Last Miss Phillips

by Briggs, Laura

  Reaching down, he gathered the boy gently into his arms, hoisting him up as if he weighed nothing. Kitty took hold of the horse’s reins as the surgeon began walking up the road in the direction from whence he had been riding not five minutes before.

  “Could you not ride with him, sir?” she asked.

  “I would not jar him so,” the surgeon answered. “It is but a little walk, Miss Phillips and will do me good–if you do not mind assisting me.” He shifted the boy closer. “Be still, Jack, and you will be with your mama in a moment.”

  “The basket, Patience,” said Kitty, recalling their errands at Mrs. Allgood’s. Patience bounded in the direction of the ditch, retrieving the empty basket from the tall grass along its edge. Instead of running ahead to join the surgeon, however, she remained alongside Kitty as if they were mistress and servant going to market.

  It was an unusual procession that met Mrs. Littlewood’s eyes as she stood outside her farm cottage hanging the wash. Up the winding lane came a man in a black frock coat carrying her ragged little son in his arms; behind him, a woman in a printed muslin dress leading a horse, followed a few steps behind by a hired girl in an oversized apron ruffled by the breeze. It was the child’s condition which concerned the farmwife the most, however, as she dropped her shirts into the basket and joined the flock of children racing towards the sight.

  “Jack! Jack! Are ye killed?” One of his brothers–but a year older, perhaps–made this query in the high-pitched voice of a frightened child, while another still a little older but made of sterner stuff took hold of the youngest Littlewood to prevent it from running in front of the horse.

  All were fair-haired and very thin, Kitty noticed, as if small and variable copies of their serving girl cousin. Some had dark eyes instead of blue, favoring their mother, perhaps, in appearance.

  “He is not killed, but only a little wounded,” answered Mr. Turner. By now, the mistress of the house was before him, clasping her son’s forehead and arm with equal vigor.

  “Is he bad hurt?” she gasped.

  “He has no broken bones, only a cut,” said Kitty, softly. “Do not be afraid, Ma’am.” She touched the mother’s arm and received a glance from a worried face in response.

  “Come into the house,” said Mrs. Littlewood, whose glance was now turned towards all three visitors before returning to her son.

  “Mama,” said Jack in a tearful voice, reaching for his mother’s hand as he was carried across the clearing and towards a door propped open in the front. A basket of wet clothes rested on the ground before it, a line strung from a nail beside the door to a lone apple tree in sapling stage in the midst of the cottage’s yard. The other children ran ahead of the visitors and crowded themselves into the cottage.

  “Enough with ye, out!” ordered their mother as she ushered the surgeon and her son inside. “Mind the baby, Jane–Billy, take the surgeon’s horse!” The eldest Littlewood claimed the reins from Kitty’s hand and led the horse off with a sense of importance in his stride, while the girl with fair braids scooped up the toddling child and carried it away.

  Inside, Mrs. Littlewood darted from her kettle over the fire to a bowl of bread rising to removing a bowl of unshelled beans from the nearest chair for Kitty, as if she possessed a hundred pairs of hands at once.

  “Hot water will be needed, Mrs. Littlewood,” said the surgeon. “So we might wash the blood from your son’s wound.” Without waiting for direction, he brushed aside some of the flour from the kitchen table and placed the boy there. Jack, who was considerably more awake than before, although tearful, gazed with curiosity at the surgeon and at the strange woman standing near the door. The blood was still flowing freely down his face, although the surgeon had pressed a handkerchief against it to stem the tide.

  “Whate’er happened, Patience?” asked Mrs. Littlewood, wringing her hands one moment, then struggling to untie her apron strings the next. “Did ‘e climb over the Towers’ gate to see the bull? I warned ‘im–”

  “Nay, ‘e fell from a tree,” said Patience, whose dialect grew broader in the company of a fellow countrywoman. “No doubt Davy and Will ‘ud be at the same mischief if they’d thought of it.”

  “We came upon him on the road,” said Kitty. “He must have struck his head upon one of the stones.”

  “Thank ye for your kindness, Ma’am,” said Mrs. Littlewood humbly, now realizing the presence of the stranger in her kitchen, and taking notice of Kitty’s well-bred manners and gold earrings. “We’re much obliged to you.”

  “Mrs. Littlewood, would you fetch me a lamp? Or any sort of light which would brighten the room?” asked the surgeon. He had retrieved his bag from the horse before carrying Jack inside; now it was open on the table beside the boy, with the surgeon removing from its contents a spool of thread and a curved needle.

  “Miss Phillips,” he said, over his shoulder. “Would you oblige me with your help?”

  “Of course,” she answered, although the request surprised her. “What shall I do?”

  “Hold Jack’s hand, if you will,” he said. “And I may wish you to hold the lamp a little nearer, that I may see while I am working.” He removed a small pair of shears and cut a length of thread from the spool.

  “I am fortunate to have these,” he murmured. “I was stitching a farmhand’s deep wound at Six Mile Grange this morning.” He threaded the needle with the same dexterous motion as a practiced housewife, then glanced in the direction of Mrs. Littlewood, who had returned with a candle and a tinderbox.

  ‘No lamps, sir,” she explained, with a sorrowful face. “T’last of the oil’s been used by my man birthin’ his cow.”

  “A candle will do very well, Mrs. Littlewood,” he answered. “If you would light it for me–and dampen a cloth in warm water for cleaning Jack’s brow so I might see the cut's edges.” The farmer’s wife struck a spark to the wick, then placed the candle holder carefully in Kitty’s outstretched hand.

  At the hearth, Patience lifted the copper kettle and dampened a rag which she handed to the surgeon. She whirled around at the sound of a noise from the doorway and shooed away the cluster of Littlewood children caught spying at the door.

  “Well, Master Jack,” said the surgeon, softly, as he daubed at the boy’s forehead, “I have been told that you have great plans to turn soldier when you are grown.” The rag removed the dry edges, soaking up the blood still flowing from the wound.

  “Yes, sir,” the boy answered.

  “A fine profession, the army. They are very brave, you know. They must have a great deal of courage when they face anything difficult.” He glanced towards Kitty, an almost imperceptible motion of his head which she understood; reaching down, she took hold of Jack’s hand in her own.

  “Can you be brave, Jack?” he asked, softly. The boy gazed at him with wide eyes in response, the hand in Kitty’s hold trembling, the small fingers of the second one holding tight to the table. After a moment, he nodded.

  “You must be very still, Master Jack,” said the surgeon. “As still as a soldier in his ranks, for it shall hurt. Hold tight to Miss Phillips’s hand and do not move.” The wound was exposed, although it was still welling with blood. The surgeon held his needle like a seamstress, the second hand steadying Jack’s forehead.

  The needle touched skin, then pricked through the surface. The boy’s whole body flinched, but the surgeon’s hold on his head was strong enough to keep him steady. As Jack whimpered, he drew the needle through both sides of the wound to form the first stitch.

  “Hold tight to Miss Phillips,” said the surgeon. Jack obeyed, until Kitty felt the pain of his grip in her fingers.

  Another stitch followed, then another. Mr. Turner’s needle moved slowly through the skin. Mrs. Littlewood stood by and watched until, with a low moan, she caught her removed apron to her mouth and turned away, moving towards the door to face the outside.

  “Young Jack is her favorite,” said Patience quietly, with sympathy in her voice. “She can
not watch ‘im, though Heaven knows she’s seen enough such sights before.”

  “Steady, Jack,” whispered the surgeon. “Just a few minutes more.” He glanced up at Kitty, who watched his work despite a feeling of faintness within her own head and heart. Her face was a trifle paler; other than that, there was no betrayal of emotion on the outside as she held the candle aloft and held tight to Jack’s fingers. The boy's complexion pale, his eyes welling with tears as his mouth trembled, shut fast against any sobs or protests.

  Two mores stitches followed; then one final stitch which closed the top of the wound. The surgeon tied a small knot there, then snipped the thread. A bandage was wound around it once, then twice, before being tucked into place.

  “There, lad,” he said. “You shall be as good as new in but a week or so.” The needle disappeared into the bag again; the candle was lowered and Jack was lifted from the table and onto his own feet again.

  “You were a brave soldier, Master Jack,” said the surgeon, as his patient hastily swiped away any evidence of tears with his shirtsleeve. “I believe that you’ve earned a bit of a reward for such courage.” Dipping into his pocket, he produced a small piece of candy which he handed to the boy.

  “The last one in my possession,” he declared. “Now, be generous and give everyone a suck at it,” he cautioned, with a wink that was directed as much at Kitty as the boy.

  “Thank ye, sir,” answered Jack. He popped the candy into his mouth, then turned and found his mother’s arms waiting for him. She held her son close and inspected the wound with a glance both sage and tender, for there were still tears visible in her eyes also.

  “Thank ye, Mr. Turner,” she said. “Ye’ve done us a good service, ye have. The apothecary wouldn’t have done so well.”

  “The apothecary cannot make stitches, Mrs. Littlewood,” answered the surgeon with a smile of good-humor. “He would’ve bandaged it with a poultice and given you a compound. Beyond that, however, there’s no difference between our trades, so ye'd have been as well cared for with Mr. Harris, had I not been along.” He closed his bag, wiping the blood on his fingers on the rag.

  “My thanks to ye as well, Ma’am,” Mrs. Littlewood ventured, the words directed to Kitty.

  “Mrs. Littlewood, this is Miss Phillips–the squire’s sister-in-law,” said Mr. Turner. The farmwife curtseyed deeply before her visitor.

  “Ye are welcome to our home,” she said. Kitty returned the curtsy.

  “I am only glad that I could be of service to your child,” she answered. The woman had clasped her hand in two work-worn ones, a grip which Kitty returned with more gentle pressure.

  “Patience, shouldn’t ye return to yer mistress?” said Mrs. Littlewood. “Ye must go on with Miss Phillips now.” The young girl was filling a teapot with water from the kettle, holding its handle with her apron.

  “The squire’s wife wants me t’fetch her a pound of tea and some thread,” said Patience. “I was to come back with ‘em after waitin’ on Mrs. Allgood.” She placed the kettle over the flame again.

  “Ye’ll be needin’ a shillin’ or more, won’t ye, Mr. Turner?” said Mrs. Littlewood. “I haven’t one in my purse–but my man’ll be back afore the hour and give ye one.”

  “I shan’t take anything but your word, Mrs. Littlewood,” answered Mr. Turner. “Let us wait until those stitches must be removed from Jack’s cut.” He put on his hat again and lifted his bag. The woman had an expression of relief upon her face.

  “We’ll have it to ye before the end of the week and that’s certain, Mr. Turner,” she said. She turned to Kitty and pressed a crock into her hands from the nearby table of preserves and household goods.

  “For the squire’s lady,” she said. “She’s fond o’ my gooseberry preserves–as are the wee ones, I hear.”

  “Thank you,” said Kitty. At a nod from Mrs. Littlewood, Patience wrapped up a loaf of bread in cheesecloth and handed it to the surgeon.

  “Fresh and made with good flour,” said Mrs. Littlewood. “It’ll fill you upon many’s an evenin’ of labor, I hope.”

  The surgeon bowed in thanks. “I shall return in a week or so to see to Jack’s wound,” he said. “You must give my compliments to Mr. Littlewood when he returns.”

  He looked at Kitty. “Will you allow me to escort you, Miss Phillips?” he said. “I shall pass close to the lane which leads to Marebrook Manor.”

  This request greatly surprised Kitty, who endeavored to suppress a blush creeping to her cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Turner,” she said. “It is very kind of you to offer.”

  Turning to Mrs. Littlewood, she curtseyed. “I wish your son good health with all speed,” she said. The farmwife returned the curtsy eagerly.

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” she said. “Ye are welcome here at any time–family of the squire is always welcome.” She followed them to the door, where she stationed herself to watch and wave Billy forward with the surgeon’s horse.

  “Farewell for a time, Jack,” said the surgeon, who squeezed his patient’s shoulder with a manly grip–the young boy was something of a hero in the midst of his siblings, where he was indeed doling out turns with the bright red candy the surgeon had given him.

  Mr. Turner did not mount his mare as they proceeded down the land and to the road, preferring to walk along instead with its reins in his hand. “I had hoped that you would accept my offer,” he said to Kitty, “for it would give me a chance to thank you for your assistance.”

  “I should have been a poor soul indeed to refuse,” answered Kitty, with a laugh. “For a child who is bleeding must stir even the coldest of persons to action.”

  “It takes a stout heart to assist in these matters,” he answered. “A strong nerve not to feel faint in the presence of a severe wound.” There was admiration in his glance, which made her blush still deeper.

  “The Littlewoods are a family of farmers,” she ventured, changing the subject. “Are they very prosperous in their labors? There was a fine orchard and a dairy, I think, not far from the cottage’s yard.”

  “They are successful, I think–they are certainly independent in their fortunes, although they've more work than pleasure and more mouths to feed than hands to labor,” he answered. “They aspire to more with their children. Mr. Littlewood has plans to purchase his farm–for the moment, it is in the holding of a relation, I understand–and to improve its house greatly.”

  “They are related to Mrs. Allgood,” said Kitty. “Her companion told me that they are not close, however.”

  “Cousins of her husband,” said the surgeon. “They have shown her kindness over the years, I am told, sending their daughters to wait upon her when there was no servant to do so and giving presents from their store. I suppose they have hopes she will remember them when she is gone, even if she wishes to preserve their separate spheres in life.”

  Kitty’s gaze remained on the road ahead of her, for she did not trust herself to look at her companion often. There was nothing unseemly about their situation–a gentleman escorting an acquaintance along a public road–but something about it made her feel shy before him. Whether it be the difference in their ages or their fortunes she could not have told; only that it was better that she should turn her eyes towards the scenery around them.

  “The poets, Miss Phillips.” The surgeon spoke again. “You said you were fond of them, I recall, when we spoke before at Mrs. Servennia’s party.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You mentioned that you read Wordsworth, I believe.”

  “Often,” he answered. “Although, I confess myself also fond of Byron. Wicked of me, I suppose.”

  Kitty laughed. “A great many of us are fond of his poems,” she said. "Although we cannot condone his sins, we cannot help but see the greatness in his words. The passion and gift which cannot be denied in his verses compels us to read on.”

  “Perhaps we ought to have wished that God had seen fit to give his talent to another more worthy,” said Mr. Turner, who lowered his voice in
teasing humor, as if imparting a secret, “that our guilt might be abated for taking such pleasure in his works.”

  “I think,” she answered, with a quickness that surprised her, “that it is better to wish that he had used his talents more wisely–and appreciated their Giver better.“ With this suggestion, she met his smile with one of equal warmth. The gaze between them lasted but a second before she recalled herself and turned away again.

  “Here is my lane,” she said, as the long drive to Marebrook Manor became visible ahead of them, its green walls separated by the carriage path winding towards the house which could be glimpsed faintly behind the trees.

  “You must be eager to go in to your sister,” said Mr. Turner, after a moment. “She has no doubt missed your company these past few hours.” He paused at the foot of the path; she set her foot upon it in her first step homewards.

  It seemed awkward, parting in this way, but there was no possible excuse to ask him to attend her any further. Indeed, her mind had begun to form an idea that it would not be pleasant for such a young man to be trapped in a drawing room with two females of middle-age, one married and one not. Turning to face him again, she made herself look him in the eye despite her hesitation.

  “Thank you for attending me here, sir,” she said, fearing these words sounded like a lesson memorized from a book.

  “Give my compliments to your family,” he answered, with a bow.

  “Good day, sir.” She dropped her head with a curtsy of farewell.

  “Good day, Miss Phillips,” he answered. Mounting his horse, he tapped his heels against its sides and it trotted forward, leaving her to follow the poplar lane to Marebrook’s courtyard.

  “I am pleased to see you back,” said Anna, with relief evident in her voice. She was lying on the parlor sofa, wrapped in a shawl. “Richard has studied his Latin, I am sure, but little Caroline has not practiced the pianoforte at all. The cook has already spoken to me twice about the mutton and I am not sure what I wish–”

  “I shall speak to her,” soothed Kitty. “Tomorrow, I shall see to the girls’s lessons and hear Richard’s Latin.” She brought Anna a new cup of tea, since her sister’s had grown cold over the past hour.