Quarantine

by John Smolens

  Leander gazed out at Joppa Flats. “Working the clam beds was good enough for Papi.”

  “That may be. But not for you.” Leander raised his head—the sun was behind the doctor, so it was difficult to see his face. “Now come on—we’ll go up to High Street and get you situated.”

  The large bay did have a good sheen to her coat and for some reason Leander found this reassuring. He climbed up on the horse, swung his leg over, and settled in behind the doctor on the horse’s broad haunch. Next to the stink of low tide, he’d always loved the smell of a horse.

  Miranda received Giles and the boy in the parlor. There was a peace and quiet to the house that reminded her of the calm that follows a nor’easter. The previous night’s festivities had carried on until first light, when most of the revelers left, helped into their carriages by footmen, while others simply collapsed in hallways and staircases. All morning the sound of snoring came from different quarters of the house.

  “It’s our young hero,” Miranda said to the boy standing next to Giles. “Didn’t you pull our French guest out of the river?”

  The boy looked about uncomfortably. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “This is Leander,” Giles said.

  “Leander the hero, yes, of course,” Miranda said.

  She turned to Giles. “Well, he looks strong. We can always use another boy out in the stables. Though I suppose he’ll eat more than he’s worth.” She put her tea cup in its saucer and made a little shooing motion with the back of her hand. “All right, Leander, you should find Mr. Fields in the kitchen, and he will get you set up.” The boy bowed, and, backing up, he bumped into the door. “Do watch where you’re going,” she said.

  “Sorry, Ma’am.” He disappeared into the hall.

  “If he breaks anything, Giles, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

  “Of course.” He hadn’t touched his sherry. “I do appreciate this.”

  “Why have you taken such an interest in him?”

  He looked away, toward the window.

  “Yes, well, it is curious. He reminds me.…”

  “What, Mother?”

  “No, nothing, it’s nothing. Sometimes I just imagine these things.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Now I’d like you to do me a favor.” Giles turned his head and stared at her. “Our French belle, Marie,” she said. “She’s taken to bed again, I’m told. I just hope it hasn’t anything to do with this fever. We’ve been so lucky thus far. This epidemic seems to have avoided High Street, though I’m told that one of the Larabees’ maids may be down with it—but then she has family that live down by the river.”

  Giles got to his feet and Miranda saw it in his face, that eagerness that a man reveals when he is given an opportunity to see a woman who has caught his fancy. “I’ll look in on Marie, of course.”

  “Yes, you do that,” Miranda said. “She’s in the same bedroom. Just take care not to trip over Mr. Bream, who’s sleeping on the floor at the top of the stairs. You know I believe he dreams in couplets. I heard him talking in his sleep earlier, and he was making up rhymes—‘litigious’ with ‘fastidious,’ ‘Greek’ with ‘meek,’ ‘stoic’ with ‘heroic’—that sort of thing.”

  Giles entered Marie’s bedroom and found her fast asleep. He went to the window overlooking the garden that ran along the side of the house, where his mother was giving animated instructions to several maids who were working in the flower beds. She now wore a straw hat with an enormous broad brim and from this height resembled a mushroom in a blue dress.

  When he turned from the window, Marie was staring at him. Her arms lay on top of the counterpane and her dark hair was spread in disarray on the pillow.

  “You are not feeling well again?”

  She moved her head from side to side. “I hurt,” she whispered as she placed a hand over her stomach, “here.”

  There was a straight-back chair in the corner, which he placed next to the bed. He sat down and took the counterpane and linen sheet and drew them down to her knees. She was wearing a white nightgown with a small yellow silk bow pressed flat between her breasts.

  “Please, allow me,” he said, and then he put his hands on her torso, feeling the soft area between the two halves of her rib cage. Moving lower, he pressed repeatedly, waiting for her to give a start when he located the pain. “I feel nothing unusual,” he said. His fingers ventured lower to the soft depression around her navel.

  All the while Marie’s eyes stared at the ceiling. “Lower,” she said.

  “The intestines,” he said.

  “Perhaps it can be this food?” she said. “Horrible, except sometimes the feesh.”

  He continued to examine her, his fingers probing through her nightgown, but he couldn’t locate the source of discomfort. Each time he moved his hand she would shake her head slowly.

  Finally, he said, “If you’ll forgive me.”

  She nodded her consent.

  He looked away toward the foot of the bed as he lifted her nightgown and placed his hand on the warm skin of her abdomen; then he moved his hands down, pausing when there was a tangle of fine pubic hair beneath his fingers. She shifted on the bed and parted her thighs, allowing his hand to slide between her legs. An odd moment passed where they both seemed dismayed. Giles stared at the heap of blankets covering her legs, and as he was about to withdraw his hand he felt her fingers clutch the sleeve of his coat, holding his arm in place. Ever so slightly she shifted her hips, pressing herself against his fingertips. Nothing happened; they maintained their awkward tableaux, while from outside came the sound of metal implements turning the garden soil. When Marie moved again he felt a barely perceptible lifting against his fingers. He kept perfectly still. He was both frightened and elated. Her breathing became audible and her hand became painfully tight about his arm. She let out a groan so suddenly that it startled him, and then a series of small, restrained convulsions overtook her entire body. She gasped for breath now, and finally she released a protracted moan, a sound that seemed to emerge from the depths of her being, painful but also liberating. She then relaxed, settling back into the feather bed, the tension going out of her completely.

  When she let go of his arm, he removed his hand. Her moist scent was on his fingers, cooling in the air.

  He cleared his throat. Turning toward her, he saw that her face was flushed.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I am overworked, and I—”

  “Merci,” she whispered. “I am much better, Doctor.”

  He stood up and placed the chair in the corner. His legs were shaking.

  “Please to come back again,” she said.

  “If that is your desire.”

  She nodded her head as she closed her eyes. “Oui.”

  Samuel entered the garden, causing Miranda to look up from the rose bush she had been pruning. He walked with an awkward urgency and said something in French which she didn’t understand, but it wasn’t necessary. He gazed down at Cedella, who was pulling up weeds.

  When Giles came into the yard, Samuel wandered off toward the apple orchard, whistling “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

  “You have discovered the problem?” Miranda said, snipping a thorny vine.

  “I think so. It isn’t anything serious.”

  “And you’ve administered the cure?”

  “Hardly,” Giles said, and then he coughed into his fist. He sounded chagrined, distracted. Miranda sat back on her haunches and looked up at him. “But for the moment she’s comfortable,” he said, “and I think she should sleep now. Perhaps for dinner, no meat. Some fish, if possible.” The way he gazed about the garden he might have been looking for a place to hide. Perspiration glistened on his forehead.

  “Doctor, you look … exhausted. Are you all right?”

  After clearing his throat again, he said, “I must return to the pest-house.” It was more of an announcement, as though the rows of flowers and the maids tending to them awaited his decision.

  Miranda wa
nted to smile: so many flowers and so much femininity renders a man powerless, spent. “I trust you’ll look in on our patient again?” she asked.

  “If need be. And I will bring my medicine bag.”

  “Very well.” Miranda dropped her pruning shears in the pocket of her gardening apron and peeled off her gloves. “And don’t worry about the boy. We’ll put him to work. He looks like he has a strong back.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  “These are difficult days in Newburyport,” she said. “It’s the least we can do for one who has been visited by such misfortune.” She started across the yard. “Now, I’ll talk to the cooks about fish for dinner, and perhaps you’ll pay a visit to your dear, aging mother again soon?” She didn’t wait for a reply.

  Sixteen

  ROGER DAVENPORT SAT, AS USUAL, ON HIS STOOL JUST INSIDE the doorway at Wolfe Tavern. “I’m to inform you two kind sirs that you are expected upstairs.”

  “Thank you, Roger,” Dr. Bradshaw said, and he led Giles through the tavern. The low-beamed room wasn’t as crowded as it ordinarily would be on an early summer evening. The men who were standing along the bar and seated at tables and in booths all regarded the two doctors with expressions that were wary at best, fearful at worst. They were merchants and farmers mostly, men who had known Bradshaw and Giles their entire lives. Some nodded cordially, but they all shared a reluctance to venture beyond a formal greeting. These were, after all, doctors, and too often the clergy in Newburyport had railed from their pulpits about the unholy contrivances of such men: scientists tampered with fate; they conspired to thwart God’s hand. And yet there was in the eyes of some of the men a look of guilt because many of them would, if so induced, confess that there had been occasions when they had sought the services of one of these doctors, when a baby was suffering from the ague, or a pregnant wife was feeling poorly.

  Bradshaw and Giles climbed the creaking, winding stairs to the second floor and entered the first room off the narrow hallway. The man seated at a scarred oak table was about sixty years old, with an enormous white beard and eyes that were a piercing china blue. He was dressed as though to attend Sunday meeting—black frock coat, white shirt, waistcoat of a rather elegant gray, and a broad-brimmed felt hat. One hand held the bowl of a long-stemmed pipe, the other a glass of rum. There was on the table a decanter of rum and two tumblers. He did not offer his hand, but proceeded to pour rum into both glasses.

  As they sat down across from him, Bradshaw glanced at Giles, his expression confirming that he too did not recognize the man.

  “Gentlemen,” the man said as he placed a glass in front of each of them, his voice soft yet direct. “My name is Uriah Clapp and I have been asked to represent a certain party which, for reasons of privacy and decorum, wishes to remain anonymous.”

  “You’re not from Newburyport, Mr. Clapp,” Bradshaw said.

  “No, Doctor, at the behest of my clients I traveled up from Boston.”

  Giles said, “And little trouble getting through the guards stationed out on the turnpike.”

  “They wanted to turn me away,” Mr. Clapp said, smiling around the stem of his pipe, “but I managed to persuade them with the import of my mission.”

  Giles began to pick up his tumbler, but then reconsidered. Clapp watched his hand as he put the glass back on the table and pushed it toward the decanter. “You represent thieves,” Giles said. Next to him Bradshaw shifted, causing his chair joints to creak. “And local thieves, at that,” Giles insisted. “Men who don’t have the nerve to meet us face to face. Men who will let their own neighbors suffer and die until they make their profit.”

  “Giles,” Bradshaw said. “We’ve come to hear this man’s proposal.”

  “No,” Giles said. “They bring in this, this Boston man and they expect us to sit and drink with him in a civil fashion as though we were discussing the going price of fluke and flounder. I say we should take Mr. Clapp straight to the high sheriff’s office. Or perhaps it might be more appropriate to simply drag him downstairs and introduce him to the men drinking in the bar—Newburyporters whose families are frightened, whose friends, relatives, and neighbors have already been carted off to the pest-house, whose businesses and farms have suffered greatly from the ravages of this epidemic. I say we tell them why this Mr. Uriah Clapp has traveled all the way up the turnpike from Boston and see what they want to do with him.” Giles leaned forward and gazed directly into the man’s eyes, which showed no sign of retreat. “You know, there was a time when I saw a man tarred and feathered, right out there in State Street. He was marched down to the river, placed in a skiff, and set adrift on the outgoing tide—without any oars. He was a Tory and his crime was remaining loyal to King George. Your crime, I suggest, sir, and that of your ‘clients,’ would be perceived to be a worse form of treason.” In disgust, Giles got up from his chair and went to the window, where he could look out at State Street. It was, ironically, a gorgeous evening, and the last light of day was spreading deep pink and lavender hues in the eastern sky.

  “Dr. Bradshaw,” Mr. Clapp said, his voice calm and perhaps even slightly amused, “your young associate’s eloquence is equal to his passion, but you and I both understand our purpose here. I make no judgment upon the causes or circumstances that have brought us together, and, indeed, you and your kind townfolk have my deepest sympathies. I am merely a representative, whose intention is to facilitate an arrangement that will help you resolve your difficulties with this terrible scourge.”

  Dr. Bradshaw cleared his throat. “I share Dr. Wiggins’s passion, believe me, though not such eloquence. So I’ll put it to you simply. We need to know what you have to offer, and what you’re asking as compensation. And how quickly we can complete this transaction.”

  Giles regretted that Bradshaw had raised the issue of time—a sense of urgency did not strengthen their suit.

  Mr. Clapp reached inside his frock coat and withdrew a sheet of paper, which he unfolded and placed on the table. Eli Bradshaw opened his reading spectacles and fitted them on his nose. Giles was curious to see what was written on the paper, but remained at the window.

  “You can provide all this, in these quantities?” Bradshaw asked. “Including quinine?”

  “Yes,” Clapp said.

  “How much?” Giles asked.

  Clapp ignored him. He reached across the table and tapped the bottom of the sheet of paper. His fingernails were so long they curled down over the ends of his fingers like talons.

  Bradshaw exhaled slowly. “This is a … a very substantial figure.”

  “You’ll agree, Doctor,” Clapp said, “that under the circumstances it is fair?”

  Dr. Bradshaw removed his reading spectacles and took his time tucking them away in the outside pocket of his coat. “It may take some time to raise this much. Perhaps we could purchase a portion of your supply tonight, and—”

  “Doctor,” Mr. Clapp said as he picked up his glass of rum. “This fever is threatening ports up and down the Atlantic seaboard. As you well know, it’s been doing so with increased frequency in recent years. There is speculation that such epidemics will only become more common, more fearsome in the future. Why, no one knows. I assure you that these supplies will be used to ease the suffering of those most in need. It’s simply a question of where.”

  Giles came back to the table now. “You’re saying we haven’t much time.”

  “I’m saying that these supplies will be delivered to the party that demonstrates its sincerity in the most expeditious manner.” Clapp drank down his rum, placed the glass on the table, and got to his feet. “I have been instructed to tell you that an answer is required by tomorrow night. Therefore, I’ll return here, at nine o’clock, and if you are so disposed will be glad to complete this transaction.”

  “And we can get these supplies right then?” Bradshaw asked.

  “Arrangements will be made to ensure everyone’s satisfaction.” As Mr. Clapp moved toward the door, he used a cane and favored
one leg.

  Now Dr. Bradshaw stood up, his long face flushed with anger, the legs of his chair scraping loudly on the wide pine floorboards. “And what about the people who suffer, Mr. Clapp, the people who will die between now and then?”

  The elderly man paused in the doorway but did not look back at either of them. “They will, of course, be in my prayers.” As he stepped out into the hallway, he said, “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  The first day at the Sumner house, Leander was shown both ends of the business. He spent the morning shoveling manure, cleaning it out of the horse stalls, and carting it to a pit at the back of the garden, where it was mixed with the kitchen garbage for fertilizer. In the afternoon he rode in a wagon with the other stable boys out to the marshes to gather salt hay. By evening, he was sunburned and his muscles ached. But he was able to wash at the cistern behind the stable and don a clean shirt and pair of britches that had been issued by the stablemaster, Mr. Penrose. Leander was also assigned a cot on the third floor of the service quarters, which was stifling hot beneath the roof eaves.

  Downstairs in the common room he sat at the long table while maids ladled out a thick stew of chicken, potatoes, carrots, onions, and parsnips. Over two dozen men and boys ate hastily—gardeners and stable grooms, and several uniformed men who were treated with deference and referred to as sentries. No one acknowledged Leander as they ate, concentrating on their bowls, which they wiped clean with torn chunks of black bread. The maids moved around the table, refilling bowls, and Leander tried not to give away the fact that he couldn’t take his eyes off the girl they all called Cedella. He wasn’t the only one.