My Dearest Enemy
Page 20
The woman spoke and pointed to Abigail.
“What is your name?” the translator asked.
“Abigail Tidwell.”
“You are the soldier’s wife?”
“No,” Abigail said.
The woman scowled at Emmett.
He didn’t like the implication in her expression. “I hope she will be soon,” he said. He glanced at Abigail and smiled.
She returned the smile, looking shy in front of the crowd.
His words were translated, and Emmett’s reassurance seemed to please the councilwoman, or at least make her less angry.
“Why do you wish to cross the lake?”
“We want to go home. We are in danger here.” His heart pounded as he said it, but he thought the truth was the wisest course. The council, and especially the woman at its head, didn’t appear as if they would tolerate lies or half-truths.
“In danger?”
“From the British—the red soldiers.”
When the translator finished speaking, the woman sat quietly. Whispers sounded from the crowd around them, but the council didn’t discuss. They sat in silence, waiting, and Emmett realized they were waiting for the woman to give her verdict.
She sat still as a statue, except for the beads on her forehead blowing in the cool evening breeze. Her expression betrayed nothing.
Barney and Luke fidgeted, Jasper stood stoically, Murphy coughed, and still the head of the council watched them, her deep-brown eyes piercing each of them in turn.
“We have a gift,” Abigail said after the silence had stretched past the point of discomfort. She stepped forward and handed the woman the pouch of rocks. “Some are valuable, but most are just pretty.” She spoke as if apologizing, a sad quality to her voice as she turned over her treasures.
The woman poured out the rocks, studying each in turn then dropping them back into the pouch. She took her time, methodically examining the various specimens. The rest of the council watched her movements, as did the gathered crowd.
Emmett observed Abigail instead, seeing her eyes follow the rocks as if she were hoping the woman could see the same value she saw in them. He took her hand and squeezed her fingers.
Once she’d returned the rocks to the pouch, the woman stood. She swept her arm in a wide arc in front of her, saying something in a loud voice.
The crowd broke apart, the warriors moved away, and women came forward, leading them toward a long house. Emmett held on tightly to Abigail’s hand through the bustle. Murphy, Luke, and Barney glanced around with panicked eyes as they were pulled forward. Jasper walked calmly.
Once they entered the building, the women showed with gestures that they were meant to sit on the thick skins scattered over the floor. Children brought wooden plates of cornbread and bowls of venison stew.
Emmett’s men accepted the food warily but, at his nod, tucked in. It was the most delicious food they’d eaten in weeks. Warm vegetables, fresh meat.
“Yawe’-kó,” Abigail said, accepting a bowl of stew. She smiled at the young girl who’d brought it.
“Yawe’-kó?” Emmett asked.
“Thank you,” Abigail replied.
“Abigail, you never fail to surprise me.”
“I know two words in the Oneida language, Emmett. It isn’t as much of an accomplishment as one might think.”
“Do you remember what I said as I was leaving to warn the army at Frenchtown?”
“I remember you compared me to a hydrated amorphous form of silica with an internal structure that refracts light.” She smirked.
Emmett laughed aloud, drawing strange looks from the Indian people as well as his own men. “Exactly,” he said and winked. The relief of their success with the Indians made him jovial. “Today, your quick thinking saved us.” He bit into a warm piece of cornbread.
She blushed and looked down, moving the spoon around inside her bowl. “Women like beautiful gifts. I did nothing extraordinary.”
He wouldn’t allow her to be modest. “It was your most valued possession and sentimentally precious as well. And you gave it away to save your friends.” He bumped his finger beneath her chin, tipping her face upward. “Abigail, that is not nothing extraordinary.”
“They are just rocks.” She shrugged, though he could see she was pleased. “I’ll find more. But I should have asked before I gave away yours.”
“They weren’t mine. They were ours. As it should be. I promise, when we reach America, we will find a church and get married right away. The next time an Indian council asks, I want to be able to say that yes, you are my wife.”
Abigail smiled at his joke, but the expression didn’t light up her face as it usually did. She turned to say something to Luke and waved at the young girl who brought their food.
Emmett couldn’t understand what had changed. This was the second time she’d become distant when he’d mentioned marriage. Was she feeling sad that her father and Isaac wouldn’t attend her wedding? Uncertain about what her life would be like in Virginia? She loved him, didn’t she? Doubts flooded his thoughts. Was Abigail unsure about him?
Chapter 23
They came upon the road rather abruptly. Abigail was surprised. One minute they’d been following a forest path that only Jasper could see, and the next, they were standing on a muddy thoroughfare rutted by the passage of wagons. She let out a heavy breath, her heart hurting. She’d hoped for more time.
The six turned, facing one another. The time for farewell had come. Barney and Luke would accompany Murphy west to Pittsburgh and then continue onward to their farm near Cincinnati, while Emmett, Jasper, and Abigail turned east to meet the stagecoach in Williamsport.
Tears welled in her eyes, and she pulled Luke into an embrace. “Please write to me. I want to hear everything about your schooling.”
He patted her back. “I promise, Abigail.”
“And don’t exert your arm. You should still treat it gently.”
He grinned, and Barney grabbed her, nearly crushing her ribs as he enfolded her in his arms. “Thank you for rescuing the captain and for saving my brother,” he said. “And for the socks.”
She wiped tears from her cheeks. “Winifred Morgan is a lucky woman, Barney. Please give her my best.”
Murphy was, as usual, more reserved. He took Abigail’s hand and bent to kiss her fingers. “I enjoyed traveling with you, miss.”
She clutched his hand between both of hers. “Farewell, Murphy.” She tried to smile. “Take care of your lungs. Rest when you can, especially when you’re out of breath. And try to avoid smoke.”
He nodded. “I’ll do that.”
The men shook hands, bidding one another farewell, and then Abigail watched her three friends walk away. Barney turned at a bend in the road and waved, a grin on his round face. Then they were gone.
Emmett put an arm around her shoulder.
She sniffed, her lips pulling downward, and she tried to keep from breaking down into sobs as she lost another piece of her life. For the past weeks, she felt like she was hanging over a chasm, and the ropes holding her up—her family, her home, her friends—broke away one by one. She was falling, with nothing to cling to and no way to make it stop.
They turned east, and she walked between the men with her head down. Emmett squeezed his arm around her shoulder, pulling her toward him. Of course, she had Emmett. Reassuring, steady Emmett. She loved him, and he wished to marry her, but even that brought no peace. Because soon, even Emmett would be gone.
Why am I always left behind?
She’d remained home while her father attended medical lectures at universities in America and Britain. She’d lived alone for months when Isaac and her father were needed to support the war effort. And now, she was heading toward a future of staying behind, living in an unknown place with strangers while Emmett returned to the war.
She’d acquiesced before because she’d no other options, but now things felt different. She’d tended wounded men in a hospital tent on a bat
tlefield and performed minor surgery in a forest. She’d diagnosed and treated a man who was poisoned and delivered a baby for a naval captain’s wife. For the past months, Abigail had felt valued, needed, and after this, how could she go back to staying behind while others did what she should be doing?
She imagined garden parties and gown shopping to be amusing, enjoyable even, but with men being wounded in battle and diseases ravaging camps, sipping tea and engaging in small talk felt frivolous.
“Feeling better now?” Emmett asked, taking back his handkerchief.
She didn’t remember him giving it to her. And suddenly, she felt terrible. Emmett adored her, cared for her, wanted nothing more than to keep her safe, and all she could think of is how unimportant she’d feel. Her thoughts were selfish. Emmett loved her, and she loved him in return. That was what mattered, wasn’t it?
Then why did it feel like it wasn’t enough?
“Yes. I’m feeling better. Thank you.” The words felt hollow.
“We still have Jasper for a few more days. Then, within a fortnight, we’ll be at Rosefield Park. And all of this cold and mud and marching will be behind us.”
“Behind me.”
“Pardon?” He tipped his head to the side.
“All of this will be behind me,” she said. “You intend to leave me at your family’s plantation in Virginia and return to lead troops to battle.”
“Well, yes, of course. I must.” His voice was tentative, as if unsure of what answer she expected. “You’ll be safe at Rosefield. And I’ll return as soon as I can. Surely you don’t expect me to take you along?”
She shrugged and continued walking.
Jasper remained behind at a polite distance, maybe sensing they were having a personal discussion.
Emmett pulled on her arm, stopping her. “Abigail, what is it?”
His blue eyes were wide, brows pulled together. He looked so worried, and her guilty feeling swelled, making her feel ill.
“I’m sorry, Emmett. Nothing is the matter. I’m just sad to see our friends leave.”
His concerned expression softened, melting into sympathy. He held her close against him, and she nestled into his embrace, seeking reassurance from his closeness.
That is enough, Abigail, she thought. Her selfish thoughts were going to hurt the man she loved. She put them behind her and determined to look ahead to her future with an optimistic attitude.
“Come. We should reach Williamsport before nightfall,” he said.
She took his offered hand and squeezed. “I love you, Emmett.”
He grinned and lifted her fingers to his lips. “No words could ever make me happier.”
They continued east along the winding road, weaving through forestland and the occasional farm.
In the past week as they’d journeyed southward, spring had come to Pennsylvania. The majority of the snow had melted, leaving the ground muddy but making walking easier. Trees were budding with leaves or blossoms that were ready to burst open. White flowers of the chickweed and the bright-yellow buttercup grew in clumps. She studied the plants they passed, keeping a watchful eye for healing herbs.
Abigail was glad for the change of season. Winters in Ontario were always long, but this one had seemed especially extended, as she’d spent most of it outside. The spring sunshine could not help but lift her spirits. Birds sang and carried twigs and clumps of dried grass off to build spring nests. Squirrels and chipmunks chattered and scurried about, appearing cheerful and busy as they celebrated the arrival of warmer weather.
Coming around a bend in the road, Abigail and Emmett encountered a child. The boy was young—in Abigail’s estimation, no older than six.
“Hello.” She waved.
They drew nearer, and she saw he’d been crying. He rubbed his eye with a fist. “Please. My ma needs help.”
“Of course we’ll help,” Abigail said. “Where is your mother?”
At that moment, Jasper rounded the bend. When the boy saw him, he cried out and ran.
“No, wait.” Abigail hurried after him. “Don’t be afraid.” She caught up to him and took his arm gently to stop him. She crouched down to his level. “We won’t hurt you.”
“He has a bear head.” The boy looked behind her, eyes wide with fright.
“It’s only a hat,” she said.
He squinted, studying Jasper skeptically. “Where did he get that hat?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Abigail said. “It’s a very thrilling story. But first, tell me, where is your mother? You said she needs help.”
“In her bed. She can’t get up.”
Abigail winced. Was the mother injured? Ill? Did the boy have anyone else to care for him? She looked past him and up the hill to the farmhouse then held out her hand. “Take me to her.”
The boy held her hand, and they started up the hill.
Emmett and Jasper followed.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“George Holmes,” he said.
She smiled, thinking a good portion of Americans she’d met had been named after the country’s first president. This child, as well as the other Georges, had quite a legacy to live up to. “My name is Abigail.”
When she stepped into the farmhouse, the smell of sickness filled her nose. George led her through the main room to a smaller chamber at the side of the house. The smell grew worse, and she stopped in the doorway.
A woman lay in the bed. When they approached, she raised her head. “Is that you, Georgie?”
“Yes, Ma.”
“And you brought the cat inside.”
Georgie wrinkled his nose, confused, and looked up at Abigail.
Abigail turned back to Emmett and Jasper in the main room. “Stay here,” she said. “And don’t touch anything. The illness might be contagious.” She didn’t tell them her worry that George’s mother had contracted typhus fever. The woman’s confusion worried her. It was a symptom of the disease, but it could also just be attributed to fever madness. She stepped toward the bedside. “Mrs. Holmes? My name is Abigail. How are you feeling?”
“Marianne, how nice to see you.” Mrs. Holmes’s eyes were unfocussed. “And did you ride all this way in the rain?”
“My name is Abigail,” she said. “I’m a healer.”
“I feel so tired,” the woman said.
“Yes, I know. And do you have any pain?”
“My stomach is ill.”
Abigail touched the woman’s forehead, noting the high fever. “Have you noticed any spots?” Abigail asked. “Perhaps on your torso?”
The woman allowed her to check, and Abigail frowned when she saw the rose-colored splotches. She pressed gently on her abdomen, and Mrs. Holmes gasped when Abigail touched her right side.
She straightened. There was no need to examine her further. Mrs. Holmes was suffering from typhus. Abigail left the room and joined Emmett and Jasper. “She needs immediate medical care. Will you fetch a doctor from the town?”
“What is the matter with her?” Emmett asked, glancing past her to the woman’s bedchamber. George stood in the doorway, watching them.
“Typhus.” Abigail whispered the word, not wanting to frighten the boy.
Emmett’s eyes went wide. “Abigail, you shouldn’t—”
“I must help.”
He pressed his lips tight, as if stopping himself from arguing. He wasn’t pleased; she could see that. And she could see he was worried. He wiped his hands unconsciously on his trouser legs as if to keep the disease from getting on him. “Jasper can go for the doctor.”
“You should both go. The less you are in this house, the better.”
Emmett’s brows rose.
She could read the meaning in his expression. He didn’t want her close to Mrs. Holmes either. But she could not afford to worry about herself. She’d already touched the sick woman, and it wasn’t the first time she’d tended to a person suffering from this malady. She wouldn’t argue with Emmett. There wasn’t time.
He wrinkled his brow. “Mrs. Langstrom is a neighbor. She bakes gingerbread.”
Abigail nodded. “Once the doctor arrives, we’ll speak to him about Mrs. Langstrom helping you.”
“Abigail.” Emmett touched her arm.
“I’ll be all right,” she said. “You must make haste. I’ve no medicine to give her aside from the herbs I’ve gathered the last few days.”
He gave a tight nod, brushed a kiss over her lips, and left with Jasper.
Abigail moved to the kitchen. “George, does your mother keep any remedies? Herbs?”
He showed her a cupboard containing small jars, and Abigail looked through them, pulling out any that might be useful.
“Are you going to bake something?” George asked.
She wondered how long it had been since the boy had eaten. How long had his mother been ill? “If you like. Are you hungry?”
As if in answer, his stomach growled, and he nodded, rubbing it.
“I’ll make you something to eat, but first, let’s make a tonic for your mother.”
“A tonic?”
“It will help her body even out her fluids. Would you like to help me?”
He nodded.
“Bicarbonate of soda, sugar . . .” she muttered, remembering the recipe her father used to keep a fevered patient from becoming dehydrated. She measured ingredients to George, and he poured them into a bowl. Once it was mixed, she administered it to Mrs. Holmes, followed by a tea made from yarrow, hoping to reduce the fever.
She searched through the pantry and root cellar and found ingredients to make a soup and biscuits.
Mrs. Holmes continued her incoherent rambling, and Abigail wished she had laudanum or something to help the woman sleep. She found alcohol far back in the cupboard and poured some onto strips of cloth then set them on the woman’s forehead and wrists. It was an archaic treatment, but her father had thought it to be effective for treating fevers when no other remedies were available.