Because of You

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Wait,” Samantha said. “You know I can’t.”

  “Why not?” Mrs. Sadler asked.

  “Because I’m a single woman. It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Sadler said with blunt northern common sense. “You are not some young girl, Miss Northrup, you are past your prime. Nor do these missish airs become you. Why, you’ve tended many a male patient. And some with little or no clothing on.”

  Samantha felt a rush of heat to her cheeks. “But that was different, Mrs. Sadler. I always had a member of the patient’s family with me. I would be alone with this man.”

  Mrs. Sadler sniffed. “Seems to me, Miss Northrup, that you trot out the Lord’s rules on us but don’t apply them to yourself.”

  At that moment, Mr. Sadler walked back in. Roddy and the blacksmith, Dan Porter, followed him. They walked with deliberate purpose.

  Samantha stamped her foot. “You can’t do this.”

  The men walked right past her. She listened as the stairs creaked under their heavy boots. She heard them open the door to Mr. Browne’s room. There was the sound of footsteps as they prepared to move his body.

  A few moments later, the men clumped down the stairs and came in to the tap room. They carried the unconscious Mr. Browne by his arms and legs. The men were far from gentle.

  Samantha watched helplessly as they marched out the front door. She couldn’t let them do this. Her feet began moving toward the door.

  Roddy had already hitched a wagon and it waited out front. Large, damp flakes of snow had started to fall. They settled on Mr. Browne and melted into his coat as he was unceremoniously dumped in the back of the wagon.

  They couldn’t be doing this, Samantha told herself. It was cruel! Uncharitable!

  Roddy walked toward the seat of the wagon.

  Samantha turned to plead one more time with Mr. Sadler. “This is wrong. I beg you not to do it.”

  “I already have, Miss Northrup,” came his cold reply.

  Roddy jumped up in the driver’s seat and lifted the reins—and Samantha knew she could not let them leave Mr. Browne to die.

  She ran to the head of the horses, her hair coming lose from its neat bun, and put herself in their path. “Stop.”

  Roddy reined the horses in before they ran over her.

  “I’ll take him,” she said. “Drive him to the vicarage.”

  Chapter 3

  Dead silence met Samantha’s announcement.

  Then Mr. Porter, a short, barrel-chested man, moved forward. “I don’t think you should, Miss Northrup. Sadler is right. It’s best we send him away.”

  Slowly Samantha turned on him, uncertain whether she believed her ears. Mr. Porter was a man known for his fatherly good humor, yet even he would turn his back on Mr. Browne.

  “I don’t agree, Mr. Porter. In fact, I almost fear a terrible retribution if we don’t do our Christian duty. Do you not see? God tests us, and we are being tested right here and now.”

  Mr. Porter shifted uncomfortably. He glanced at his wife, who met his gaze and looked away.

  He said to Samantha, “Have it as you will. I do not care as long as this man is no longer a threat to the rest of us.”

  “He will not be,” Samantha promised. She faced Mrs. Sadler and Mrs. Porter. “I do value my reputation. It might be wise if one of the village women came and stayed with me.”

  Both women took a step closer to their husbands.

  “I am certain your reputation will remain beyond remark,” Mrs. Sadler assured her.

  “But you will check with Mrs. Biggers?” Samantha insisted. The squire’s wife was the parish authority on what was right and what wasn’t. “Explain it to her?”

  “Aye, I will go and do it now,” Mrs. Sadler promised.

  Samantha’s next request was harder. She shivered, but not completely from the cold. It was one thing to offer charity, another to ask for it.

  She couldn’t meet their eyes as she said, “Also, if I am to care for him, I will need food, wood, and coal, too, if any of you can spare some.”

  Mrs. Porter made a soft sound of dismay, but Mrs. Sadler stoutly agreed. “We can. You’ll have everything you need in an hour.”

  Samantha released her breath slowly. “Let me gather my cape and my medicinal basket and I’ll be ready to go.”

  Mrs. Sadler ran into the inn herself to fetch Samantha’s things. When she returned, Mr. Sadler helped Samantha place the heavy wool cape on her shoulders and gave her a hand up into the wagon seat beside Roddy.

  Roddy snapped the reins and they were off.

  It felt strange to be riding the quarter mile through the village. The Doyle sisters had done their work well and almost everyone had heard of the sick man. They came out of their cottages to watch Samantha drive by.

  Mabel Doyle stood by her hedgerow fence, whispering to Mr. Chandler. Mrs. Ryman stood frowning, her arms crossed against her chest. No doubt she was thinking of her poor lost child. No one said anything…and Samantha felt a little like one of the lepers spoken of in the Bible.

  At the vicarage, the burly Roddy hoisted Mr. Browne up on his shoulder like a sack of grain and carried him inside. Samantha was going to direct him to her parents’ room and then thought better of it. The new vicar might not appreciate it.

  “Please put him in my bedroom, Roddy.”

  The stablehand did as he was told, unceremoniously dumping Mr. Browne into Samantha’s bed and then, with a polite pull of his forelock, hurried from the house. He too was afraid of the contagious disease.

  Samantha hung her cape on its peg and stood in the center of her kitchen. No sound came from the bedroom, but she could already sense Mr. Browne’s presence filling every corner and nook, just as he had the first night they’d met.

  Tucking a few stray strands of hair back into her neat bun, she pushed open the door to her room.

  Mr. Browne looked out of place lying on top of her light blue and yellow quilt cover. He still wore his mud-caked boots.

  He also still smelled.

  A horrifying thought struck her: if she did not get to work, he could very well die, right where he lay in her bed.

  She moved into action.

  Samantha picked up the bucket and hurried outside to pump water. The wood and metal pump handle felt icy cold to her hands. Snow swirled down around her, the flakes big and beautiful, but she didn’t have time to stop and contemplate their beauty.

  The water came out in a gush. She filled the bucket to the brim and carried it the few steps to her kitchen door, the weight of it straining her back.

  Adding several logs to the dying fire, she brought it back to a blaze and then set a black iron kettle of water over it to boil.

  A knock sounded at the door. It was Mrs. Sadler, Tommy, and Roddy. They carried cloth sacks of food.

  “Please put those on the kitchen table,” Samantha said.

  “Roddy will be back with wood, and if you can use it, a load of coal,” Mrs. Sadler said.

  “I can,” Samantha said, thankful. “I have a brazier that we used for my mother that will warm his room just fine with coal.”

  “Good,” Mrs. Sadler said, with satisfaction. “Well, then, we’ll be off.”

  She was almost out the door when Samantha remembered to ask, “What of Mrs. Biggers? Have you explained everything to her yet?”

  “I haven’t had a chance, but I will speak to her when I see her. Don’t worry.”

  She started to leave again, but Samantha asked, “And what of his overcoat?”

  “His overcoat?”

  “Aye. He had good wool overcoat, but you did not bring it with him.”

  Mrs. Sadler pinched her lips together. “He owes us for our trouble.”

  Samantha thought of the purse full of money he’d offered her. He had put it back into the pocket of his overcoat. “Did he pay for his room?”

  “For one night.”

  “And one night is all he stayed. As for trouble, you can settle that with Mr
. Browne once he is well.”

  “What if he doesn’t ever get well?”

  Samantha itched to wipe the smug look off her face. “He will get well,” she practically growled. “I won’t let him die.”

  Mrs. Sadler blinked at her tone of voice, and then backed down. “I will send his coat over later when Roddy brings the coal.”

  “Thank you.”

  With a nod, the innkeeper’s wife left with her son, but Roddy lingered behind.

  “Begging your pardon, Miss Northrup, but I’ve been close to that man. Do ye think I’ll come down with what he has?” There was fear in his usually complacent brown eyes.

  “I don’t know, Roddy. He’s very sick,” she answered truthfully. She took his hand. “But you shouldn’t be afraid. God rewards us when we do something right.”

  He drew his hand away from her. “That poor little baby died and it had never done anything to nobody. And look at your father. I’m the only one to take care of me ma. I can’t get the influenza.” He slipped out the door, almost slamming it behind him.

  So. She was alone to fight this.

  She found a hambone in a food bag and set it in a pot of water to boil. She then poured cold water into a basin, grabbed several soft cloths from her medicinal basket, and marched into the bedroom. Behind her in the kitchen, she could hear the kettle starting to boil. Good. Something was finally starting to go her way.

  Little light came through the closed shutters. In spite of the fever, Mr. Browne’s face was pale, with a thin sheen of sweat.

  She dipped a thick rag in the water and laid it on his brow before leaving to brew the feverfew tea.

  A few minutes later, she reentered the bedroom, a cup of tea and a spoon in her hand. He’d flung the rag away from him. She set the cup down on the bedside table and picked the rag off the floor. Rewetting it, she replaced it on his forehead with practiced patience. She knew she would do this a hundred times before the night was over.

  She sat on the bed beside him. “Now, listen to me, Mr. Browne. I must have you drink this tea. It will be good for you.”

  No response.

  She took that for his acceptance. Propping his head against her bosom, she tilted his head and dribbled the tea down his throat with the help of the spoon. It was slow business. “But then, I have no reason to expect you to be agreeable, do I?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She usually wore an apron to protect her dress whenever she administered medicine this way, but the fair amount of tea that stained her dress didn’t bother her. The battle lines were drawn between her and the influenza.

  The medicine in him, she prepared to strip him naked and bathe him in cold water. It was the quickest means for getting the fever down.

  Outside, the snow came down harder. She heard it hit the shutters—tiny crystal stabs. She’d always liked the sound of snow, but this time it made her feel isolated.

  She moved to the foot of the bed. His mud-caked boots had streaked dirt down her quilt.

  “All right, then, the boots come off first.”

  But saying and doing were two different things. Mr. Browne’s boots had been made for him. Even worn at the heels, they fit his feet like a glove. By the time she got them off, she was breathing heavily.

  She pushed a stray strand of her hair back from her face. “Now for the rest of you.”

  She had few qualms about seeing Mr. Browne naked. Mrs. Sadler was right, she’d nursed many men besides her father. The secrets of male anatomy held no surprises. Both she and Dr. Rees had agreed that humans were the most pathetic-looking creatures without the shield of clothing…and Samantha secretly thought men looked the silliest of the two sexes.

  Removing the coat from a solidly built man while he lay like dead weight was not easy, but Samantha was a strong woman in spite of her petite size. Furthermore, she was determined, and after a bit of a struggle to bend his long arms, she’d removed his coat.

  His shirt was easier. She climbed up on the bed, rested his head in her lap, and reaching down, yanked his shirt up and off. She dropped it on the floor beside the coat.

  As she’d pulled, the back of her hand had brushed his rough, whiskered jaw. There was strength in the lines of this man’s face. Character.

  “Who are you, Mr. Browne with an ‘e’?” she asked quietly. “Is there someone waiting for you? Someone wondering where you are?” She paused a moment. “You’re lucky if there is.”

  She slid out from beneath him and got up from the bed. “Now for your breeches, sir.”

  She efficiently began unbuttoning them. All of his clothes had been made of good material, although they were well worn.

  As her fingers reached the last button, and the more sensitive region of his anatomy, he moved restlessly and swatted at her hand. This was good. Any sign of life was good.

  Slipping her fingers under his waistband, she pulled his breeches down—and then froze.

  “Oh. My.” Mr. Browne was not built like other men. “Impressive” was the first word that came into her mind.

  The room became suddenly close.

  Samantha gulped for air. She shouldn’t stare.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” she whispered, lifting her eyes to the ceiling. With a swift tug, she pulled his breeches the rest of the way down and over his feet. She tried not to peek, but it was hard because she had a powerful curiosity about all things.

  She also couldn’t help noticing Mr. Browne’s legs were very well favored. She even liked his long, strong feet.

  Dipping more rags into the basin of cold water, she laid them on Mr. Browne, starting with his private parts. He reacted when the wet cloth hit his hot skin, but didn’t push it off. Working quickly, she covered all of him.

  She then headed outside to the pump to fetch more water. The snowy air felt good on her hot cheeks.

  Mr. Porter appeared at the edge of the cemetery. “How are you doing, Miss Northrup?” he called.

  Samantha felt her heart lurch in her chest. Did her face betray her? Was it still flushed from the heat of embarrassment?

  “I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” she managed to say.

  “Good then.” He waved and walked on.

  She pumped the handle for fresh water. She should fill a second bucket, too, and dash its contents over her head for being such a ninny. She’d never blushed over naked flesh before.

  Back inside, the hambone was starting to bubble. She poured dried peas into the water, gave it a stir, and then got up and carried the bucket into the bedroom.

  Methodically she began removing the cloth rags and rewetting them with fresh cold water…over and over and over again. The fever had a terrible hold on Mr. Browne. But then, just when she wondered if she’d ever break it, the chills started.

  His body shook almost to the point of shaking the bed.

  Samantha quickly removed the cloths and reached to pull the quilt over him—except that he lay on it and she was too tired to struggle with him now. She raced to her parents’ bedroom on the other side of the kitchen for more blankets and the coal brazier. Coming through the kitchen, she heard him mumbling, the words incoherent.

  In her bedroom, she unceremoniously dumped the quilts on top of him before setting up the brazier with coal and lighting it. By the time she’d finished, his mumbling had turned to ranting. He was shouting orders: “Kill the bloody bastards! Strike hard!” His arms and hands began flailing in the air and he kicked the covers to the floor.

  Samantha picked them up and dumped them back on him.

  “Billy!” Mr. Browne shouted, his teeth chattering. “Watch your back, Billy!” He started up from the bed, his eyes open but unseeing.

  Samantha bodily pushed him back onto the bed, no longer flustered by his nakedness. She lay on top of him to keep the covers around him. “Mr. Browne, you stay in this bed. Do you hear me?”

  He didn’t hear her. He kept warning Billy to watch his back. “The damn pirates are crawling the ship like maggots!”

  Pi
rates?

  He looked more like the sort of man who could be a pirate, than one to fight them.

  The wild thrashing slowly ceased. His teeth still chattered even as the room heated up from the brazier. His wild words turned to incoherent mumbling, and it took her a moment to realize he was speaking in another language, one she didn’t recognize.

  And so went her day into night. Each time, the chills followed the fever and the fever grew progressively worse. He alternated between the deathly stillness or battling demons only he could see. At one point the room was so hot, she removed the brown dress.

  The snow stopped sometime well past midnight. Samantha was exhausted. Her eyes ached from lack of sleep. She could not seem to break the deadly cycle that could claim his life. She had dragged a chair into the bedroom and sat by his side watching his fitful sleep.

  Suddenly Mr. Browne went stiff. He half rose in bed, his eyes still closed. He cried out one word, “Father!” It was filled with all the pain in the world.

  Samantha was no stranger to death. She had sat by its side far too often not to recognize the signs. Mr. Browne was dying.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks. She slid off the chair to kneel on the floor, her folded hands on the edge of the bed. “You cannot take him, Lord,” she begged. “I am so weary of death. I’m tired and I don’t know if I can go on. Please, don’t take him.”

  Her prayer was met with silence.

  Burying her head in her arms, Samantha leaned against the bed and sobbed.

  But her tears weren’t just for him; she also cried for herself. Her life was about to change, and she had no one to turn to, no one she trusted. Her girlhood dreams of being a wife and a mother would never be fulfilled. She felt as if her spirit was dying.

  A hand came down and rested on her head.

  Samantha looked up through burning eyes. Mr. Browne stared at her, his dark, fever-bright gaze filled with concern.

  “Don’t cry,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  Samantha could only gape at him. The despair that had overwhelmed her slipped away.

  His hand fell from her head to land on the soft mattress. His eyes closed.

  Samantha reached up and felt his forehead. The fever still raged inside him, but now she had hope.