Quarantine: A Novel (11 page)

“No, I see no old man.” She rested her head against the

transom and closed her eyes. Her eyelids were large, and made

him think of scallop shells.

R

Enoch Sumner owned a fleet of coaches, chaises, and cabriolets,

but when Miranda rode out she always insisted on the diligence,

a large, plush-upholstered coach her son had imported from Lyon, France. She and Samuel departed in the early evening to escape

the heat of the house. She was curious about this pest-house, so they stopped at the Mall and looked across the Frog Pond toward

rows of tents inside a fence. Columns of white smoke billowed into the sky. Outside the fence gate there was a great deal of keening and wailing and the singing of hymns.

“It’s fascinating,” she said, “how disaster creates such industry.

But it is too late for these people—they live in filth, so what do you expect.”

Samuel looked at her, surprised. “You know, I had the

fever in Paris and nearly died. It is a vile thing that knows no boundary.”

“It is all about filth,” Miranda said. “It will never invade our house. You see how my staff scrubs and cleans constantly. There

is no safer place in Newburyport.”

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j o h n s m o l e n s

“Perhaps.” Samuel tapped the roof of the carriage with his

cane and called out, “On, now—down to the wharves.” Settling

back on the bench opposite his grandmother, he said, “We mustn’t risk staying here long—these fevers, some say they’re borne on

the air. Along with scrubbing every surface, you should instruct the maids to shut all the windows in the house for the duration

of this pestilence.”

“And perhaps you have finally learned something, Samuel.”

Flattered, he smiled. “It is always wise to take precautions,”

Miranda said. “It is good that you’ve returned now, for I fear that your father’s eccentricities are becoming more of a burden.”

He leaned forward and whispered, “And it all costs money.”

“Precisely. People think we are wealthy beyond imagination,

but this is not so. For years I have worried about our circum-

stances—I have lost sleep over it many nights. When your father

was young, we went to war with Britain, a great risk if there ever was one, and he was bold enough, shrewd enough to take advantage of the situation. Privateering led to great profit, which led to shipbuilding and trading everything, lumber, molasses, slaves—

anything that would turn a greater profit. But comforts acquired by such enterprise does something to a man, and you would be

well advised to take note, Samuel. For years I’ve watched your

father’s utter and complete disintegration, and such imprudence

has naturally led to unimaginable losses. He simply can’t control himself. The worse things get, the greater his excesses. My deepest fear is that without reasonable intervention, he will spend every penny before he dies, leaving his aged mother destitute, and his son. . . .”

Samuel’s eyebrow cocked slightly. “If it’s a race to the finish, then perhaps my dear father might do us the favor of finishing

earlier, before he’s spent his last dollar.”

“Exactly, my dear,” Miranda said.

“But the question is how does one achieve such a . . . reasonable intervention.”

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Miranda smiled kindly upon her grandson. Like his father,

he possessed a vulpine cunning which longed to be bridled. “It’s really a question of survival,” she said, “for you, for me, for the future of this family. It’s an unsavory thought, one that has long plagued me, but there it is.”

They didn’t speak again as the carriage passed through Market

Square, where Samuel again tapped the roof with his cane and

called out, “Take us out to the end of my father’s wharf, where

the air is freshest.”

They passed through an alley that ended at the waterfront.

There was no activity about the ships. At the end of the wharf,

the carriage stopped, and one of the footmen opened the door.

Samuel climbed down and offered Miranda his hand, but she

shook her head, saying, “This is fresh air enough for me.”

“As you wish.”

He walked around the corner of a warehouse and after a

moment she heard his water splash against the shingles. From her seat, Miranda could look downriver toward the basin. The sun

had set and in the last light the water was turning an ink blue, with the gray dunes of Plum Island beyond.
Miranda,
named in her honor, was barely visible except for several lanterns hanging from her rigging.

Samuel called out something she didn’t understand—it took

her a moment to realize he was speaking French. And then a soft

feminine voice responded from the river.

Miranda got out of the carriage and walked around the corner

of the warehouse. Samuel was fastening his trousers in haste. A skiff was approaching, with a boy at the oars, and a young woman sat in the stern, wearing a fine blue dress with white lace. She was soaking wet and shivering. The boy tied the boat to a bollard and helped her climb up onto the wharf. She refused to look in Samuel’s direction as she continued to speak, her voice demanding and agitated.

Samuel responded in French, which only seemed to cause

the girl to turn away angrily. She cut him off, saying in halting 81

j o h n s m o l e n s

English, “I cannot understand whatever you say. So must I speak

the British. You—you are the coward.” Her accent was quite

musical.

She noticed Miranda for the first time, her eyes startled.

“You’re shivering, child.” Miranda removed her light wrap.

“You’ll catch cold in those wet things.” Miranda moved cau-

tiously, as though approaching a wary cat; after a moment the

girl turned and allowed the chambray fabric to be draped around

her slender shoulders. “How in heavens did you get in the river?”

The girl did not reply and her face became distrustful. Miranda

turned to the boy, and said, “What is your name?”

“Leander Hatch, Ma’am. I found her—she was adrift on a log.”

Miranda smiled at the girl. “Perhaps you are a mermaid?”

The girl appeared to not understand the word. “Even mermaids

have names.”

Samuel said something in French, causing the girl to glance

at him impatiently.

“Marie,” she said. “Marie de Monpellier.” Miranda laughed,

causing Marie to glare at her. “You think I am the
humorous?”

she said. “But it is my name—this is not, how do you say,
fonny?”

“Please,” Miranda said. “Forgive me. I do not wish to insult

you.”

Marie pulled the wrap tightly about her.

“You called my grandson a coward,” Miranda said. “Either you

know him, or you are a very astute judge of character.”

“He pays one of the crew and gets ashore, and I am left alone

on that horrible
sheep.”

“You locked yourself in your quarters,” Samuel said. “I had

barely seen you on deck since we left St. Barts. If I had known

that you wished to come ashore, I assure you—”

“Hush,” Miranda said. She studied the shivering girl once

more. “My grandson is a coward—he has always been one. And

I apologize for any inconvenience you may have suffered during

your journey to Newburyport. Now, may I introduce myself?

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q u a r a n t i n e

I am Miranda Sumner, and that horrible ship you managed to

escape from was named in my honor by my son, who is even more

of a coward, if that is possible.”

Marie managed the briefest smile.

“We must not be inhospitable.” Miranda took the girl by the

elbow. “Come with me, child—you must be famished.” Marie

hesitated a moment, but then allowed herself to be guided toward the carriage.

“Grandmother?”
Samuel’s voice cracked, causing Miranda and the girl to stop and look around. His trouser buttons were still fastened improperly.

“And Samuel,” Miranda said, “give this boy a coin.”

Marie tensed, withdrawing her arm from Miranda’s grip. “All

right,” Miranda said. “I see—he fished you out of the water. Yes, he can come, too. But he rides up top with the driver.”

“Grandmother,”
Samuel pleaded.

“What, dear?” she said pleasantly.

“Well, she might . . .”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Marie said. “This fever is a thing most horrible. I am ill with it the first winter I am in the Caribbean.”

She began to shake uncontrollably. “But this river—the water is

most cold.”

“Indeed,” Miranda said, taking the girl’s arm again. “Let’s get

you home and into dry clothes and a warm bed.”

83

Nine

Word had been sent that Giles was needed at the

Sumner house. In order to leave the pest-house grounds, he had

to follow the strict procedures established by Dr. Bradshaw and

himself. First he removed his wax-coat and disrobed in a tent so that his garments could be boiled and laundered, and then he

scrubbed himself raw with bristle brushes dipped in a hot solution of vinegar and camphor. After dressing in a change of clothes,

including a much-patched frock coat he’d had since his duty at

sea, he was let out through the gate, where townspeople accosted him, demanding information about their relatives who had been

admitted to the pest-house. He told them he could make no offi-

cial comment, that it was Dr. Bradshaw’s responsibility to keep

the public informed. Slowly, he made his way through the crowd

and toward the waiting carriage.

“Is someone ill?” he asked the driver, old Mr. Penrose.

“A house guest, Doctor, a French lady,” Mr. Penrose said.

One of the footmen held the door open as Giles climbed

into the carriage. There was a wicker basket on the bench. “My

mother’s doing, of course.”

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The footman, a boy no older than fourteen, stood on the

running board and looked through the open window. “Ma’am

thought you might be hungry, sir.”

As the carriage rolled across the Mall and down High Street,

Giles ate bread, cheese, and a plump chicken leg, and there was

a lidded pewter tankard of Dog’s Nose—ale and rum. When he

reached Enoch’s house, Fields opened the front door. “Doctor,

the missus requests your services upstairs.”

Giles climbed the stairs and found the young Jamaican maid

waiting in the hall. She had a livid bruise on her forehead. “What happened to you?”

The girl merely curtsied, whispering, “This way, if you please,

Doctor.”

She admitted him to one of the guest bedrooms on the second

floor. His mother stood by the bed, looking down at a girl, eyes closed, lying motionless beneath a counterpane.

“I believe she has swallowed a great deal of river water,” his

mother said. Her hands fidgeted with the bow on the front of her yellow dress. “Apparently, she was on the
Miranda,
and jumped ship. Nearly drowned trying to swim ashore. Fortunately, a boy

saved her. She was alert at first, but then she collapsed during the coach ride to the house.”

“She shouldn’t have been allowed off that ship,” Giles said.

“Shall we throw her back in the river?” she said apologetically.

Giles ignored his mother, knowing that to look at her now

would allow her to register the kind of small victory she delighted in, and he moved toward the side of the bed.

“Perhaps I should leave while you examine her?” she asked.

“That won’t be necessary. Who is she?”

“That is not so easily determined. She’s French, certainly.”

Giles leaned over the girl. She lay perfectly still on her back, her long brown hair spread over the pillow. She was, he guessed, in her late twenties. He picked up her hand and placed his fingers on the inside of her wrist. Her pulse was steady. Then he lifted 88

q u a r a n t i n e

one eyelid and found no abnormal dilation or coloration in the

pupil. He pulled the counterpane down from her chin. She was

wearing a white nightgown. Gently he felt her neck and throat.

There was an unusual delicacy to her features, and her skin was

remarkably smooth and fair, considering the long sea voyage and

time spent fighting the currents of the Merrimack.

“Has she vomited?” he asked.

“Water.”

“No black vomit? No blood?”

“No, says she’s had the fever while hiding down in the Carib-

bean. She’s just brought up water—quite a bit of it, but I think she’s fairly dried out by now.”

“I need to sit her up.”

His mother went around to the other side of the bed, and together they raised the girl into a sitting position. He untied the drawstring at the top of her night gown and peeled the garment down off her shoulders, exposing her pale back. He thumped her with both hands, then drew the gown up again, allowing his mother to fasten the

string. When they laid her back on the pillow, the girl coughed once.

“There’s no sign of fever,” he said. “What do you mean she’s

been ‘hiding’?”

As she pulled the counterpane up over the girl, his mother

said, “Perhaps you should address that question to your brother

or your nephew.”

“Samuel?”

She went to the door but paused. “Yes, he has also just returned from France.”

“By way of the Caribbean?”

“Why, yes.” His mother’s voice was all innocence—never a

good omen.

“He swam ashore from the
Miranda,
too.”

“Oh dear, no. I believe he came ashore in a dinghy. Arrived

dry as a bone,” his mother said. “But he’s immune as well. Says