The Last Refuge (19 page)

How long does it take to completely recharge a dead iPhone 4? I'll never know. The next thing I remember is a hand on my shoulder, a firm shake, and a gravelly voice saying, ‘Mrs Ives, wake up.'

I opened an eye. Derek was looming over me, like a friendly vulture.

‘Oh, God!' I scrambled to my feet. ‘This is so embarrassing,' I stammered, as I hopped around on one foot trying to get the circulation going while simultaneously attempting to straighten my robe and tug the sash a bit tighter around me.

‘Are you all right?' Derek asked in a voice that was so deep, rich and full that it surprised me. If Derek ever decided to hang up his Steadicam, he could do voiceovers for Darth Vader.

‘Yes, I'm fine,' I told him, fighting back a wave of nausea. I forced myself to smile. ‘A little stiff, but that'll pass.' Surreptitiously, I felt around with my foot, trying to make contact with Amy's iPhone so I could shove it under the table and out of sight, but Derek had already spotted the forbidden object.

‘Yours?' he asked.

‘No. It's Amy's.' I reached for the back of a chair, grabbed on. Why was I so dizzy? ‘I thought maybe I could . . .' I let my voice trail off.

Derek's eyes darted from mine to the iPhone. He squatted, unplugged the device, wrapped the charger cord around it and held it out. ‘Fully charged, I see. Here.'

I took it from him and slipped it into the pocket of my robe, then heard Amy's words coming out of my mouth. ‘You're not going to rat me out?'

‘You're worried about her, aren't you?'

I nodded silently. ‘But there's no cell phone signal, so what's the point?'

‘You can always use it to play Bejeweled Blitz or Solitaire under the covers at night. Wouldn't be any skin off my nose.'

Dodged that bullet.
Clearly, Derek hadn't considered the possibility that there'd be rogue Internet signals wandering like wraiths about the premises.

‘Thanks, Derek. I'm just keeping it for Amy. I'm hoping that she, you know, comes back.'

‘Yeah, I know. They're out looking for her now.'

My stomach lurched. ‘Who's “they?” The police?'

Derek snorted. ‘Police? Shit, no. Jud's put somebody on it.'

‘“Somebody?” Somebody who?'

‘His security team. Some private outfit out of Washington D.C. Former cops and soldiers, mostly. You know the type. Dark blue suits, shoulder holsters, sunglasses.' He circled a finger next to his head. ‘Curly wires snaking out of their ears. They'll find her and bring her back, don't you worry.'

I shuffled toward the door on leaden feet. ‘Amy's broken her contract, though, hasn't she? Won't they just let her go?'

‘Unlikely. They've got a lot of time and money invested in Amy. The camera loves her, what we call “mediagenic.”'

Derek held the door open for me. ‘She's here, she's gone, she's back again. No matter what her reasons, it's going to make good television. Besides, she plays a really mean harpsichord.'

‘What if Jud's people can't find Amy?'

‘They'll find her. Trust me.'

I stepped into the hallway, staggered, grabbed the doorframe.

‘You sure you're OK? You look really pale.'

I touched my cheek. It felt hot, even to me. ‘It's just the makeup,' I told him. ‘Colonial ladies are supposed to look pale. Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun.'

‘Well, if you're sure . . .' He didn't look convinced.

‘Derek, I really appreciate your not saying anything about Amy's iPhone.'

Derek switched off the overhead light, pulled the door shut behind him, gave it a tug. ‘No problem. If you don't tell anyone that I left the door unlocked.'

I smiled, marveling at my luck. ‘It's a deal.'

When I got back to my bedroom, it was still dark. I leaned against the bed, pulled the iPhone out and checked the time: 4:25 a.m. I wandered over to the window, tapped Settings, and looked for a wireless signal, but there was none, rogue or otherwise, leaking into my bedroom. No way, then, to check for any emails from Paul. I'd have to do that in the morning from the privacy of the privy.

Following Amy's example, I looked around for a good place to hide the iPhone, finally deciding on one of the blue and white Chinese vases that decorated my dresser. I slid the charger in first, followed by the iPhone.

The effort seemed to exhaust me.

I stumbled to the bed and fell against it, desperate to climb in and burrow under the covers, but inexplicably unable to lift myself up. Nausea continued to sweep over me, wave after wave. I sank to the carpet, grabbed the chamber pot and clutched it to my breast only seconds before vomiting into it all that remained of the supper I had eaten the night before.

‘That's what you get for sleeping on a cold, hard floor,' I heard my late mother say, and then everything went dark.

‘It's nine o'clock on a Monday night, and ordinarily I'd be watching
Dancing with the Stars.
Last night, Hannah was sitting in the parlor in front of the fire reading
Tom Jones
out loud. As soon as I finish washing up the glassware, I'll be going upstairs so I can hear the next chapter.'

French Fry, housemaid

A
s I lay under the covers in a sweltering fog, the noises of the house went on around me. The clatter of dishes being carried down to the kitchen for washing, the drumming of Gabe's feet as he ran along the hallway, Melody's voice – yelling – ‘Quiet, or you'll wake up Mrs Ives. She's sick, you dope.' At one point, I thought I heard Amy playing the harpsichord, but I must have been dreaming, because Amy is gone.

When I opened my eyes again, the sun was just setting, casting long shadows across the floorboards of my room. A man stood at the foot of my bed. He was tall, fair, sturdily built, wearing a suit of dark blue wool, trimmed with gold braid. He peered at me curiously through a pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses. ‘I'm Doctor Kenneth Glass, Mrs Ives. We've been worried about you.'

If I hadn't been so out of it, I'd have been worried about myself, too. I opened my mouth to reply, but the only thing that came out was a croak. My tongue had grown fur, and was several sizes too big for my mouth.

I didn't realize French stood at my bedside until she said, ‘Would you like a drink of water, Mrs Ives?'

I started to nod, but it hurt too much to move. I heard water trickling, followed by a cool, wet cloth being laid across my forehead. ‘Thank you,' I whispered.

‘You can put it over there, Samuel,' French said after a moment. She was speaking to a black man who had entered the room carrying a wooden box by a pair of rope handles. Samuel set the box down on my dressing table, then turned to Dr Glass and held out his arms expectantly. The doctor handed over his gold-handled cane and his tri-corned hat. Samuel set them down on the table next to the fireplace, then returned to help the doctor remove his elegant coat.

Dr Glass pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. ‘Tell me how you feel,' he said.

‘Headache,' I mumbled. ‘Fever. Upset stomach. Probably the flu.'

In the shadows by the window, a red light winked. Oh, hell. Derek lurked there filming, or maybe it was Chad.

I considered the doctor's well-groomed wig, his expensive wardrobe, the finely-wrought gold chain that ended at the watch peeking out of the pocket of his weskit. I began to panic. ‘Are you a
real
doctor, doctor, or do you just play one on television?'

Dr Glass smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘I'm a real doctor, Mrs Ives, both in the eighteenth century and in the twenty-first.' He lifted my wrist and took my pulse. ‘Hmmm,' he muttered enigmatically, thereby confirming his credentials.

‘How come you don't carry a stethoscope, then?'

Dr Glass was checking the lymph nodes in my neck, under my arms. ‘Remember when you signed the contract to be on
Patriot House
?'

I grunted in reply.

‘There's a clause in that contract where you agree to be treated for minor medical problems using eighteenth-century medicines and techniques. Do you recall that, Mrs Ives?'

‘That contract was longer than
Atlas Shrugged
,' I moaned. ‘I think I missed that chapter.'

‘Well, they didn't have stethoscopes in colonial Annapolis. Didn't have them anywhere until 1816, in fact. Looked like ear trumpets.'

Dr Glass asked French to hold up the sheet to shield me from the camera while he checked the lymph nodes in my groin. Then, he cautiously pressed his fingertips into my stomach.

I screamed in pain.

‘Sorry. This will be over in a minute. Take a deep breath now.'

I tried to comply, but it hurt too much. I felt tears rolling sideways down my cheeks.

‘Your stomach is distended, as you've undoubtedly noticed. But I see you've had your appendix removed, so appendicitis can be eliminated. What have you eaten lately?'

I tried to remember. ‘Nothing that the rest of the house hasn't eaten.'

‘You could be suffering from verdigris, which is usually caused by eating tainted meat. Have you eaten any meat that's turned green?'

Before I could answer, French sputtered, ‘We'd
never
serve meat that had turned green in Patriot House!'

Dr Glass held up a hand. ‘Fine, then, fine. Are you having diarrhea, Mrs Ives?'

Just thinking about having diarrhea in a house with no bathrooms made my stomach roil. I curled over. ‘I'm going to vomit!'

French held a basin while I retched, but there was nothing left in my stomach to hurl except nasty yellow bile. I fell back on my pillows, exhausted, as my brain bounced painfully back and forth against the inside of my skull. Even the roots of my hair ached.

‘How about melons? There's been an outbreak of lysteria linked to cantaloupes grown out in Colorado.'

‘We grow cantaloupes in our greenhouse right here, Dr Glass,' French informed him. ‘And before you ask, no night soil is involved.'

I closed my eyes for a moment, and my lids scratched hotly against my eyeballs.

‘What kind of treatment would an eighteenth-century doctor usually give in a case like this?' French asked as she straightened the sheet and tucked it in around me like a cocoon.

Dr Glass had crossed to the washstand where Samuel stood at attention holding the pitcher. As he scrubbed his hands vigorously with soap, the doctor said, ‘Pretty much as I'm doing now, except for the hand washing part.' He grinned back at French over his shoulder. ‘I must be a visionary. The connection between germs and disease isn't going to be discovered for another half century or so.' Samuel rinsed the doctor's hands with water, pouring it over them into the wash basin, then held out a towel.

Dr Glass dried his hands, then returned to my bedside. ‘There could be something more serious going on, of course, such as a partial obstruction or blockage of the bowel. We'll have to watch for that.' He patted my hand where it lay on the sheet, limp and boneless. ‘The odds are, though, that it's something viral and self-limiting.'

I grabbed the doctor's wrist, using what little strength I had to pull him down until his ear was close to my lips. ‘Could I have been deliberately poisoned?' I croaked.

His pale eyebrows shot up under his wig. He straightened, but I kept my vise-like grip on his wrist. Dr Glass laid his hand over my clenched fingers. ‘I very much doubt that, Mrs Ives.'

‘Who would want to poison you?' French clucked. She gave the doctor a knowing glance. I read the message in her eyes: poor woman must be delusional.

How about a disgruntled Navy SEAL, I thought, who wanted to make sure that I kept his secret?

‘What's in the box?' I wondered miserably, as I watched Samuel lift up the lid.

‘Ah, those are my medicinals, my mortar and pestle. I've bleeding instruments in there, too. Lancets and such. Sometimes I carry leeches. But don't worry. We don't generally bleed post-menopausal women.' He paused, nodded to Samuel, then bent again to whisper in my ear. ‘I am going to take a blood sample, however, and send it out for testing. Just to be sure.

‘Everyone out now!' He made shooing motions with his hand, the lace at his wrist flouncing gaily. ‘Miss Fry, please fetch some more hot water.' He paused, glared into the shadows where Derek was trying his best to blend into the curtains. ‘That means you, too, young man; you
and
your camera.'

When everyone had gone, Dr Glass rolled up the sleeve of my shift, swabbed the inside of my forearm with cotton soaked in alcohol, and took a blood sample in the twenty-first-century way, using a rubber tourniquet and a syringe.

‘They didn't know how to do that back then, did they?' I asked stupidly as he transferred my blood from the syringe to a sealed test tube, gave it a shake. He handed the tube off to Samuel, who wrote something on the label with an anachronistic ballpoint pen.

‘Of course not, Mrs Ives, but I refuse to take chances with a patient's health, no matter what century she fancies she wants to live in.' He handed the used syringe to his assistant who disposed of it in a red plastic bag and sealed it shut. ‘As I said, I'm having your blood tested, and if it turns up anything serious, I'll be back with proper medication.'

‘Can you give me anything now? I feel like shit.'

‘We'll brew up some tea out of white willow bark. It's what the American Indians used for pain. It contains salicin which was one of the components used in the development of aspirin.'

‘Popcorn, peanuts, chocolate, tobacco . . . and aspirin. God bless the Native Americans, doctor.'

Dr Glass smiled and patted my hand like a favorite uncle.

When French came back with the tea kettle, Dr Glass began issuing orders. He had her fill up a pottery hot water bottle, wrap it in cloth and tuck it under the covers next to my feet. ‘Build up the fire,' he instructed. ‘Make sure you keep the windows open to let the putrid air out. And if you've got any fir boughs, you can spread them out on the floor. I'm not exactly sure what that's supposed to do, but it was common practice back then. Probably served as an air freshener.'