Keturah

by Lisa T. Bergren

  “Aye,” said the doctor. “Only a matter of time ’fore the rest are down with it too, miss. ’Tis the way of it.”

  Gray moved to block the doctor’s way toward his bag, sitting on the nearest porch, and the lancet he knew was likely inside. While he seemed coherent enough to diagnose the fever, he was not at all sure the doctor was steady enough to lance one arm after another.

  “Pardon me,” Gray said. “You said this was the acute phase. So it will not become any worse?” Surely they could manage the symptoms for now, given that the doctor was not in any shape to do the bloodletting.

  “Heavens no, good sir. ’Twill get much worse for some. Have ye never seen this fever before? If we do not manage to nip this in the bud, a good number of Tabletop’s slaves shall see the toxic phase,” he finished, wobbling a bit on his feet.

  “And that means … ?” Gray asked, moving more solidly between the doctor and his bag. Somewhere, somehow, he had indeed been imbibing over the last hour. The man reeked of rum.

  The doctor squinted up at him as if trying to remember the question. “In the acute stage,” he said with a brush of his hand, “there is blood everywhere. From the nose, mouth, and eyes. Seizures. Failure of both liver and kidneys. No,” he said, pushing past him. “Best get to my lancet and get on with it.”

  “No, Doctor.” Gray reached out to stay him. “I do not wish you to do any bloodletting this day. Perhaps after you sit for a spell on the porch and take a cup of tea. But not now when you’ve been imbibing.”

  “Imbibing!” he grumbled, lifting himself up to his full height, a good six inches shorter than Gray. He glowered up at him. “I assure you,” he slurred, pulling his waistcoat straight with some effort, “I have not had any spirits since the customary dose in my morning tea.”

  Gray glanced at Selah behind the doctor, and she rolled her eyes. Clearly that had not been the only rum Dr. McMillian had had today. He swerved as if he struggled to remain standing.

  “Still, I must insist you take your ease, either at the house or back in town,” Selah soothed, looping his arm through hers and guiding him toward the door. “You must be exhausted, poor man. After caring for so many. What is it like to be one of only two doctors on-island? You must be constantly in demand! Here, let me see you on your way.”

  Charmed and a bit overwhelmed by the pretty young blonde, the doctor allowed himself to be led as far as the door before he seemed to remember himself.

  “No, no, lass,” he said, pulling his arm free of hers in agitation. “I shall see to your slaves and then be on my way. I have other patients to see in Charlestown before sundown.”

  “Then I ask you to go immediately to them,” she said resolutely, moving to lift his bag and offering it to him. “Because you shall not be wielding a blade today among our own.”

  “Pshaw,” he said, frowning and tucking his head. “Do not be foolish, woman.” He turned to Gray. “Speak some sense into her, man! You’d best utilize my services while I am present!”

  “We’d best utilize your services when you are not inebriated,” he said firmly, crossing his arms.

  “What a perfectly outrageous claim! I am quite offended,” he said, yanking the bag from Selah. “Do not call upon my services when this fever spreads among the others and becomes worse,” he added, shaking his finger at Selah.

  She blinked, glanced at Gray for encouragement, then said, “I understand, Dr. McMillian. Good day to you.”

  “Good day,” he ground out, turning to stride toward his smart, black carriage and patient horse. Gray could only pray that he managed to get himself safely back to Charlestown. He knew he would not countenance any other suggestion.

  Selah and he watched as the small man rode up their lane … and saw that Angus Shubert and his two men observed his passing too. Selah drew closer to him, taking his arm. Gray frowned as the men rode lazily down the lane and pulled up outside the cabin. Had not the week proven sufficiently trying without a visit from these three?

  “Good afternoon, Covington, Miss Banning,” Angus said, touching the brim of his tricorn, letting his eyes linger over Selah. “We heard a rumor over at Red Rock that Lord Reynolds wished us to dispel.”

  “And that was?” Gray asked.

  “That you had yellow fever among your slaves.”

  “That’s no rumor,” he said, wondering what business it was of his.

  Angus looked over his shoulder at the now-empty lane. “And you sent the good doctor away?”

  “He was rather … incapacitated. I feared if he took a lancet to the sick, the blood loss might be more a danger than the fever.”

  “I see,” Angus said, crossing his hands on his pommel and eying the nearest cabin. Even from here they could hear several people crying, overwrought by the pain. “So he didn’t see to the bloodletting before he left?”

  “No, he did not,” Gray said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us—”

  Shubert shook his head. “You’re still green to this island, I know. But bloodletting is our chief defense, Covington. And you just sent away the only available doctor on-island. Dr. Simmons was called over to Saint Kitts.”

  Simmons was away? For the first time, Gray wondered if he had made the right decision.

  “Are there not well and able slaves available to serve those who are sick, Miss Banning?” Shubert asked. “Yellow fever is a messy business. The cabins are no place for a lady.”

  “I actually favor nursing, Mr. Shubert,” she said. “It does my heart good to see to my friends here.”

  “Your friends,” he said with a huff of a laugh. “Don’t be telling me that a woman as fine as you has become a Negro-lover.”

  She recoiled at the way he said it. “I aim to care for our servants as I would any of my white friends.”

  Shubert took off his hat and beat it across his leg, shaking his head in disgust. “Slaves tend to get uppity when you coddle them. Best to maintain a distance, I say. Because do you know what happens when a slave gets uppity? Uprisings,” he hissed. “Give a black man the chance to believe he deserves what the whites have and he begins to want what the whites have. And when he isn’t given it, he tries to take it.” He looked Selah up and down. “There’s been more than one white woman raped on this island by her slaves. Others carried off. More—”

  “That’s quite enough, Shubert,” Gray interrupted, stepping forward. “Be on your way.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, dismounting. “Because slaves talk, Mr. Covington. And if my slaves hear your slaves talk about what goes on here, then, well, my slaves are going to be gettin’ foolish ideas in their heads.”

  Gray strode toward him at equal pace. “You are on Banning land,” Gray said. “You have no say here on how these women run their plantation.” The man was about his height but outweighed him by a good thirty pounds. But there was nothing to do but face him down. And truth be told, he’d been itching for a reason to pummel him ever since he heard how he’d manhandled Ket. His fists clenched at his side.

  “Do not tell me you’re a Negro-lover too,” spat Shubert. “Maybe you have something unnatural going on with your new overseer,” he said with a sly smile. “That why you signed him on too?”

  Gray needed no further invitation. He feinted left and then pounded Shubert’s right cheek when the man dodged. The big oaf went sprawling to his left hip. He let out a snarl and was scrambling to his feet when he paused, eyes widening. Shubert slowly straightened, his jaw clenching, the veins at his temple bulging. But he did not advance on Gray.

  Gray saw what he had, then—the sick slaves of Tabletop. Everyone had come out of their cabins and surrounded them. They were trembling with fever, sweat pouring from their brows, but all sixteen of the ill had left their sickbeds to stand behind him, beside him, surrounding Selah protectively as well.

  Shubert swore and sneered as he glanced around at them, then finally back at Gray. “You’re a fool, Covington. Mark me, this will come back to haunt you.” He let out a humorless
laugh and looked at all the slaves again, shaking his head in disgust. “You’d be better off letting this lot die out of the fever and start again. Come by Red Rock. I’ll show you how a plantation should be run.” He pointed a finger at him and waggled it. “I shoulda known. From the day Lady Keturah hired that Negro as overseer, I shoulda known what was coming.”

  He mounted up and stared hard at Gray as he dabbed at a bit of blood at the corner of his mouth. “Lord Reynolds, the other planters, they will not hold with this. Not a one of them.”

  “And I will tell them what I’ve told you. We have a right to run our plantations as we see fit.”

  Shubert scoffed. “Until the day you all are murdered in your beds.”

  Selah edged nearer to Gray as they watched the men ride away, wrapping her small hand around his arm. “Thank you, Gray, for standing up to them,” she whispered.

  Gray nodded, finally able to take a full breath as the riders disappeared from sight. Then he broke away from her and rushed over to Gideon, who was wobbling on his feet, his eyes rolling. He caught the large man and, with grunting effort, eased him over to the porch. “Everyone, back to your sickbeds,” he said. “Thank you for coming to our aid.”

  They left then, stumbling, dragging themselves back to one cabin after another. “Come with me, Selah. We need to fetch fresh water, rags, broth. We need to feed the ailing, give them strength to fight this fever.”

  “And pray they all survive,” she said quietly as they walked.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Keturah watched as the circles under Selah’s eyes grew darker over the coming days. “Tell Primus I need him to carry me out there,” Ket said to her. “I can sit between Gideon and Grace. Or by Bennabe. Give me a pail and some rags and I can put cool cloths on their heads or feed them some soup.”

  “No, Ket. You must remain here. Regain your strength.”

  “My strength is fine. And I must do something or I shall go mad. Anything is better than another day of convalescing while you all run ragged.”

  “It … Keturah, well, ’tis rather awful,” Selah said, rubbing her face. “Are you quite certain you are up to it?”

  She was already easing her leg over the side of the bed, trying not to wince but quite failing. Still she insisted, “I am this plantation’s mistress. And I must go to my people.”

  Selah shook her head. “Gideon … Ket, I think we might be losing him. This morning he was convulsing. And their eyes. Ket, the whites of their eyes. They’re all turning a ghastly yellow.”

  “Thus the name,” Keturah returned grimly. “’Tis all right, sister. You need not try and protect me any longer. Let us face this together.”

  ———

  Truth be told, her words were brave. But when she first saw the sick, she faltered. Gideon opened his eyes—and they were indeed an eerie yellow—but he didn’t seem to see or hear her. How had the fever taken such a strapping, strong man down to this?

  Gray arrived with the other doctor from town, this one named Simmons, who thankfully had returned from St. Kitts and appeared quite sober. Both men looked surprised when they entered Gideon’s cabin and found her there on a chair between his bed and Meriday’s.

  “Ket!” Gray barked in surprise. “I mean, Lady Keturah, this is Dr. Simmons.”

  “At your service,” the doctor said with a short nod. “It appears you met with a calamity of your own, m’lady,” he said, gesturing to her splinted leg.

  “It was broken the night of the mudslide,” she said.

  “Oh? And who set it?”

  “Gray’s man, Philip. I was fortunate he had experience.”

  “Yes, well, let us hope he did not leave you a cripple,” he sniffed. He obviously did not approve of people taking medical matters into their own hands.

  “Quite,” she said with a raised brow, not wishing to argue. “Thank you for coming to see to my people.”

  “But of course,” he said, opening a wooden box to extract a lancet and cups, then a large jar full of leeches.

  She blanched. She never liked the business of bloodletting. But she supposed it was necessary, and for some perhaps their only hope.

  ———

  Despite the doctor’s best efforts, they began dying that night. Old Meriday died first, then a thin newcomer named Mack, followed by a shy girl named Ruth. Bennabe, dear Bennabe.

  But the hardest to see go was Grace.

  Keturah remained in the cabins all night and through the next day, weeping as each one died. But it was her servant from Hartwick for whom she felt the most keenly. Grace, dear Grace, who had so faithfully served as their maid for years, who had helped dress her, brushed her hair, seen to her every need … and yet, in the end, Ket could not return the favor. She leaned against the wall of the cabin and gave into her tears once again.

  That was where Gray found her.

  “Oh, Gray,” she said, falling into his arms. “It is so awful. I feel so responsible,” she cried. “If it weren’t for me, for us, they’d be back at Hartwick now, whole and hale. And these others …” she choked out.

  “The others would have been on some other plantation,” he said gently, “likely facing a fever there too at some point. Shhh, love,” he said, stroking her back. “It is awful, but ’tis not your doing. You must not take that upon your shoulders.”

  “But Grace … oh, Gray, how I shall miss her!”

  He said nothing to that, only held her while she wept. “Come,” he said, bending down to lift her into his arms. “I’m taking you back to the house. You need some sleep.”

  She wanted to protest, but she knew the truth in his words. “Do not bury them without me, Gray,” she whispered into his neck as he carried her down the hill. “I want to be there. I need to be there.”

  “As well you should. Rest assured we will wait.” He paused. “Perhaps you can use a bit of good news.”

  “Please,” she said.

  “Matthew, Verity, and the slaves almost have your middle field planted again.”

  “Oh, Gray, that is good news. What … what would we do without you?”

  He smiled down at her. “You’d find your way. Somehow. You always have. But I’m glad for it, Ket. Glad to be here for you. With you.”

  It frightened her, how much she liked hearing that from him. How she felt when she was around him. He gave her hope. Strength. And he cared for her—for them all, really—in such a sacrificial way. Every time she was with him she felt walls around her heart—walls that had been her protection during her years at Clymore Castle—begin to crumble. And that made her feel like she both wanted to shout in victory and cower in the face of such vulnerability.

  So when he set her to her feet in the house, she limped away a bit, needing some space. He squinted at her, plainly seeing how it pained her to hobble about and wondering why she had scrambled away. But he didn’t press her.

  The smell of something cooking in the kitchen brought both their noses up. They could hear someone working in there. The clank of an iron pot. A ceramic dish set down on stone. “Well, that would be an answer to prayer,” Gray mused. “Supper?” He left her to peek in the kitchen, and Keturah sank to the settee.

  In a few minutes he returned, handing her a hunk of bread and a slice of cheese. “’Tis Mitilda,” he said.

  “Mitilda?” she exclaimed. Ket didn’t like what immediately leapt to her heart—a resentment that the woman had assumed she could come inside the big house and treat the kitchen as her own. But wasn’t she grateful? That someone—anyone—was cooking? The field hands, her sisters, everyone needed food this night.

  Gray gave her another long, steady look, as if giving her the chance to collect herself.

  “’Tis kind of her,” Ket said carefully. “To think ahead and set to supper.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “And it looks like a fine lamb stew. I’ll need to hasten home to Teller’s Landing, though, as soon as we’ve eaten. I must look in on Philip, see how they’re faring on weeding th
e fields, and make sure none of my own has taken sick.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” Ket said. Belatedly, guilt swept through her. The poor man had spent many nights on this very settee—why, she doubted he’d gone home more than once since she’d broken her leg and the fever had come to Tabletop. And yet the idea of his leaving, of his spending the night away, left her feeling unaccountably sorrowful.

  Make up your mind, Ket, she tiredly told herself. Do you want him to maintain some distance or never leave your side again?

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Everyone agreed that Mitilda was the finest cook among them. Ket grudgingly admitted that the stew had been perfectly seasoned, the lamb tender, and she sent the woman back to her cottage with an extra portion for Abraham.

  “It was most kind of you, Mitilda,” she said, hating that she sounded so stiff, so formal. “For you to help us as you did today. How you have helped us in the fields …”

  “Ahh, that’s all right, Lady Ket,” Mitilda said. “You ladies have been pouring yourself into those sick ones. I wanted to do something more for you in turn. Something without pay.”

  “Thank you.”

  The woman hesitated by the door. “Could I be of service, Lady Ket? Do you need a woman to cook for you and your sisters every day?”

  She was asking for a job. Again, Ket shoved down a flash of resentment. Was it not enough, her annual stipend from her father? Another of suspicion. Had she made them supper just so they would know how fine a cook she was?

  Around the table, Verity and Selah and Gray were waiting, wide-eyed, on her response.

  At last the word forgive sprang to her mind.

  Is it not time to find a new way forward with Mitilda? Keturah wondered. To treat her with the grace that she herself would wish for were their positions reversed? And honestly, would it not be good to have meals as fine as this every night?

  “It’d be a great service to us, Mitilda,” she said, “if you would become our new cook. And, please, invite Abraham up to the kitchen each evening. He should eat his supper while ’tis still warm.”