The Inn at Hidden Run

by Olivia Newport

  “Tomorrow’s Friday, and I’ll be around through the weekend,” Nolan said. “Let’s give her a chance to tell her story before resorting to drastic measures.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Memphis, August 1, 1878

  Miz Eliza.”

  The orphan child’s faint voice did not alarm Eliza. She had been ill for two weeks, even while lying in bed at Church Home before coming to the hospital for the last few days, and was soft spoken by nature. The doctor assured Eliza only that morning of the ten-year-old’s progress. In another day or two, she could go home to the orphanage where she’d lived the last four years.

  “I’m here, honey.” Eliza folded a hand over the child’s open palm.

  “I’m so hot. Is my fever back?”

  “No, it’s just the weather.” It was only the first of August. In Memphis, that meant many weeks of oppressive heat still to come before it was reasonable to expect a break in temperatures. The entire summer had been torrid. By the middle of July, Eliza insisted that her parents—who hesitated to face the reality that the term elderly would soon be apt—purchase train tickets for a few weeks in the cooler setting of upper Wisconsin on Lake Michigan with her mother’s younger sister’s family. They were due for an annual holiday, and so were most of the household staff. Two domestics were attending her parents in Wisconsin, while others had their turns for personal leave, rotating to be sure the grounds and garden in Memphis were adequately tended and the house was looked after.

  Eliza dipped a cloth in a bowl of water that had once been cool and wiped Penelope’s face.

  “I’m thirsty. Am I allowed to drink more water?”

  The pitcher at the bedside was empty. Eliza picked it up.

  “I would think so,” she said. “I’ll find one of the nurses to be sure.”

  The hospital rarely had enough nurses, or so it seemed to Eliza. She was not a nurse. She was not even a parent. Her capacity was a caring lifelong Episcopalian. St. Mary’s had been her church for twenty years, ever since it opened as a mission congregation and long before it became the bishop’s cathedral. Nearing forty, Eliza was a spinster with no regrets. Having no husband and demands of her own household freed her to care for the children in the orphanage as well as offering occasional support to the handful of negro children in Canfield Asylum, who seemed to her to be in even greater need. Becoming a nun had not been her calling, but the children were. Her parents had ceased trying to marry her off and could not counter her arguments for the Christian virtues of giving herself to the care of others as freely as her position allowed. Throughout the congregation, day school for girls, and orphanages, she was “Miz Eliza,” and she answered readily to all who called her name.

  Eliza walked down the hall, vowing that tomorrow she would reduce one layer of undergarments and thereby the heat that encased her midsection and legs. Surely no one would notice the fashion habits of a spinster. Already she resisted more than one or two new dresses a season when last year’s suited just fine.

  She found a nurse who, at least for the moment, was not in motion. Miss Glasserman. Eliza had been at the hospital with Penelope enough days to recognize many of the nurses with their hair twisted in buns beneath their caps.

  “For Penelope.” She raised the pitcher. “I assume there are no orders from the doctor preventing her from drinking water.”

  “I’ll check right now.” Miss Glasserman’s heels clicked toward a desk, where she consulted a stack of charts and found Penelope’s. “No, no special examinations today. In fact, the doctor is encouraging extra hydration as she tolerates it. Small sips. We all hope she will be released soon if she remains comfortable.”

  Eliza nodded. “I’ll work on that. I don’t suppose there is any ice.”

  “You’ll have to check with the kitchen. They’ll at least be able to give you cool water most recently from the well.”

  “Of course.”

  A pair of doors at the end of the hall burst open, and two men hefting a makeshift blanket hammock bearing a third man pushed through.

  Miss Glasserman marched toward them, pointing. “Over there. Why did you come in this entrance in the first place?”

  “It was the closest,” one of the men said. “He’s mighty poorly. Burning up.”

  Eliza hastened after Miss Glasserman by instinct. She was not a trained nurse, but she knew where the supply room was and might be some help. Gasping, she gripped the nurse’s arm.

  “To my untrained eyes, he appears jaundiced,” Eliza said.

  “You are not wrong,” Miss Glasserman said softly.

  “Where do you want him?” the heavier-set man said. The two still dangled the blanket between them.

  “Take him through to the admitting area where you should have gone in the first place.” Miss Glasserman pointed.

  “Nurse,” Eliza said.

  “It is hospital policy. I will go with them and suggest that the patient be kept apart if possible, but only a doctor can diagnose.”

  “You will want to send for Dr. Erskine from the Board of Health.”

  “That will be up to the examining physician.”

  “But surely.”

  “Many conditions may cause jaundice and fever.”

  The men breathed heavily now with their continued effort in the heat, their faces shimmering in sweat.

  “Orderly!” Miss Glasserman called in full voice, and a young man came from around a corner, saw the need, ran for a wheeled gurney, and raced toward them with it.

  The nurse trotted alongside the gurney toward the admitting area, calling for a doctor.

  Eliza stood with the men who had surrendered their charge and now tried to catch their breath.

  “I am Eliza,” she said.

  “Not a nurse?”

  “No. I am here with a parishioner.” She still held Penelope’s water pitcher.

  “Hank.” The smaller, wiry man pointed to himself. “This here’s Robert. We only meant to get him some help. We found him lying there in the alley. Saw he’d been sick. Didn’t seem right to leave him there in it. You know. Since …”

  “Since you were here five years ago,” Eliza said. What was the point of being indirect? “And you know what this illness is.”

  Both men raised palms toward her and launched rapid protests.

  “We just unload steamboats.”

  “We’re not doctors.”

  “If we don’t get back to work, we’ll lose our jobs.”

  “I’ve got little ones to feed.”

  “You can’t go!” Eliza took a tone stricter than she used with rambunctious boys at the orphanage most days. “You were exposed the moment you checked to see if he was all right.” No steamboats had been allowed to dock in Memphis proper for days. They couldn’t have been unloading anything. Health officials had seen to that.

  They shook their heads.

  “They’ll take care of him,” Robert said. “That’s what they do here. He’ll get better.”

  “Have you forgotten the last outbreak already?” Eliza took a step forward in challenge. Five years ago, the orphanage had taken in sixty children. Constance, Thecla, and the other Sisters of St. Mary’s had barely arrived from New York, expecting to open a school, not an infirmary. They were teachers, not nurses. By God’s grace they had managed to nurse all but eight children to health, but the disease had spread its malignant tendrils through Memphis, shooting fear in its path.

  Quarantine was the only answer until officials could be certain these men had not been infected.

  “Is this man a steamboat worker?” Eliza said. “Is that how you know him?”

  The two exchanged glances, not answering.

  “It is of utmost importance that you give the authorities whatever information you have,” Eliza said. “Clearly your friend is unconscious and may not rouse. Who is he?”

  More silence.

  “Tell me.” This time she spoke through gritted teeth. “Or go through those doors and tell a doctor.”
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br />   “Not a friend exactly. Just someone we see.” Robert sighed. “William Warren. A deckhand. Sometimes he comes up working a ship from New Orleans. He got in last night.”

  “I read the Appeal every morning. The quarantine notice is widespread,” Eliza said. “There have been six yellow fever deaths in New Orleans, and the Memphis Board of Health put a stop to steamers coming from the South. All the boats have been sent to President’s Island for quarantine and disinfecting of cargo and crew.”

  “He had supper in Kate Bionda’s restaurant last night.” Hank shrugged. “I was there. Saw him myself.”

  “Then you were exposed last night, rather than today.” Eliza swallowed back the scolding burning up in her throat. “How did he get all the way from President’s Island?”

  Robert raised one shoulder and let it drop. “It’s only a few miles. If a man’s looking for a good time, he’ll find a way off. Even President’s Island needs supplies back and forth, especially with all the extra people in quarantine. He didn’t mean nothin’.”

  Tell that to your wife and children if you get sick.

  “Why don’t you go to the admissions area as well?” Eliza said instead. “They’ll appreciate this information. Have a word with Nurse Glasserman. She can explain to the doctor treating Mr. Warren. I’m sure he’ll have some advisable precautions to suggest.”

  “I feel fine,” Robert said.

  “Me too,” Hank said. “We’ll just get out of the way so the good doctors and nurses can take care of the sick people who need them.”

  As one, they turned and strode—nearly ran—toward the door they’d used to enter the building.

  “Wait! May I have your full names? The streets where you live?”

  But they were gone, the door closed behind them.

  “Miz Eliza?”

  Eliza turned to the timid voice behind her, a young woman she recognized as an occasional volunteer.

  “Penelope is asking for you. If you like, I will fill the water pitcher so you can go to her.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Shall I bring you back a coffee from the Cage?” Nolan gripped the doorframe as he leaned into Jillian’s office. No matter how early he was up, she was always at work earlier.

  “Like it would still be hot by the time you sauntered back with it after saying good morning to half the town.” Jillian moved the orange sticky note she used to keep her place in her notes. “Besides, have you noticed that the only thing missing from our kitchen is a personal barista, a service I am perfectly competent to provide?”

  “In other words, you’ve already had two cups of espresso before seven thirty.”

  Jillian’s voice dropped to a mutter. “I may or may not have.” She raised her head. “I may have identified a young woman who will be shocked to discover she is heir to the estate of her father’s great-uncle.”

  “Well done. I never doubted you.”

  “I’ve identified her genealogically. Now I have to find her physically.”

  “Can’t the detectives do that?”

  “I think they’re counting on me for the whole package—which I’d like to do. And I’ve got three other cases I promised results on this week or next.”

  “You’ll get it done.”

  Nolan had a briefcase full of files to read before the day was over, or at least before Monday when he was due to sit down with two branches of an extended family and mediate their differences in the family business. But first he’d take the long way to Canary Cage Coffee and enjoy some morning sun.

  He hadn’t forgotten about last night either. He could take his coffee to go and swing by the Inn on the way home and see what happened to Meri. Guarding information happened all the time in his line of work. Sometimes he found himself playing good cop–bad cop with another attorney who preferred to strong-arm information out of a client or opposition counsel suspected of withholding relevant content, but those were not the days Nolan was proud of his work. He didn’t go into law to win—at least not in that way.

  Clark Addison was behind the counter at the Cage as he always was for the morning rush of Canyon Mines residents grabbing coffee on their way to work or tourists looking for a caffeine lift to start off a day of exploring the area. Nolan never minded standing in line. It meant business was lively for his old friend Clark, and a crowded coffee shop reflected positive economic activity for Canyon Mines in general. Ben Zabel waved on his way out of the shop. Nolan’s mouth salivated at the thought that Ben’s morning pastries, just delivered, might even still be warm. The line gave him time to contemplate his options—coffee and pastry or a fuller breakfast also available at this early hour.

  She slipped in, and he almost missed her. When he caught her eye, she glanced away, pretending she hadn’t noticed.

  But she had, and Nolan knew it.

  He gave up his place in line before she could backtrack and leave the coffee shop.

  “Good morning, Meri.” Nolan glided to a position between Meri and the door.

  She looked around again before visually surrendering. “Hi.”

  “Have you got time for breakfast? My treat.”

  Meri’s shoulders sank an inch. “Probably. Not sure if I still have a job.”

  “I take it you haven’t talked to Nia this morning.”

  She shook her head.

  “Did you go back to the Inn at all?”

  “Late. But I left again early.”

  “Sounds to me like you could use some fortification.” Nolan touched her elbow to guide her toward the ordering line. “You won’t see it on the menu, but I can get Clark to make us scrambled eggs and potato cakes. And bacon, if you’re not a vegetarian.”

  “I’m not.”

  “He’ll make any kind of elaborate morning beverage you can dream up.” Nolan nudged Meri forward in line. Under other circumstances, he might suggest a companion grab an open table while he placed an order, but he wasn’t taking any chances with Meri. While she scanned the posted menu, Nolan slipped his phone from his pocket and sent Jillian a quick text.

  I HAVE MERI. TELL NIA. DON’T LET HER COME.

  At the counter, Nolan put his forearm down and leaned toward Clark. “We’re going to need two of your secret specials.”

  “Orange juice?” Clark said, his gray hair tied back in a ponytail.

  “Of course.”

  “Coffee?”

  Nolan gestured toward Meri. “What do you like?”

  “Caramel mocha macchiato?” Meri scrunched up her cheeks.

  “Say it with confidence.” Clark showed a fist.

  She offered a shy smile and repeated, “Caramel mocha macchiato. Whole milk. Extra whipped cream.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Clark said. “Your friend here will have a large black coffee. He’s a purist with no imagination. Find a place to sit and I’ll bring everything out when the food is ready.”

  Nolan scouted the possibilities farthest from the door. If Meri bolted, he wouldn’t tackle her, but he’d like the opportunity to politely stride out with her, not chase her and have the door hit him in the face. He walked past the couch where Jillian sometimes gathered with her friends. Intuition told him that, in addition to the practicality of juggling plates, juice glasses, and coffee, Meri might feel less exposed with a table between the two of them. He found one next to the front window and let her have the seat with the best view of the street and the least sensation of feeling trapped. He hoped.

  “I want to apologize,” Nolan said.

  “About what?”

  “Upsetting you last night.”

  Meri drew a lone finger across the table’s edge. “It wasn’t you.”

  Nolan left a silent space, waiting to see if she would meet his gaze. “Something upset you.”

  Her eyes moved from one side of the table to another but not toward his. “Like I said, it wasn’t you.”

  “I was just being friendly. I’m sorry I made you feel unsafe.”

  “You didn’t.”


  “You ran away.”

  “I appreciate breakfast.”

  “But could I please stop being so nosy?”

  She let the answer hang unspoken.

  A young couple with an infant and a preschooler began arranging themselves at the table next to theirs. A booster seat for the preschooler—perhaps three years old, with adorable pink glasses strapped to her head. And a bib. And a toy to occupy her while they waited for their food. Adjusting the angle of the stroller for the infant. Making sure the baby didn’t need changing and plugging her mouth with a pacifier with a limp giraffe hanging from the end. Giving her another toy to clutch in one hand. Picking it up when she dropped it immediately. Pulling out a disinfectant wipe to clean it.

  Nolan caught the eye of the young mother and smiled.

  “My wife and I only had Jillian,” he said to Meri. “We didn’t decide not to have another child. I was just working so much, and commuting to Denver, and we were working on the house here. And we woke up one day and realized we were raising an only child. Jillian wasn’t likely to have much in common with a sibling ten years younger than she was without at least one in between.”

  “I guess not,” Meri said.

  “That’s when we took on the motto ‘Make life happen.’ We tried to be more intentional about our decisions after that.”

  “Are you sorry? That you didn’t have other children?”

  “Sometimes. For Jillian’s sake more than my own. We lost her mother, and now she’s stuck with just me.”

  Meri just nodded slightly.

  Clark turned up with their food and set the feast in front of them. Today’s version of the secret special included Ben’s croissants and melon balls along with the items Nolan had promised.

  “How about you?” Nolan asked once Clark withdrew. “Brothers and sisters?”

  Meri picked up her fork and nudged her food around for a couple of seconds. “One of each.”

  “Older? Younger?”

  She separated a trio of melon balls. “Older.” Her face bore no trace of enthusiasm for the topic.

  “I get it.” Nolan tore off one end of his croissant, releasing an aroma he craved inhaling. “The sort of siblings who are good at everything, and you come along behind them in school and the teachers remember their perfection.”