Frederick helped Alain sit up and held the glass steady as Alain brought it to his mouth.
“Did you come to play with me?”
Frederick laughed softly. “Not today, my friend. When you feel better, we’ll line up all your soldiers and have a grand battle.” Frederick looked at Tansy. “What do you need? Shall I make a run to the market?”
Tansy’s breath hitched. “Thank you, Frederick. Would you bring lemons? And a cone of sugar.”
“And something for us, Frederick. Some bread. Ham? Meat pies? We would rather not leave the house until the fever breaks.”
“Leave it to me.”
Dr. Benoit arrived mid-morning and took note of Alain’s red-rimmed eyes, the cough and runny nose, the ear ache and sore throat. He placed his fingertips at the pulse point in Alain’s throat and counted the beats.
“His pulse is good. Strong and steady.” He palmed Alain’s forehead, closed his eyes, and gauged the heat in his blood. “It’s high, but not alarmingly so.”
Tansy swallowed hard. “Is it the yellow jack?”
Dr. Benoit pulled down Alain’s lower lid and then his lower lip. “I don’t believe so.”
Tansy pressed a hand to her breast and closed her eyes. Not the yellow jack.
“Just a childhood fever?” Martine asked.
“Let us hope it is no more than a passing contagion.” He dug into his satchel and handed her a paper packet. “Willow bark. Brew it in a tea and get it into him. It’ll bring the fever down. He may sip at a spoonful of orange-flower water or champagne. Otherwise, only the fever tea. He doesn’t need to be drinking any more than necessary.” He rose and packed up his satchel. “Keep the doors and windows closed. Chill is a very real danger. I’ll stop by this evening if Mrs. Dugan isn’t delivering her eleventh child.”
Dr. Benoit did not return until the following morning. He sat on the edge of Alain’s bed, pulled him into a sitting position, and pressed a wooden cylinder against his chest.
For a mad moment, Tansy’s sleep-deprived brain thought he was going to poke the cylinder into Alain’s little body. “What are you doing!”
Dr. Benoit raised his brows at her. “It’s a stethoscope. The latest thing from Paris.” He put his ear at the other end of the cylinder and listened.
Tansy gripped her hands together when she saw the frown line between his brows. “What is it?”
He smiled at her. “Nothing a mild bloodletting won’t take care of.”
“Bloodletting? But he’s only four.”
“Don’t worry, Madame. I shall take only a small amount. May I have a bowl of hot water, please?”
The doctor pressed a hot compress to the tender flesh of Alain’s inner elbow. When the skin was rosy red, he withdrew his brass scarificator from his satchel. Tansy blanched. A doctor had applied one to her own arm when she’d had a sprained ankle. Martine squeezed her hand and whispered, “Don’t frighten him.”
Alain scooted away from Dr. Benoit, his eyes wide. “It’s all right, lad. I do this all the time, and big lads like you hold their arms very still and it’s over before you know it.”
Tansy nodded. “It’ll be all right, Alain. It hurts very little, less than a scrape on the knee. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
“That is exactly right.” Dr. Benoit applied his brass scarificator to create four shallow cuts in the skin. He encouraged the blood to flow by placing Alain’s elbow in the pan of warm water.
Tansy’s heart flip flopped at Alain’s whimper. She held his hand and promised him it would only be another minute. She caught Dr. Benoit’s eyes and told him silently that it would be only another minute.
“I’m not one of those, Madame, who would take half a man’s blood to cure him of fever.” He wrapped a tight bandage around Alain’s wounds. “I’ll leave you more of the willow bark. Keep him cool. He’ll come around.”
By mid-day, small red spots erupted on Alain’s face, then behind his ears and in his hairline. The fever spiked, though Tansy labored to keep it subdued. Alain winced when she let in the sunshine and she shuttered the window again. When the fever held off and Alain shivered, Martine brought her new kitten over to curl up at his side.
The raised spots spread down Alain’s arms and erupted in the folds under his arms. When the fever spiked again, he scratched at the spots, hardly knowing what he did.
“Measles.” Dr. Benoit stood over Alain’s over-heated form with his arms crossed. He turned to her. “You had the measles as a child, Madame? And you, Madame?” he asked, looking next at Martine.
“I don’t know,” Tansy said.
Martine passed a hand over her tired eyes. “You did. The same year I did.”
“Very good. Can’t have the nurses coming down sick. I’ll return to my surgery to concoct a remedy for the itching and another for pain and fever. I’ll send them to you.”
The next day, the spots clustered on Alain’s trunk, down his thighs and calves to his feet. His ears were swollen with masses of red welts. Tansy pulled down his lip and with horror saw the bumps had invaded his mouth.
Estelle relieved both Tansy and Martine so they could rest. Martine moved in with her, Frederick continuing to bring food and comfort. Valere appeared a second time and again stood at Alain’s bedroom door. “How is the little fellow?”
Tansy threw her arms around his neck and sobbed. “I’m so scared, Valere. I’ve never seen anyone so sick.” He held her close and patted her back. When Tansy’s sobs subsided, he stepped back into the parlor.
Martine looked at him coldly from Alain’s bedside. “Have you not had measles, Monsieur Valcourt?”
“I did. The itching was quite memorable.”
“Then it is perfectly safe for you to come say hello to your son.” Martine held her hand out for him to approach.
Alain lay awake, but listless, removed from everything but the vagaries of fever and ear ache. His face and chest shone white with ointment, making his dark eyes luminous and large with a yellow crust over the bumps at his lower lids.
Tansy heard Valere’s hard swallow. He made no move from the doorway and in fact held her a little closer. “I can see he is in a bad way. How do you feel, son?”
Alain glanced at his father with indifference. He closed his eyes.
“Well, I must go.” He squeezed Tansy’s upper arms and put her aside, then showed himself out.
Tansy stood staring after him. He had not even approached the bed. Could not even sit with her and she so scared. She put a hand to her forehead and leaned against the doorjamb.
“I am growing to hate Monsieur Valere Valcourt,” Martine hissed.
Tansy, who always defended him to Martine, had nothing to say.
When Frederick came in, Alain’s eyes brightened. Frederick stooped down next to the bed and pressed a hand to Alain’s forehead. “Shall I give him some more of the tea?” Tansy handed him a cooled cup of Dr. Benoit’s blend of willow bark, crushed lobelia seeds, and a drop of turpentine.
“Go lie down, Tansy. You, too, Martine. I’ll sit here a while.”
With leaden steps, Tansy walked as far as the sofa and lay propped against the arm.
“I’m going out for a few minutes,” Martine said. She stepped outside for the first time in three days and squinted against the bright sun. Then she strode toward the Academy, climbed the outer stairs, and knocked.
Rosa looked at her curiously when she answered the door.
“I’m Tansy’s friend.”
“Come in then.”
“I don’t have time. Alain is very sick. It’s the measles.” Martine pressed fingers to her mouth before she spoke again. “You know how to send word to Christophe?”
Rosa stared at her a moment, then glanced at the clock over the mantle. “If I hurry, I can make the last mail boat.”
Back at Tansy’s, Martine let herself in. She didn’t speak of where she’d been and Tansy didn’t think to ask. Estelle sat with Alain, tempting him with a strawberry red candy. He allowed her
to place it on his tongue, then lay down again.
“Have you eaten?” Estelle said. “When did you last sleep?”
Tansy waved a hand vaguely. She had no idea when she’d eaten or slept.
Estelle poured her a glass of wine. “Drink this. Eat something. Go to bed.”
Tansy shook her head. “I don’t want to leave him, Maman.”
“Fine. Then lie down on the floor. But sleep.”
Alain’s fever rose, plunged into violent chills, then rose yet again. His breathing became labored and shallow. His ribs showed now, and his face looked thin and drawn.
Tansy went on her knees to pray. She paced and she hovered, resisting the fear that threatened to overwhelm her. All through the night, neither Maman nor Martine could persuade her to leave the room.
Tansy sat on the floor next to Alain’s bed, her forehead against the mattress, his foot clutched in her hand. Alain had finished a dose of sedative and was sleeping, propped up on the pillows. She closed her eyes and fell into a gray half sleep. As if from a long distance, she heard a knock at the door, then the murmur of voices. She felt no curiosity. She was too tired, too frightened to care who had come.
Someone entered the darkened room. She heard the rustle of fabric and the slight creak of leather boots, then a warm hand on the back of her neck. “Tansy.”
She couldn’t open her eyes. It wasn’t Christophe, anyway. Just a dream.
Then she was wrapped in his arms, his body behind her, cradling her. And she slept.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
With no hint of a breeze coming through his window, Christophe stripped off his clothes and went to bed, prepared for another sweaty, uncomfortable night. He was still awake an hour later when someone knocked on his door. He pulled on a pair of pants and opened up to a messenger standing there with a letter.
He gave the boy a coin, then lit the lamp with a sense of dread. A letter from Rosa. What could be so urgent that she’d sent it special delivery?
He scanned the contents, an icicle of fear chilling his core. He tossed a few things in a bag and strode for the door until common sense prevailed. Only a mad man of a captain ran his ships on a moonless night, the threat of snags and collisions too great now the river had receded to its late-summer levels. Renting a horse to take himself downriver was pointless. In the dark, following a moonless road, he’d be so slow it would be quicker to wait for morning and take a steam boat. So he paced, anxiety for Alain eating at him. And for Tansy. If anything happened to Alain, she would be destroyed. He covered his face with his hands. If anything happened to Alain, he would be destroyed.
Sleepless and unshaved, he was at the docks before dawn and boarded the first south bound ship leaving town. He stood on deck, his hands behind his back, his throat taut, and let the mist from the paddle wheels bathe his face. The miles passed by, miles of forest and fields. He paced, he gripped the railing, willing the paddle wheel to churn faster. If he’d thought it would help, he would have jumped in with a tow rope and swum. Ten miles an hour going downstream, he’d heard. He calculated they’d be in New Orleans well before dark.
On both banks, he saw slaves at work reinforcing the levee. Building fences. Chopping wood. His mother’s brothers, if they still lived, toiled like these men. Probably he had cousins on one of these plantations. He hoped they fared well, as well as possible for slaves. When his mother had been sixteen, she’d bargained for her freedom with her body and had never looked back. And so Christophe’s hands were soft, his back unmarred by the whip. He could read and write and travel from Baton Rouge to New Orleans with no man’s by-your-leave. With what bitterness would those cousins look at him if they knew how he wallowed in his misery because he could not have the woman he loved. They would surely mock him, and he would deserve it.
In New Orleans at last, he disembarked and strode through the crowds on the levee, bumping shoulders and side-stepping dogs and children. Rosa had written that if he had never had the measles, he must not come. He had had the measles, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he had not. His gait long and quick, he made his way to Tansy’s cottage and knocked.
Estelle Bouvier let him in. He tried to read her face, to know if he was too late. Her eyes revealed a moment’s surprise, and then she’d murmured, “Of course.” She drew him in and patted his arm with a half smile, and he heaved out a breath.
She told him how the illness had progressed, then let him in to Alain’s bedroom. He slept fitfully, his chest straining with the effort to breathe. Tansy sat on the floor, her eyes closed, her head resting on the mattress. One slim hand encompassed Alain’s foot.
Iron bands squeezed Christophe’s chest. His throat swelled. Alain, his boy, fiery spots all over him, so frail a breeze could blow him away. And Tansy — his anger with her meant nothing now. She needed him.
He caressed the back of her neck. “Tansy.”
She breathed out a great sigh without opening her eyes. He lowered himself to the floor behind her, straddled her with his knees, and wrapped his arms around her. He pressed his forehead into the hair piled on the back of her head and tightened his arms around her.
When Alain awoke, Christophe unfolded himself gently so as not to wake Tansy. He passed a hand over Alain’s head, looking into the eyes bleary with fever. Alain raised his arms to him. Christophe gathered him up and hugged him gently. He sat him in the rocker for a moment, then lifted Tansy onto the bed.
~ ~ ~
When Tansy woke, Maman was erecting another steam tent to relieve Alain’s breathing. He was in Frederick’s lap, she saw by the trousers emerging from the bottom of the covering sheet. How kind he was. Martine had chosen a good man.
She had no memory of having climbed into the bed, but her mind was clearer now she had slept. She watched Maman renew the steam, pouring boiling water from the copper kettle, both Alain and Frederick shrouded under the tent. She listened to Alain’s wheezing breath ease until she could barely hear him. Maman sat beside her and together they listened to the clock ticking in the next room. Fifteen minutes, the doctor had said.
Maman stuck her fingers in the pan under the tent. “It’s cool.” She folded back the sheet and Tansy stretched out her arms to take Alain. Her mind froze for a moment. Not Frederick? Christophe rose, his eyes fixed on her. A guttural exhalation moaned from her chest. She gripped Christophe’s sleeves and rested her forehead on Alain’s shoulder. Her body shuddered, struggling for breath. She felt Christophe’s kiss on her hair.
Estelle took her by the shoulders and moved her to the bed. “Sit down, Tansy.”
Christophe lay her boy across her lap. Alain’s breathing still rasped. “Christophe came to see me, Maman,” he said, and closed his eyes.
“Yes, yes, he did,” she said, her voice harsh from the tightness in her throat.
Christophe sat beside her, one hand on Alain’s thigh. He reached for her hand and gripped it. They sat together silently, the three of them.
When Alain’s lungs strained again, Christophe held him against his shoulder like a small child and walked the floor with him. Night fell. Alain’s fever rose.
They lay him on his bed and fanned him and cooled him with wet cloths. Martine came in with a bucket of ice just off the steamship. They packed it under his arms, around his neck, over his chest. When the fever plummeted, he shivered. They wrapped him up and held him close.
The fever spiked again while Dr. Benoit was there. He forced Alain to swallow a strong fever brew he’d made from roots and herbs, including quinine and a double measure of willow bark, then took the chair nearby to wait. Martine and Frederick sat in the parlor, her head on his shoulder, his arms around her. Estelle paced the floor. Christophe and Tansy sat on either side of Alain’s bed, fanning him, murmuring to him.
At two o’clock in the morning, as suddenly as a spring rain, Alain broke into a heavy sweat. Beads of it rolled off his forehead, dripped from his neck into the hollow at the base of his throat. In only minutes, the sheet under his bo
dy was damp, then soaked.
“Is this it?” Tansy whispered. “This is the break?”
Dr. Benoit wiped a hand over his weary face. “This is it. The crisis is past.”
Tansy clutched Alain to her and erupted with wrenching sobs. Christophe reached across Alain’s body to clasp her neck and bowed his head.
By morning, Alain’s eyes were clear. He was weak, his drying spots itched, and he said his eyes ached. But he was better. So much better. Tansy lay down next to him on the bed and slept, his arm cradled against her breast.
When she woke, she was in the bed alone. A breeze gently lifted the sheer curtains. A murmur of voices came from the other room. She combed her fingers through her hair and sat up. Feeling light and dried-out, she went to find her son. And Christophe. Her loves.
Christophe looked haggard, bags under his eyes, his linen wrinkled and limp, yet he seemed at peace sitting at the table with Alain in his lap. She stood in the doorway a moment, watching them. How right they looked together, Alain leaning back against Christophe’s chest, Christophe’s arm wrapped across his body, loose, but secure. How could it be right that Valere never had, never would, hold his son the way Christophe did?
Martine looked up from urging Alain to eat a slice of pineapple. “Here, Tansy, come sit down.” She pulled out a chair and set a plate of grapes and cheese in front of her. “Eat.”
Tansy shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
“Eat, I said.” Martine poured her a tall glass of water from the jug. “And drink that. Then you can have a cup of coffee.”
Tansy laughed weakly. “Who knew you were such a mother hen?”
“Well, I guess I didn’t know it myself.” She held out her hands for Alain. “Come here, sweetheart. Let’s get you cleaned up and have a nap.”
Alone with Christophe, Tansy had nothing to say. She rolled a grape around on her plate. Sunlight from the open courtyard doors lit his face, calm and self-contained, though shadows under his eyes showed he hadn’t slept.
Tansy Page 19
