“The smoke must have someplace to go,” said I, most confident. “If it don’t, she’ll choke in it.”
Then did I point to how the smoke from the brazier, rising, was sucked out the window through the crack I’d made. She nodded, mollified, then gathered up her books.
“The girl is breathing better —what’s her name? I’ve forgotten.”
“Clarissa.”
“Well, I must be off to Mr. Tolliver in the Garden to get some meat and a good bone for her broth, and some mutton for our dinner.”
“I’m sorry, I had no time to — “
“I know that,” she interrupted. Then: “Stay with her, will you? Lady Fielding’s left for Magdalene. If the girl wakes, ‘twould be best to have someone near.” Annie nodded toward the bed. “She seems a good sort. Talked a little.”
“Go on,” said I. “Do what needs be done.”
“I’ll not be long,” said she, “but then I must make the broth, and that takes awhile.”
With that and a wave, she went quietly from the room.
I settled down in the chair beside the bed and studied the patient. In truth, her condition did seem to have improved somewhat. Her breathing was a bit deeper and less labored. Though hardly rose-cheeked, she was no longer the same deathly white she had been when I carried her from the room in Half-Moon Passage. She neither sweated nor shivered. Yes, all that taken together meant a definite improvement.
I wondered if the brazier would truly warm the room. Perhaps Annie had been right. Perhaps the little I had opened the window would do the patient more harm than good. I turned and inspected window and brazier. Yes, the smoke was flowing outward just as I said it would. Then did I realize the door to the room stood open. I could not hope to warm the place with heat escaping down the stairs and out into the house. I rose quietly and tiptoed to the door and pulled it shut most silently. Yet when I returned to my chair, I found Clarissa’s eyes open and fixed upon me.
“You … did not wake me,” said she, quite reading my thoughts.
“How do you feel?”
“Better … I …”
And then she fell to coughing. She struggled up in bed, and I assisted her, thinking perhaps she knew best. She grasped at the rag I had brought and put it to her mouth just in time to deposit in it a great wad of phlegm. Panting from the exertion, she pointed to the drinking cup. I filled it and raised it to her lips. Though she did not drink as much as I had expected, she seemed to want greatly what she took. Then did she lie back down again, and breath by breath, settled into a more even rate of respiration. Though she smiled at me and seemed to wish conversation, I thought it best that she not speak. And so I launched into a monologue of a sort which, I hoped, would answer all her questions.
“You are with us at Number Four Bow Street,” said I, in a manner merrier than I truly felt, for I thought to cheer her. “The handsome woman who brought you here you met before, of course. She is Lady Katherine Fielding, wife to Sir John Fielding, who is the Magistrate of the Bow Street Court, over which he presides on the ground floor. The young lady who attended you before me is Annie Oakum, who is the best cook in all London, as you will discover when you are able to eat proper meals. Though not just yet, for the doctor who attended you —the capable Irish fellow who is certainly the best physician in all London —he has condemned you to a diet of clear broth for the time being. And, ah yes, his name is Gabriel Donnelly. Me, of course, you know already from our pleasant conversations at your lodgings in Half-Moon Passage. Now this” —I waved a hand around me —“is my room. You are my guest here. You will note please your luxurious surroundings — the bed with which you have become so well acquainted, the chair, the stool. What more could one want? A bit small, I admit, and a bit cold in winter, yet you as my guest now enjoy the warmth of a charcoal brazier which I stole from below.” I looked about me. “Have I missed anything? I think not.”
“Books,” said she in her weak voice.
“Ah yes, the books. I have a few, or perhaps quite a few, for many were left here in this room by Sir John’s late brother, Henry, who was himself Magistrate of the Bow Street Court but is far better known as an author.”
Then did an idea creep into my head. I knew that I could not keep up this foolish palaver indefinitely. Yet it was apparent from the way her eyes had brightened during it that she wished me in some way to continue. Perhaps …
“Miss Pooh,” said I to her, “would you like me to read to you?”
She nodded her head in an emphatic affirmative.
Now, of course, the question was what I might read to the young patient. I passed my eye along my two shelves of books, pondering that question. Not all books are suitable to be read aloud. If I were to take down a volume of that in which I took the greatest pride, Instituted of the Law of England, I should probably bore the poor girl quite to death. No, give her something she could like. She was a reader of romances, so why not read to her the greatest romances? Feeling sure of my choice, I pulled down the first volume of Tom Jones, returned to the chair, and opened it beyond the dedication and introduction to Chapter Two, where the story does properly begin. It was there that I began reading.
“Tn that part of the western division of this kingdom which is commonly called Somersetshire, there lately lived, and perhaps lives still, a gentleman whose name was Airworthy …’”
So I continued to read through Book One and well beyond —near to the end of Book Two. Over an hour I read and much nearer two — perhaps more. The patient responded well to the treatment; most attentive she was. It was only I who, for some reason, failed in the end to respond to Squire Allworthy, Miss Bridget, Blifil, and the rest quite in the same way that I had at my first acquaintance with them. For I blush to admit it, reader, but eventually as the room grew warmer and somewhat darker, my eyes blinked and drooped, and at last I fell asleep over the open book.
I was wakened, I suppose, by the sound of the door opening. Or was it the light of the candles shining in my eyes? In any case, I was wakened sudden by the entrance of Lady Fielding and Mr. Donnelly. She bore a three-candle holder; but for the light they provided, my little room had gone completely dark.
“Jeremy! We were told you were reading to her,” said Lady Fielding.
“I … I was. I must have fallen asleep.”
“But look at the poor child. She’s feverish again. Just see how she perspires! Oh, why could you not have kept a sharper watch over her?”
“Lady Fielding,” said Mr. Donnelly, “there is naught he could have done to prevent it. And strange though it may seem, sweating is a hopeful sign. Though it is, of course, an indication that her body temperature rises, it may also be a sign that her illness approaches its crisis.”
“Crisis? I do not understand.”
“Simply put, she must get worse before she can get better.”
“Ah, I see — or at least I think I do.”
Clarissa did indeed seem worse—whether suddenly so, I could not say, for I had no way of knowing how long I had been asleep. My last memory of her, as my eyes blinked and I apologized for losing my place, was of a girl with a slight smile upon her face, one who, just as I, was finding it difficult to remain awake. Yet now indeed she sweated. The hair about her forehead was damp; beads of moisture stood out upon her brow; even her upper lip seemed wet.
“I will say, Jeremy, you’ve got the room good and warm,” said Mr. Donnelly. “Go down now and prepare another quinine tea for her.”
“Oh,” said I, jumping to my feet, suddenly stricken, “but I can’t.”
“Can’t? Why not?”
“I’ve not yet been to the chemist.”
“Well, then, you must fly, for he’ll not be open much longer. Go to the shop on Drury Lane near my surgery—just three doors down. Have you still that slip I gave you?”
“I have it in my pocket.”
“Then go swiftly.”
Go swiftly? Reader, I ran the distance, dodging and bumping through the streets crowded with t
hose returning from their daily work. I knew the shop well, for I had passed it many times. And as Mr. Donnelly had warned, as I entered, the chemist did indeed seem to be preparing to close for the night. I presented the slip given me by the medico. The chemist nodded wisely, stroked his chin, and retired to the rear to search out the substance. He returned with a goodly quantity of the stuff in a vial. Quinine costed dear. It took near all the shillings and pence I had in my pocket to make the purchase.
“That’s fivepence for the vial,” said the chemist, as if to account for the price. “You bring that back, and I’ll refund you the cost of it.”
He corked the vial and handed it over. As I left the shop he waved me a goodbye, then followed me to the door to lock up. Indeed I had arrived just in time.
I saw no need to run back to Bow Street, though I did set a fast walking pace for my return. I had not gone far before I became aware of one beside me, matching me step for step. Was this some ruffian about to pounce on me? I tensed, making ready. He would be sorry if he did. I stole a glance at him and received a proper surprise.
“What was it you bought at the chemist?” asked Thomas Roundtree.
It took me a moment to recover my wits. At last I blurted, “Quinine.”
“Quinine’s for the ague. Has she got the ague?”
“No, since you ask, pneumonia is the problem.”
His face darkened, yet he continued to keep pace with me. I considered running from him — but to what purpose?
“She’s goin’ to get well, ain’t she? I know some died of it.”
“We’re tying to make her well. That’s why we took her away.”
“You took a lot on yourself doin’ that. First I thought it was just some trick of that blind judge to bring me in, but I got to admit the child is terrible sick.”
“Yes, she is,” I agreed.
“She’s all I got,” he said. “I done things I never thought I’d do so her and me could be together. She’s bright, just like her mother.” Then he repeated: “She’s all I got. I must have her back in five days. Some way or other, I’ll get her in five days. That’s when … well, never you mind about that.”
“That’s when your ship sails?”
“She tell you that?”
“No, I guessed it. Where else can you go but the colonies?”
“Five days,” he said.
Then did he turn from me as I started up New Broad Court, which led to Bow Street. He said no farewell but simply walked on, shoulders high against the chill evening Mr. I stood at the corner and watched him shamble on. His clothes fit loosely upon him. Tall and thin, he looked for all the world like some poor scarecrow that had achieved the power of locomotion.
But yes, he had been wearing the same Scotch plaid waistcoat he had worn earlier, the same one Mr. Burnham had described. I saw it plain.
NINE
In Which the Patient’s
Condition Improves, Though
Her Father’s Does Not
It must have been well past midnight when Annie stole into the kitchen to waken me. I must have been but half asleep, for I was aware of her stealthy steps past the master’s bedroom and down the last flight of stairs. He who sleeps cold sleeps light, and by the time Annie came for me, the fire before which I slept had dwindled to rosy coals, and the blankets provided by Lady Fielding scarce did to keep me warm. She found me rising and ready to spell her at Clarissa’s bedside.
“Did you sleep?” she asked.
“A bit,” said I.
“It’s a wonder,” said she. “It’s gone so cold in here. Ain’t getting any warmer up to the top of the stairs, either.”
“I’ll bring the last of the coals up with me.”
“Stick a candle or two in your pocket, as well. There’s only a nub burning up there now.”
Annie provided a pan with which I might carry the coals collected from the fireplace. I proceeded most carefully up the stairs. It would not do to trip and scatter live coals about. Through the gloves I wore, I felt the warmth of the pan in my hands; I should not like to be forced to pick up coals even with gloved fingers. Yet thankfully, I reached the sickroom without incident.
I first fed the brazier from the pan, then lit the candle I had brought from the one which now seemed about to gutter out. Then and only then did I sit down in the chair at bedside and give my attention to the patient.
If anything, Clarissa’s condition seemed to have worsened since last I looked upon her. That would have been when I brought the quinine tea to her. She had by then taken some of the broth Annie had made for her, and it may have strengthened her a bit, if only temporarily. I left before seeing the result of this second dose of quinine. From the look of her at this moment, it would seem that it had not had the desired effect upon her. She lay pale and sweating as before. The only change in her treatment suggested by Mr. Donnelly was the addition of cold, wet compresses to her feverish brow. I reached into the pan of water at her bedside — quite cold the water was — extracted the cloth, and wrung it out. With it I bathed her face and neck, and laid it flat across her forehead. That, it would seem, was all that I could do for her at the moment. Yet it was right that we should watch over her, Mr. Donnelly had said, for if she were taken with a coughing fit, she might need to be put upright in a sitting position to rid herself of phlegm; there was always the danger that she might choke upon it. We were also to watch for any unnatural change of color: a sudden blush of red was cause for concern; if she were to take on a purple hue, then I, Jeremy, was to be sent at once to rout him out of bed. But barring such events, she was simply to be kept warm and comfortable and allowed to sweat, that her body might fight the infection.
And so here I was at her bedside again. Lady Fielding had taken her turn after accounting for Clarissa’s presence in our home to Sir John. He had taken it neither well nor ill, yet repeated his intention to send her back to Lichfield when she was well enough to travel; they may have talked more of it, though not in my presence. After dinner, Annie had taken over the sickbed watch, and at midnight, or probably a bit after, I had relieved her.
As I gazed down upon the girl, I recalled that curious brief meeting with her father some hours before. How different it had been from the first walk we had taken together. The man I saw last evening seemed haunted, desperate—and quite naturally so, for his daughter was deathly ill. And how was it that he had put it? “She’s all I got,” he had said, and of course it was true. Yet I found it difficult to imagine their relationship. How could she love him so? Why did she? He, a reprobate and a drunkard, one so neglectful of her that she had been taken from his care by the parish. What did she find to love in such a one? Except … and then was a truth revealed to me — except if she was all he had, then he was, in the same way, all dhe had. Putting myself in her place, remembering my own dear father, even had he Thomas Roundtree’s faults, would I not then have loved him still?
Such thoughts as these made far more difficult and urgent the problem that the presence of Roundtree posed to me. He was, I was certain, the third man at the pawnshop. Not that his waistcoat alone proved it —but no, there was Mr. Burnham’s description, as well, which matched Roundtree perfectly. There was also his refusal to surrender to Sir John even under the generous terms offered him by Lady Fielding; if he was involved in the murder of George Bradbury, the last thing he would wish would be to find himself at a magistrate’s mercy —there might be questions, matters to be accounted for. In short, he had a guilty conscience. What was it he had said? “I done things I never thought I’d do …” Murder certainly might be one of them, for he had evidently been guilty of no more than theft before. Yet I had liked the man when first I met him, and pitied him when last I saw him. Was it possible to feel thus about one who might have been involved in murder? Yet such feelings stretched only so far. I had not been moved, had not even considered warning him away from his evil companions at the pawnshop. That surely told me where my true loyalties might lie.
The
y were with Sir John, of course —and with the law. Then why had I, until now, withheld from him my suspicions — certain though I might be, they were no more than that — regarding Thomas Roundtree? Why, of course it was because I liked and pitied the man; and even more, because I liked and pitied his child, the girl who now lay in the bed before me. I wished them well. In part, I hoped they might make their escape to the colonies, and I, like Lady Fielding, had no desire to see her sent back to Lichfield’s parish poorhouse. And so I knew all too well that when I told Sir John what I suspected of Thomas Roundtree, I would surely feel a sense of having betrayed the two of them —yet tell him I must.
Thus did the night pass uneventful, but for two coughing fits which produced a great quantity of phlegm. I raised her, as I had been instructed, to help her expel the mess that bubbled up from her chest, but I cannot say that on either occasion did she regain consciousness. Once done, she simply sank back upon the pillow and gave herself fully to the battle against the sickness within her. I bathed her face and neck often and applied the damp cloth to her brow. For the most part, I watched and waited.
The room remained reasonably warm. On a couple of occasions, I rose and poked about the coals and added a few fresh from a box I had earlier brought. Having dozed off once previously, I was determined to keep awake during the entire length of my stay at her bedside. Yet it did indeed become difficult. At least earlier I had the words printed upon the page on which to concentrate, and ultimately they failed to keep sleep away. I feared that if I were to read to myself by candlelight I might soon begin nodding off as I had before when reading aloud. So now had I but my will to sustain me, and indeed my will performed wonders. Yet eventually I found I must walk about the room, rub my face, dig at my eyes, even pinch myself. Then, later, looking out the window, I saw the first faint glimmer of light in the orient. Deciding I had successfully endured the night through, I allowed myself to relax a bit. I sat down in the chair next the bed —and promptly fell asleep.
Jack, Knave and Fool Page 24