He stays with her. It's arduous and terrifying, watching her. He nearly breaks a few times, calls for a doctor, a nurse. Someone who could make sure she wasn't going to die on his watch. He sleeps in the chair next to their bed, going through his own bouts of sickness as he withdraws from the alcohol that had been his constant companion for all the nights he spent alone.
But not entirely. Just a nip here, a swallow there, to keep the shakes at bay.
Food reenters the house, most of it taken from public houses in tins and brought back, then purchased at the markets. He bathes her, he cares for her like the devoted husband he'd always been. And when she does finally speak again, he's roused from the pathetically shallow sleep he'd managed. "Of course." It's simple, Owainn pulling the chair to her bedside, pulling her hand into his.