“Will you stop babbling!”
He looked hurt. “Sorry, lass,” he said. “I kinda figured you might be interested.”
“You’re mad, stark raving mad. Carrying that much money around, deliberately asking someone to hit you over the head. Sometimes I think you haven’t got a bit of sense!”
“I’ve got a pistol in my waistband, kept my coattail whipped back so everyone could see it.”
“Your cheeks are pale.”
“It’s been a long day. I’m a little tired. I’ll just take this into the bedroom and put it in the safe. What’s that I smell? Have you been baking bread?”
“I cooked a big meal. Everything’s cold now.”
“No problem, lass. You can warm it up right quick.”
“Go to hell!” I snapped.
Jeremy grinned and sauntered into the bedroom with the bag. I brushed a tear from my eye, incensed to find it there. I took the food back into the kitchen and put the vegetables back on top of the stove and put the chicken in the oven. I began to slice bread, hardly aware of what I was doing, so relieved I felt weak. I could hear him moving around in the bedroom, and it was a lovely sound, sweeter than the finest music to my ears.
When the food was warm, I took everything back into the dining room. It was dark outside now. The lamps filled the apartment with a pleasant golden glow. I opened the wine, poured it, took a sip. It was taking him a terribly long time in the bedroom. Perhaps he was counting the money. Half of it was his, I was going to insist on that. He could divide it among the families of the men who had been killed and Randolph and the others. He could do anything he wanted with it. I took another sip of wine and carrying the glass, moved into the parlor, growing a bit impatient now.
“You might hurry,” I called. “I refuse to warm it up a second time.”
“Be right with you, lass.”
His voice sounded peculiar, strained. He was tired. I was going to see that he went right to bed after dinner. I had been much too hard on him, I decided. I was going to keep my distance, and I certainly wasn’t going to encourage familiarity, but there was no need for me to be quite so cool and distant. If we were going to be living in such close quarters for the next two or three weeks, it might as well be on amiable terms. I finished the wine, feeling relaxed for the first time.
“Jeremy, do come on. Forget the money. I’m hungry.”
I heard him approaching. He moved hesitantly across the foyer and stepped through the doorway of the parlor and stood there just inside the door, looking at me. I set the glass down, instantly alarmed. His face was even paler, his skin like damp white wax. The shadows beneath his eyes were much darker, and he had a dazed, confused look, a furrow between his brows, his lips parted. I started toward him. He shook his head and held his arm out as though to push me back.
“No, no—don’t come near me. I feel funny, dizzy. I—I think I’m sick.”
“Jeremy!”
He shook his head again. He frowned, and then he crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.
Thirty-One
He was sleeping peacefully at last, at long last, and I was so weary I could hardly sit up, but I didn’t dare relax. I took the cloth out of the bowl of water on the bedside table and wrung it out and bathed his brow and smoothed his hair back. His cheeks were flushed, his skin warm, but at least it wasn’t burning as it had been off and on all during the night. He wasn’t tossing and turning and thrashing about so violently I had to use force to keep him in bed. He wasn’t shivering, his teeth rattling, his eyes wide open and glazed. He was sleeping. I wondered how long it would be before he had another seizure.
I bathed his cheeks. He moaned and murmured something in his sleep and rolled over on his side. The mattress sagged. The sheets were wringing wet from his perspiration. I’d have to change them. I’d have to get some food into him. Soup. I’d make soup. He had to eat something. I put the cloth back into the bowl of water and stood up straight and massaged the back of my neck. My bones felt as though they had been pulverized. My eyes were sore, lids heavy. I desperately needed sleep, just an hour or so. How long had it been since he had keeled over in the parlor? An eternity seemed to have gone by, but the thin, pale rays of sunlight seeping through the louvers informed me it was early morning. No more than twelve hours had passed.
Jeremy moaned again, shifted his position and then lay still. Several moments passed. Dare I leave him alone? I watched him, frowning, and I finally left the bedroom, moving quietly, wearily down the hallway to the kitchen. I built a fire in the stove and put a pot of coffee on to boil and tried to collect my thoughts. There was so much to do, so much to do, and I was so weary and sleepy and sore I could barely stand. I closed my eyes for just a moment and a hazy gray fog enveloped me and I stumbled, almost falling. I braced myself against the drainboard. I couldn’t give in. I couldn’t give way. I had to keep my eyes open. I had to keep busy.
The coffee began to boil. I poured a cup and drank it scalding hot. It helped just a little. I had a second cup, and then I washed vegetables and cut them up and put them on to boil and cut the beef into tiny cubes and put it in the pot and added salt. It would be at least an hour and a half before the soup was ready. I cut three oranges in half and squeezed the juice out into a glass and carried it back into the bedroom.
He was still sleeping. His face had lost the waxy pallor. His cheeks were a vivid pink, much too pink. I set the glass down on the bedside table, sat down on the edge of the bed and managed to lift his torso up, holding him in my arms. He groaned and opened his eyes and looked up at me with a confused expression.
“Wha—what—” he murmured.
Supporting him with one arm, I reached for the glass of orange juice.
“Drink this,” I said gently.
He scowled and shook his head and closed his eyes, leaning heavily against me. I could barely hold him up. My backbone felt as though it would snap in two. I lifted the rim of the glass to his lips, forced them open and tilted the glass. He swallowed. He opened his eyes again and grimaced and tried to push me away.
“Doan—don’t want—”
“Drink it.”
He struggled. I held him firmly and, somehow, managed to force him to drink all the juice. I eased him back onto the pillows, and he seemed to relax. The vivid flush had faded somewhat, but his forehead was warm when I stroked it. He was perspiring again. He breathed deeply and moaned again and blinked, lifting his eyelids to look at me. He squinted, as though I were far away and he couldn’t focus properly.
“Ma—Marietta?”
“I’m here, Jeremy.”
“No—no—shouldn’t be—”
“Don’t try to talk.”
“Fe—fever. Go. Lea—leave me. Dangerous—”
“Hush.”
“Conta—tagious. You—danger—”
He murmured something I couldn’t understand and then began to struggle with the sheets, pushing them down to his waist. I bathed his face again and bathed his torso with the damp, cool cloth. He relaxed, sleeping again. He was completely naked under the sheets. I had no idea how I had found the strength to drag him into the bedroom, undress him and get him into bed last night, but I had somehow. He had struggled, fighting me, delirious, finally collapsing on the bed in a dead heap. Boots, breeches, coat and waistcoat, shirt and neckcloth, somehow I had removed them and gotten him under the covers.
I dropped the cloth back into the bowl of water and carried the bowl into the kitchen. The soup was cooking nicely, simmering now, filling the room with a pleasant smell. I stirred it, tested the vegetables with a fork and added a few herbs. I fetched more water from the cistern in back and boiled it and set it aside to cool. I was still weary and sore, but the dreadful grogginess had vanished. The apartment was quiet, filled with dim, hazy sunlight. I longed to throw the shutters back and open the windows, but I didn’t dare. I stirred the soup and, when the water was cool, took it to the bedroom.
Jeremy was awake. He looked at me with
feverish blue eyes and tried to sit up. I shook my head and placed my hands on his shoulders and shoved him gently back onto the pillows. He frowned, wanting desperately to speak but too weak to do so. I smiled reassuringly and stroked his cheek.
“I’m going to bathe you again,” I said, “and then I’m going to change the sheets. Just—just lie still. All right?”
His skin was clammy with dry sweat now. The flush was gone. He fell asleep again as I bathed him with the cool water and continued to sleep as I pulled the covers off him and edged the sheet out from under him, rolling his body first to the left, then to the right, finally pulling the sheet free. It was much more difficult to get a fresh sheet under him. He was limp, heavy, resisting me in his sleep, but I managed at last, tucked the hem of the sheet under the mattress and tenderly covered him with clean sheet and counterpane.
Gathering up the soiled bedclothes, I put them in the hamper and then sat down in the chair beside the bed, weary, watching him, trying to think. My eyelids were growing heavy again. If only I could close them for just a few minutes … I mustn’t. I dared not. The soup would be ready in a little while. I had to feed him, and then I would have to leave him alone in the apartment while I went to fetch a doctor. Lucille had said a few brave doctors had remained in the city, doing what they could to help. I had to find one and persuade him to come here.
I frowned, contemplating the problem. How to find one? How to get him here? Hundreds of people were dying each day, thousands more were ill, raging with fever, in need of care, and the doctors who had stayed to combat the fever would be horribly overworked, going without sleep, making rounds all over New Orleans. The city was in chaos, and I didn’t dare leave Jeremy alone for more than an hour, two at the most. How was I going to locate a doctor and get him back here in that time? I didn’t know any doctors. I didn’t know where to start looking for one. I couldn’t just go out on the streets and search for a plaque in a window.
Plaque … window … I remembered the small, elegant bronze plaque in the window of a building near the pharmacy. I had passed it dozens of times when I was on my way to Lucille’s shop. Yes, Dr. Jean Paul Duvall. I remembered him well. Although I had never had occasion to consult him, he had come to Rawlins’ Place a number of times with his lovely quadroon mistress. He was tall, thin, extremely handsome, and the fashionable courtesans of the Quarter had flocked to him with imaginary ailments. He had treated them with impatient contempt, his manner brusque. I remembered one of the women complaining about him, deeply offended that he had turned her out of his office so that he could go nurse the poor.
“He calls it being dedicated,” she had wailed, “I call it madness. A man like that, those dark brown eyes, those silver temples, visiting river-bottom trash in squalid hovels when all of us pine to keep him occupied.”
I knew that if Dr. Duvall still had his practice he would undoubtedly be here in the city. It had been at least two and a half years since I had seen him. Would he remember me? My chances of finding him in his office were slim indeed, I realized that, but I could leave an urgent message. I might well be wasting my time, but I had to try.
Jeremy stirred in his sleep, restless again. He threw one arm out, slamming it back against the headboard, and then he sat up with a start, staring into space with wide, frightened eyes. The bedclothes fell down to his waist, exposing his damp torso. He mumbled angry, inaudible words, his cheeks flaming, and when I tried to ease him back down he shoved me viciously. I gripped his shoulders firmly, pushing him back onto the pillows, holding him there, and after a few moments the fight went out of him and he relaxed.
The color left his cheeks. His skin, pink and flushed before, took on a grayish pallor faintly tinged with yellow. Locks of damp brown hair clung to his forehead, plastered there with perspiration. I smoothed them back again, and he looked up at me, fully conscious now, fully aware of his surroundings. His lips were dry, beginning to chap.
“How—how long have I been—been here?” he asked weakly.
“Several hours. Since evening.”
“It—it’s the fever, lass.”
I shook my head vehemently. “We don’t know that yet. I’m going to get a doctor. We can’t be sure until he examines you.”
“I have it,” he murmured. His voice was barely a whisper. “You—you must stay away.”
“I’m going to nurse you.”
“N—no. Too risky.”
“Nonsense!”
“Can’t let you—”
“I’m not going to fight with you, Jeremy,” I said firmly. “You’re much too weak. When you have your strength back, when you’re up and about, we’ll fight all you like.”
“Stu—stubborn wench.”
“If you’re just now finding that out, you’re even denser than I gave you credit for being.”
“W—when—” he began feebly.
“Yes?”
“When I—get up—”
I waited. He struggled to get the words out, and, even in his illness, there was the suggestion of a smile on his dry, cracking lips. It was absolutely heartbreaking.
“When you get up?” I prompted.
“Go—going to beat—hell—out of you—”
“We’ll just see about that, Mr. Bond. Right now you’re going to stay in bed and do exactly what I say. I’ve made some soup. I’m going to go get it. You’re going to eat it.”
“Can—can’t eat.”
“Oh yes you can.”
I gave him a very stern look and, maintaining my front, moved briskly out of the bedroom. As soon as I reached the hall I stopped, closing my eyes, biting my lower lip. Tears I couldn’t control spilled over my lashes and streamed down my cheeks. Sobs welled up, and it was all I could do to hold them back. I couldn’t give way. I couldn’t. He mustn’t hear. The emotions swelled, and I clenched my fists, willing them away, praying for strength. Several moments passed. I brushed the tears from my cheeks and squared my shoulders and moved down the hall with a resolute expression.
Later. Later, when it was all over with, when Jeremy was well again, I could give way. Now I had to be strong. I had to be firm, cool, collected. I took the soup off the stove, took down a bowl and filled it. He was going to get well. He was. I was going to see to it. I refused even to think about the possibility of his not recovering. If Dr. Duvall wouldn’t come, I would get another doctor somehow and bring him here, at gunpoint if necessary. Jeremy was going to get well. I made myself that solemn promise, and I felt much better.
Putting soup, spoon, and napkin on a wooden tray, I carried it back to the bedroom. He was still awake, weak, so weak. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and that sickly pallor was even worse, as though the fever burning inside had left his skin an ashy gray faintly tinted with yellow. I gave him a no-nonsense look and set the tray down and helped him into a sitting position, propping the pillows behind him. He didn’t resist, but I could see that it took a terrible effort for him to sit up.
I sat down beside him and, dipping my finger into the bowl of water, moistened his lips.
“The soup is rich and thick. I want you to eat it all.”
He merely looked at me, too weak to say anything. His blue eyes were beginning to take on a distant, foggy look. It was growing harder and harder for him to focus. I filled the spoon with soup and lifted it to his lips. Jeremy opened his mouth, swallowed, meek and obedient.
“There. Isn’t it delicious?”
“Aw—awful—”
“How dare you! I may be a lot of things, Jeremy Bond, but a poor cook I’m not. This happens to be the best soup you’ve ever eaten. It’s perfectly delicious.”
He tried to make a face and couldn’t quite manage it. I continued to feed him until, with half a bowl still left, he raised his hand and pushed the spoon away, sagging limply against the pillows. I set the spoon aside and eased him back down. His body was relatively cool, the burning fever temporarily gone. With any luck, he would be able to sleep for an hour or so after eating, a
nd I could go to Dr. Duvall’s office. He closed his eyes as I pulled the sheet and counterpane up over his shoulders.
I took the tray back to the kitchen, threw out the soup still in the bowl and put bowl and spoon in a pan of water. Almost a quart of soup remained in the pot. I emptied it into a jar, sealed the jar and, opening the door of the larder, placed it into the cool, tin-lined recess. It would keep for a while, not for long. I’d have to go to the market again tomorrow. I would also have to wash dishes and launder the sheets and.… There were dozens of things to do, and I was glad. As long as I kept busy I could continue to ignore the terrible fear suspended over me like an ominous cloud, ready to swallow me up if I so much as acknowledged its presence.
Returning quietly to the bedroom, I found a lead pencil and a piece of paper and composed a message for Dr. Duvall, identifying myself and stressing the urgency. Then I put the message into my reticule along with several twenty-pound notes. Jeremy moaned softly as I stepped over to the mirror, but he didn’t wake up. The pale, haggard woman who gazed back at me in the glass seemed a total stranger.
The blue silk gown was crumpled, the puffed sleeves limp, the bodice clinging damply, moist with perspiration. The skirt was deplorably wrinkled, soiled with water spots. My hair hung in listless waves of dull, dark copper-red, and my face was drawn, skin taut across cheekbones. There was a dark, haunted look in my eyes, and my lids were etched with deep mauve-gray shadows. I looked ten years older, but that didn’t matter in the least. Nothing mattered now but Jeremy. I pushed the heavy waves back from my cheeks and tossed them over my shoulders, too weary to brush them.
Turning away from the mirror, I took a handkerchief out and soaked it with cologne from the bottle on the dressing table. Jeremy woke up with a start, jerking his body into a sitting position and staring at me with alarmed eyes.
“Wh—what—”
I hurried over to him and took hold of his shoulders. He struggled, glaring at me. His cheeks were blazing again. His eyes were a fiery blue. When I tried to ease him onto the pillows he flung his arms out, knocking the back of his left hand across the side of my face. I maintained a firm grip on his shoulders and shoved him back. He went limp, moaning, his eyes foggy now.
Love Me, Marietta Page 53
