Mariel (46 page)

Watching Collins's competent hands for a moment, Ian concurred silently. He wandered out of the dusky stable into the bright autumn sunshine. The metal clang of tools faded as he crossed the courtyard to the Cloister. His eyes moved along the facade of the grand house before he turned to look at the empty shell of the ruined section.

It stood as it had the first day he came here. Empty windows revealed the blue sky beyond. It saddened him to see it destroyed. He could understand a bit of the love Mariel had for her home. The labor needed to dismantle the scorched stones would be too costly. So it would stand as a silent monument to the past until it fell into itself completely.

The Wythe family name had come to an end the day Mariel married him. Centuries of lords and ladies had paraded across these lawns and had lived out their days in the shadows of the gray walls. Unless the present Lord Foxbridge remarried and had another child, which he showed no inclination of doing, the proud name would be only a memory submerged beneath the name Mariel shared with him.

Mariel woke in the night with the feeling something was wrong. It was not Uncle Wilford. He had been out of bed for several days now and was back to terrorizing the household with his decision to write the memoirs of his travels. Something was wrong, but with someone else.

Careful not to disturb Ian, she flung her robe over her shoulders. A wry grin tilted her lips as she walked across the bedroom to the door. Once, she had stumbled through her room in the night. Now, the lack of candlelight made no difference to her.

Following her unease, she went to the next room where Rosie slept. She opened the door quietly. If she was wrong, she did not want to wake the child. She prayed she had made a mistake.

When she heard the strained breathing, she knew her nebulous fears were true. She placed her fingers on Rosie's forehead. Her groping touch did not bother the child lost in a delirium. Mariel gasped in horror as she felt the swell of heat there.

No longer caring who she woke, she reached for the bellpull. Tugging on it frantically, she ran to the door and back into her own room. She stubbed her toe as she flew to the bed, but she simply hopped in an uneven step on one foot.

“Ian! Ian, wake up!” she cried as she shook his shoulder.

He turned from her to reach toward where she should have been on the bed. She grasped his arm when she realized he could see little more than she could. “Here I am. I need your help.”

Taking her by the shoulders, he swung his legs awkwardly over the edge of the bed. In the dim light, he could see her fear, so vivid on her face. “Mariel, what is it?”

“Rosie! She is ill!”

“Go to her, honey. I will wake Phipps and get whatever you need.”

She spun to return to the sick child. Over her shoulder, she called, “Thank you.”

He pulled his trousers on and reached for his dressing robe. He knew that if Mariel had heard the rumor circulating through Foxbridge, she would be even more upset. He had not told her, for he did not want her to fear needlessly. Now it seemed his worst expectations would be given life.

Dr. Sawyer had confirmed that the sickness on one of the outlying farms was smallpox. Few in the shire had been vaccinated, resisting the modern idea, which was accepted elsewhere as a common practice. If this was what Rosie suffered, it must have been spread through the school. More would take ill.

The sound of retching greeted him when he entered the child's room after knocking on Phipps's door to waken her. He paused to turn up the gaslight. As slight as the noise of the switch was, Mariel turned from where she was holding the child's head over a basin.

“Turn that off! Too much light is dangerous. Hurry!”

Instantly he complied, berating himself for such foolishness. Everyone knew a patient with smallpox should be kept in a cool, unlit room. Mariel's words told him that she had heard the same rumors he had. He felt his way through the molasses-thick darkness.

“Ian,” Mariel murmured as she placed the spent child back on her pillows, “I think we should send for the doctor.”

“I told Phipps to do that. My love, have you been vaccinated?”

Fighting back her fear, she nodded. “Yes, two years ago. Uncle Wilford brought back some sort of sweating sickness from his visit to Africa. The doctor insisted everyone in the Cloister be vaccinated in case it was a variation of smallpox. And you?”

“Before I went to school, and again when I entered the seminary. I assume Rosie was not.”

Her voice broke as she said, “I have been battling with the orphanage board to designate money for vaccinations. They have dragged their feet, citing other needs for the funds. I should have had Rosie vaccinated as soon as she came here. I did not think of it. Ian, if—”

“Enough!” he said sharply as her voice rose in panic. “Recriminations will not help Rosie now. Send for cool water to bathe her. That will keep the fever down. We will need some boric acid solution to protect her eyes. Also eucalyptol and petroleum jelly to keep the scars to a minimum.”

He left the nursing in her hands as he dealt with the fear surging through the household. All of the staff loved the little girl and feared for her life. He allowed only Phipps and the doctor into the room. When Wilford appeared in his nightshirt, Ian asked the lord to deal with the servants. He did not want Lord Foxbridge to overexert himself before he was fully recovered.

Dr. Sawyer examined the child quickly. He sighed as he put his stethoscope back in his bag. “The epidemic is spreading, Reverend. By the morning, there will be some families needing your services.”

“Damn the shortsightedness of this shire!” cursed Ian. “This could have been prevented.”

“As you know so well, you can preach only so long without anyone listening. My demands for vaccinations have been seconded by Lady Mariel. Few heeded our words.” The doctor closed the bag with a snap. “I will be back tomorrow to check on Rosie. Lady Mariel?”

She forced her attention from the suffering child not yet covered with the red pustules. Her hand remained holding Rosie's as she turned to face the doctor. “She is so hot!”

“I know.” He pressed a small bottle into her hand. “This is opium. It will ease the delirium of the fever. Use it sparingly. It is not without dangers of its own. If you can convince her to eat, try broth or eggnog. Oysters are especially good, if she will eat them.”

Dampening her chapped lips, she whispered, “Is she going to die?”

Dr. Sawyer could not speak the truth. He could tell by the way the pustules were running together on his other patients that the shire had been afflicted with confluent smallpox, far more dangerous than the ordinary form. He knew that at least half of them would not survive.

When he looked up to answer her, he felt the minister's eyes on him. He said, “There is no reason to expect that, my lady. You are caring for her well. The prognosis is good.”

He picked up his bag and met Ian's eyes squarely. The parson knew he was lying. Dr. Sawyer dared him silently to denounce him. For the first time since they had met, Reverend Beckwith-Carter lowered his eyes first. Like the doctor, he wanted to protect his wife from the truth for as long as possible.

Phipps and Ian soon became as unaware of the passing of night into day and light into shadow as Mariel was, while they struggled to save the child. He was called away more and more frequently to comfort the grieving families who were losing their loved ones to the epidemic.

Mariel did not leave Rosie. Hour after hour she stood by the bed, wringing out cool cloths to put on the child's head, or bathing her in the oils to ease the discomfort of the pustules breaking out all over her. With more patience than anyone ever suspected she had, she tried to convince the ill child to drink a bit of the broth she kept warm near the fireplace.

Days passed, then a week, and still she fought her enemy. An epidemic had taken her parents from her. She did not want to lose her child.

Wet cloth … wring cloth … remove cloth from Rosie's head … put on damp cloth … wet cloth … the routine was neverchanging and seemingly neverending.

Many days later, Rosie asked for something to eat. She wanted to shriek with happiness, for the child had been barely coherent during the illness. This was the first positive sign that Rosie would overcome the disease within her. Gratefully, Mariel sat on the edge of the bed and spooned the thin broth into the youngster's mouth.

When Rosie fell into a healing sleep, Phipps urged Mariel to rest as well. In a voice that brooked no disagreement, she ordered her to leave the sickroom. “Come back in several hours, my lady. Just go and rest for now.”

“If—”

“I will call you if there is any change. Go!”

Mariel reeled to her room. Reaching a chair, she dropped into it. She could not remember the last time she had left Rosie's room. Tonight she could believe the child might survive the disease. The offensive odor of the dried pustules remained in her senses, but to her it was the sweetest scent. That Rosie had fought the smallpox to this point meant she had an increasingly strong chance of total recovery.

Others were not so lucky. Although Ian tried to hide from her the distress of his task of burying the victims of the epidemic, she sensed his horror. To speak a funeral service over even one youngster was a chore no man wished to do. When the number of corpses increased each day, many of them being children, he walked about the Cloister in a dull haze, trying to deal with his pain.

Surging to her feet, Mariel wondered when she had kissed her husband last. In the days of fighting for Rosie's life, such little reminders of the love underlying their struggle had been shunted aside. She realized how much she needed his calm strength.

She had taken only a few steps when she bumped into someone. Recognition was instantaneous. “Ian!” she cried.

“Mariel, my love,” he whispered as he brought her into his embrace. He leaned her head against his shoulder. Without moving or saying anything, he simply held her as she had wanted so badly.

Tears of fatigue escaped her eyes, but she did not wipe them away. She did not want to do anything to disrupt this precious moment of silent communion. When he started to step away, she gasped and tightened her arms around him.

“I must go,” he said regretfully. “The Lyndell family sent a message for me.”

She moaned, “Not Tip.”

“This morning. I did not mention anything to you, because I was afraid Rosie would overhear. How is she?” He asked the question tentatively, for he feared the answer.

“Better.”

“Better?” he repeated, unable to believe such good news. All he had seen in the last week was tragedy. It seemed as if there could be nothing but death in the shire. “Tell her I will come to see her as soon as I can.”

“She understands. She knows you want to be with her.” She stroked his hand, which held her own. “Do you think you could be home in time for supper?”

“Yes, but I will have to go out again afterward. I will try to be home, my love.” He paused as he was leaving. He took her into his arms and kissed her lingeringly. “I love you, Mariel. I know I haven't had time to say it lately, but my love for you has only grown deeper with the passage of each day.”

“I love you.” She asked softly, “When was the last time you slept, Ian?”

“What day is it?” he asked with no humor.

“Wednesday.”

“It's been three days, then.” He tilted her chin to bring her lips near his. “Don't worry, my love. Once this is past, I will be sure to spend plenty of time in bed … with my beloved wife.”

Her laughter sounded odd in her own ears. It had been so long since she had heard such amusement. She listened to his steps fading in the distance. As long as she had his love, she was sure nothing could be too horrible to survive.

Mariel hoped the button would be straight when she finished sewing it onto Rosie's dress. She listened to Phipps's comforting voice reading a fairy tale to the child propped among well-plumped pillows. The aroma of freshly squeezed orange juice wafted through the room, washing away the odors of sickness.

When she heard a jovial laugh by the door, and the answering giggle from the child, she knew Uncle Wilford was paying his daily call to the sickroom. He would have come more often if Mariel had allowed it. His antics to amuse Rosie tired her too quickly.

“Ten minutes, Uncle,” she stated as she did each day.

His hand ruffled her tidy hair. “You are a dictator, lamb. It causes me to believe all the tales of your terrorizing the meetings of the school board for the past year.”

“They are all true,” she said with a wicked grin.

“I should not have doubted it. You are just like your grandmother. Mother never allowed anyone to tell her nay.”

Mariel rose and stretched cramped muscles. “I am going to get some fresh air. Ten minutes, Uncle. Phipps has my orders to eject you if you do not cooperate.”

He grinned at the slight woman holding the children's book. Phipps looked as if she could probably lift nothing heavier than the feather on the nightstand, but he knew she would be as exasperating as his niece on this issue. He had no intention of doing anything to endanger the child, but he let them enjoy giving him orders.

Mariel left the sounds of happy voices behind her as she walked to the front stairs. The lure of the world beyond the house led her outside. She shivered in the crisp air, but did not return to the house for a cloak. The tang of the sea breeze awoke and focused her senses, which had been drifting during the worst week of the disease.

Wandering aimlessly, she ran her fingers along the wall of the garden. It guided her toward the old Cloister. When she knew she stood opposite the once proud building, she crossed the path and reached for that wall. Remembering where she had tripped over fallen rocks in the past, she followed it carefully for a distance.