Emma could plainly see by the twinkle in Maisie’s eye that she had already decided what would work in this matter of gaining approval from her mother. The game was familiar. It was like a riddle, and it was up to Emma to think hard to guess what would work. Maisie’s clues reminded Emma of a sun shower. They would fall as though they were occasional rain droplets on a parched prairie. Never enough and never fast enough.
“It would be of great value …” Maisie began.
Suddenly the idea burst forth in Emma’s mind. “It would be of great value for me to understand how a household is run!” Emma declared with joy and saw the approval on Maisie’s face. “After all, if I am to be properly prepared, in perhaps just four or five years to consider an engagement for marriage, perhaps it is best that I know what managing a home entails. Would that not require, therefore, that I spend some time below stairs to understand what is expected of properly trained servants, Maisie?”
“Dear Miss Emma, I do think you have a very good sense of your needs in household education.”
Emma rushed off to find her mother in the conservatory while Maisie went on to the kitchen. Not one to waste a moment, she pulled out her textbook to continue reading as she waited for Emma. She had learned to be very efficient in order to allow time to study while she was working. She had barely put her mind into a complicated passage when the sound of Emma shouting carried down the stairwell. Maisie’s textbook slammed to the floor as she flew from her chair.
“Maisie! Mr. Chadwick! Come help me!” Emma shrieked, tears streaming down her face as she tugged at her mother, who lay sprawled on the floor moaning, but not answering.
Chadwick bounded into the room a step before Maisie. “Get Master James, straightaway!”
The butler gently brought Mrs. Willows onto the settee. Heat radiated from her body.
“I’m fine, really I am, Mr. Chadwick,” Beth moaned as she regained consciousness. “I was just so tired. I must be coming down with a cold.”
In short order, Mrs. Willows was safely tucked into her room. The servants whispered and fretted in worried tones as Rupert met with James to decide a course of action.
Maisie was gripped with apprehension. She had known at first glance that this was not a cold. As she helped her mistress to bed she saw the rosy spots on her abdomen and knew with certainty that this was typhoid.
She instantly felt her life shifting and changing with all of the fear of an animal caught in quicksand.
James delivered the news to his father and waited for him to speak. Rupert looked grimly into the brandy swirling in his glass, his jaw pulsing rhythmically against his rising tension.
“Typhoid?” Rupert fell back into his chair, horror-stricken. His immediate thought was of his mother and the horrible days before she succumbed to the disease. No matter how he had cared for her, he had been powerless to prevent her death.
As he fought to regain his composure, beads of sweat formed on his brow. He pulled his starched and perfectly folded handkerchief from his coat pocket, opened it slowly, and carefully pressed it to his forehead, buying a moment or two to recover. Typhoid. Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Typhoid.
Unaccustomed seeing his father weakened by obvious emotion, James took a breath and placed his hand tentatively on his shoulder.
“We need to get Dr. Carruthers.”
“What will he do for her?” Rupert, his pragmatism suddenly restored, looked hard at his son.
“He will likely tell us to bring her to the hospital. I think it prudent, Father.”
“The hospital!” The thought of whispers in the corridors trashing his good family name sent ice running through Rupert’s veins. “The hospital is a dreadful idea, James.”
“Father, I understand your sensitivity to the overcrowding there because of the epidemic but, really, it’s best for Mother.”
“It’s best? To put your mother in rooms overflowing with disease?”
James was startled into silence.
“Will she live?” Rupert gulped hard.
“Yes. I think so,” said James, fighting his own fears, and moved by his father’s unconcealed concern. “Mother is strong and has been in very good health. Only about a third of typhoid patients die, and that seems to be the case whether they are treated or not.”
“Then you will look after her medical needs.”
James froze. The very thought of being responsible for his mother’s care during a dire illness was well beyond his level of comfort.
“Father, I am not yet a doctor, and Dr. Carruthers will certainly prefer to have her in hospital.”
“No!” Rupert pounded his fist on the arm of the chair. “James, we will not call Dr. Carruthers. Your mother will stay at home.”
James slid into a chair, his words silenced by worry for his father’s state. Rupert was almost shaking with emotion.
This is an immigrants’ disease,” hissed Rupert. “It would ruin me to have anyone know that this kind of filth has come into our home!”
James felt as if he had been roundly slapped. He took a moment before he spoke. “What would you have us do, Father?”
“Aside from hospitalization, what would Dr. Carruthers advise?” Rupert’s tone was now all business.
“He would tell us she needs to be isolated, and he would give her a special diet and outline the needs for her care so that no one else in the house would become ill.” James recited the facts coolly and waited, still reeling from the weight of his father’s shocking bluntness.
“Well, then. The course is set. We will isolate her in Elliot’s suite. She will need care around the clock. One of the maids will do it. You choose. Perhaps Maisie. She seems to have a good head on her shoulders and doesn’t strike me as a gossip, like Lizzie. Look into those special diet needs in one of those books of yours. Hire someone else to replace the servant assigned to your mother, and find out if there is any kind of medicine she should have.” Rupert rose and turned to look down at his son. “And James, this is most important. Tell no one that she is ill. We will tell her friends that she was called to Montreal and won’t be back for some time.”
James was looking to get a word in but Rupert would have none of it.
“That will be all, James. Tell the servants whatever you wish, but do not say typhoid. Call it pneumonia. Yes. That’s it. Pneumonia.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Battling Typhoid
November 7, 1904
Beth’s condition deteriorated rapidly. Within days, her fever rose, and she drifted in and out of consciousness. When she started to show signs of delirium, James panicked. He pleaded with his father to allow him to get her to the hospital, but Rupert angrily refused.
Maisie worked tirelessly to provide her care and comfort. Completely dedicated to her patient’s recovery, she remained by her bedside around the clock, sleeping in a tiny cot just a few feet away from her. She sent notes to the kitchen for special soups to be made and gently dripped water on Beth’s parched lips to keep her from dehydrating. She bathed her, combed her hair, and administered medicines. She did all her laundry to keep it apart from the household, and kept careful notes on the progression of the illness.
James was a frequent visitor to the sick room, though he prudently refrained from touching his mother, to protect against becoming infected. Having surreptitiously gained advice from Dr. Carruthers, James guided Maisie’s work and marveled at her competency and courage.
As delirium took hold of his mother, James became deeply afraid that she would die. Too weak to thrash, she moaned softly, unable to communicate. In time, the moaning seemed to sap all that was left of her strength, and an eerie stillness came over her. With her eyes half closed and her chest barely rising against impending death, it seemed they would lose her. James was at a complete loss as to what to do. Paralyzed with fear, he sat with his head in his hands, prepared for the worst.
Maisie, ever practical, drew on her knowledge and created her own orders. She rang for ice and extr
a towels, and in a desperate move to break the fever, covered the sick woman with the cold wet cloths. All the while, she continued to talk to Beth, explaining what she was doing and why.
Maisie’s determination and constant attention seemed to fuel an inner core of strength within Beth. The hours passed and gradually her breathing grew stronger. Finally, she opened her eyes and asked for water. The worst of the crisis was over, at last.
The clock in the hall chimed six, and Emma began to weep. More than two weeks had passed since her mother had taken ill and been confined behind closed doors. The chiming, which reminded her that Mother would again be missing from the dinner table, completely unnerved her. Mother always presided over the dinner table, gaily chatting and learning everyone’s news, offering encouragement or empathy as required by her husband and children. They all missed her at the table, but Emma ached for her. To have her mother in the house, but quarantined, out of view, was torture. With fear suddenly rising that her mother was about to slip away into the clutches of death, a dam burst in the teenager and she sprinted up the stairs with tears streaming down her cheeks. On the second landing she came upon Mrs. Butterfield on her way down to the kitchen.
“I want to see my mother, and I want to see her now!” Emma dodged past the housekeeper.
“Now, stop! Miss Emma, please, dear girl, you must not get sick. It is not safe to see your mother right now!” Mrs. Butterfield wheeled about and gathered up her skirts. She chugged along back up the stairs to the third floor, heaving her way as fast as she could manage behind her young mistress.
“It’s locked! The door is locked!” Emma knocked gently, fighting hard to restrain herself. Then, sobbing quietly, she slid to the floor. Desperation washed over her as she rested her wet cheek against the door.
“Are you there, Mother? Are you are all right? Are you alive? Oh, Mother! Please, please get well.”
“Now, now, Miss Emma.” Stricken by Emma’s pain, Mrs. Butterfield eased her heavy frame to the floor and folded the girl into her arms. So thin, she was, like a little bird. “Now, now, hush, sweet child. Everything will be all right in time. You have to have faith. You’ll see.” Mrs. Butterfield held the girl tightly and swayed gently as Emma cried.
“Mrs. Butterfield, it’s been so long. What if Mother is not going to get better?”
A chill ran down the housekeeper’s spine. At that moment, the door opened a crack, held fast by the chain.
“Emma! Emma, don’t be afraid.” Maisie peeked though the opening and spoke in a whisper. “You’re mother is doing all she can to get better.”
“Maisie, let me come in, just for a moment. I miss her so. Oh, please let me visit Mummy, just for a minute, Maisie!”
“She must rest, Miss Emma.” With the door chained, Maisie sank to the floor on the same level as Emma and the housekeeper.
“Emma, listen to me. Your mother is going to get well. She is young and strong, and you know how very determined she is.”
“Well, how is it that you can be there? Are you going to get sick too, Maisie?” Emma wept through a fresh round of tears.
“Shh. No, I won’t get sick. I promise. It’s my job to take good care of your mother and that is just what I am doing,” she answered.
“How do you know you won’t get sick? Are you immune in some way?”
Mrs. Butterfield’s head came up at the question and she stared at Maisie with her eyebrows glued to her hairline. The entire staff had been speculating on the matter for days. But Maisie remained cool and noncommittal.
“Perhaps I am,” she said. “All I can tell you is that I am perfectly healthy, and if I were vulnerable, I believe I would be showing signs of illness by now.”
The tinkling of a bell interrupted their conversation.
“Your mother is calling me. See how much stronger she is? Please excuse me, Emma and Mrs. Butterfield.”
“But, when will I be able to see her?” Emma demanded.
Maisie gently pushed on the door to close it so Emma wouldn’t hear her mother moaning.
“I can’t tell you right now. We need to be sure she is no longer contagious. Listen, Emma, could you write a note to your mother and slip it under the door. Tell her all your news, and I’ll read it to her. I’m sure it will cheer her up.” The bell rang again, more insistently. “I must go. Now, please, do as Mrs. Butterfield asks.”
Maisie disappeared behind the closed door, and Emma heard the lock slide home. Tears rushed anew as she allowed Mrs. Butterfield to guide her to the stairway.
The entire Willows household had been turned upside down since Beth’s illness took hold. At first the house staff was kept in the dark. To throw the servants off track, Rupert set about telling stories of pneumonia, and to appease their employer, the staff outwardly talked about her illness as if it was just that. But the rumors of typhoid were too strong. One of the parlor maids and a stable hand quit without giving any notice.
Young Mr. James had taken charge immediately upon the onset of her illness. Orders came down that the house be immediately scrubbed from top to bottom. He demanded that only water that had first been boiled be used for drinking and cooking. It was a practice Maisie had started weeks before, at the first suspicion of a problem with the water, and Mrs. Butterfield thanked her lucky stars that the girl had been adamant as to its importance.
Mrs. Butterfield and the other servants were also grateful that they had no contact whatsoever with Mrs. Willows. It wasn’t the same in many of the other homes, and stories circulated in the neighborhood about entire households falling ill with typhoid.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Censorship
December 28, 1904
Heavy snow followed by a severe cold spell wore at the patience of Winnipeg residents. Isaac could plainly see that the staff of the Winnipeg Star had no special immunity against the strain of a harsh winter, and he was happy his workday had come to an end. Tidying his station at the Linotype machine, he bade goodnight to the man taking his seat for the next shift and bundled warmly in his new wool coat, wrapping the scarf high on his face and over the earflaps on his hat. This was no time to take a chance on catching a cold.
These were busy times at the newspaper, and Isaac was counting on being asked to fill in as a writer for extra pay. To ensure that he would always be prepared, he had resolved to keep up with all the developing local stories. To this end, he tried to read every newspaper published in the Manitoba capital every day. He was particularly impressed with the Manitoba Free Press led by Editor-in-Chief, John Dafoe. It was his secret desire to work there one day.
Isaac walked down the stairs to the lobby of the Winnipeg Star with his newspaper open, engrossed in his reading. As he reached the bottom of the steps, Jim McGraw spotted him, and in one swift move snatched the paper out of Isaac’s hand and yanked his cap down over his eyes.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” shouted Isaac.
“Well, look who’s developing a backbone! If it isn’t my polite little Jewish friend who used to be scared of his own shadow!”
“Hey, Jim. I thought you were going to be in Chicago until next week.” Isaac smiled and grabbed the paper back before he shook his hand.
“Nope. The story fell apart and I got to come home. What’s so intense in that paper that you gotta risk your neck to read it while you’re walking downstairs?”
“Did you hear about all the fires last night? Three alarms came in from different fires, one after another. Drinkwater’s Tailor shop was wiped out at Portage and Main,” said Isaac.
“I just went by there,” Jim responded. “Hell of a mess. The entire building is coated in icicles. They must have run pumps all night long on the sucker. Anybody killed?”
“No, thank goodness. No serious injuries. There has been one fire after another in the last two weeks. It’s a record.”
“No kidding. I’m sure you’re gonna tell me that there are lots of problems with water pressure, too,” said Jim.
�
��Yeah. Same problems. Jim.” Isaac paused and glanced about to see who might be listening in on their conversation. “Do you have time to sit down and talk? I think I’ve got a lead on the typhoid epidemic story that no one is writing about.”
Jim knew when to take Isaac seriously. The kid had an instinct. “Sure, let’s go over to Mariaggi’s and have a bite. It’ll be quiet over there this time of the day. I’ll buy.”
Bundled and braced against the cold wind, they quickly walked down the block and into the warmth of the hotel coffee shop. Within minutes, they were settled in a back booth with sandwiches before them.
Jim leaned over the table. “Whatcha got, Ziggy?”
“A very good roast beef sandwich,” Isaac said as he took a bite.
McGraw reached over the table and slapped Isaac’s hat off his head.
“Hey! What did you do that for?” Isaac demanded.
“Whaddaya think, Rookie. Now tell me whatcha got.”
“Oh, the story.” Enjoying himself, Isaac picked up his coffee cup and sipped at it slowly.
“Isaac Zigman, you have one terrible sense of humor, and you really do know how to try a guy’s patience.” Jim threw his hat down in frustration.
“All right, all right!” Isaac put his hand up to shush his friend, then continued in a barely audible voice. “Here’s the thing. I’ve been watching the typhoid story develop since you sent me in to talk to those folks at the hospital last month, and I think the whole thing started at the big Main Street fire in October.”
“Not true,” Jim said, shaking his head. “Look. This has been a terrible year for typhoid, the worst the city has ever seen with almost four times the cases we normally get. I got my hands on some reports from the Health Department. There were more than six hundred typhoid cases before the end of September this year. But there’s a simple reason for it. Have you been following the population growth numbers?”
“Yes. It’s incredible. In five years the city went from forty thousand to almost seventy thousand.”
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