Quarantine: A Novel (31 page)

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?”

R

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 sud-

denly 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.

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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.”

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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 mauso-

leum 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 under
stand?
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 run-

ning 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, dif-

ficult to bring to the surface, but finally his head was above water and he began coughing.

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Dr. Wiggins waded out and took hold of Mr. Sumner’s feet,

and together they carried him back to the grassy knoll.

R

“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?”

“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 dis-

appointment, 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.”

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“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—some-

thing 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.”

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“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.

R

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.”

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“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.”