Charlotte reached through a slit in her skirt and took a folding fan from a pocket that hung around her waist. As Longfellow paused at a collection of wild orchids, she waited another moment to compose her thoughts, cooled herself a little, and opened with one of several questions she had formulated the day before.
“You and I, Richard, have had more than one clear look at the Grim Reaper—”
“Too clear.”
“—and we both know that his face can change a good deal, from one appearance to another. But with Phoebe, her illness, if that is what it was, left no mark behind at all. I suppose Dr. Tucker did what he could—but do you think he was clever enough? Could someone else have examined her more carefully, to learn what happened?”
Longfellow looked up with surprise. “I suspect not. Most physicians merely guess at what bothers their patients, while listening to them complain; once a patient is dead … some will occasionally cut into a body to look for something more. But that was not a thing Tucker was prepared to do, especially with a corpse infected by smallpox.
“A gentleman in Padua,” he continued, looking up from a stem of white phalenopsis, “recently published his thoughts on some seven hundred autopsies which he had performed over sixty years. Quite a life’s work! But we are hardly in Europe. We are not even in Cambridge! While examining a body might bring a little peace to a few of the living, it would surely lead many more of them into warfare with one another. Unless, I suppose, one wishes to dismember the corpse of a felon, for the law is not far beyond doing that itself, in drawing and quartering. But what would you expect Tucker to find inside, with no sign of anything suspicious on the outside?”
Charlotte looked up into the palm fronds that hung like fingers from the sky, before taking another tenuous step. “What,” she asked, “actually causes death, Richard, in someone who becomes ill? What lies beneath the changes the body goes through?”
“An excellent question, Carlotta. To which I haven’t much of an answer,” Longfellow went on, walking over to examine his pots of cabbages. “Wise men—those who believe in earthly causes of disease, rather than in spirits, or heavenly whim—these men are still split into several factions. They may diagnose an illness, and even cure it; but when asked to consider the question of what unites a symptom with its actual cause, they are rarely in agreement. Even in this great scientific era, there is no one Grand Theory to link cause and effect in healing. Some look for answers in numerology, or in observations of the sun and moon … some in climate, and atmospheric change. Expose yourself to cold and come down with the ague, you see. Others blame illness on our internal chemistry. They conclude some of us become too acid, or too alkaline, until we are encrusted in our vessels, or eaten away in our joints. But what, exactly, causes the ague, or the gout, or even a common fever? We worry when we’re feverish, but can we be completely certain that fever is an evil, when it often precedes recovery? In Leyden recently, the famed Dr. Boerhaave taught that fever is the body’s attempt to fight off death. But then, Boerhaave also held that we’re all little more than machines full of fluids, whose conduits clog up from time to time—rather like clay pipe stems. Others have their eye on tiny worms found in tooth scrapings, or even in the blood; I’ve shown you some, you’ll recall, under my microscope. Yet none know what they are, or where they come from, though some do attempt to explain them with the old chestnut of spontaneous generation.”
“Which is—?” inquired Charlotte as she watched the cats play among the empty pots in a corner.
“Ah, so I do have your attention! Well, it’s long been believed, by men who otherwise seem intelligent, that living creatures can spring from non-living matter. It’s said they generate in corruption of some sort—mud, for instance. Frogs, flies, maggots, that sort of thing. Would you care to hear a recipe for creating mice?”
“Certainly, but I wonder that anyone would want to,” Charlotte replied, waving her fan at white flies rising from a bed of seedlings.
“One has only to put dirty linen into a willow basket with a little wheat, or a piece of cheese,” said her pleased instructor.
“I imagine that would work, eventually.”
“Yes, but you’re a farm woman, with enough sense to see how reproduction must occur, and that it does so without any kind of magic. Sadly, some of our great men are unable to grasp such a simple-minded idea.”
“You do flatter me.”
“Well, whatever else they may say of you, Carlotta, it is not that you lack a brain. The point is, anyone claiming to know the entire truth of disease and its cause is either seeking his own fame, or after someone else’s fortune.”
“Then you don’t believe in any of the theories you have mentioned?”
“I do not. I am convinced that most philosophers, natural or otherwise, are fools. I’m also certain that their theories tend to drain away much of our common sense, especially when their theories are honored above observations that prove the exact opposite! To learn, Mrs. Willett, one must see for one’s self, without prejudice. Here’s a curious thing,” he added, lifting a finger as if sampling the wind. “It’s possible that all life is merely a chain of Eaters and Eaten. Dean Swift put the idea quite neatly, some years ago.
So naturalists observe, a flea
Has smaller fleas that on him prey;
And these have smaller still to bite ’em,
And so proceed, ad infinitum.”
Mrs. Willett smiled at both the wit and its presentation, though she found the idea somewhat distasteful. “Is that why you’ve moved from telescope to microscope, lately?” she inquired.
“The microscope, too, has the ability to reveal amazing sights, which are nonetheless real for being unobservable with the naked eye. A Swede who now calls himself Linnaeus has just classified some of the world’s tiniest beings into a group he calls Chaos. I think we can do better than that, before long. It only requires lenses that go a bit deeper.”
“And what,” asked Charlotte thoughtfully, “if your chain were reversed, or some of its links jumped over?”
“How so?”
“Well, a carcass in the fields might feed a bear, or buzzards, and it will soon attract weasels, voles, horse flies, and so on; but it is the tiny worms that will finally dispose of it, and the rest of us, eventually. Of course we do not think they will feed on us while we live—but we know that leeches, and mosquitoes, surely will! What if—what if we’re also being bitten, while we live, by things far smaller, and unseen … whose bite carries an insect’s poison, like certain spiders, or scorpions? Could this poison cause the smallpox, do you suppose?”
“I doubt it, Carlotta! For one thing, the blood worms you have seen, though they do multiply in those who have certain illnesses, are not observed to increase greatly in those who clearly have other illnesses, including smallpox. Or the Great Pox, for that matter.”
“The French Disease, do you mean?” Charlotte asked quietly.
Longfellow paused to consider propriety, which naturally forbade the discussion with a woman of diseases that pass between male and female, before he decided in favor of knowledge. “Or syphilis, as the Italians have named it. Something we rarely speak of, yet since you have an admirable interest in healing, Mrs. Willett, I will go on, if you like, while doubting you will encounter it in Bracebridge any day soon.”
“Why is that?” In fact, Charlotte did know something of this old malady, which cleverly mimicked many others, from a medical treatise her brother had brought back with him on one of his visits. But she hoped now to hear something new.
“Because,” Longfellow continued, “it is said to be a disease that originates in poverty and immoral practices. So, of course, one discovers it most often among Europeans, and in cities. There is, unfortunately, no inoculation for the Great Pox as there is for the Small. And contracting it offers no protection, for the future is the victim’s greatest fear—though more often than not, time will bring no change. When it does, however, it can take the form of
deafness, blindness, paralysis—as well as delusions and, finally, insanity. When this phase begins, some of the symptoms may come and go, but death is the eventual end—and by then it is a blessing.”
“Richard, if the Great Pox is so deadly, what keeps it from killing outright, like the smallpox? And is there no hope for cure?”
“No one knows why, Carlotta. And there is no cure. Some believe there is hope of avoiding symptoms in the application or ingestion of certain salts—but these are not without their own peril. I suspect it is likely that most treatment does nothing. Nature herself seems to spare a good half of those infected from any further problem. Fortunately, after a few years there is little risk of spreading the infection further, except by giving birth. Then, as the Bible tells us, the child will suffer for the sins of the father. As we are speaking of the Bible,” Longfellow went on, deciding Mrs. Willett should be given something else to ponder on the Sabbath, “I’m curious about what our own preacher said to you and my sister, on the day of Phoebe’s death.”
“Why do you ask?” Charlotte countered uneasily, hoping she would not have to reveal her uncharitable thoughts about Reverend Rowe.
“Because I sent him up the hill, after I gave him the news. For that, I suppose I feel some remorse; but the more I think of it, the more I’m disturbed by his quick condemnation of the girl. After all, I said nothing to suggest Phoebe played any part in her own death. Do you yourself suspect that Will was led, for one reason or another … ?”
“No,” said Charlotte, though her look was not entirely convincing.
“You’re sure he did nothing to her?”
“Possibly he did give her a slap. But more … ? Richard, her pillow was wet when I found her.”
“Was it?” Longfellow asked uncomfortably.
“Which suggested to me,” she explained, “that when Phoebe spoke to Will, something that was said set her to weeping. He couldn’t have stayed and argued for long; someone would have heard them. So, she must have been alive long after he left her. The young do tend to suffer excessively, I think … for they are still tender-hearted.”
“It is an interesting theory, though youth, in my experience, is a poor indicator of innocence. But what if Will returned later?”
“Have we reason to suppose he did? Do you think he could have planned to harm Phoebe, and done it quite coldly—without the heat of aroused passion? That, too, strikes me as unlikely.”
“Have you seen a wound fester, Carlotta? Does it not look angrier then, than before? I do see one thing that could be in the boy’s favor. An explosive temper will let venom out, before it has a chance to work itself deeper into the soul. So perhaps you’re right, at that.”
“Let’s suppose, though, that the girl actually wished to die, Richard. Someone should at least ask the question. Even though it is terrible to imagine that Phoebe—but would it have been possible!”
“I presume she brought no poison with her, for why would she choose death, when she had agreed to the inoculation to ensure her future? And do you keep anything of the sort in your house? Bear in mind, such a poison would need to be subtle. Foxglove? No, your own heart is quite sound. Or henbane?” he asked, smiling at a memory they shared.
“I can’t think of anything—”
“But what about this?” Longfellow hurried on. “A firm wish for death may in itself achieve that end, and in a relatively brief time. Take an aging spouse, whose dame has passed on. How often will he follow at her heels? This sort of thing has led me to suspect mind and body are more closely related than scientific thought would have us believe …”
“Actually,” Charlotte replied, “I did wonder, since Phoebe sometimes seemed less than content—”
“But I wouldn’t say that kind of thing is likely to occur overnight, as we saw here. And those who exit life in this peculiar fashion are usually those who have developed great strength of will. Now, fear can be another danger, and some peoples can wound one another with curses. We have only to look to the sugar islands, where what they call voudou can bring on a wasting sickness, or even a violent death. Nervous energy alone will encourage many maladies. Among our own young ladies, emotions are often believed to stimulate illness—though few die of their swoons and palpitations. Give them new gowns, and women will be greatly changed for the better.”
Mrs. Willett saw that her neighbor’s interest in her original subject had degenerated. “I only wish your sister were here to answer for our sex,” she countered. “For I hear she has begun to meet with some of the town’s intellectual ladies, including Mr. Otis’s sister Mercy—
“Diana, interested in things of the mind? And with Mercy Warren? I tremble to imagine it! You would never join such a movement, I hope, Mrs. Willett? Would you discuss philosophy or even politics, with a group of Amazons? Or perhaps you do so already, with your cows?”
Charlotte endured his teasing while she fanned a scented breeze through a tall pelargonium.
“I’m afraid,” she said, “that my hands are full at the moment. For I’m trying to keep one of my scientific acquaintances from being the first in the colony to be burned at the stake.”
“What have you heard?” demanded Longfellow.
“Nothing sure to convict you. But there is grumbling …”
“Is there, by God? That’s a nice turn of things, after all I’ve done for this blessed village!”
“If you were to do any more in the next week or two, we might both consider making an extended visit to Maine—or one of the sugar islands you mention.”
“I wonder how Cicero would take the idea? He says he’s heard talk of fining me at the next meeting for encouraging inoculation, with no license to do so.”
“Can that be done?”
“I’m not sure. I have half a mind to consult a lawyer myself, if I hear anything more. Blast them all! They rob me of my peace of mind!”
“But, Richard, seriously, there is one thing more that has been troubling me—”
“One thing, Mrs. Willett? You are a fortunate soul.”
“—and it is this. Dr. Tucker has died; and I wonder, for what?”
“How do you mean?”
“Could his death have had some unrevealed purpose? Or was it simply that he believed Phoebe’s death to be the result of his poor treatment? Surely, he must have lost patients before this?”
“He did tell me a curious story one evening, after consuming a large portion of several bottles that we shared. It led me to suspect his earlier experiences in Virginia might have been enough to have driven him, in the end, to despair.”
“What did he say?”
“That he was turned away by his influential patients in Williamsburg, after the daughter of one of the wealthiest among them died. It seems the girl was secretly with child, but refused to be examined when another complaint, probably a pellagra, became quite obvious. He prescribed a compound for this which tragically killed the child in her womb. And that soon resulted in the death of the mother, as well. The father was never discovered—but it was assumed Tucker had knowledge of the girl’s condition, and that he tried to help her lose this child, to keep her own father from discovering what she had done. This belief ignited the entire family, and a duel was arranged before the doctor fled with what funds he could scrape together, leaving his wife and children to the mercies of the few friends who stood by them. Tucker came to Boston, where he lost all he’d brought with him through land speculation—as did many others. Though none of this appears to have been entirely his fault, how it all must have weighed on him! No wonder the fellow’s mind was finally shattered, when he saw his last hope decline with the death of yet another young woman. Of course, this is something I hardly felt it necessary, or wise, to make known.”
Her own mind now nearly overcome by their far-flung conversation, Mrs. Willett longed to be gone from the closeness of the glass house, and out in the freshness of the morning. She gave a final thought to the letters from Jeanette she’d seen in Tucker’
s room, but decided to leave her curiosity about the disposal of these, and the rest of the physician’s possessions, for another time.
“Richard, the strawberries—?” she asked.
“Let us go and see. Tiger? What—what have you done?”
The cats had already discovered the first of the season’s piquant fruits; even now, Tiger could be seen slavering over the remains of a succulent specimen lodged firmly between her sharp teeth.
“Debaucher!” Longfellow shouted, lunging at the unrepentant feline as she bounded away. Eventually, she slunk under the cover of some fat squash leaves, imagining herself safe, while Tabby darted up the trunk of his master’s precious palm.
It would be best for her neighbor to deal with this latest dilemma alone, Charlotte decided, as she left Longfellow to rail against his own demons, and went to see to Sunday’s dinner.
Chapter 13
DIANA LONGFELLOW SAT in a winged chair in Mrs. Willett’s great room studying David Pelham, who honored the Sabbath by again wearing his most splendid attire. As he sipped a glass of sweet wine, she offered him some Scottish shortbread from a tin Charlotte had earlier provided.
“I imagine you’ve noticed she is a plain person, Mr. Pelham, at least in terms of fashion; but you know Mrs. Willett has spent nearly all of her life in the country. Her husband was what they call a Friend, from Philadelphia. They are prevalent there, of course, though I know we have a few in Boston, too. She fell easily into his ways—it seems they were mostly her own, anyway—but she doesn’t make a religion of it. Still, Charlotte is unusually plain,” Diana repeated, glancing down at her own fine gown.
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