The Inn at Hidden Run

by Olivia Newport

  “Yes, she would.” As if August heat were not enough, constant dampness now soaked through every layer Eliza wore, no matter how carefully she selected her wardrobe, and she spent half her time outdoors swatting at mosquitos.

  “How are your relatives?” Eliza asked.

  “Dey be fine so far.” Callie stacked Eliza’s dishes. “No fever in da house. Dey say I should stay here and not visit. Look after you because you doing fine work.”

  “Your sister’s little boy?”

  “He be just fine. Dey keep him inside. Da girls look after him while da grown-ups go to work.”

  “If they need something, you let me know.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But I send messages, and dey say dey be fine.”

  Eliza sucked in her cheeks and said nothing more. The adults in that house had been born slaves, as had Callie. She hadn’t seen where they lived, but she knew enough about the general part of town to know there were probably too many people in too small a space. At least Callie was here now, in a neighborhood not affected by the fever.

  Yet.

  “We need a cart, Miz Eliza,” Callie said. “We have vegetables from da gardens for the Sisters House.”

  “Yes. I’ll see what I can do when I get over there today. We need them. That is certain. If the wagon is free, I’ll send someone with it at some point.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Eliza pinned on her hat and gathered her bag, the umbrella, and the small notebook she had begun carrying to keep track of what needed to be done in the pantry. She made sure she had a fresh handkerchief. As much as she tried to steel her stomach, at times the stench in the street overtook her and she had to block it from her nostrils as she walked. Death, and the efforts to combat it, hung ugly, blistering, and unmerciful in the air.

  She was only four short blocks from the Sisters House, and her mind on the first tasks she must undertake upon arrival, when a man stopped her in the street.

  “Are you going to the sisters?”

  His garb was worn but had once been a well-tailored suit, though Eliza doubted it had been made for him. It did not fit at all well. Too short in the arms, too long in the legs, too wide in the shoulders. Eliza dragged her mind from these irrelevant details to his face, where pleading, mournful brown eyes filled the round shape.

  “Yes, I am,” she said.

  “Will you take this note? It’s urgent.” He pressed it into her hand and strode quickly past before she could question or refuse him—not that she would have refused him.

  Eliza opened the single sheet. It gave an address on High Street.

  Father and mother are lying dead in the house, brother is dying. Send me some help. No money. Sallie U.

  High Street was not far from the Sisters House. Eliza hastened her steps.

  “Sister Constance?” she called when she pushed through the front door.

  Sister Constance’s steps answered, and she came into the hall.

  “A man gave me this,” Eliza said.

  Sister Constance read the note. “Another one. Was the man ill?”

  Eliza shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  In a matter of days, since Sisters Constance and Thecla returned from New York, not only had the sisters undertaken the expanded pantry and dispensary, which Eliza helped to run, but they had begun taking patients into an infirmary. It was not enough.

  “Do you have a nurse to send?” Eliza said.

  “A true nurse? No. Everyone on my list is working herself to the bone as it is.”

  “When do the nursing sisters from New York arrive?”

  “Any day now, I pray.”

  “Shall I go inquire at the Howard Association?”

  “It will do no good,” Sister Constance said. “I spoke with the relief committee yesterday. Even the Howard Association no longer has enough nurses—not that they ever did. Doctors and nurses get sick too. And perish, God rest their souls.”

  And sisters. Eliza offered a silent prayer that the Sisters of St. Mary’s would weather this epidemic, that God would reward the selflessness of their service with their own health. God sends rain on the just and the unjust alike, Matthew said in his Gospel, but did he also not say that with God all things are possible?

  “We will have to send someone,” Sister Constance said. “I’ll have to look at my book and see which of us might be able to squeeze in a visit.”

  “It sounds urgent.”

  “As they all are.”

  “I’ll go,” Eliza said. “Tell me what to do.”

  Sister Constance’s eyebrows went up. “I believe our bargain is for you to do valuable, needful work here that allows you to keep your mother’s mind at rest as much as possible.”

  Eliza pointed at the note in Sister Constance’s hand. “But these people might be dying.”

  “And so might be family members of everyone who comes to the pantry and dispensary.” Sister Constance’s face was unyielding. “If you go to High Street, who will open the pantry? There is already a line.”

  Eliza nodded. She’d seen the line when she came in but blocked its significance because of the urgency of the note.

  “I will send Sister Thecla,” Sister Constance said.

  “Yes, Sister Constance. Oh, will the wagon be free at all today, even for a few minutes?”

  “Do you have vegetables?”

  Eliza nodded.

  “I will make sure it is free, then. We need to be able to offer the best nourishment possible.”

  “Callie will be ready.”

  The shops had been closed for nearly two weeks, ever since Kate Bionda’s death of yellow fever frightened half the city’s population into dispersing in the space of three days. Some steamers and trains carried in supplies funded by donations, and men hungry for work would unload the cargo, but it was difficult to say what would be available. It might be something useful, or it might be something donors wanted to send regardless of whether it was helpful. Lined winter gloves, for instance, and secondhand embroidered camisoles did little to relieve the needs in Memphis, yet they turned up in the relief barrels. Sister Constance spent long chunks of her days in correspondence trying to arrange for goods that would genuinely bring relief or the funds to purchase what they needed for the growing numbers of people clamoring for help from St. Mary’s.

  “There are tea and broth in the kitchen,” Sister Constance said. “It should be ready before too much longer. I will remind Mrs. Bullock to bring some jars to you as soon as she fills them.”

  Eliza nodded. She took only a few moments to organize herself in the pantry. She could have used the help of some of the girls from the orphanage, but Sister Constance was emphatic that the children not be exposed to visitors at this stage of the epidemic. Despite precautions, already some were ill, and the number of orphans swelled every day—but not the number of volunteers. Whenever Eliza had a glimpse of Sister Frances, she looked more haggard. For help Eliza relied only on Mrs. Bullock or Miss Murdock, when they could spare a few minutes, or a dwindling number of volunteers from the church.

  She glanced through the shelves, fixing in her mind what was available today. It would all have to be rationed, and for each request she would have only seconds to make decisions about what she could give out based only on scant information or her own assessment of the physical condition of the inquirers. Was sanitation adequate? If there was no water, what was the point in offering a bar of soap? How far away was water for any purpose, and was there anyone at home healthy and strong enough to carry it? If she gave clean, uninfected clothing or pillowcases, could the person be relied on to burn the old in order to stop any infection they might contain? Was someone in the home well enough to prepare fresh food before it spoiled, or would it be better to send tins? How many people were in the home, and did they have any food at all on the shelves? Were there any infants who should be a priority for canned milk? Every day, it seemed new situations added to the grid of questions Eliza must quickly run through in her mind
as she assessed needs and assembled bundles in response.

  She monitored the shelf of canned milk carefully all day, asking questions about the presence of children in the home of everyone who requested some. From the start, it was clear the supply would not last the day. She might or might not have any to begin the day tomorrow. Already, in less than a week running the pantry, she had learned she couldn’t harbor for tomorrow what someone needed today, but she could stiffen the standards as the supply tightened.

  “Do you have an infant younger than a year old?” she asked a beleaguered father at midafternoon who asked for milk.

  “He’s a year and a half.”

  “I’ve got some potted meats that are quite soft,” Eliza said, “and a few eggs.”

  “The wife asked for milk. Hers dried up, and he won’t stop crying.”

  Eliza swallowed hard. Everyone had a story that could crack her resolve if she let it, and the pantry would be empty by eleven in the morning every day.

  “I’m sorry. We have to save the milk for the babies. If you need fresh diapers and a clean dressing gown for your son, I can give you those also.”

  “Diapers?”

  “How about half a dozen?”

  He nodded. “But we still need milk.”

  “I’m sorry. He’s too old.”

  “Our neighbors got milk here this morning.” His voice filled the room now. “He sent me down here. Their boy just turned two. How can my boy be too old?”

  “My baby is only seven months,” a woman shouted from down the line. “You can’t give him the last of the milk and then tell me you don’t have any.”

  Eliza stared into the man’s eyes. “That’s why. We have only a few cans left.”

  “So you are saying if I have a dire need, I should have it early in the day.”

  “I am saying I cannot give you milk, but I can give you potted meats, eggs, diapers, a clean dressing gown, and tea and broth if anyone in the home is sick.”

  He huffed but nodded.

  Most of the sisters were still out on house calls when she ducked her head into the infirmary at the end of the afternoon.

  “Mrs. Bullock has your supper ready,” she told Sister Hughetta.

  “Please tell her I’ll eat it cold later.” Sister Hughetta looked up from her desk at the end of the room. “There’s no one to keep watch here.”

  “I’ll stay,” Eliza said.

  “Sister Constance warned us about you.”

  “Warned you?”

  “She says you are very eager to help, but we’re not to let you take care of the patients.”

  From the doorway, Eliza scanned the room. “Everyone looks restful at the moment.”

  “They are. I am listening for changes in breathing that might indicate distress.”

  “When is the last time you had a good rest, Sister Hughetta?”

  The nun did not answer.

  Eliza pointed to a hard, straight-back chair. “This is what I propose. You bring that chair over here, to the doorway. I will sit in it very quietly and listen to changes in breathing. You will go eat a hot meal. Then you will go lie down, at least for a couple of hours—longer if you wish. I will remain here until you awaken or until one of the other nurses comes on duty.”

  “Sister Constance was quite clear.”

  “I will not approach the patients,” Eliza said. “If I hear the slightest change in breathing, I will immediately call for you. Immediately. I will not put anyone at risk with the slightest hesitation. Neither will I doze off in my vigil.”

  Sister Hughetta scraped her chair back and glanced at one of the orphan girls sick in a bed. “Have you been to Canfield Asylum recently?”

  “It is more difficult since I began organizing the pantry.”

  “I pray the colored orphans are safe away from the city limits.”

  “I join your prayers.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Dad, I really, really have to do some work today.”

  Nolan handed Jillian a plate of scrambled eggs, but she didn’t even sit at the breakfast bar to eat them.

  “Raúl is on my back about the St. Louis thing,” she said, “and Mrs. Answald calls me three times a day to see if this is the day I’m finally going to FedEx everything she needs for her family tree. My journal article is due in two weeks, and I don’t even have an outline yet. And if I don’t review those proposals soon, I’m going to miss out on some serious work for the next three months.”

  “I understand.” Nolan nudged a glass of orange juice in her direction. “You’ve gone over and above the last two days on the Meri front. I know it’s been distracting.”

  “I tried, Dad.” Jillian took a fork from the drawer. “I even tried talking to Meri after she blew up at Nia yesterday. It was like being a match in a tinderbox. I’m in over my head with the relational stuff.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

  “Don’t sweet-talk me. You’re working at home today. Your turn.”

  Nolan had his own pile of briefs to read to prepare for three meetings tomorrow in Denver. But he had connived far more than Jillian to get involved with Meri. He could hardly play the “too busy” card now.

  “I’ll do what I can to dampen the tinderbox,” he said. “Eat some breakfast. You drink too much coffee and don’t eat enough real food.”

  “Dad.”

  “I know. Grown-up and all that.”

  She took her eggs and orange juice into her office, but she’d be back before long for some of her fancy-schmancy coffee in another mug she would ultimately reject as not meeting her specifications.

  Nolan slid the rest of the eggs from the skillet onto his own plate, buttered his wheat toast, filled his cup with pure unadulterated coffee, and considered his strategy for the day.

  As soon as the clock ticked past eight o’clock, he called Nia. She might be in the middle of the breakfast buffet, but if Jillian’s reports of her remorse were accurate, Nia would take his call.

  “It was a good strategy,” he said.

  “Snooping into personal belongings?” Nia said.

  “No. Whatever you found by that method would be inadmissible in court.”

  “Nolan, don’t mess with me.”

  “Fine. But using a technicality to stall was a great strategy. Lawyers do it all the time when we need more time to get a case together. Nothing illegal or unethical about it.”

  “It was Leo’s idea.”

  “I’d like to think he listens to something I say once in a while, but he probably just watches too many legal dramas on television.”

  “Nolan, please, get to the point. I’m sorry as all get-out and didn’t sleep a wink because of the mess I made. But we know what we know, and we have to help Meri.” Nia’s desperation left her mouth, bounced off a cell tower somewhere, and landed in Nolan’s ear.

  “This is what I need,” Nolan said. “Carte blanche.”

  “Whatever you need.”

  “I have to make some calls that are already on my schedule today, but first chance I get, I’ll come to the Inn. I’ll invite Meri out—lunch, ice cream, coffee at the Cage, a walk, it doesn’t matter what. No matter what’s going on at the Inn, you have to say she can leave with me.”

  “Yes, anything.”

  Now relief bounced off the cell tower.

  The phone calls and making notes took all morning. One of the trade-offs for Nolan’s working at home two days a week was functioning without his assistant within voice distance. He called her with a set of instructions and emailed the files she needed so he’d have the documents necessary for tomorrow’s meetings. He hadn’t heard a peep out of Jillian all day. Down in the kitchen though, he saw evidence that she had emerged long enough to make a sandwich and carry it back to her office. He glanced at the clock on the wall. The morning had bled into the afternoon, and he’d probably missed his chance to take Meri to lunch.

  He stuck his head in Jillian’s office, hesitated a moment, and stepped a
ll the way in to massage her hunched shoulders.

  “If that’s your way of telling me I should sit up straight, I know.” She relaxed under his palpating fingers. “That feels great.”

  “I’m going now,” he said. “Is there anything you need first?”

  “Six more hours in the day?”

  “I will try to perform that miracle as soon as I accomplish the first one I promised for today.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “And I’ll cook tonight. I can shop on my way back.”

  “Dad. Do we have to have that conversation every single day?”

  “Have you no faith in me at all?”

  “Great faith! Just not for shopping.”

  “Okay then. I’ll pick something up and keep things simple for both of us.”

  “Now that’s a plan I can believe.”

  Nolan rummaged in the fridge for some sliced roasted turkey and pushed it into a folded piece of bread to munch while he walked toward the Inn. By the time he got there, extricated Meri, and walked with her into town, it would be at least two thirty. He should have something in his stomach.

  He entered the Inn through the front door. The parlor, with its vintage reception desk, was unattended, but it didn’t take long to discern where the activity in the house was. He traversed the front parlors through to the dining room.

  “You’ll have to do it again,” Nia said to Meri.

  They stood beside the antique oak sidebar. Nia held out a rag and tin of furniture wax to Meri.

  “I already did it exactly the way I’ve done it two other times since I got here,” Meri said. “What you’re asking is unreasonable.”

  “I believe it is my prerogative to determine when a task is completed to satisfaction,” Nia said. “This sidebar dates to the original era of the house. It garners a great deal of attention with the guests, and it must be polished impeccably.”

  “Do you seriously expect me to believe that someone can find fault with the way I’ve polished a hundred-year-old piece of furniture?” Meri’s voice rose. “I don’t think that’s why people come to Canyon Mines.”

  “Please do as I ask.”

  Meri snatched the rag and wax. “You’re punishing me.”