, That they may fairly note this act of mine!"

She made to get up and turn the page, but Henry would not release his hold. "You have forgot a bit," he said, and when she began to read the last piece over, interrupted with: "It is a direction, not a word. For Sebastian and Olivia have just gone in to be married."

"Yet it only says Exeunt, I am sure I did not miss anything else."

"Ah, but my dearest Catherine, we must interpret what the text implies, for what new husband and wife would say their vows without also exchanging tokens of their affection?"

"They do not mention anything about rings; is that not in a different play?"

It was so blessedly normal for her to misunderstand him, to wish for him to explain, that Henry nearly prolonged her confusion out of sheer pleasure. But mindful that no joke should live beyond its time, he instead revealed his intentions. "Sebastian has no other token of his love but himself. Will Olivia deny him that which he so desires to give, when he has promised to be ruled by her?"

A mere look of encouragement was all Henry needed to bend forward, illustrating by deed rather than further argument what he meant, and neither Olivia nor Catherine could complain their husband was half-hearted in his adoration. It must be admitted the play suffered a little in its resolution, as Catherine struggled to regain any sense of the story. She dropped nearly the rest of the act in favour of hearing Sebastian once again speak his vows of betrothal, and somehow it was Henry who delivered Duke Orsino's final speech to a rapt Viola, and offer more proofs that music was not the only source of love.

With the conclusion of the play, however, the object of his affection closed the book, and rising, declared that he should now rest before the doctor arrived. "As you are feeling so much better, I will take the time to finish this letter to your sister."

Henry was sorely tempted to make some remark about her playing his sister, and whether Viola was as exact in her commands as Olivia, but only asked that she ensure the recipient know how very well he obeyed his mistress's orders, "for I have sworn ever to be true."

Catherine said he had spoken enough, and facing the window to catch the light on her paper, refused to do more than sneak looks in checking that he truly meant to honour her wishes. Which he did, in a far happier state of mind than he could have imagined that morning, and despite his high spirits, found himself drawn into a light repose ere long.