Mariel

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Dr. Sawyer examined the child quickly. He sighed as he put his stethoscope back in his bag. “The epidemic is spreading, Reverend. By the morning, there will be some families needing your services.”

  “Damn the shortsightedness of this shire!” cursed Ian. “This could have been prevented.”

  “As you know so well, you can preach only so long without anyone listening. My demands for vaccinations have been seconded by Lady Mariel. Few heeded our words.” The doctor closed the bag with a snap. “I will be back tomorrow to check on Rosie. Lady Mariel?”

  She forced her attention from the suffering child not yet covered with the red pustules. Her hand remained holding Rosie’s as she turned to face the doctor. “She is so hot!”

  “I know.” He pressed a small bottle into her hand. “This is opium. It will ease the delirium of the fever. Use it sparingly. It is not without dangers of its own. If you can convince her to eat, try broth or eggnog. Oysters are especially good, if she will eat them.”

  Dampening her chapped lips, she whispered, “Is she going to die?”

  Dr. Sawyer could not speak the truth. He could tell by the way the pustules were running together on his other patients that the shire had been afflicted with confluent smallpox, far more dangerous than the ordinary form. He knew that at least half of them would not survive.

  When he looked up to answer her, he felt the minister’s eyes on him. He said, “There is no reason to expect that, my lady. You are caring for her well. The prognosis is good.”

  He picked up his bag and met Ian’s eyes squarely. The parson knew he was lying. Dr. Sawyer dared him silently to denounce him. For the first time since they had met, Reverend Beckwith-Carter lowered his eyes first. Like the doctor, he wanted to protect his wife from the truth for as long as possible.

  Phipps and Ian soon became as unaware of the passing of night into day and light into shadow as Mariel was, while they struggled to save the child. He was called away more and more frequently to comfort the grieving families who were losing their loved ones to the epidemic.

  Mariel did not leave Rosie. Hour after hour she stood by the bed, wringing out cool cloths to put on the child’s head, or bathing her in the oils to ease the discomfort of the pustules breaking out all over her. With more patience than anyone ever suspected she had, she tried to convince the ill child to drink a bit of the broth she kept warm near the fireplace.

  Days passed, then a week, and still she fought her enemy. An epidemic had taken her parents from her. She did not want to lose her child.

  Wet cloth … wring cloth … remove cloth from Rosie’s head … put on damp cloth … wet cloth … the routine was neverchanging and seemingly neverending.

  Many days later, Rosie asked for something to eat. She wanted to shriek with happiness, for the child had been barely coherent during the illness. This was the first positive sign that Rosie would overcome the disease within her. Gratefully, Mariel sat on the edge of the bed and spooned the thin broth into the youngster’s mouth.

  When Rosie fell into a healing sleep, Phipps urged Mariel to rest as well. In a voice that brooked no disagreement, she ordered her to leave the sickroom. “Come back in several hours, my lady. Just go and rest for now.”

  “If—”

  “I will call you if there is any change. Go!”

  Mariel reeled to her room. Reaching a chair, she dropped into it. She could not remember the last time she had left Rosie’s room. Tonight she could believe the child might survive the disease. The offensive odor of the dried pustules remained in her senses, but to her it was the sweetest scent. That Rosie had fought the smallpox to this point meant she had an increasingly strong chance of total recovery.

  Others were not so lucky. Although Ian tried to hide from her the distress of his task of burying the victims of the epidemic, she sensed his horror. To speak a funeral service over even one youngster was a chore no man wished to do. When the number of corpses increased each day, many of them being children, he walked about the Cloister in a dull haze, trying to deal with his pain.

  Surging to her feet, Mariel wondered when she had kissed her husband last. In the days of fighting for Rosie’s life, such little reminders of the love underlying their struggle had been shunted aside. She realized how much she needed his calm strength.

  She had taken only a few steps when she bumped into someone. Recognition was instantaneous. “Ian!” she cried.

  “Mariel, my love,” he whispered as he brought her into his embrace. He leaned her head against his shoulder. Without moving or saying anything, he simply held her as she had wanted so badly.

  Tears of fatigue escaped her eyes, but she did not wipe them away. She did not want to do anything to disrupt this precious moment of silent communion. When he started to step away, she gasped and tightened her arms around him.

  “I must go,” he said regretfully. “The Lyndell family sent a message for me.”

  She moaned, “Not Tip.”

  “This morning. I did not mention anything to you, because I was afraid Rosie would overhear. How is she?” He asked the question tentatively, for he feared the answer.

  “Better.”

  “Better?” he repeated, unable to believe such good news. All he had seen in the last week was tragedy. It seemed as if there could be nothing but death in the shire. “Tell her I will come to see her as soon as I can.”

  “She understands. She knows you want to be with her.” She stroked his hand, which held her own. “Do you think you could be home in time for supper?”

  “Yes, but I will have to go out again afterward. I will try to be home, my love.” He paused as he was leaving. He took her into his arms and kissed her lingeringly. “I love you, Mariel. I know I haven’t had time to say it lately, but my love for you has only grown deeper with the passage of each day.”

  “I love you.” She asked softly, “When was the last time you slept, Ian?”

  “What day is it?” he asked with no humor.

  “Wednesday.”

  “It’s been three days, then.” He tilted her chin to bring her lips near his. “Don’t worry, my love. Once this is past, I will be sure to spend plenty of time in bed … with my beloved wife.”

  Her laughter sounded odd in her own ears. It had been so long since she had heard such amusement. She listened to his steps fading in the distance. As long as she had his love, she was sure nothing could be too horrible to survive.

  Mariel hoped the button would be straight when she finished sewing it onto Rosie’s dress. She listened to Phipps’s comforting voice reading a fairy tale to the child propped among well-plumped pillows. The aroma of freshly squeezed orange juice wafted through the room, washing away the odors of sickness.

  When she heard a jovial laugh by the door, and the answering giggle from the child, she knew Uncle Wilford was paying his daily call to the sickroom. He would have come more often if Mariel had allowed it. His antics to amuse Rosie tired her too quickly.

  “Ten minutes, Uncle,” she stated as she did each day.

  His hand ruffled her tidy hair. “You are a dictator, lamb. It causes me to believe all the tales of your terrorizing the meetings of the school board for the past year.”

  “They are all true,” she said with a wicked grin.

  “I should not have doubted it. You are just like your grandmother. Mother never allowed anyone to tell her nay.”

  Mariel rose and stretched cramped muscles. “I am going to get some fresh air. Ten minutes, Uncle. Phipps has my orders to eject you if you do not cooperate.”

  He grinned at the slight woman holding the children’s book. Phipps looked as if she could probably lift nothing heavier than the feather on the nightstand, but he knew she would be as exasperating as his niece on this issue. He had no intention of doing anything to endanger the child, but he let them enjoy giving him orders.

  Mariel left the sounds of happy voices behind her as she walked to the front stairs. The lure of the world beyond the house led he
r outside. She shivered in the crisp air, but did not return to the house for a cloak. The tang of the sea breeze awoke and focused her senses, which had been drifting during the worst week of the disease.

  Wandering aimlessly, she ran her fingers along the wall of the garden. It guided her toward the old Cloister. When she knew she stood opposite the once proud building, she crossed the path and reached for that wall. Remembering where she had tripped over fallen rocks in the past, she followed it carefully for a distance.

  She smiled when she sat on the huge boulder, warmed by the sun. Drawing her feet up beneath her, she reveled in her joy. For days, she had been afraid to hope Rosie was getting well. Despite Dr. Sawyer’s continually optimistic words, she had been aware how many had succumbed to the epidemic in the village.

  “Thank you,” she whispered into the heat of the sun. She knew the sky would be the startling blue seen only on the crispest days of the fall. The leaves crunching beneath her feet when she walked must be gold and russet and orange.

  Leaning back against the wall, she did not add anything to her heartfelt gratitude. Her anger was gone. For so many years she had ranted against whatever powerful force had taken her parents from her before she could know them and had forced her to watch her beloved cousin slay her twin sister before her eyes. At some unknown time, the fury had died and the memories muted. It had dissolved so gradually, she could not remember when it had happened. She suspected Ian’s love had enabled her to face the truth, which she had tried to hide in her heart to fester year after year.

  The faint rustle of grass caught her attention. She sat up expectantly. “Ian?” she asked.

  When she received no answer, she frowned. Everyone at the Cloister had learned to announce themselves when they came near. Again the sound came. She turned her face instinctively in the direction of the barely audible noise. Two rocks clicked against each other. She jumped in surprise.

  “Hello? Who is it?” No answer enabled her to guess who skulked nearby. “Is there a problem? Hello?”

  Her ears strained for the smallest noise, but there was nothing. Rising, she felt a sensation of eyes upon her. In the past few days, she had felt it too often. Her demand for the person to announce his or her identity had brought no response. She knew someone was close to her. Her ears caught the sound of steady breathing. Whoever watched her knew that she could not guess who was there if the spy remained silent.

  Fear dripped like cold beads of ice water along her spine. The feeling of being invaded by something filthy urged her to flee back to the inhabited regions of the Cloister. Only her stubborn refusal to bow before the games of this sadist halted her.

  How long the stalemate might have continued she would never know. From across the lawn, she heard her uncle’s voice as he called to her.

  “Here I am!” she answered. She was not surprised to hear the rabbit-quick scurrying of the person through the high screen of grass. The one who watched her did not want to be seen by anyone.

  Her wool cloak was placed on her shoulders. Wilford said lightly, “You will note that you have been out here exactly ten minutes. Perhaps tomorrow you will allow me fifteen minutes with Rosie.”

  Putting her concerns about the silent spy from her mind, she smiled. “You love Rosie, don’t you?”

  He laughed. “How could I help it? She reminds me so much of you when you were that age. The only difference is she is blonde. I remember playing with you and …”

  “Uncle Wilford, don’t,” she pleaded when his voice faded into sorrow. She placed loving fingers on his arm. “It was over so long ago. Don’t be sad any longer.”

  He drew her hood over her head as he had when she was Rosie’s size. With his arm around her shoulders, he steered her across the garden. The scouring sea breeze blew powerfully into their faces.

  “I don’t know if I can ever put it behind me, Mariel,” he said with sudden seriousness. “Each time I return to Foxbridge Cloister, I see, as if it was happening again, the night when Georgie finally lost control.”

  “It was not your fault.”

  “No? If I had done as everyone suggested, he would have been in that asylum years before. Then Lorraine would be alive.”

  She sighed. “But he was not sick most of the time. Most of the time he was my dearest friend.”

  In surprise, he asked, “Dearer than your sister?”

  “One should not speak ill of the dead,” she said with a sad smile, “but Lorraine and I did not often see eye to eye. The fate of most siblings, I suppose.”

  “I suppose.”

  Stopping, she put her hands on his arms and turned him to face her. “Uncle Wilford, you should know that what happened that night was not totally Georgie’s fault. Lorraine was cruel to him, so cruel sometimes it made me cry. Oh, I know she never acted that way when an adult was nearby, but she taunted Georgie horribly. She told me so often that he was a blight on the Wythes and should be destroyed like a mad dog. More than once, she said that when Georgie could overhear her.” When she felt the quiver of his strong emotions through her sensitive fingers, she said, “I’m sorry, I should not have said that.”

  He bent and kissed her cheek. “Mariel, you love too well. For more than a decade, you have protected your dead sister from my wrath. And what is more, you guarded her demented cousin from the harsh world by welcoming him into your childish one. Thank you for telling me this. It is many years in the past, as you said, but it comforts me to know that my son was loved.”

  “Always.”

  She could not see the dampness on his cheeks as he turned her toward the house. They walked silently, lost in their remembrances of the past and disregarding the threat to their future, which stalked them as steadily as the sun moving in its exorable path across the sky.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Slowly, the epidemic passed. Although many still suffered and died, fewer new cases appeared. Once Rosie was well enough to sit in the solarium to be entertained by her great-uncle, Mariel spent more time helping the others of the community. Each day she was driven out to the orphanage with supplies and medicine. She knew how desolate Mrs. Parnell was with the number of sick children there. Never did she mention why Dr. Sawyer submitted no bill to the board of directors. Only Mariel knew that Lord Foxbridge was paying for those services, to enable the orphans to receive the same care his darling Rosie had.

  With her days so busy, Mariel had little time for relaxation. She tried to devote an hour to Rosie each morning and in the evening. The little girl was so accustomed to Mariel’s full schedule, she did not complain. She simply delighted in the time they had together.

  Ian was seldom able to spend any time with them. Occasionally his buggy passed Mariel’s on the road to the Cloister. On more than one day, that was the only chance they had to speak before dropping wearily into bed. Several nights even those hours of sleeping in each other’s arms were interrupted by an emergency call. He refused to consider his own health as he went to comfort one of his parishioners. Over and over, he told Mariel he would rest when the crisis was past.

  The eerie feeling of being watched clandestinely continued to plague her. The feeling grew as each day passed. When she turned to catch the observer, no one answered her call.

  She still did not mention her uneasiness to Ian as the fourth week anniversary of the smallpox epidemic passed without notice. That night, she sat in a bedroom chair, waiting for him to come home, exhausted. He started to refuse to eat, but she insisted on ordering a tray while he bathed.

  Knocking on the door of the bathroom, she asked, “May I come in, Ian?”

  “Of course, my love.” His voice sounded fatigued.

  She sat on the edge of the high tub and massaged his tired muscles while he relaxed. The slippery feeling of his wet skin beneath her fingers enticed her to lean forward and place teasing kisses on his ear.

  “Mmm … that is wonderful.” He turned so his mouth was directly below hers. “Do you want to join me, Mariel?”

&
nbsp; With a laugh, she kissed him lightly. “Offer me that invitation some night when you want to do something other than sleep.” She dipped her hand into the warm water and dribbled it over his head.

  Wet hands gripped her arms and brought her to lean precariously over the edge of the tub. She squealed in shock. “Ian! Don’t! I am fully dressed.”

  “I can see that. Why don’t you take off those things, and I will show you exactly how much I want to do something other than sleep with you?” He laughed before he drew her closer to kiss her with the passion they had been able to share so seldom during the crisis.

  “First, you take your bath. After you eat a good meal, we shall see if you feel the same.” Standing, she straightened her clothes, marked with wet handprints. “If you fall asleep, as you have lately each night—”

  “Wake me up with your kisses,” he finished as he took her fingers and teased them with the tip of his tongue.

  “You are impossible,” she scolded with a chuckle.

  “Do you want me to change?”

  She shook her head. “Never. Oh, there is your tray. Hurry and rinse off. I ordered enough for two.”

  They continued with their light jesting while he ate. She nibbled on some carrot sticks and a slice of the luscious Smithfield ham they had had for dinner. When they were finished, she volunteered to take the tray back to the kitchen.

  “Let me, Mariel,” he said as he rose. “I have been away from the Cloister so much, I think I need to reacquaint myself with the hallways.” He stroked her hair tenderly. “Why don’t you get ready for bed?”

  “My harem costume?” she teased.

  Bending, he kissed her on the nose. “Keep that thought, my love. I will be back in just a moment.”

  Mariel curled up in the chair and leaned her head against its back while she listened to his footsteps, accented by the beat of his cane. Happiness. This must be happiness. A contentment so rich she could not imagine wanting more. Her loving husband, a sweet child, an adoring uncle, and the others around her who made her life important.