Fever 1793

by Laurie Halse Anderson

He raised an eyebrow and his eyes sparkled.

  "Trout?"

  He smiled and I got a chill. When had he started smiling at me like that? Maybe I wouldn't roll up my sleeves. One had to be careful with elbows and boys. I would fish like a lady, with good posture and a demure manner. I could set the eggs in the stream so they wouldn't spoil

  Bong. Bong. Bong.

  The bell at Christ Church tolled heavily.

  "Why is that ringing?" asked Nathaniel. "It's not the hour."

  Bong. Bong. Bong.

  A little boy sitting on the cobblestones covered his ears. The chattering marketplace voices hushed as the ringing continued. Every face turned toward the bell swaying in its tower.

  "Another person dead," said the butcher. He brought his cleaver down, slicing the mutton leg on his table into two pieces. "The bell rings once for each year the person lived," he explained.

  "Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one," counted Nathaniel. The bell stopped. "Twenty-one years old. Do you reckon it was a fever victim?"

  "Don't you start carrying on about this fever," I warned. "When Mother isn't hollering at me about something I've done wrong, she's moaning about the fever." I lowered my voice. "Did you hear about Polly Logan?"

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  He nodded. "Hard to believe, isn't it? I recall you pummeled me once when I stole Polly's doll."

  I remembered, too. She loved that doll. I turned away so he couldn't see my tears.

  Nathaniel put his hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry."

  His hand felt kind and warm. "I miss her. I didn't even get to say good-bye." I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and cleared my throat again. "Enough about that. We won't talk about it anymore."

  "Suit yourself."

  Nathaniel stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at the cobblestones. I balanced the basket on my hip. Conversation started up around us as the last echo of the bell died.

  "You won't catch anything," I said. "Fish don't bite this time of day."

  Nathaniel grunted. He knew I was right. "Well," he started.

  "I must go," I interrupted. "There is so much to do at the coffeehouse. Good luck with your paints."

  I curtsied awkwardly, stepping on my shift and nearly falling on my face. Nathaniel tipped his hat to me like a gentleman. I tried to walk away with my head held high. I could still feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder.

  Good luck with your paints? Did I really say that? What a ninny.

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  CHAPTER SIX

  August 3oth, i£93

  Directions to the housemaid: Always when you sweep a room, throw a little wet sand all over it, and that will gather up all the flue and dust.

  -Hannah Glasse The Art of Cookery, 1747

  I'll never complain about a cold day again," I vowed after another week of unceasing heat Grandfather watched from the shade as I cranked the wheel of the mangle. "Do you remember how thick the river ice was New Year's Day?"

  Grandfather patted his pockets absentmindedly. Silas crouched next to his chair, intently watching a quivering cherry branch.

  "I remember how many cords of firewood I carried and how the wash water by my bed froze every night. No, thank you, Madam, I'd rather a warm day than a cold one. My bones ache at the thought of another frost. Have you seen my pipe?"

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  I threaded another wet tablecloth through the mangle to squeeze the water from it. The flagstones were cool beneath my bare feet, but the sun burned red as it mounted the sky. Another oppressively hot day.

  "No, I haven't seen your pipe. And I adore winter. My favorite part was skating around the ships locked in solid by the ice. The Bensons were there, and the Peales, remember? It was delightful."

  Grandfather's white eyebrows crept skyward. "Speaking of Mr. Nathaniel Benson," he started.

  "Were we?" I inquired.

  "Your mother heard that the young man was behaving improperly toward you at the market."

  I let go of the mangle. It swung around and hit me in the leg.

  "Ouch. No, I mean. Nathaniel was a gentleman. He expressed his condolences on the death of Polly Logan."

  Grandfather coughed once. "Better he should express himself into a better apprenticeship. He'll come of nothing dabbling in Peale's paint pots."

  The tablecloth came out the other end of the mangle, and I dropped it into a hickory basket. I waved at the bugs hovering above my head. "I do not wish to discuss Nathaniel Benson. That market is full of busybodies," I grumbled.

  "You are right about that. Let me help you, girl." Grandfather rose stiffly. We each took a handle of the basket and carried it to the clotheshorse, a rope strung

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  between two wooden frames that we used for drying clothes and linens. Silas crept to the base of the cherry tree, tail twitching, head steady.

  Eliza came through the gate as we spread the tablecloth over the line to dry.

  "She certainly has you busy," Eliza chuckled.

  "All of us," answered Grandfather. "Look there." He pointed to two sacks by the back door. "She sent me to fetch those Arabica beans! Me, the hero of Trenton and Germantown reduced to a simple errand boy. What has the world come to?"

  "Father! Are you trying to kill us all?" my mother yelled from a kitchen window. "Your pipe is near to burn a hole in the table. And where are those coffee beans? We'll have customers soon."

  "Some days I'd rather face the British again than listen to the sound of my dear daughter-in-law," Grandfather said. "Ho! Look at that cat."

  Silas's tail shot up like a warning flag. He had sighted the enemy-a squirrel. It scampered down the cherry's trunk and ran between Grandfather and Eliza.

  Silas leapt to the chase. They raced twice around the garden and under the mangle. The squirrel scrambled up the side of the necessary to the roof. Silas slowed for a heartbeat, then leapt to the fence to gain access to the roof and his furry meal. The squirrel jumped to the ground, and dashed back across the yard, intent on his cherry tree.

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  "Who wants to wager against the cat?" asked Grandfather. "I say he'll have squirrel soup for his supper."

  Silas closed in on the bushy tail. The squirrel lurched left and made a desperate leap up onto my clean laundry. Silas followed. The clotheshorse collapsed under the weight of the stupid beast, sending angry cat and white linen into the red dust.

  "Hey!" I hollered.

  Silas yowled. Eliza and Grandfather burst into laughter.

  "Very droll," I said.

  The midday meal was near over by the time I had rewashed the tablecloths. Cold chicken, crisp pickles, butter biscuits, and peach pie were laid out on the table. Mother and Grandfather were on their second mugs of apple cider when I finally sat down.

  "What do you think we should do with our extra earnings, Mattie?" Grandfather asked.

  "I beg your pardon, Sir?"

  "Your grandfather has the foolish notion that we should go into trade," explained Mother. "Open a regular store for the hordes of people who are going to settle at this end of the city any day now."

  "No need for a mocking tone, Lucille. We should use our windfall to improve our prospects. If it were up to you, we'd bury the money in the backyard to benefit the worms.

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  Mother pressed her lips together tightly and set a second piece of chicken on my plate. "Eat," she instructed. "You've worked hard. I don't want you getting sick."

  I pushed the chicken to the side. I had plenty of ideas about running the coffeehouse, all of them different from Mother's.

  "First we should buy another coffee urn, to serve customers with more haste," I said. I pointed a pickle toward the north wall. "Next is to expand into Mr. Watson's lot. That way, we could offer proper meals, not just tidbits and rolls. You could serve roasts and mutton chops. And we could have an upstairs meeting room for the gentlemen, like the coffeehouses by the wharves."

  I took a bite of the pickle.

  "And we could reserve space to sell p
aintings, and combs, and fripperies from France."

  "Paintings? Fripperies?" asked Grandfather.

  "There is no use talking of expansion, either of you," Mother said. "Our custom improves because business by the docks declines. It's the talk of fever. People are afraid to venture out by the river."

  "Philadelphia suffers fevers every August," said Grandfather. "This season it's those cursed refugees. They brought it, just as the ships from Barbados brought it thirty years ago. The mayor should quarantine them on Hog Island for a few weeks and the fever would pass." He lifted his mug to King George. The parrot drank.

  "Must you encourage that creature?" Mother asked. "Perhaps we should leave, just until the weather breaks. Elizabeth Bachel's family left this morning."

  "I say we keep our heads and turn a tidy profit," Grandfather continued. "Let others flee. We Cooks are made of stronger stuff!"

  "Be that as it may, the increased profits are temporary," said Mother. "The fever will pass and these new customers will go back to the wharves. If we do save some money, we'll keep it for a time when business lags."

  I thought Grandfather was right. If we didn't open a shop or expand the coffeehouse, someone else would; and then it would be too late. Mother always planned for the darkest days. I took a bite of chicken. How much would Watson want for his lot? He spent most of his time in Baltimore. Perhaps Grandfather could inquire discreetly.

  Some chicken slid from my fork onto the floor.

  "Dash it aU," I said.

  "Dash it all, dash it all," echoed King George. He swooped down for the treat and flew back to Grandfather's shoulder.

  "Matilda, your language," Mother started.

  Her lecture was interrupted by a knock at the front door.

  "We're not yet open," shouted Grandfather. "Come back in an hour's time."

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  "A message, Sir," called a boy.

  "I'll tend to this matter, Ladies," Grandfather said grandly as he stood. "Don't bestir yourselves."

  I ate quickly with one eye on King George. Silas walked under the table, his tail still drooping from his defeat by the squirrel. I tempted him to my lap with his own bite of chicken.

  If I could convince Mother to buy an extra urn, it would quickly pay for itself. Then Eliza could cook real dinners, with turtle soup and joints of beef and mutton. If we could get Mr. Jefferson to take his meals here, more business would follow. Maybe even the president himself, and Mrs. Washington for tea.

  "Don't feed the cat at the table," said Mother, tugging me back to earth.

  "Silas keeps King George away from my plate," I said.

  Mother sighed. "I don't know which of you is worse."

  Grandfather pulled a coin from his pocket for the messenger. He walked back slowly, rereading the thick sheet of paper in his hand.

  "What is that?" asked Mother.

  "Nothing, a useless scrap. Nothing of interest for you." A sly smile crept across his face.

  "If it's of no importance, then burn it," Mother said. She stacked the dirty plates. "Why are you standing there like an addle-pated nitwit?"

  Grandfather looked at the paper again.

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  "Oh, my," he said with false surprise. "Is that Pernilla Ogilvie's name I see?"

  Mother set the pickle dish back on the table. Grandfather continued.

  "Pernilla Ogilvie, isn't she the mother of that fine lad you pointed out to me in church? What was it you said-that he'd be a fine match for our Mattie. Yes, that's what it was. But, if you think I should burn it..."

  Mother dove across the room like a hungry hawk.

  "Give that to me," she said, snatching the paper away. She read it hastily. "This is the best news in weeks. Pernilla Ogilvie has invited us to afternoon tea, Matilda."

  She read the invitation again.

  "Oh, good heavens. She wants us there today!"

  "We can't go to tea today," I said. "The shop is too busy. We can't close up or turn away customers. Besides, the Ogilvie girls are snobs. Why would they invite us, except to make fun of our dresses? I'm staying here."

  "We would make time for tea at the Ogilvies if they held it at midnight," said Mother. "Be sensible, Matilda. Think of their young Edward."

  "I was thinking of their young Edward. That's why I'm not going."

  Grandfather stepped between us.

  "Matilda," he said in a honey voice. "Of all the maids in our city, surely you deserve a day of rest, a day to drink tea and eat sweet cakes. But if you must stay here, I'm

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  sure your mother and Eliza would be able to find a suitable list of chores to keep you from boredom. You know how they detest idleness."

  The kettles, I thought. They'll make me scour the kettles again. My hands ached at the thought.

  "And I've heard their cook excels at pastries. Don't give their young Edward a thought. Enjoy yourself. Let your mother enjoy herself. I will direct the replacement troops here at the coffeehouse."

  Mother looked at the old man. He just wanted a quiet afternoon, that much was clear. I saw him wink at her. I didn't know which one made me angrier, but somehow they had both won.

  "Fine," I said. "We'll go to tea. Huzzah."

  As soon as I conceded defeat, Mother turned her attention to the most important issue-tea-drinking clothes. We had tea-buying clothes, tea-brewing clothes, and tea-serving clothes, but we had no takingtea-with-the-Ogilvies clothes.

  Mother's solution lay in the bottom of the trunk in our chamber. She would wear her unfashionable ivorycolored gown, last seen at a victory ball after the War. She said it only had a few stains and fit well. At least she didn't run to fat like some she could name. That was that.

  Finding the proper clothes for me was another matter entirely. I could wear my church petticoat, but I needed a proper short gown to cover the bodice. My one

  fancy short gown was too small, and I hadn't filled out enough to wear any of Mother's castoffs.

  "You'll have to wear the old one," she said. "I'll let out the side seams as far as they can go. Perhaps Eliza can do something with your hair."

  "You are determined to make this as unpleasant as possible, aren't you?" I asked.

  For once, my short-tempered answer did not rile her. "Pretend you're in France, dear," she said lightly. "The ladies there always do their hair."

  Eliza's idea of a hairstyle began with brushing me bald. The more I whimpered, the harder she tugged. In the end, I bit my lip and sulked.

  "I'll sit nicely at the table," I said. "But you can't force me to talk to their young Edward."

  "Hush." Mother stitched my dress as fast as she could, her needle flashing in and out of the fabric like a bumblebee darting through flowers. "It's not too early to search for a suitable man. With your manners, it could take years. Edward Ogilvie has four older brothers. A bride with an established business, like the coffeehouse, is the best he can hope for."

  "You make it sound like I'm one of Mrs. Epler's chickens, ready for market. Ow, Eliza, won't you be finished soon?"

  "Have patience and keep your head still," she said. "If you cared for your hair properly, I wouldn't have to wrestle it."

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  Nobody was on my side. I crossed my arms over my chest and pouted. "I don't know which is worse, banishing me to the Ludington farm or marrying me off to an Ogilvie."

  Eliza combed through a lock of hair stuck together with dried jam. "You're a few years away from a trip to the altar, Mattie, and you are too soft to live in the country," she said. "You have city hands and a weak back. You wouldn't last a week on the farm."

  "Your confidence is overwhelming," I said.

  She tugged my hair hard and tied it in a green and gold ribbon. "That's the best I can do," she said. "If we had more time, we could try to curl it."

  "No!" I covered my head with my arms. "I like straight hair. And I don't need a husband to run the coffeehouse, Mother. You don't have one."

  "Try this on and
don't be vulgar," Mother said as she broke the thread with her teeth. "You'll marry one day, don't you worry. Just pray that when you do, your husband won't be fool enough to fall off a ladder and break his neck when he's but five-and-thirty like your father did. The last thing this family needs is another miserable spinster."

  Eliza pulled the laces of my stays, cutting off my reply. I gasped and saw tiny black dots.

  By the time they had tightened, pinned, and locked me into my clothes, I could feel my stomach rubbing against my backbone. Mother pulled my arms back until

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  my shoulder blades touched, the proper posture for a lady.

  "She looks like a china doll," observed Grandfather as we departed.

  "I will break just as easily," I muttered.

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  CHAPTER SEVEN

  August 30th, i£93

  Wit is the most dangerous talent you can possess. It must be guarded with great discretion and good-nature, otherwise it will create you many enemies.

  -John Gregory A Fathers Legacy to his Daughters, 1774

  I had to breathe in short puffs as we waited at the front

  1 door of the Ogilvie mansion. The stays bit into my stomach and my shift was already sweat-soaked. If this was how the upper class felt all the time, no wonder they were all so cross.

  Mother tugged at my bodice to straighten it.

  "Try not to look so pained," she said. "We won't stay long. Knowing your grandfather, he'll be giving away the silver on the street corner when we return."

  She licked her thumb and wiped a smudge of dirt off my cheek "You might turn out to be a beauty after all," she said. "You've grown so quickly. I want the best for you."

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  I looked at her closely, unaccustomed to the gentle tone of her voice. Mother bent down suddenly to brush off the bottom of her gown.

  "Look at this dust," she exclaimed. "When I was young, my family had a lovely carriage, and we always rode to tea. We arrived fresh and clean."