“Stop!” he yelled. “That’s close enough!”
Drew was just inches away from the hot blue liquid. To balance himself, Drew spread his legs wide and pivoted to his right, keeping his hips in the center of the serge. There was a moment of imbalance. Drew steadied himself, but not before his left foot dipped into the hot liquid. He grimaced, laying his head against the wet serge.
“Drew, let us pull you in,” the curate said softly. “It’s too late anyway. We don’t want to lose you too.”
Drew shook his head. “Just hold the serge steady.”
The curate nodded. “Lord, help him!” he prayed.
For the second time, Drew plunged his arm into the liquid. Burning pain engulfed it. Tears streamed from his eyes as he fought to ignore the pain and concentrate on reaching little Thomas.
There! His hand brushed something. Just beyond reach. He stretched farther and bumped it, pushing it farther away.
“No!” he screamed.
The pain was more than he could take. A darkness began to close around him. He pushed it away. If you lose consciousness, you die, he told himself.
He had to stretch farther, but there was only one way for him to do that. He didn’t want to. He didn’t know if he could.
The boy is dead. Save yourself.
He took a deep breath and plunged his head, shoulder, and upper torso into the hot liquid. The pain was incredible. Hot dye filled his ears and seeped through his eyelids, stinging his eyes. He could hear muffled cries from the bystanders on the other side of the surface.
The dark that surrounded him was more than just the absence of light; it was a hot, burning liquid darkness. It was not alone. Another darkness accompanied it, the darkness of unconsciousness. He’d fought it once, but it was back, stronger than before. A third darkness joined them, the darkness of death. It was curious sensation. It was cold. In the midst of burning liquid, the hands of death were still cold.
His hand brushed against something. An arm. Then a body. Drew pushed past the pain and reached through the darkness; he grabbed the boy’s shirt. With all his might Drew Morgan pulled himself and little Thomas Cooper to the surface.
The last thing he remembered was what seemed like a hundred hands pulling him out of the vat.
Chapter 15
A rustling sound was the first thing Drew remembered following the vat incident. The sound reminded him of his boyhood when he would lay in bed at night pretending to be asleep. Julia, his nursemaid, would quietly move about the room so as not to wake him. With his eyes closed, Drew would track her movements and actions by the sounds she made. He could tell where she was by the rustling of her skirt. The creak of the rocking chair meant she was either reading or knitting—reading if he heard pages turn, knitting if she sighed. Julia always sighed when she knitted, once every few minutes. The best sound of all was a rustling away from him followed by the click of the door latch. It meant he had fooled her. He could stop pretending and get out of bed, as long as he was quiet about it.
But this wasn’t Morgan Hall, and the rustling sound wasn’t coming from Julia. It was accompanied by a soft humming. Julia never hummed.
Drew tried to open his eyes. His effort set off a series of painful jabs in both eyes, which brought a wince, which hurt his cheeks and lips, which caused him to lift his right hand to his face, which sent a stabbing pain up his arm. With a moan he ceased all movement and fell limp. His eyes and cheeks and arm throbbed in unison, and still his eyes were closed!
The rustle of skirts moved toward him and then quickly away, followed by footsteps descending stairs with a hushed voice trailing after.
“Poppa! Poppa! He’s awake!”
To a chorus of “Amens,” Drew heard thumping sounds coming up the stairs—a pair of heavy thuds followed by the pitter-patter of lighter feet.
“Drew! Thank God!”
The voice belonged to Christopher Matthews.
“How are you feeling?”
The second voice was Jenny.
Drew formed a slow grin. It was painful, but he found it easier than trying to open his eyes. It took him a while to respond. Matthews and Jenny waited patiently.
“Well—”
He found it difficult to speak. He was incredibly thirsty; his mouth was devoid of moisture, making his tongue and lips and gums sticky.
“—as you might expect, I’m feeling a little blue.”
There was an uncertain pause, then a huge guffaw. It was a good sound, one that Drew would always associate with the curate of Edenford.
Jenny laughed and sniffled at the same time.
“Half the village is downstairs praying for you,” Jenny said. “They’ve been praying through the night.”
“Through the night? What time is it?”
“Almost ten o’clock in the morning,” Jenny answered. “Thursday morning. When the townspeople heard what you did, everyone stopped working so they could pray for you and Thomas.”
“Some have been here all night,” Matthews added. “Others are at the Coopers’ house.”
The mention of the Coopers begged another question, one Drew wasn’t sure he wanted to ask. He didn’t know if he was ready to hear the answer.
“Is Thomas all right?”
Drew needed to know, one way or the other.
“He hasn’t awakened yet.” The curate delivered the news somberly. “He’s alive, but he’s badly burned.”
“Is he going to die?”
“God alone knows the answer to that question.”
Flashes of remembered pain darted through Drew’s mind as bits and pieces of the incident came back to him.
Unexpectedly, the bed tilted to the right. Someone was leaning on it.
“Can you open your eyes?” Matthews’ voice came from directly overhead.
“I tried once,” Drew responded. “It hurt. A lot.”
“We’ve sent for a doctor. He lives in Exeter and probably won’t be here until tomorrow. If it hurts too much, don’t try to open them. Best wait for the doctor to get here.”
The sound of the curate’s voice traveled from side to side over him. He was probably examining one eye, then the other.
“I’d like to try again. At least one more time.”
He assumed the curate consented, the weight lifted from the side of the bed, and Drew was level again.
It was such a simple thing really, opening one’s eyes. Drew had done it every day of his life without giving it a thought. Not so on this day. With great effort he forced his eyelids to raise. His effort was rewarded with pain. There was the pain of the burn, the pain of light as it poked through the tiny opening, and the pain of raw flesh against raw flesh where the folds of his eyelids overlapped. It took him more than a minute, but he successfully opened both eyes halfway. Tears stung the corners of his eyes, and the overflow burned saltwater trails down the sides of his face.
His first sight was Jenny. Her hands were folded and pressed to her lips; the corner of a handkerchief dangled from between her palms. Next he saw the curate. His right hand was on his hip; the back of his left hand wiped away tears.
“I hope I don’t look as bad as the two of you,” Drew said.
There was no answer. Instead the curate turned silently and went downstairs to inform the townspeople of Drew’s progress. Drew wanted to ask why Nell wasn’t with Jenny and the curate, but he didn’t. For one thing, he didn’t want anyone to know he was particularly interested in her whereabouts; for another, he was being fawned over by a beautiful lady. It didn’t seem appropriate to ask about her sister.
“You really are a sight,” Jenny said, half-laughing, half-crying.
“Am I really all blue?”
Jenny nodded and giggled.
“Wait right here!”
She ran out of the room.
Wait right here? Where does she think I’m going?
A moment later she was back with a hand mirror and held it in front of his face. At the first sight of himself he laughed,
then wished he hadn’t. The pain was intense.
Jenny pulled the mirror away.
“I’m sorry!” she cried.
“No, don’t be. It’s not your fault.” Drew paused to take a few deep breaths. “I’d like to see the rest of me.”
“Are you sure?”
Drew nodded slightly. He directed the mirror’s positioning.
“Hold the mirror up higher. Now angle it down, no, too much. Up a little more, there.”
Drew could see his arm. It was puffed and blistered. Funny blue sausages were attached to the end of a bloated hand. His fingers. They too were puffed, red with blisters, and, of course, blue.
“Do you want to see your foot too?”
That’s right. With all the other areas of pain, he’d forgotten about his left foot. He took a quick mental inventory. The skin felt tight and it hurt when he flexed it, but otherwise it wasn’t too bad.
“I suppose it’s blue too?”
Jenny nodded and gently sat on the edge of the bed. Instinctively Drew shuddered; she was awfully close to his burned arm. Internal warning signals sounded, urging him to pull his arm to safety or ask her move away from it. But there was a soft, hazy look in Jenny’s eyes. It was more than a look of compassion; her eyes were filled with tenderness and romance. Drew ignored his warning signals. What’s a little pain compared to the chance to be this close to someone so beautiful?
She slowly, gently lifted a few strands of hair that had fallen to his forehead and brushed them back.
“You’re remarkable,” she said in a half-whisper. “You’re a gentleman. You’re handsome. And you’re brave.”
She leaned over him farther so that her face was directly above his. Her long brown hair fell to both sides of Drew’s face. Now it was just the two of them; Jenny’s canopy of hair shut out the rest of the world.
For Drew the sensation was torture—her hair tickled and stung his burned cheeks as the beauty of her twinkling blue eyes, petite nose, and soft lips lingered over him. As she lowered herself, the pain was shoved aside by the smoothness of her skin and the moist warmth of her breath. Tenderly she closed her eyes and brushed her lips against his. There was no pressure—she didn’t want to hurt him. Somehow that made the kiss even better.
Jenny’s long hair swept across his face as she rose. At the door she turned toward him with an impish grin and was gone.
Drew learned that he was in the Matthews’ house, upstairs in the curate’s bed. He assumed as much since Jenny roamed freely about and knew exactly where to find a hand mirror.
The curate’s bedroom was dark and Spartan. Since it was in the middle of the house, sandwiched between the girls’ bedroom and the study, it had no windows. The only natural light came through the doorway. Rough beams peaked above him and the walls were bare. There were a washbasin on a small stand in the far corner and a small chest of drawers against the wall next to the door. It was a room for sleeping and dressing, nothing more.
After securing Drew’s consent, Christopher Matthews began ushering grateful townspeople to his bedside. First came David and Shannon Cooper. The large, hairy cobbler and his petite wife showered him with tearful thanks. They were accompanied by their middle child, Margaret. Drew guessed her to be about ten years old. She stood silently behind her parents, uncertain about the blue stranger in the bed and the intense emotion of the situation. The fiery-headed James wasn’t with them.
Old Cyrus Furman shuffled up the stairs to visit him. Because of the events surrounding the vat incident, Rose’s funeral had been postponed until Friday. Everyone in Edenford was praying that the funeral service wouldn’t be a double one.
“I guess we was wrong about you,” Cyrus drawled. He leaned over and patted Drew on the chest. “God bless you, son.”
Ambrose Dudley was a surprise. In contrast to the other visitors, the scrivener stood ramrod straight beside the bed, hands clasped in front of him. He held a letter, which he worried with his fingers as he spoke. The sharp lines of his thin face and hard eyes provided Drew little comfort.
“I suppose we are indebted to you,” he said matter-of-factly.
Drew nodded curtly.
“This came for you,” he said, tossing the letter on Drew’s stomach. “It was delivered by an unwashed, undisciplined young man with wild hair. A friend of yours, I’m sure.”
As the scrivener left, Drew grabbed the letter with his good hand and slipped it under the bedclothes. He couldn’t take the chance of someone offering to read it to him.
How ironic. If Ambrose Dudley only knew he was delivering a message from Bishop Laud!
The messenger was undoubtedly Eliot, and that disturbed Drew. The fact that the bishop had Eliot deliver the message increased its urgency significantly. He’d decode the message as soon as he was sure he’d be left alone. And he would need to have someone bring him his Bible.
Drew received the rest of the townspeople as graciously as he could, considering that they all said the same thing, What you did was wonderful. We didn’t know you had it in you. Thank you. God bless you.
Finally, the last person left the room. Still, there was no Nell.
“I’m sure you’re tired,” the curate said.
He stood at the door, his hand on the outside latch.
“I’ll close the door so you can get some sleep.”
“Wait! Before you leave, could I have my Bible?”
The curate’s face brightened at the request. He retrieved Drew’s Bible.
“Would you like me to read to you?” he offered.
“Um, no thanks. I think I’d like to be alone.”
The curate nodded. He set the washbasin on the floor and pulled the stand next to the bed.
Lighting a candle, he said, “This way you can blow out the candle when you’re ready to sleep.”
“Thanks. Um, where’s Nell? I haven’t seen her.”
The curate playfully knocked himself on the head.
“I should have told you earlier. She’s at the Coopers’. James blames himself for the accident. As you’ve probably noticed, he’s an emotional person. Well, he started saying crazy things about hurting himself, wouldn’t listen to anybody. You don’t know this, but he and Nell have been close ever since they were kids. She’s always been able to handle him. So she’s with him now, trying to keep him from doing something stupid.”
Drew held in his thoughts and simply nodded acknowledgment.
“Oh,” the curate stopped at the door, “just a suggestion. You might read Galatians chapter 6, verses 7–9. I know you’re in a lot of pain right now; I just want you to know that what you have done will not go unrewarded. God will see to that. If you need anything, just call.”
The curate closed the door and Drew was alone.
The thought of Nell consoling James Cooper grated on Drew. He cursed quietly as he flung open his Bible. Retrieving the letter from under the covers, he worked at opening it with his good hand, hoping it was a short message. He didn’t feel like decoding it now, but he wouldn’t be able to rest until he knew what was so important that the bishop had Eliot deliver the message.
The paper tore in two as he fumbled to open it. He cursed again. The news about Nell’s whereabouts disturbed him more than he cared to admit. He shook open one-half of the letter. It wasn’t code! It was handwritten. He dropped the paper on his chest, reached for the second half, and shook it open. Matching the two pieces of paper together, he held them up to the candlelight. The message was written in a nearly illegible scrawl.
“Urgnt! Met me rivrs ege nr brig. Sat. 10p. Eliot.”
Drew lay still in bed, scowling behind half-opened eyelids. Maybe it is nothing. It says urgent, but Eliot set the meeting two days away. And why does Eliot need to talk to me personally? Has something happened to the bishop? Is my mission in Edenford in danger?
Drew folded the pieces of the note and looked for a place to hide them. If found, this note would be more dangerous than the others. Drew wedged it between the p
ages of his Bible.
Just as he was about to extinguish the candle, he remembered the Scripture passage the curate suggested he read. What was it again? That’s right, Galatians 6:7–9. Looking in the index, he found the page number for Galatians.
By the light of the flickering candle he read, “Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. For he that soweth to his flesh shall of the flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the Spirit shall of the Spirit reap life everlasting. And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.”
Drew awoke shortly before dinner. He could smell bread baking and—was it beans? He couldn’t quite tell. The aroma of food goaded his stomach to complain loudly.
“Good, you’re awake!” Jenny shoved the door open with her side.
She carried a tray of food. Scooting the candlestick aside with the edge of the tray, she set the food on the stand beside the bed.
The Bible is gone! Drew distinctly remembered placing it on the stand beside the candle before falling asleep. He tried looking over the edge of the bed to see if it was on the floor.
“What are you looking for?” Jenny asked.
“Did you remove my Bible from the stand?” he asked.
“No.”
“Is it on the floor?”
Jenny looked around the legs of the wooden stand.
“No, I don’t see it.”
Drew tried to suppress the anxiety welling up inside him.
“I placed it on the stand just before going to sleep.”
Jenny was unconcerned.
“Maybe Poppa borrowed it.”
She scooted the stand closer to the bed.
“I brought you supper,” she said cheerily.
Maybe Poppa borrowed it … What if he finds Eliot’s note?
“Open up!”
Jenny aimed a spoonful of corn at his mouth.
“I’m capable of feeding myself.”
His irritation over the missing Bible fouled Jenny’s playful mood.
The spoon retracted and a kernel fell to the bed. A pouting lower lip appeared.
“I thought you’d enjoy this.”
The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1) Page 24