Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  “N—no. No, no—”

  I bathed his face with the damp cloth and stroked his hair. Eyes closed, he took hold of my hand. His own was damp, clammy, his fingers curling limply around mine.

  “Ma—Marietta?” he whispered.

  “I’m here, Jeremy.”

  “Fe—fever. Danger. Don’t—don’t want you to—”

  “Hush,” I crooned. “Hush, darling.”

  “N—not him. Me.”

  “Shhhh. Don’t try to talk.”

  “L—love you.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “Real—really do. Must be—lieve me.”

  “I believe you.”

  “M—me. Not him—”

  He dropped his hand onto the mattress and muttered something unintelligible and then sighed, asleep at last. I sat beside him for several moments before carefully easing myself off the bed. He might well wake up again while I was gone, but that was a risk I would have to take. Fetching my reticule from the dressing table, gathering up the handkerchief, I moved quickly and silently out of the bedroom.

  When I stepped outside, the sulphur fumes seemed even worse than they had the day before, but I paid them no mind. Holding the handkerchief to my nostrils, I hurried through the courtyard and opened the gate. The sky was overcast today, a mottled gray-white without a trace of blue, the atmosphere bleak as I walked down the street. Everything was brown and black and gray, orange flames leaping from the vats of burning sulphur and filling the air with haze. New Orleans was like a different city, ghostly, deserted, all color and vitality bled away.

  My footsteps rang loudly on the pavement, reverberating against the dusty courtyard walls with an eerie, echoing sound. I turned a corner, shielding my face with the handkerchief as I passed a roaring vat. The heat of the flames seemed to singe my skin. The great puffs of smoke were smothering. I hurried on, moving resolutely through the labyrinth of narrow streets. A closed black carriage clattered past, moving at a dangerous speed. The driver cracked his whip, urging the horses on as though all the demons of hell were in hot pursuit.

  Jeremy would be all right until I got back. I tried to convince myself of that, but I worried nevertheless. Suppose he had another of those dreadful chills like he had had during the night, shivering violently, his teeth chattering? I hadn’t left any blankets on the bed, and even if I had he would be too weak to gather them around him. He had been freezing, freezing, his skin actually taking on a bluish hue, and it had been almost half an hour before the first chill left, followed immediately by a violent fever that seemed to burn him alive. I shouldn’t have left him, even for a few minutes. I should turn back immediately. If he had another chill and I wasn’t there to look after him … I forced the thought from my mind.

  I had to get a doctor for him. That was my first priority. He would be all right. He would probably sleep the whole time I was gone. I quickened my step, forgetting the weariness that was like a leaden weight, filled with new determination. I was going to hold up. I could keep going as long as I needed to. Sleep, rest, they didn’t matter. I could sleep later. I could rest when Jeremy was well. It was my fault that he was ill, all my fault. He had wanted to turn back at the barricade, had insisted on it, but I had adamantly refused, stubborn, inflexible, deaf to his reasoning. We had come into the city against his will, and now.… He was going to get well. I was going to see to it. Nothing was going to stop me. I passed another vat and started down yet another narrow street lined with silent houses behind dusty courtyard walls.

  Two men turned a corner and started in my direction on the opposite side of the street. I stopped, watching them closely as they hooted with laughter and stumbled along, obviously drunk. One of them clutched the neck of a bottle of gin. The other carried an exquisite cloisonne vase. Both had brutal faces and shaggy hair, their clothes filthy. A heavy middle-aged woman in a bedraggled coral velvet gown came panting around the corner, tottering after them on high heels, as drunk as they were. Her plump, sweaty face was caked with powder, cheeks bright with rouge. Masses of brassy gold ringlets bounced from her incredible coiffure.

  “Aw, come on!” she cried. “Lemme have it, lemme have it! Ain’t no use to you, and it’d look grand in my parlor. Th’ gents’d love it!”

  “Go on, you old whore!” one of the men called over his shoulder. “Steal your own vase. We’re sellin’ this one!”

  “Thieves! Ruffians! Gimme that vase!”

  She caught up with them and tried to grab the vase. The man with the bottle gave her a vicious shove. As she reeled backward one of her heels snapped, and she lost her balance and fell, sprawling on the pavement in a heap of tangled velvet and thrashing limbs and bouncing ringlets. The men laughed all the louder, standing over her as she shrieked and spluttered. When she tried to get up, the man with the bottle poured the rest of the gin over her face. His companion roared with glee and turned around and saw me across the street. A lewd grin twisted on his lips. He set the vase down on the pavement and tugged at the other man’s arm.

  “Hey, Davey, lookee there! A bloomin’ duchess! All by herself, too!”

  “She shore is! Fancy that!”

  “Reckon she might like some company, hunh, Davey?”

  “A coupla ’and some lads like us, she’d love it.”

  I stood my ground, fully prepared to pull the pistol out of my reticule if I needed to, but it wasn’t necessary. While the men were staring at me and making rude comments, the woman scrambled to her feet, snatched the vase and took off with it. Hearing her clattering footsteps, they whirled around just in time to see her disappear around the corner, and, yelling with rage, they forgot all about me and stumbled after her. I continued on my way, not the least bit shaken but furiously regretting the loss of precious minutes.

  Leaving the residential area, I passed a row of shops, all of them boarded up tightly, wooden planks nailed across windows and doors. The painted wooden signs hanging over the pavement swung listlessly, colored paint faded and chipping. A cat prowled mournfully on the steps of the pharmacy. Dr. Duvall’s office was just down the street. I hurried on, passing an old Negro woman who was wearily dragging a worn pillowcase half full of some kind of rubbish. I was relieved to see the doctor’s bronze plaque still in the window. At least he was still practicing. The door was locked, and as I knocked on it I noticed that the old woman had stopped and was staring at me with a peculiar expression on her face.

  I continued to knock, but there was no answer. Dr. Duvall wasn’t in. I hadn’t really expected him to be. I took the note out of my reticule and was preparing to slip it under the door when a carriage turned the corner and pulled up in front of the steps. The driver was a husky lad with thick blond hair and amiable blue eyes. A black silk scarf covered the lower half of his face. He climbed down, patted the horse’s rump affectionately and opened the carriage door.

  Dr. Duvall climbed out, a worn black leather bag in his hand. He looked incredibly tired, his handsome face lined with fatigue. There was a distracted look in his gentle brown eyes. His silvered brown hair badly needed brushing, and he clearly hadn’t changed clothes in days. His black frock coat was wrinkled and shiny, his maroon neckcloth crumpled. He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. He started to say something to the driver, and then he saw me standing in front of the door.

  “Dr. Duvall, thank goodness you’ve come. I was just getting ready to leave a message.”

  His mouth tightened. His expression grew stern. “Are you out of your mind, woman?” he said gruffly. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous for you to be out here on the street?”

  “You don’t understand. I—it—”

  “You don’t even have anything over your face!”

  “Dr. Duvall, don’t you recognize me? I’m Marietta Danver. You used to come to Rawlins’ Place.”

  He frowned. “Miss Danver? Of course, of course! I remember well. But, my dear, what are you doing standing out here on the street? It’s absolute insanity.”

&nb
sp; “I didn’t know who to turn to. I remembered you—I hoped you’d remember me. I didn’t know if you were still practicing or—”

  I cut myself short and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to pull myself together. Dr. Duvall moved up the steps and took hold of my arms. The gruff manner was gone now. He was all tender concern, his lovely brown eyes studying me carefully.

  “I—it’s not me,” I said, “I just haven’t had any sleep. It’s a friend of mine. He’s very ill.”

  “You’ve been nursing him?”

  “Since last night. He fainted. He’s been running a terrible fever. His skin is—it’s ashy, and during the night he had awful chills.”

  Dr. Duvall nodded gravely. I didn’t have to say anything else. He knew. His expression confirmed my worst fears.

  “Can you come?” I asked. “Can you examine him? I know you’re tired. I know you must have dozens of calls to make, but—”

  Dr. Duvall silenced me with a look. “Of course I’ll come, my dear,” he said. “I just have to step into my office for a minute to put a few things in my bag. That’s the only reason I came by the office—to fetch new supplies. I haven’t been back here since yesterday afternoon.”

  “I’m so grateful. I can’t begin to tell you how—”

  “Angus will help you into the carriage. Miss Danver. You give him directions, and I’ll be right with you. Try to relax, my dear. We’ll do all that we can for your friend.”

  The youth with the amiable eyes took my hand and gently assisted me into the carriage as Dr. Duvall unlocked the door and stepped into his office. I told, the young man how to get to the apartment and then settled back against the dusty cushions. The interior of the carriage smelled of camphor and ancient leather. Frayed brown velvet curtains hung at the windows. I was beginning to feel faint again, and I realized that it had been almost twenty-four hours since I had eaten anything.

  Dr. Duvall climbed into the carriage, closed the door and settled wearily beside me with the bag on his knees. I didn’t speak. He seemed relieved. As the carriage pulled away, I noticed that the old Negro woman was still standing in front of the boarded-up shop, watching as we passed. Dr. Duvall sighed again and once more ran his hand through his tousled brown and silver hair. He allowed himself to relax, taking full advantage of these few minutes of respite from his arduous duties. In repose, his handsome face seemed older, his skin like fine old parchment.

  When the carriage stopped and the husky young driver opened the door and helped me out, I noticed that the sky was much darker, a deep slate gray, low and ominous. A strong breeze drove heavy clouds across its surface, and dry, dying leaves rattled in the courtyard. It was very warm, the breeze like hot breath on my skin as I opened the gates. Dr. Duvall told the driver he would be back out in a few minutes and followed me into the courtyard. His face was stern again, his manner brisk and official.

  Jeremy woke up when we entered the bedroom. The sheets were tangled about his legs. His skin gleamed with sweat, and hair clung to his skull in wet tendrils. Frowning, he blinked his eyes, clearly unable to focus properly, and as Dr. Duvall moved over to the bed, he moaned, rolling his head from side to side on the pillow. Dr. Duvall set his bag on the floor and took Jeremy’s pulse and then placed a palm over his brow. I stood near the doorway, clasping my hands and watching with anxious eyes. Dr. Duvall glanced up at me.

  “Leave us for a while, Miss Danver. I’ll call you when I’m finished with my examination.”

  I nodded numbly and went back to the kitchen and in order to have something to do, put more wood in the stove, lighted a fire and put a pan of water on the flat iron surface. When it was warm enough, I took it off and began to wash the dishes, working mechanically, without thought. I rinsed the dishes in a second pan of water, dried them, put them away. The apartment grew darker as more clouds gathered in the sky. Leaving the kitchen, I stepped into the parlor and began to light lamps.

  Dr. Duvall joined me there. I set down the lamp I was holding and looked at him. His face was utterly expressionless, revealing nothing, but I knew. I felt a strange calm come over me.

  “Is he going to be all right?” I asked.

  “I’ve given him some medicine. He’ll rest easily for a while. I’ve left a bottle of medicine on the bedside table. I want you to give him a tablespoon full every four hours.”

  “Will it—”

  I couldn’t complete the question. Dr. Duvall maintained his cool, objective manner, and I understood. He couldn’t afford to show compassion, couldn’t afford to offer false hope. In order to accomplish his work, facing death as he did several times a day, he had to remain completely detached. I accepted that. Compassion, kind words wouldn’t have helped at all.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?” I said.

  “It’s very bad, Miss Danver.”

  “The medicine—”

  “It’s laudanum. It will ease his pain, help him sleep.”

  “Then—”

  “There’s nothing more I can do for him. He’s too far gone.”

  “So soon?”

  “It happens that way sometimes.”

  “How long?” I asked.

  “Another day. Possibly two. Three at the most.”

  “I see.”

  My voice was flat. Duvall looked at me, gripping the handle of his bag tightly, wanting to say more but knowing it would be useless. I thanked him and offered to pay him, but he refused to take any money. I led him into the foyer and opened the front door. He hesitated, letting his guard down at last. His brown eyes were full of tender compassion, and when he spoke his voice was low and gentle.

  “You’re taking a grave risk, nursing him like this. You realize that?”

  “I’m not going to let him die, Dr. Duvall.”

  “I’ll have to report the case. It’s necessary.”

  “I understand.”

  “Take care of yourself,” he said. “Eat. Get some sleep. Your friend will rest with the laudanum. I—” He paused, frowning. “I wish I could offer you some hope, but—”

  “Thank you again, Dr. Duvall. I appreciate your coming.”

  I showed him out, closed the door and stood there in the foyer for several minutes, still possessed by that curious calm. I wasn’t going to let go. I wasn’t going to break down. I couldn’t, not while Jeremy needed me. Dr. Duvall had given up on him, believed there was no hope, but … I wasn’t going to accept that. I went back into the bedroom. Jeremy was sleeping peacefully. I sat down on the bed and took his hand, holding it with both my own, looking down at him with a tenderness I had never permitted myself to show before. He breathed deeply, his lips parted, cracked. His skin had a deep yellow tint beneath the gray pallor.

  “You’re going to get well,” I said. “You’re going to get well, my darling. I promise you. I promise.”

  I said the words for my own benefit. Jeremy never heard them.

  Thirty-Two

  They put the white cross on the door late that afternoon. The paint gleamed in the dying gray light, an obscene symbol that spelled the end of hope for those within. I knew full well what it meant, but I refused to let it unnerve me. I brought the sheets in, folded them, and, around seven, got Jeremy to drink another half-glass of orange juice. He slept fitfully during the night, and I slept in the chair beside his bed, waking twice to give him a tablespoon of laudanum. In the morning, stiff, sore, my back and neck aching dreadfully, I changed the sheets again, gave him more laudanum and then set off for the market.

  It hadn’t rained yet. The sky was full of ominous black clouds so heavy, so low it seemed one could almost reach up and touch them. The sultry breeze was stronger, blowing scraps of debris along the pavement and causing the fog of sulphuric smoke to lift and swirl and separate. I moved rapidly, the empty basket in one hand, the loaded pistol in the other, the reticule swinging from my wrist. I wanted anyone I encountered to see that I was armed, and my grim, determined expression left no doubt that I would shoot at the slightest provocation. A g
roup of rowdy men had broken into one of the shops, tearing boards away, breaking glass, and they were looting it merrily as I passed on the opposite side of the street. Intent on their plunder, they paid no attention to me.

  The market was even more deserted than it had been two days ago. I paid a small fortune for a dozen eggs. Oranges were so dear they might have been pure gold. I refused to pay that much for them. I argued vehemently with the woman behind the booth and finally, nervously, eyes on my pistol, she sold them to me for half what she had been asking. I bought beans, coffee, flour, a bunch of bananas, another chicken. An aging whore in a soiled green velvet gown and a wide-brimmed green velvet hat draped with masses of limp black and white plumes burst into hysterical sobs when she couldn’t afford a roll of sausage. A violent fist fight broke out between a heavyset man in a blue broadcloth frock coat and the burly proprietor of the fish stall. Bins of eels were knocked over, the slippery black creatures writhing on the cobbles in tangled masses.

  I made my last purchase and left the market with a heavily laden basket. My neck was still sore, and my spinal cord felt as though it had been twisted out of shape. When I arched my back, tiny bones popped, and I felt some relief. Walking rapidly, gripping the pistol firmly, I passed a wagon with a mattress in back, a pile of blankets scattered on top. Two men were leading a man in nightclothes toward the wagon. He was delirious, stumbling feebly as they wrenched his arms, forcing him forward. A third man carried a brass figurine and a pair of silver candlesticks, velvet draperies slung over his shoulder and trailing on the ground behind him.

  Although they were sturdy, rough-looking specimens, the three men were relatively clean, their clothes relatively neat, and there was … yes, there was a military air about them, the short-clipped hair, the brisk movements and stern, confident expressions. Reaching the corner, I turned to watch, extremely curious. When they got to the wagon, the sick man began to struggle, shaking his head, trying to break free. Calmly, indifferently, one of the men gave his arm a savage wrench, twisting it up between his shoulder blades, and, clapping a hand over his mouth, forced the poor creature up onto the back of the wagon. The man fell onto the mattress, scrambled to his knees and tried to leap out. A savage fist across his jaw knocked him unconscious. The men pulled an olive green blanket over him and stood by the wagon, talking idly and examining the items brought out of the house.