Quarantine

by John Smolens

  “Know? I don’t know anything. About fevers. About things like quinine water. About my father’s satchel.”

  Mr. Penrose leaned forward in his chair. “Satchel?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be in the fire?”

  Benjamin glanced at his father, and then said, “What about the fire?”

  But Leander shook his head.

  “Give ’im the bottle, Ben. He knows a thing and we kin wash it outta ’im.”

  “All I know is,” Benjamin said, as he handed the bottle to Leander, “this one ain’t much of a talker.”

  Leander raised the bottle to his mouth—it was nearly empty and he finished it. “It’s not a matter of knowing something—it’s knowing what to do with it.” As he put the bottle on the desk, he said, “Done.”

  Mr. Penrose turned to his son and for a moment they both appeared stumped, baffled, but then the old man pulled open a drawer and removed another bottle, and as he did so both he and Benjamin laughed. Finally, after much coughing and hacking, Mr. Penrose pulled the cork from the bottle and said, “Done, ye say? Ain’t never done.”

  Twenty-Three

  WHEN GILES ARRIVED IN THE LATE MORNING, MIRANDA HERSELF greeted him at the door. He appeared fatigued, for it was proving to be another hot, humid day.

  “I was summoned. Enoch is ill?”

  “He is,” she said. “He spent the night on the daybed in the library.”

  “What are his symptoms?”

  “Feverish sweats, vomits—I do hope it’s not this pestilence. I have ordered the staff to scrub everything daily.”

  “Let me see him.”

  Miranda took a step to block him from heading down the hall to the library. “He’s not in the library. I was up with him all night, until I myself was fairly overcome with exhaustion. I might have slept but an hour, perhaps two? And when I came downstairs, he was gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  She leaned close to him now, something she had always liked to do. It brought out such pliable complications in him. Instinctively, he was wary, perhaps even frightened, but he didn’t have the will to withdraw. “I’ll show you,” she whispered. But then she noticed it, and she leaned even closer, until her nose was within inches of his shirt. She inhaled deeply. Straightening up, she smiled. “Vinegar and perfume, Doctor?”

  Leander had a raging headache. He could tell that Benjamin had one, too. After breakfast, when the morning’s duties were being announced at breakfast, Mr. Penrose did the honors himself—something that he usually relegated to his son. And Penrose, for all the whiskey they had consumed, seemed in fine form. When he looked at Leander, his right eyelid drooped in an attempt at a wink, and he told him there was pruning to be done in the gardens.

  This was easy work. Ordinarily. With the shears you moved along the hedges, snipping branches that had grown beyond the square shape of the bushes. And there was plenty of it—the rows of shrubbery lined every path. Such a chore was, really, a gift from Mr. Penrose.

  But with the heat, not to mention his condition, Leander often needed to pause for a drink from his water pouch, which he kept slung over his shoulder. He was swilling cool water when suddenly he saw a small procession come down the steps from the courtyard and walk along the gravel path that bordered the east side of the garden. Mrs. Sumner led, a blue parasol shading her from the sun, and she was followed by Dr. Wiggins, who was in turn followed by the butler Fields. There was something both regal and comical about the way they filed through the gardens. Mrs. Sumner’s poise and Fields’s stiff, pompous manner seemed deflated by the doctor’s weary gait. His shoulders were pushed forward and the black leather bag in his hand seemed too heavy a burden. Leander wondered if the doctor, too, might be suffering from the effects of last night’s excess.

  They followed the path around the fish pond, its calm surface largely covered with lily pads, and stopped when they came to the mausoleum. This was a substantial granite structure that had been under construction for some time. It was intended to imitate some famous building in ancient Greece—or was it Rome? Leader wasn’t sure. Upon first arriving, he had been told—often with a smirk or a roll of the eyes—that Mr. Sumner intended this to be his final resting place. In the front of the mausoleum there was a heavy wooden door, which Fields opened. Leander couldn’t see inside, so he quickly continued down the row of bushes, snipping randomly as he went, until he spied a pair of legs—clothed in purple britches, white silk hose, and no shoes—stretched out on top of a granite slab inside the mausoleum. They could only be the knobby knees and spindly legs of Mr. Sumner. After exchanging a few brief words, Mrs. Sumner led Fields back toward the house, while Dr. Wiggins stepped inside the mausoleum.

  Leander continued to prune the bushes, moving slowly to his right, until he reached a spot where the acoustics of the stone mausoleum and the surface of the pond conspired in a way that allowed him to hear some of what the two men were saying. He sat down next to the row of bushes, thankful for the shade it offered, and took a sip from his water pouch.

  Mr. Sumner’s voice was extremely weak, but Leander heard him say, “What ails me has nothing to do with this fever that’s been plaguing Newburyport.”

  Dr. Wiggins murmured something, but as he had his back to the open doorway, Leander could not understand him. Leander could see through the branches, and he watched the doctor lean over his patient.

  “My bile?” Mr. Sumner said, irritated. “No, it is not black.”

  Dr. Wiggins spoke at length, until Mr. Sumner made an effort to get up. “It is not from the drink, nor does it have to do with any consorting I might have done. That, I assure you, keeps me in the pink.”

  Dr. Wiggins replied again, this time until Mr. Sumner got to his feet. Leander could see him now, and despite the fact that the light was dim inside the mausoleum, he was startled by the man’s face. His complexion had taken on a greenish hue. “It’s that woman, our mother, I tell you.” Though the doctor tried to restrain him, Mr. Sumner staggered out the mausoleum door, where he raised an arm to shield his eyes against bright sunlight. “I’m burning up, I say.” He stumbled across the gravel path and descended the small grassy knoll toward the pond. “My insides are burning up, and my skin—even my hair aches!” He discarded his yellow silk vest, and began tearing away his white blouse as he waded out into the pond. “She’s killing me! Don’t you understand? I know her—her and my son. I know what they’re about!”

  When he was bare-chested, Mr. Sumner fell forward with a great splash and sank quickly out of sight.

  Dr. Wiggins looked like a man who had just witnessed a miracle. He stood still, his mouth agape, as though he were trying to comprehend what he had just seen—and suddenly he rushed down the knoll, peeling off his coat. But at the water’s edge he paused, startled, as he stared across the pond.

  Without thinking, Leander was on his feet. It was like the moment when his father had selected him to run and fetch the doctor. It was a matter of confirmation, of duty. He leaped over the row of bushes and dove into the pond. The water was a relief from the heat, but his limbs were entangled in the lily pads. The silt bottom was soft under foot. He waded across the pond, until he saw Mr. Sumner beneath the murky water.

  Others approached now, their shouts and the sound of running feet coming from all directions. Leander crouched down in the water and took hold of Mr. Sumner—his skin was slippery, unpleasant to touch. He was dead weight in Leander’s arms, difficult to bring to the surface, but finally his head was above water and he began coughing.

  Dr. Wiggins waded out and took hold of Mr. Sumner’s feet, and together they carried him back to the grassy knoll.

  “You did a brave thing,” Giles said to Leander as he buttoned up the clean shirt. He said this for Fields’s sake, who had brought a dry change of clothes out to the mausoleum and now stood at attention in the path. “That will be all, Fields.” No doubt the butler would report directly to Mrs. Sumner.

  “You require nothing else, Doctor?”r />
  “No. When my clothes are washed and dried, have them sent over to the pest-house.”

  “So that will be all, sir?”

  Giles had been sitting on the slab in the mausoleum, trying to get his long narrow feet into the fine black shoes Fields had brought. He regarded Fields a moment; the butler peered back toward the house with the attention of a well-trained hunting dog. “Well, yes, actually, there is something else,” Giles said. “Tell the cook to make sure that Mr. Sumner gets plenty of tea. And soup. Clear broths would be best. Nothing too rich. Certainly no creams. Just broth, with a little chicken perhaps.” He noticed the faintest twitch in Fields’s jowl. “And tell my mother that I’ll be back to look in on my brother tomorrow morning.”

  “Very well, Doctor.” Fields’s tone was one of restrained disappointment, and with some relief he began to walk toward the house.

  “And Fields,” Giles said.

  The man’s footsteps paused in the gravel path, but he did not turn around. “Doctor?”

  “These clothes—whose are they?” Giles took hold of the excessive fabric of his shirt. “This is fine silk, and there’s quite a lot of it.”

  “Those are garments belonging to young Mr. Sumner, sir.”

  “Indeed. This would be his size.” Giles glanced at Leander, who was trying to keep from smiling. “And I’ll wager these were tailored in Paris—this is really very fine … very fine, indeed.” Giles raised his head and saw that Fields had ventured to look in his direction, though careful not to make eye contact. “So then, Fields. Please convey my appreciation to Master Samuel for the use of his garments.”

  “Of course, Doctor.” Fields marched on, his step slow but deliberate as he moved through the gardens toward the house.

  Giles turned to Leander, who had removed his wet shirt and had a towel draped over his shoulders. “And you should get into some dry clothes yourself.”

  “Yes, Doctor. I’ll just go up to my quarters and change. But to tell you the truth, I feel better having gotten soaked. I was feeling a bit under the weather before.”

  “Really?” Giles said. “How are they treating you here?”

  “Can’t complain, sir.”

  “Or you won’t,” Giles said. “Well, now that you’re Mr. Sumner’s ‘savior,’ you should be treated quite favorably around this house.”

  Leander turned his head and gazed down at the pond. “Not by everyone, Doctor.”

  Giles gave up trying to fit the shoes on and kicked them aside. He stood in his bare feet, stepped out into the sunlight, and walked tenderly across the gravel path. “I suppose you may suffer some jealousy.” When he reached the grass he said, “Yes, that’s better.”

  “Doctor,” Leander said. “I need to tell you something—something that’s been on my mind.” He hesitated and looked about the gardens, and whispered, “I think it may be important.”

  “What is it, Leander?”

  “It’s about the medicine.”

  “The medicine?”

  “It was stolen, am I right?”

  Giles decided to walk. He clasped his hands behind his back and began to move slowly alongside the path, the grass cool and slick beneath his feet. “Go on, Leander.”

  “I think I know where it’s hidden.”

  “And where is that?”

  “In a barn, out on Simon Moss’s farm in Newbury.”

  “How did you come to know this?”

  “I saw it—crates of quinine water, and other things.”

  Giles stopped walking and turned to Leander. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes … I am.”

  “But you hesitate.” Leander’s eyes grew troubled and he looked away. “What is it?”

  “There was …” He shook his head and appeared to be chastising himself. Then he came to some decision and stood up straighter. “There was someone there, watching over the medicine.” He looked at Giles now, and his gaze was clear and direct. “And there was my father’s satchel, which he often carried over his shoulder. It didn’t burn in the fire—it was in the barn, too. They must have killed him. They put him in the house and set it on fire.”

  “But why would they do that, Leander?”

  “Because he found out, he learned about them stealing the medicine. He was a hard man in many ways, but honest. My father was an honest man.”

  “I have always believed so,” Giles said. “You must miss all of them terribly.”

  Leander said nothing. They were all gone—his mother, his sister, his grandfather, his father—yet he could say nothing. It was too immense for words. If he spoke now, he feared he might lose what little he had left.

  Slowly, Giles placed his hand on Leander’s shoulder.

  There was a faint rap at the door, polite yet imploring, which Miranda recognized all too well. “What is it, Fields?”

  The latch was raised with a click and Fields swung the door open. “Excuse me, Ma’am, but it’s the doctor. He has a request.”

  “What now?”

  The afternoon had become increasingly sultry—it was too hot even for needlepoint. Miranda had pulled her rocker over to the open window overlooking the courtyard, where there was the slightest movement of air. A great commotion had disturbed the house when Enoch was brought in soaking wet from the pond. She had not left her room through it all, but gave instructions that her son was to be dressed in a dry sleeping gown and put to bed immediately.

  “Ma’am, Dr. Wiggins says he needs the use of a wagon.”

  “A wagon?”

  “Yes, and he would like the new boy to accompany him.”

  Miranda turned in her chair. Fields’s hand was still on the door latch and he faced the far corner of the room, where her chair was usually positioned. It was hard to tell with Fields, but he seemed perturbed. “Whatever for?” she asked.

  “He did not say, Ma’am. Only that it was urgent.”

  Miranda gazed out the window again. “And Samuel, where is he?”

  “He rode out in the chaise some time ago, Ma’am. If I’m not mistaken, I believe his intention was to take in the air on Water Street.”

  It was a euphemism, one of the many she and Fields employed. “My son has been a worthless reprobate for so long. If he must go whoring, he should at least do so in the dark of night, not in this heat. The last place he should be right now is in those warrens of sin—it’s where most of the cases of fever come from, you know.” She stared down at the courtyard long enough that Fields finally took it upon himself to issue a polite cough. “Oh, what’s the use,” she sighed. “Why would I deny the doctor this request, when he has administered to this household for so many years?”

  “And the new boy as well?”

  “Yes, yes. The doctor brought him here in the first place.”

  “He does seem to take a proprietary interest in the lad.”

  Miranda looked away from the window again. The butler’s eyes were upon her, but he politely lowered his gaze. It was enough. “Does he?”

  “Indeed, Ma’am.”

  “Interesting. Well, fine. Give them their wagon.”

  “Very well, Ma’am.” The hinges creaked as the door was pulled shut.

  “Fields.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Do you suppose the doctor—does he himself take the fresh air on Water Street?”

  Now Fields took his time in answering. Miranda stared down into the courtyard, waiting for his reply. Waiting made her impatient, but she fought the temptation to ask the question again.

  “I don’t know, Ma’am,” Fields said finally.

  “I believe he does. When he arrived he smelled distinctly of perfume.”

  Fields was silent, the door still ajar.

  “That will be all,” she said.

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Twenty-Four

  “YOU HANDLE A TEAM WELL,” GILES SAID TO LEANDER.

  “Thank you, Doctor. My father often had the use of a city wagon for business down at the harbor. He taught me
about horses.”

  “So it goes well with you, working in my brother’s stable?”

  “Well enough, sir.” They were riding the wagon along the Newbury ridge, where they could see all the way down to the marshes behind Plum Island. Beyond the dunes, the Atlantic was the color of pewter, and enormous thunderheads were piled above the horizon, with sheets of rain angling down to the water. There were frequent bolts of lightning, followed moments later by a deep rumbling, which tended to spook the horses.

  “That will be a spectacular storm when it reaches us,” Giles said. “Did you know Benjamin Franklin once visited Newbury because of the lightning?” Leander shook his head but did not take his eyes off the hindquarters of the team. The right horse, a smaller bay, wanted to slow down, but Leander anticipated this with a frequent slap of the reins. “Yes; it was back in the fifties,” Giles said. “This was before Newburyport was incorporated, you know, before the break with England, the war, everything. Dr. Franklin was not yet the famous statesman, just a young man with a keen interest in science. During a fierce storm, a lightning bolt had struck the meeting-house steeple, which was quite destroyed. Pieces of the steeple roof were all over the ground, and there was some damage to the stone foundation as well. But what interested Dr. Franklin, evidentially, was the fact that there had been a wire that ran from the bell in the steeple down through the entire structure. After the lightning bolt struck the meeting-house, this wire was completely disintegrated—gone. The only evidence of its existence was a black line, like soot, which ran along the plaster ceiling and walls where the wire had been, and I understand Dr. Franklin found this very curious.” Giles glanced at Leander, who seemed to be concentrating very hard upon the team. “You see, only the steeple roof and the foundation where the wire terminated were affected by the lightning. But the wood, the plaster, everything in between was intact. What do you suppose Dr. Franklin’s conclusion was?”

  “The wire was gone? Like it burned up?”

  “Verily.”