by John Smolens
She crossed the room, opened her bedroom door, and said, “Fields.”
“Madame?” His voice resonated up the stairwell from the front vestibule—when unoccupied, Fields often sat in the window-seat there, where he could doze like a housecat. She listened to him climb the stairs and when he reached the first landing, he looked up at her. “May I be of service, Ma’am?”
Miranda hesitated, touching her fingers to her lips.
After a moment Fields’s gaze became concerned. “Madame?”
“That new boy, what’s his name?”
“Hatch, Ma’am, Leander Hatch.”
“Bring him to me.”
“Is there a problem, Ma’am?”
“I want him sent to me. Now.”
She put her hand on the door latch but paused when she saw the look on Fields’s face; he was clearly perturbed by the impropriety of her request.
“Up here, Ma’am? To your bedroom?”
“That’s what I said. And tea, have Cedella bring my tea.”
The rain stopped as quickly as it had started, and as Giles walked to the Mall the late afternoon sun broke through the clouds. The air was cleansed and everything—the grass, the fine gates in front of the High Street mansions, the mane of a passing dray horse—seemed to be strung with diamonds, shimmering in the angled light. He had not made love to a woman in a long time. He was filled with a lightness that seemed entirely unjustified. For some reason he wanted to go swimming, and when he came in sight of the Frog Pond he was tempted to peel off his soggy clothes and wade in, despite the fact that the water wasn’t even four feet deep.
On the far side of the pond there was almost a carnival atmosphere. Each day since the pest-house had been established, more and more Market Square vendors had moved to the Mall to set up their tents and stalls to peddle their wares. There were the smells of sweet taffy, boiled fish, shucked clams and oysters. A juggler moved through the crowd, brandishing gold balls in the air, and a group of children laughed as they watched a puppet show. Giles purchased a loaf of black bread and continued on to the pest-house gate. The Reverend Cary wasn’t present, but his faithful stood before his makeshift pulpit, clutching Bibles to their breasts and singing a hymn. They watched with accusing eyes as the guard opened the fence gate and admitted Giles to the pest-house.
He found Bradshaw at his desk. A fresh bottle of rum stood next to his ledger, and he stared up at Giles with defeated, hopeless eyes. “Where did you go?”
“I couldn’t listen to them anymore.” Giles tore off a chunk of bread and placed it on the desk; Bradshaw stared at this contribution as though it might suddenly crawl. “Any one of those men could finance this entire transaction singlehandedly, and yet they couldn’t raise five thousand pounds between the lot of them?”
Bradshaw filled a second glass with rum and pushed it toward Giles. “I know,” he said wearily. “Actually, your barging out of there had the desired effect—several of those ‘gentlemen’ offered to raise their ante.”
“How much have we got?”
Bradshaw cleared his throat. “Four thousand six hundred. And we have to meet our man from Boston in less than three hours.” He picked up the chunk of bread, took a bite, and with his mouth full said, “I have perhaps two hundred pounds I can add, but that still leaves us shy.” He glanced up at Giles.
“The rest? I haven’t got that kind of money—remember, I’m only a surgeon. I might be able to put together perhaps eighty.”
“So we’re close, say a hundred and twenty pounds short.” Bradshaw tucked the last of the bread in his mouth and washed it down with rum. “In the meantime,” he said, getting to his feet, “I have a number of bleedings scheduled.” He went to the front of the tent and opened the flap, but looked back at Giles. “We lost six more this afternoon,” he said. “One of them, that man named Cushing, the baker? He came into the tent, wearing his own clothes, appearing quite robust. Shakes my hand and thanks me for curing him and says he’ll be on his way home now, there’s bread to be prepared for his oven. Walks outside the tent, and I swear he doesn’t take two steps and I hear him fall to the ground. By the time I got to him he was dead.” A bug landed on his cheek, which he swiped at with his hand. “I’ve told them up the hill that they need to enlarge the pit again.” He turned to raise the tent flap.
“Listen, Eli,” Giles said, and he waited until Bradshaw turned to look at him. “I read what you wrote about me in this ledger last night.”
Bradshaw’s pursed his mouth as he stared at Giles. “I recognize that my observations and scientific opinion may seem harsh.”
“It’s an opinion,” Giles said. “Nothing scientific about it. Last night I left here with no intention of returning. But a friend convinced me that this—these people—are more important than how I feel about anything you wrote in your damned ledger.”
“Well then,” Bradshaw said, “you can make your own damned contributions.”
“We haven’t time—that’s my point. There isn’t time for me to sit here and record my thoughts about your ideas regarding Dr. Benjamin Rush and the bleeding of patients.”
Bradshaw stared toward the ledger, as though it had betrayed him. Slowly, the tension went out of his mouth and he let out a tired sigh. “Well, you came back, that’s the important thing. We’re fighting a war, of sorts, and we’re not winning.”
“No, we’re not,” Giles said quietly. “We’re not winning at all.” He drained the last of his the rum and put the glass on the table. “Now I’ll have to go down to my rooms and see exactly how much money I have tucked away. I would like to get my hands on whoever is behind this, but it’s the kind of thing where you never have any proof.”
“I know. We just need to buy the supplies back and—” Bradshaw began to step outside the tent, but then hesitated. “If you did find them, what would you do?”
“At that moment, I think I would like to finally try my hand at bleeding.”
Bradshaw’s smile was faint, and brief. “We’ll meet at Wolfe Tavern a little before nine.”
Leander followed Fields up the carpeted front stairs. They were met in the hall by Cedella, who must have come by the back stairs from the kitchen. She was still in her damp uniform, though she’d wrapped her hair in a white turban. She held a tea tray and would not look at Leander.
Fields knocked on the door. “Madame?”
“Come.”
Fields opened the door for them. Leander followed Cedella inside, and he heard the latch click behind him. Mrs. Sumner sat in a rocking chair, needlepoint in her lap. She did not look up at either of them. After a moment, she said, “Well, child, fix my tea before it turns cold.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Cedella set the tray on the small table next to the rocking chair and poured a cup of tea. Leander watched her hands, which were raw at the knuckles.
“Three lumps today.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
When Cedella was finished with her preparations, she stepped back. Mrs. Sumner laid the needlepoint in her lap and picked up her tea. She stirred her sugar for what seemed an eternity and finally laid the teaspoon in the saucer with a delicate clatter. She did not sip her tea, but only stared down into it. “My window there, overlooking the courtyard—sometimes I think I can see everything that goes on from that window. I saw you break those eggs. It’s because you were running. Has no one taught you not to run with a basket full of eggs?”
“Begging your pardon, Ma’am,” Cedella said. “It was the rain.”
“No excuses.” Mrs. Sumner looked up from her tea. “What went on in that stable?”
“Ma’am?” Cedella said.
“During the rain.” Mrs. Sumner put her tea on the tray, so that the cup rocked precariously in its saucer. “I saw you leave the house with the empty basket. You walked down past the vegetable garden and entered the henhouse. When you came out, it was raining and you went into the back of the stable, and you remained there for … for some minutes. What were
you doing?”
“The rain was so hard. I was waiting for it to stop,” Cedella said. “But it wouldn’t let up and I had duties in the kitchen, so I ran across the courtyard and.…”
Mrs. Sumner turned to Leander. She looked him over from head to toe. “You were in the stable at the time. I saw you—you know I saw you.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Leander said. “I was working in the hayloft.”
“The two of you, in the stable.” Slowly, Mrs. Sumner pushed herself up out of her chair and went to the window overlooking the courtyard. “Alone.”
Leander glanced at Cedella and saw that she had begun to shiver, perhaps because she was still wearing wet clothes, though he suspected it was out of fear. “Ma’am,” he said. “She was below, and I was up in the hayloft, as you saw.”
Mrs. Sumner stared down into the courtyard. “You are the new boy, and you may not yet have been fully apprised of certain rules we maintain in this household. Fraternization is not allowed, rain or no rain. Is that clear?”
“Ma’am,” Leander said. “I assure you—”
Mrs. Sumner turned from the window. “I’m not interested in assurances. I expect absolute propriety from my staff. My son may set one example, but I—” She came across the room and stood in front of Cedella. She looked as though she was preparing to slap the girl. “Am I understood?”
Leander felt himself lean forward ever so slightly.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Cedella said, gazing at the floor, her eyes welling with tears.
Mrs. Sumner stared at Leander for a long moment. “Take this tea away,” she said to Cedella. “And next time make sure the pot is warmed properly.”
Cedella curtsied, gathered up the tray, and went to the door. The whole time, Mrs. Sumner did not take her eyes off Leander. Cedella was having difficulty balancing the tray—its china articles rattling—as she opened the door latch. There was, rising in Mrs. Sumner’s stare, something that Leander didn’t fully understand. It was almost as if she were sharing a joke with him. Finally, when Cedella managed to open the latch, step out into the hall, and pull the door shut, Mrs. Sumner turned her back on Leander. They listened to Cedella’s footsteps retreat down the hall toward the back stairs.
“Come here,” Mrs. Sumner said. He took a couple of steps toward her. “Come here, in front of me,” she said.
He walked around and stood so that he was facing her and placed his hands behind his back.
Mrs. Sumner took a step closer, and then leaned toward him until her face was within inches of his chest. She inhaled deeply, and then circled around him, continuing to sniff. When she stood in front of him again, she said, “Hold out your hands.” He did as he was told. “Have they been washed?”
“No, Ma’am. I came straight away when I was summoned.”
“I have a keen sense of smell,” she said with pride, “and I long ago realized that it served me well in this house. You might say I have a nose for the truth.” She leaned forward slightly and inhaled. “Well,” she said, appearing relieved, “you weren’t over there fornicating, unless you’ve been having at the animals.” She turned away from him, sitting again in the rocking chair. “Now, tell me, Leander Hatch, were you and the maid alone in the stable?”
“Ma’am?”
“Do you not understand the question?”
“Yes, but I—”
“Then answer the question: were the two of you alone in the stable?”
Leander stood up straighter and stared at the wallpaper above Mrs. Sumner. “I don’t know, Ma’am. I was in the loft and I could not tell if anyone else was down below.”
“You saw no one else. You heard no one?”
“The rain, Ma’am.” Leander continued to stare at the wallpaper, which had images of nymphs playing lyres in a garden filled with Roman ruins—toppled columns and collapsed arches which suggested a graceful decadence. “I mostly heard the rain,” he said. “It is very loud on the roof slates.”
Mrs. Sumner didn’t say anything for a long time, and finally he lowered his eyes and saw that she had resumed working on her needlepoint. When she looked up, she seemed surprised to see him standing before her. “That is all,” she said.
Leander went to the door and let himself out into the hall. Evening had come on and there was the smell of lamp oil from the vestibule. He went to the back stairs, which were dark and narrow, winding down to the kitchen. Cedella was sitting on the landing, the tray balanced on her knees, staring out the small window at the courtyard. Tears streamed down her face.
He sat next to her and picked up the tea cup. “You might as well drink this,” he said, pushing the cup towards her. She looked at him. “As long as you don’t mind three lumps.”
She tried to smile as she took the cup from his hand. “It’s cold now,” she whispered as she placed the cup back in its saucer.
“Well, you didn’t warm the pot properly.”
Though she was still weeping, she did smile briefly, holding her hand over her mouth and looking up the stairs. “When she dismissed Lucy Styles, she made sure no other house in Newburyport would take her in.”
“Why was Lucy dismissed?”
“Something about the laundry not being just right, but it was really because of one of the gardeners. When we heard she’d gone to Boston, he disappeared. He went down there and found her working in a brothel. When he tried to take her away from there, he was killed—found in the Charles River with his throat cut.” She turned her head away and looked out the window again.
Leander gazed at the side of her face, her eyelashes, her mouth, the down on her cheeks. She had removed her turban and strands of her black hair floated in the light from the window. She coughed and he saw that there was still the faintest shiver in her back.
“You should get out of those wet things,” he said. “There’s enough fever in Newburyport already.”
“Yes, there’s that, too,” she said. “It’s safer here in a house on High Street, that’s what everyone says. I hear talk,” she said, glancing down the stairs toward the kitchen, “that Doctor Wiggins brought you here after your family died.” She turned to him. “That is true?”
He nodded.
“We had the fever epidemic in Jamaica. Many of my family, gone. After my mother died, my father brought me north. I have lived in this house since I was very small.”
“What happened to your father?”
“During the war Mr. Sumner’s ships went to sea, privateering. They bring back many British ships. Cargo, arms, money—it makes Mr. Sumner very rich. One time my father don’t return from sea. You lose your family, but they stay with you, inside. Forever.”
“I know.”
She got to her feet, holding the tray against her waist. He stood up as well. It was very close, standing there on the landing in the dim light.
“Can I carry that down for you?” he asked.
“Shh.”
A moment later there was the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from the kitchen. Cedella quickly went down the stairs, though just before she turned the corner and passed out of sight she looked back up at him.
In his rooms, Giles found thirty-one pounds in his desk and another fifteen that he had tucked away in a medical reference. He changed his clothes—his skin was raw from frequent scrubbings with vinegar—and he donned his best cotton shirt and his other frock coat. It was almost nine o’clock when he walked through Market Square, which was unusually quiet for a summer evening. Increasingly, Newburyporters had confined themselves to their homes, yet those who did venture out were now mostly drawn to the Mall out of a macabre curiosity.
He walked up State Street, which was now in cool evening shadow. Once, as a cart passed by, he paused and looked back down toward the square. There were few people coming and going from the shops. The spars and masts of ships loomed above the buildings in Market Square, and seagulls wheeled in the waning sunlight.
Giles continued up State Street. He nodded to Roger Davenport as he entered th
e front door of Wolfe Tavern. Bradshaw was at the bar, nursing a glass of rum. “Forty-six,” Giles said quietly. “It’s all I could find.” He took out the bills and placed them on the bar.
“We’ve got it,” Bradshaw whispered, looking up and down the bar. He folded up the wad and tucked it into Giles’s coat pocket. “I happened into Merriweather Awls outside the customs house. He’s lost an aunt and has two sick cousins, who have just been delivered to the pest-house.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Bradshaw squeezed his arm tightly. “My exact sentiments, and when I explained our dilemma, the man took me to his office and emptied his coffers. We have it, Giles, we have five thousand now.”
Giles ordered a tankard of ale. They drank in silence, while the men about them discussed the weather, the tides, and how the price of fish had increased considerably since the seaport had been placed under quarantine.
One of the waitresses came to where they stood at the bar. “Dr. Bradshaw?”
“Yes?”
“If you two gentlemen will follow me, please.”
She led them out the back door. Chimney swifts weaved overhead in the fading light. Directly behind the tavern was a stable, and the waitress gestured toward two young men—sailors, by their tarred pants—who sat on the back of a wagon which was loaded with crates. Uriah Clapp stood next to the wagon, leaning on his cane. The waitress hurried back inside the tavern.
“Gentlemen,” Clapp said. “I trust you have met with success.”
“We’ve got what you want,” Bradshaw said, removing the folded packet from his coat pocket. “Now we would like to have the supplies delivered to the pest-house.”
Clapp smiled. “I’m sure you’ll understand if I decline, Doctor. We must complete our business here now.” He held out his hand; after a moment’s hesitation, Bradshaw gave him the packet. Immediately, the two sailors began unloading the wagon, about twenty wood crates and eight casks. Clapp seemed oblivious to their activity as he thumbed through the contents of packet, until he finally looked up and said, “Yes, very good then.”