Quarantine: A Novel (24 page)

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

185

j o h n s m o l e n s

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 f lap, 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 f lap.

“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.”

186

q u a r a n t i n e

“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—” Brad-

shaw 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.”

R

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.

187

j o h n s m o l e n s

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. . . .”

188

q u a r a n t i n e

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 f loor, 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

189

j o h n s m o l e n s

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 wall-

paper, 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.”

190

q u a r a n t i n e

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 Newbury-

port 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.”

191

j o h n s m o l e n s

“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.

R

In his rooms, Giles found thirty-one pounds in his desk and