Grace and the Preacher

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Despite Grace’s shock that the woman would enter a man’s sickroom, she appreciated Mrs. Kirby’s willingness to help care for Uncle Philemon. She must truly love him to risk her own health. The doctor had told Grace to stay away from her uncle, and so far, even though it panged her conscience to be such a coward, she had obeyed.

  The man let his head drop back. He huffed out a mighty expulsion of breath. “That woman…I love her dearly, but if she comes down with this, too, I don’t know how I’ll manage.” He peeked into the pot and frowned. “As soon as that water comes to a full boil, I want you to boil the clothes you were wearing this morning for half an hour. Anything your uncle touched also needs to be boiled. I’ve already taken your uncle’s nightclothes, robe, and bedsheets to the burn pile.”

  “But his robe was a gift from Aunt Wilhelmina the Christmas before she died. Can’t I boil it instead?”

  “He said he was cold during the night and had slept in it. Given the length of time it was in contact with his body, I feel safer burning it.”

  Miserably, Grace nodded.

  “I’ll see to the burning when I come back this evening.”

  Grace jolted. “You’re not staying until he’s well?”

  “Scarlatina can last for days. I have other patients requiring my attention, the most pressing at the Backman farm. As you know, Lucia Backman is expecting her first child. The babe could arrive any day now.”

  Jealousy raised its ugly head, and Grace turned aside lest the doctor read it in her face. Lucia’s round belly had taunted her for months. She and Lucia had attended school together, but they hadn’t been friends. Lucia was four years younger than Grace. It hardly seemed fair that the younger woman was already married and expecting a child. Still, she wouldn’t want Lucia to face childbirth without the assistance of a doctor. “I understand.”

  “Before I go, I have several precautions to take so I don’t carry the fever with me.” The doctor removed a pad of paper and the stub of a pencil from the deep pockets of  his jacket. “I’ll leave a list of  instructions so you’ll know how to care for your uncle in my absence. Not that Mrs. Kirby is apt to follow them. She nearly wrenched my arm out of the socket when I tried to do bloodletting.”

  Grace shuddered. “Is that necessary?”

  “I assure you, it’s standard practice for scarlatina patients. Ridding them of the infected blood is one of the wisest things to do. But until you manage to send Bess Kirby to her own home…”

  If the doctor, who had much more authority in town than the postmistress, couldn’t make Mrs. Kirby leave, how did he expect Grace to accomplish it? “I’ll try. But please don’t ask me to let Uncle Philemon’s b-blood. I wouldn’t be able to do it.”

  “I’ll take care of that myself when I return tomorrow.” He shook his finger at her. “Make sure Mrs. Kirby goes home. I’ve already told her what to do with her clothing when she gets there so she doesn’t infect the boarders. Once she leaves, lock the door behind her, and do not let her back in, no matter how she begs. I won’t be able to treat your uncle until she’s out of my way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He spent a few minutes scribbling on a sheet of paper the directions for Uncle Philemon’s care. He handed it to her and instructed her to read it over and ask questions if needed. Her hands shook as she examined the list. Some of the directions pertained to Uncle Philemon’s care, and some were to prevent her from contracting the illness. Although most of the directions were simple, she understood their importance. People died from scarlatina. She felt as though she held a list outlining the difference between life and death in her hand.

  “I’ll do all of this, Dr. Robison. I promise.”

  He finally smiled. “I know you will. Now try not to worry. The rash is only on his chest and neck so far, so we caught things early. We need to be grateful.”

  She saw him to the door and watched through a slit in the curtains as he climbed into his buggy and drove away. He’d have to go home, scrub himself, and put on another set of clothes before going out to the Backman farm. She whispered, “God, don’t let him carry the illness to Lucia or her husband.” A weight seemed to drop from her shoulders with the prayer.

  She turned from the window and gasped. Mrs. Kirby stood only a few feet away. “Oh, my, you gave me such a start! I didn’t hear you come into the room.”

  The woman didn’t smile. “Is the doctor gone?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He said you need to go home, too.”

  She marched past Grace to the door, and Grace heaved a sigh of relief. Finally the dear older woman was exhibiting good sense. Mrs. Kirby lifted the curtain and peered outside. Then she reached for the doorknob. But to Grace’s shock, she gave the skeleton key in the lock a vicious twist. She pulled the key free and used it to point at Grace.

  “That man is not coming back in this house.”

  Bess

  Grace’s hazel eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “But, Mrs. Kirby, Uncle Philemon needs the doctor.”

  Bess sympathized with the poor girl. She’d already lost her parents and her aunt. Now she feared losing her uncle. But Bess had conquered scarlatina before, and she could do it again. She touched Grace’s arm and gentled her voice. “He needs doctoring, that’s true, but not the kind Robison wants to give.”

  “But he said—”

  “Grace, listen to me.” Bess gripped Grace’s limp wrist. “Philemon is weakened from the fever. He needs his system built up. If  Dr. Robison insists on bloodletting, it will only serve to weaken your uncle further.” She pressed the key into Grace’s hand. “I’m going home, but I’ll be back as soon as I gather a few personal items, collect my herbs, and let the boarders know they’ll be on their own for a few days.”

  She moved through the kitchen to the back door, drawing Grace with her. “While I’m gone, do as the doctor said and boil your clothes and anything Philemon touched. Using water as hot as you can bear, wash yourself with your strongest soap. Lock the door behind me, and if  Dr. Robison returns before I do, do not let him in.” She gave the girl her sternest glare. “Promise me, Grace.”

  Tears flooded Grace’s eyes and her chin quivered.

  Bess had no time for mollycoddling. She had work to do. She barked, “Promise me!”

  “I promise.”

  Bess wished she could embrace the frightened young woman, but the risks were too great. So she offered a tender smile instead. “Good girl. I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry now.”

  The rain had stopped, and a fresh aroma rose from the damp leaves and soil. Bess sucked in the lovely scent as she moved as swiftly as the slick, muddy ground allowed. For the first time in years, she wished she’d brought a wagon to church so she could push the horse into a full gallop and cover the three-block distance quickly. But then she remembered how Sam had died, and she sent up a quick prayer for God to give her old feet wings.

  She entered the house through the back porch and paused to strip off  her church shawl. She grimaced. The delicate lace, a gift from Sam, would never stand up to thirty minutes of  boiling. She’d have to burn it. It hurt her heart to let it go, but the shawl wasn’t as important as Philemon’s life.

  Stepping into the kitchen doorway, she cupped her hands beside her mouth and set aside her manners to bellow. “Rufus! Ruby! Gertrude! Belker! Wayne! John!”

  Thundering footsteps shook the house, and the boarders crowded into the kitchen, Gertrude Ewing puffing as mightily as if she’d run ten miles instead of ten yards.

  Bess held up her hand. “Don’t come any closer to me. Just listen. I’m going to stay at the Cristlers’ place until Philemon is on his feet again. It might be a few days, or it might be longer if  Grace comes down with the fever, too. You’ll have to see to yourselves until I get back.”

  They exchanged looks ranging from shock to worry to disapproval. Ruby pursed her lips. “Well, of course we’re able to see to our own needs, but is it…wise…for you as a single lady to stay nights at the C
ristler place?”

  In all likelihood, half the town would share Ruby’s opinion, but Bess couldn’t concern herself with the town right now. “I assure you there will be no shenanigans. Philemon is too sick for shenanigans.”

  The woman gasped, the three older men choked back guffaws, and Rufus seemed to examine the toes of  his boots.

  “Besides, Grace is there, too. She serves as a chaperone should anyone question the propriety.”

  Rufus looked up, worry crinkling his brow. “Aunt Bess, is Grace all right? Does she have any fever or spots?”

  “Not yet.” If she could keep the young woman out of the sickroom, her chances of contracting it were slim. “I intend to treat her with echinacea to bolster her system, but if she comes down with the fever, I’ll take care of  her, too.”

  Gertrude shook her head, her sagging jowls jiggling. “But what if you get it, Bess? Who will take care of you?”

  When scarlatina broke out at the Indian reservation, she’d battled it along with nearly every one of the people living in the crowded cluster of ramshackle huts. She had never forgotten the herbs used to save all but three souls. “I’ve had it before, and I recovered just fine. I’ll treat myself the same way I intend to treat Grace and Philemon. You needn’t worry about me.”

  They didn’t seem completely assured, but Bess didn’t have time to convince them. “Ruby, would you please pack a bag for me? I trust you to select everything I’ll need for a weeklong stay.”

  “Of course.” Ruby scurried out of the room.

  “Belker, I’m putting you in charge of  Sammy-Cat.”

  The old man grinned. “Sure thing, Mrs. Bess. You don’t worry one bit about that ol’ tom. Him an’ me’ll get along just fine.”

  She smiled her thanks and turned to the others, distributing duties both in and outside of the house according to their abilities. One by one they left the kitchen, their expressions crestfallen. She’d intentionally saved Rufus for last because he would have the most difficult task. “Rufus, may I depend on you to calm everyone’s worries?”

  “I’ll do my best, but I’m plenty worried myself. I wish I knew for sure the reverend an’ Grace’ll be all right.”

  His pale face and gripped hands expressed his fear. Her heart rolled over. He was so young, so inexperienced. Yet she knew from her years of  living that endurance grew out of  hardship. If  he looked to God for strength, this could be a time of great growth for him.

  “Life and death are in the Creator’s hands, and we must trust His wisdom.”

  “Trust His wisdom…” His face contorted. “That’s what Granny Iva said when she fell sick. But she died, just like Pappaw Burl, my ma, an’ my pa before I was even born.”

  How she wished she had time to talk more, but she needed to return to Philemon before Doc Robison came back. Grace had promised to keep the man away, but the dear girl was so distraught she didn’t have the gumption to stand against the strong-willed doctor.

  “I assure you I will do my utmost to preserve her health, and you do your part by praying for Philemon and Grace.”

  “And for you.”

  His solemn words warmed her. “Thank you, my dear boy. Now retrieve my herb basket from the pantry and put it there on the floor, will you? As soon as Ruby brings my bag, I’ll—”

  Ruby bustled in on cue, dragging Bess’s valise by the handle. “Here you are, Bess. Everything you’ll need.” The stuffed bag likely held enough clothes for two weeks. She released the handle and left the bag in the middle of the floor, a good six feet from Bess’s feet.

  “Thank you, Ruby.” She waited until Rufus returned with her woven basket filled with cloth bags and little jars of dried herbs. She expected him to place it beside her bag, but instead he tucked the basket under his arm and picked up the bag with his other hand. She scowled at him. “Put those things down and step back.”

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am. You aren’t totin’ these across town. I’ll hitch the team an’ drive you to the Cristlers.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Rufus Dille, you’ll do no such thing. You cannot come near me or either of the Cristlers right now.”

  “If you want to, sit in the back with your bag an’ basket instead of on the seat beside me, but I’m driving you.”

  Ruby tittered. “My gracious, Bess, I believe he’s proving to be as determined as you are.”

  If she were to be honest with herself, his staunch stand pleased her, even if it was a bit foolhardy. Maybe Philemon’s illness was already strengthening the young preacher. She’d allow him to drive her because she didn’t want to carry the overstuffed bag and precious basket across town through the mud.

  She huffed and turned toward the back door. “Very well. Arguing would only delay my leave-taking, so I’ll concede defeat. This time. Come on, Rufus. Hurry.” But she wouldn’t let him in the house even if  he got down on his hands and knees and begged.

  Grace

  A solid thump on the back door sent Grace scurrying across the kitchen. The stench of wet cotton and lye soap mixed with the wondrous aroma of the roasted leg of  lamb created a perfume unlike any she’d ever smelled and hoped to never smell again. She lifted the corner of the curtain.

  Mrs. Kirby stood on the stoop. She mouthed, “Let me in.”

  Without hesitation Grace opened the door, and the woman staggered over the threshold, carrying a large valise and an intricately woven basket. Grace started to close the door again, but she noticed Mrs. Kirby’s wagon in the backyard. Rufus sat tall on the seat. The lost opportunity to sit beside him in the dining room, to sneak a few private words, or perhaps touch hands under the table the way courting couples were supposed to do, put a bitter taste in her mouth. If only she could climb up in the wagon beside him and take a drive through the country.

  She waved, sending him a look she hoped communicated her longing to steal time with him.

  He returned the gesture, his expression forlorn.

  Her despair deepened, and impatience brought the threat of tears. For the past two weeks his duties had kept them apart. This week, illness built a wall between them. When would they finally have time to grow together?

  Mrs. Kirby had dropped her bag near the door and put the basket on the kitchen worktable. She rummaged through the basket. “I hope you have at least one pot of water that hasn’t been used for washing.”

  Grace continued gazing at Rufus.

  “Grace, for mercy’s sake, shut that door, turn the lock, and come help me.”

  With a sigh she obeyed Mrs. Kirby’s mild reprimand. She trudged to the stove, where the older woman was dipping steaming water from one of the pans into mugs. “What can I do?”

  “I need measuring spoons—both teaspoon and tablespoon.”

  Grace removed the tin scoops from a drawer in the breakfront cabinet and handed them to her. “What are you making?”

  “Teas. Medicinal teas.” Her forehead puckered with concentration. She measured dried leaves from cloth bags and stirred them into one of the mugs. “This one is yarrow and meadowsweet. It will reduce Philemon’s fever so he can rest. Rest is always good medicine.” She shifted her attention to a second mug. “Now, this tea is brewed from echinacea, and it will strengthen his system so he’s better equipped to fight the infection.”

  The earthy smells lifting from the mugs, combined with the other smells in the kitchen, turned Grace’s stomach. She needed to get the boiled clothes off the stove and out on the back stoop. If  Rufus was still out back, they could call to each other across the yard. Eager, she turned toward the door.

  Mrs. Kirby pushed a mug into Grace’s hands. “Drink this.”

  Grace looked at the little bits of dried something floating on the surface of the pale yellow water and wrinkled her nose. “What is it?”

  “Echinacea tea.”

  Grace drew back. “But I’m not sick.”

  “No, you’re not, and we want to keep you that way. So drink it.”

 
; “Yes, ma’am.” Grace lifted the mug. The potent aroma assaulted her nostrils. She put it on the table. “No, thank you.”

  Mrs. Kirby’s lips formed a grim line. “In 1847 scarlatina ravaged a village of  Choctaws. The people lived close together in tiny, crowded huts, so the illness spread as rapidly as dandelion seeds blown on the Kansas wind. More than half the people contracted the fever. I was stricken with it, too.”

  Grace gasped. “You had scarlatina?”

  “Yes, I did, and thanks to the elders who knew what to do, I survived, as did all but three of the native people from the village. Despite the close living quarters and the lack of quarantine, many were spared the fever, and I believe it was because they drank a tea of echinacea three or four times a day.” She picked up the mug and gave it to Grace again. “I’ll admit the tea isn’t tasty. Stir in a little honey if you like to help it go down. But drink it.”

  Grace held the mug between her palms and gazed at Mrs. Kirby in amazement. “You learned this from heathen Indians?”

  The woman smiled, although her eyes seemed sad. “Grace, dear, there are lessons everywhere in life. One must only keep her eyes, ears, and heart open to receive them.” She slipped her hand beneath the mug and pushed upward until it was only a few inches beneath Grace’s chin. “Drink. I’m going to take these teas to your uncle.” She hooked her fingers through the mugs’ handles and disappeared around the corner.

  Grace took a sip of the foul tea, grimaced, and forced herself to take a second, longer drink. A few bits of dried leaves slipped down her throat with the hot liquid, but one larger piece stuck on her tongue. She hurried to the door and pulled it open to spit the bitter leaf  into the yard. But she paused, arrested by the beautiful sight of  Rufus still waiting on the wagon seat.

  Theo

  Grace had never looked prettier than she did on the backyard stoop. It didn’t matter that strands of  hair straggled in her face or that her pale-yellow dress was blotched gold from wet spots. Her sweet face showed no sign of  fever or rash. So far the prayers he’d been sending skyward the entire time he waited in the yard for another peek at her were being honored. The realization gave him courage to offer another one.