The Inn at Hidden Run

by Olivia Newport

  “Are we ready?” Mrs. Haskins unpinned her hat and hung it on a hook. “No point in trying to organize, now is there? We just have to give out what we have for as long as it lasts.”

  “Right,” Eliza said, “and then tea and broth after that for as long as the jars last.”

  “If the able-bodied would just bring back the empties more often. We can disinfect them properly and replenish more quickly.” Mrs. Bullock turned and shuffled toward the kitchen.

  The morning was bustling. Eliza’s mind shifted between the unabating stream of requests coming through the door—today they had bread, rice, grits, sugar, dried peas, onions, coffee, and soap to offer—and the scene awaiting at Canfield if she could manage to get away from the cathedral complex. With just a couple of volunteers to help them care for fifty children, young Sister Ruth and Sister Helen were nearly vanquished by the challenge. The woman who lived there, according to Sister Ruth, offered little help beyond looking after the six orphans who had been her charge before the crisis. Sister Ruth’s orphans never had enough clean clothes. Each one who arrived required a carbolic bath and fresh clothes, but no one had time to wash the ones they arrived in. The cook did his best, but he never knew what he would have to work with to prepare meals for more than sixty people. He conscripted some of the older orphans to help, but keeping everyone fed was a daybreak-to-sundown endeavor.

  And Canfield was no longer exempt from the fever. A Canfield child had fallen ill and become the first patient of a new infirmary opened on Market Street—Church Home and the Sisters House infirmary were too full to take the child. If Eliza’s house belonged to her, rather than her parents, she would gladly throw open the doors and convert its empty rooms to wards for the sick. She had not quite worked out how to manage her mother’s response if she did so.

  Eliza eyed a sack of flour and fifty pounds of potatoes in the corner of the pantry. If she could not go herself, perhaps she could send the St. Mary’s cart with someone else to drive it.

  Ned had fallen ill. Sister Thecla did not think he would survive.

  Doors opened and closed, but Eliza could not leave the pantry to see which of the sisters were coming and going from their calls. Probably they were returning only for more tea and broth, not stopping even long enough to eat whatever meager lunch Mrs. Bullock had cobbled together between the duties she had assumed on behalf of the sick. Eliza’s stomach growled. Without Callie, she was leaving her home in the mornings with a far less fortifying breakfast, but she would not say anything. She had crackers from her own cupboard in her bag.

  “Eliza! Mrs. Bullock!”

  The shout came from the parlor.

  “Go,” Mrs. Haskins said before calmly turning to the next person in line.

  Eliza hustled through the house to the parlor to find Sister Clare and Mrs. Bullock bending over Sister Constance on a sofa.

  “She is very ill,” Sister Clare said.

  “It is only a slight headache,” Sister Constance said. “I just needed a moment of rest.”

  “It’s one o’clock,” Eliza said. “Have you eaten at all today?”

  “I don’t care to eat anything just now.” Sister Constance started to push herself upright on the sofa, but her weakness was clear to all.

  “I will bring a plate all the same,” Mrs. Bullock said.

  “No thank you, Mrs. Bullock,” Sister Constance said. “But I do have some correspondence to attend to. I wonder if you can take some dictation. I would like to acknowledge some generous offerings we have received.”

  “Sister Constance,” Mrs. Bullock said, “I do think you should rest.”

  “Yes. You should go to bed for a true rest,” Sister Clare said.

  “I agree.” Eliza sat on the sofa and put a hand under Sister Constance’s elbow.

  Sister Constance shook off the touch, and this time her effort to sit up was successful. “A glass of water will be welcome. That is all I need for the headache. Then I will make more calls later.”

  Eliza caught Sister Clare’s eyes. Sister Constance was flushed with fever.

  “Might we bring you a pillow?” Sister Clare said. “You might as well be comfortable as you work on your correspondence.”

  “I suppose there is no harm in that, if you insist,” Sister Constance said. “You are all fussing too much.”

  Mrs. Bullock left briefly and returned with a glass of water and writing materials. Sister Clare fetched a pillow. When they had made Sister Constance as comfortable as she would allow, Eliza had in mind her own effort for Sister Constance’s good.

  Dr. Armstrong.

  He lived nearby, and he was treating hundreds of patients in the neighborhood around the church. She would find him.

  Outside, Eliza batted a mosquito away from her face. Fever had been sweeping down Alabama Street. Unless he was off to Canfield, the doctor wouldn’t have gone far. If Eliza stood on the street and waited, he was likely to emerge from one of the houses within view sooner or later. She covered her nose and mouth with a handkerchief and paced up Alabama. “Help!”

  Eliza rotated toward the cry.

  A woman leaned on a half-rotted porch railing. “We need the undertaker. It’s been two days, and no one has brought us coffins.”

  Coffins. More than one.

  Eliza swallowed. “How many?”

  The woman pointed to the black sign. “Two adults. One child.”

  “How many are sick now?”

  “My other boy.” The woman’s voice, dispassionate until now, caught. “And me.”

  “Have you anyone to nurse you?”

  She shook her head.

  Eliza took note of the house. “I will let the sisters at St. Mary’s know. They have soup and tea.”

  “I’ve heard. But I cannot leave.”

  “And you should not.”

  “The coffins …”

  “I’ll remember.”

  The woman withdrew, and Eliza stood for a moment, eyes closed and stomach revolting at the thought of two days inside that closed-up house in the heat with three corpses. Then she pushed out her breath and opened her eyes.

  There was Dr. Armstrong, four houses down but walking in Eliza’s direction. She hustled toward him.

  “I will come,” he said when she explained. “I was headed near there. I need to restock my medicine bag.”

  Sister Constance waved him off as soon as he darkened the door. “I have not the fever. It is only a headache. It will go off at sunset.” She lounged on the sofa but held correspondence in her hands.

  Eliza looked at Mrs. Bullock, who sat with her dictation pad and pencil and shrugged.

  Dr. Armstrong picked up Sister Constance’s wrist to count her pulse and scrutinized her face. “Perhaps you are right. But you should go to bed and rest.”

  “And on a comfortable mattress,” Mrs. Bullock said. “We have one that is not being used.”

  “I will not hear of it,” Sister Constance said.

  “You must rest.” Dr. Armstrong was firm.

  “Perhaps. But not on a mattress. I have taken a pledge of poverty, and I will not forsake it for a headache.” Sister Constance paused and looked away. “And if it should be yellow jack, the mattress would have to be burned, and that would be a waste.”

  Mrs. Bullock stood up. “Then I think we have finished today’s correspondence, and I will help you to your bed.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bullock,” Dr. Armstrong said.

  “Yes,” Eliza said, “thank you.”

  When Sister Constance wobbled, Mrs. Bullock held steady and led her from the room.

  “I will check on her this evening,” Dr. Armstrong said. “I must get some more quinine and arsenic. Miz Eliza, have you any extra handkerchiefs in your supply pantry?”

  “I believe so.”

  Eliza sent the doctor on his way with her contribution to his supplies. She’d barely closed the door behind him and was mentally organizing herself to return to Mrs. Haskins’s side and the afternoon throng in
the pantry when the main door opened—weakly—again.

  “Sister Thecla!”

  Eliza caught the nun in her arms.

  “Sister Clare!” Eliza called.

  For the second time in an hour, footsteps came from around the house.

  “The poor woman I have just seen,” Sister Thecla said. “I could do nothing for her but ease her death.”

  “That is not nothing,” Eliza said.

  “I’m sorry, but I have the fever,” Sister Thecla said. “Give me a cup of tea, and then I shall go to bed.”

  “You will have the mattress,” Mrs. Bullock said. “I will put a fresh sheet on it.”

  “I will have neither,” Sister Thecla said, “for you would have to burn them both.”

  Sister Clare led Sister Thecla away.

  The hours in the pantry passed swiftly because of the immensity of need. But they passed without pleasure. Those who came cried out with heartbreaking circumstances two or three women in the pantry could not change. Whenever Eliza crept out for a moment, hoping for news of the sisters who had fallen ill, she only found Sister Clare trying to manage in the kitchen without Mrs. Bullock, who was the only one nursing Sisters Constance and Thecla.

  After the pantry closed for the day and Mrs. Haskins went home, Eliza faced the task of sorting the crates delivered to the back door that afternoon. They’d already begun rummaging through the contents to meet the day’s needs. Now she inventoried what remained and arranged contents on the shelves for tomorrow.

  And waited for Dr. Armstrong, who had promised to return.

  At eight o’clock, he pronounced both sisters ill with yellow fever. Though his diagnosis was no surprise, the certainty rent the hearts of the household.

  “Let me stay and help care for them,” Eliza said. “There’s nothing for me at home.”

  Mrs. Bullock shook her head. “They wouldn’t have it. Mrs. Vaughan is coming. I’ve already sent word. She’s one of the best nurses, and Sister Thecla has asked for her.”

  “Of course.” Eliza sucked in her disappointment. The sisters should have a trained and experienced nurse. “But I want to do something for them.”

  “Pray,” Mrs. Bullock said. “That would mean the most to them.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Coffee. Check. Definitely. The mug was a pleasing enough shade of blue, and wide enough to hold a full-fledged latte with a thick layer of frothed milk and optional whipped cream. But it felt like the pottery mixture included a secret ingredient of cement, and Jillian couldn’t see herself filling and lifting it multiple times every day indefinitely.

  Breakfast. Check. Well, sort of. Jillian had eaten leftover beef and snow peas zapped in the microwave, a perfectly nutritious choice.

  To-do list. Check. Quite detailed, in fact.

  Files. Check. Organized in order of priority and time commitment.

  This was Friday. If Jillian was to have any hope of a real weekend, she would have to plow through the work today. Last night she’d stayed up late catching up on the half day lost to looking for someone who didn’t need finding after all. She was ready to quote on two out of three proposals, Mrs. Answald’s project was ready to take to the FedEx store for careful packaging—a day later than Jillian planned—and she had at least rough notes about how else to go about locating Annabel Rosario in St. Louis, so she didn’t have to duck Raúl’s next call. With a bit of luck, her day would also include uncovering where Meri’s first name came from.

  Her mother’s antique clock, sitting on the bookcase in Jillian’s office, still ran as long as it received twice-yearly checkups at the Hands-On Clock Repair Shop. The hands ticked toward the opening hour of the FedEx office, and Jillian dropped a fresh thumb drive, with only the one project on it, into her favorite canvas bag before sliding pages printed in well-saturated color on her best-quality paper into a clear plastic envelope and fastened it closed. A standard business envelope with her final invoice went on top.

  “Well, top of the morning to you.”

  Try as she might, Jillian could never master lifting only one eyebrow at her father the way he could at her. “The morning is half-gone, Dad.”

  “It’s eight o’clock.”

  “You’re taking advantage of the privilege of working from home.”

  “Where on earth did you get such a slavish work ethic?” Nolan dropped into the upholstered chair across from her desk.

  “Just trying to keep up. First on the list, be able to tell Mrs. Answald that FedEx is in possession of her project in the manner she specified.”

  “Perfect,” Nolan said. “On your way back, you can stop by the Inn.”

  “You’re home today. Why don’t you stop by the Inn?”

  “Because I found Meri in the big city yesterday.” Nolan grinned. “A single young woman among a ten-county metropolitan statistical area population of nearly three million people. Tag, you’re it.”

  “Dad. Some people might suggest there was divine intervention involved.”

  “I concede the point, counselor.” Nolan raised his coffee mug. “Seriously, Jillian. You’re the genealogist. I think she needs to hear from you what you know about who the Canfields were. And while you’re at it, reinforce that I’m not the only one on Team Meri.”

  “But you’re the affable team captain with the indomitable spirit.”

  “I wear the title proudly.”

  “Fine.” Jillian gathered up her canvas bag, phone, and keys. “I’m in full agreement with the plan to have someone with her as much as we can, but you have to take your turn.”

  He saluted her. “Yes, Deputy Captain.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “What happened to affable?”

  “Out the window.”

  Jillian’s computer sounded the arrival of an email, and she leaned toward the screen—and squealed.

  “Jillian Siobhan! What got into you?”

  “My lost heir in St. Louis answered my email.” Jillian clicked the message open. “It’s really her, Dad. I found her!”

  “What about Mrs. Answald?”

  “You’re right.” Jillian pulled her fingers from the keyboard. “Annabel gave me a number. FedEx first, and then I can call her.”

  “Don’t forget Meri.”

  “I won’t.”

  After the FedEx stop, Jillian phoned Annabel Rosario but got a voice mail box. She left a message, but promised herself she would keep calling until she got through, and moved on to the Inn.

  She parked in front and went in through the main doors. Meri whizzed across the broad hallway between the library on one side and the parlor on the other. Nia limped slowly from the kitchen through the dining room on Leo’s arm.

  Meri whizzed back in the other direction. “I can’t get her to sit down,” she said in Jillian’s direction. “I told her I’ll take care of everything.”

  “It’s not that bad.” Nia allowed Leo to pull out a chair in the dining room. “It’s been two days. I can do more than these control freaks allow.”

  Jillian was dubious but saw no reason to pick a fight.

  “It’s my fault,” Leo said. “Meri gave me the message. She even offered to write a note to Nia, and I said that wasn’t necessary because I would see her before I left to get my load of wood. I’m the one who forgot.”

  “Meri is safe,” Jillian said. “Let’s focus on that.”

  “Agreed,” Nia said.

  Meri pulled another chair from under the table and a pillow from a small rocker under the window. “Elevate your leg. It’s swelling again. I’ll get you some ice.”

  “I’ll get the ice.” Leo ducked back into the kitchen.

  Jillian sucked in the corners of her mouth to keep from laughing. Nia did need looking after, but two people constantly hovering would fracture her tolerance into more pieces than crunching fall leaves outside.

  “Can you spare Meri for a few minutes?” Jillian said.

  “Please,” Nia said.

  “But we’
re booked full up for the entire weekend,” Meri said. “There’s still a lot to do to be ready.”

  “If Jillian wants to see you, I’m sure she has a reason,” Nia said. “Go. Use the library.”

  “I can dust while we talk,” Meri said.

  “Or you can just talk while you talk,” Nia said. “It’s all right.”

  In the library, a room Jillian admired but rarely sat in during her visits to the Inn, they settled into opposite matching champagne-colored Victorian spoon-back tufted armchairs with a round mahogany side table between them.

  “I thought you might want to know something about the name Canfield,” she said.

  “You found something?” Meri’s head tilted.

  “I haven’t yet tied it specifically to your family, but there is some interesting backdrop.” Jillian explained the basic history of Martha Canfield’s philanthropic work in the South, particularly Memphis.

  “She was a white woman?” Meri asked.

  Jillian nodded. “The orphanage was established for black children, though there was a brief time during the 1878 yellow fever epidemic when it served children of all races and denominations. It closed in 1885. If the name came into your family because of an association with the orphanage, and stayed through the generations, it must have been a positive association.”

  “I’m pretty sure Canny would just as soon the memory of it had faded away before it reached him,” Meri said.

  “Well, I’m glad it didn’t,” Jillian said. “The fact that it has lasted this long means something, and that will help us get to the root of your family tree—at least if it’s connected to Canfield Asylum in Memphis.”

  “So that’s where you’re going to look?”

  “I’m going to try. I’m sure I can’t find direct records just floating around on the internet, but if I work my way back through your family tree with the information you’ve provided, and perhaps use some of my networks with other genealogists, it might well lead us there.”