Honor Redeemed

by Christine Johnson

  “With what?”

  “I sent you enough for the fare.”

  The widening of her eyes told him the truth. Aileen had promised to get it to her. Aileen! Why had he thought to trust her in this vital mission when she had proven untrustworthy in every other way? He recalled the new dressing gown and trinkets for which he’d never received a bill. She had spent the money he’d intended for Prosperity.

  “You never received it,” he said dully.

  Her back stiffened and her eyes flashed. “’Tis cruel to claim assistance that was neither requested nor given.”

  “B-but,” he stammered. What could he say? Nothing. Not one word would prove his innocence when prior actions stated his guilt.

  She cut off further conversation with unusual vehemence. “You might lie to your family or your men, Lieutenant Latham, but do not lie to me. I thank the Lord that I learned your true nature before we wed.”

  His jaw dropped. He had no answer.

  She did not wait for one. Shoulders squared and head held high, she strode off.

  He deserved her silence. He deserved shunning, yet he still followed close enough to ensure her return to a safe part of town.

  She did not look back once.

  18

  What had provoked David to claim he’d sent her money? Or to believe she would have taken it? For passage back to Nantucket, he’d said. He wanted to send her away, to blot out their past completely. Amends! Money could not erase heartache. Pretending he’d sent it only deepened the pit he’d dug. Either David had changed completely, or she had never truly known him.

  Prosperity shoved the stack of clean linens onto the shelf. Three days had passed, yet she could not shake the anger that boiled inside her like wash water. Hadn’t he hurt her enough without adding dishonesty to the roster of grievances? Perhaps once a man got mired in sin, he sank deeper and deeper. The Bible taught that she must forgive, but forgiveness could not come in the midst of anger.

  “Straighten those sheets, Miss Jones,” Miss Stern barked, “or you will press them again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ordinarily Prosperity took great pride in her work, but stewing over David had made her careless. The torrid July heat drained her strength. She could not waste the little she had left this late afternoon redoing work that had already been completed.

  She smoothed the sheets under the matron’s watchful gaze.

  Perhaps Mrs. Cunningham was right and she should accept the attentions of the worthy doctor. Though Dr. Goodenow did not touch her heart, he would not lie to her.

  This time she set the sheets on the shelf with care that no corner or edge folded.

  “Better.” Miss Stern scowled above the high collar of her simple gray dress. “With yellow fever season approaching, we won’t have time for this sort of carelessness. The beds will be filled and the days long. Do you understand, Miss Jones?”

  Prosperity nodded, but a chill shivered through her at the mention of yellow fever. In her short time on the island, she had heard fearful tales of this disease that mostly struck newcomers. Sailors making their first foray into the tropics would often contract the fever and be put off at the hospital’s long pier. Though the men would never set foot in town, the disease seemed to filter into streets and homes.

  Yet not every victim was new to the island. Elizabeth’s mother had perished from it, and she had lived here over two decades. According to Elizabeth, at the first hint of fever some of the men would send their wives and children north on the first packet. Elizabeth would never leave.

  “To what purpose? We are ultimately in the Lord’s hands.”

  Prosperity might have thought differently had she a son to consider.

  When Dr. Goodenow met her on their appointed street corner at the end of her shift for the walk home, she asked him about the disease.

  “It does more often strike those who are new to the tropics.” He extended his arm.

  She slipped her hand around it but again felt not the slightest attraction. Why couldn’t she fall in love with him when he was clearly the better man?

  “Are you afraid?” he asked.

  “No.” That wasn’t quite true. “Perhaps a little. Did you ever contract it?”

  “If I did, the symptoms were so inconsequential that I could not tell the difference between it and an ordinary ague. Often it is like that, particularly in younger people.” He waved at a swarm of the annoying mosquitoes that gathered in earnest at dusk and dawn. “Clean everything thoroughly. Disease spreads through filth and foul air.”

  Again that chill skittered down her spine. She handled the soiled bed linens. “Are there any cases of yellow fever now?”

  “None that I know about.”

  Prosperity swallowed. Fear was getting the best of her. “C-can I get it from doing the wash?”

  He frowned. “Unlikely.”

  She breathed a little easier. “How is it treated?”

  “We treat each symptom as it emerges.”

  That did little to remove the weight that had settled on her chest. “Can it be cured?”

  “Some do recover.”

  “Yet others do not.” Prosperity had watched her dear ma suffer through chills, fatigue, and wracking coughs until the last bit of strength left her. “Like consumption.”

  “Not at all. Why would you think that?”

  “Because of my mother’s struggles.”

  Tenderness softened his gaze. “Ah yes, you mentioned she suffered from that disease. I am sorry for your loss. Caring for her must have been difficult.”

  Though she appreciated the sympathy, it did not inspire any feelings for him beyond friendship. Yet Ma would surely have approved him as a suitor. Prosperity wished her mother was still alive. Ma would have known what to do.

  “I could not save her.” She choked down the lump in her throat. “No one could.”

  “Unfortunately, we physicians do not yet know how to heal all our patients, but one day scientists will discover the cure for every illness and disease.”

  “All of them?” The claim rang hollow. “How is that possible when every manner of evil runs wild upon this earth? Do you not believe we live in a fallen world?”

  “A fallen world?” He laughed. “That is superstition, my dear.”

  “It is written in Scripture.”

  He seemed not to hear her. “One day soon superstition will give way to science. Then such nonsense can be forgotten.”

  His reply unsettled her. She stopped walking and pressed a hand to her abdomen.

  “Are you unwell?”

  She shook her head, wishing they had arrived at the O’Malleys’ house and this walk could be over. “Just tired.”

  “You must rest more and eat properly. More meat for strength. I will speak to Dr. MacNees about lightening your duties.”

  “No! No, please.” She would never make enough to afford a room of her own if her duties were cut.

  “Don’t worry about Miss Stern. Dr. MacNees will handle her.”

  “It’s not Miss Stern. I don’t want to leave the hospital without sufficient help in what I hear is a busy season.”

  “Remarkably generous,” he murmured, “but you give too much of yourself, dear Prosperity. I love that about you, but it also worries me. If you were my wife, you would not need to work.”

  Wife. The word shot through her with deadly accuracy.

  “We agreed not to discuss this.” Emotions aside, she could not consider union with a man who did not believe in God. He’d called her faith superstition, but that was all she’d had to cling to during the darkest hours of her mother’s illness. Faith gave her the peace and assurance to step forth into the unknown. Knowing she would one day see her mother and father again comforted her during the long, lonely nights.

  “I will never stop loving you, Prosperity.”

  She could not promise the same.

  “I can’t keep him here.” Mrs. Walters thrust the baby at David. “I got my own babes to consid
er.”

  David swallowed his frustration and took the fussing boy. Had she heard about Mrs. Ambleton’s fever and assumed yellow jack, or did prejudice change her mind? David had searched long and hard to find a woman willing to nurse the baby. Most had turned him away. Now Mrs. Walters had too.

  “But he needs to live with a wet nurse. Where can I find one?”

  Mrs. Walters appeared sympathetic even while handing him the small sack containing the few items he had purchased for the baby. “Hire one of the darkies.”

  David cringed at the term. “I’ve already tried.” Even before his son had been evicted from the garrison, he’d been unable to find a Negro willing to nurse him. More than once he’d wondered if Gracie had said something to the African community that turned them against him. “I don’t know who else to ask.”

  Mrs. Walters shrugged. “One of the owners.”

  That bitter taste intensified. Approaching a slave owner meant stealing milk from a Negro woman’s baby in order to line the owner’s pockets. Moreover, if the owner had heard rumors of yellow fever, he would never let one of his slaves near David’s son.

  “I don’t know which women would be available to nurse.” He couldn’t bring himself to call them slaves.

  Mrs. Walters clucked her tongue as if scolding him. “Men don’t know nothing about nothing. Talk to the midwife.” She told him where to find the midwife who’d assisted Aileen. “She’ll know who lost her babe.”

  Then she closed the door in David’s face. As if appalled to be left in the arms of a soldier, little Oliver let out an ear-piercing shriek followed by gulps of air. His face contorted and reddened with every howl.

  David jiggled the boy. “Hush. Quiet.” More jiggles. “Shh.”

  Passersby stared.

  He shot them an apologetic look. What was he supposed to do with a crying baby? Prosperity had worked wonders with the baby the night Aileen died. What had she done? He tried to picture her and recalled the sponge she’d dipped in milk. She’d fed him.

  That was the one thing he could not do. Not now and maybe not ever. Until Dr. Rangler was certain Mrs. Ambleton hadn’t contracted yellow fever, the commander would not allow the baby back onto the post.

  “Be quiet,” he commanded.

  His plea did not have the slightest effect. His men took orders. This baby did not.

  He had never been alone with an infant. Panic crushed him like a two-ton block of granite.

  A few passersby looked his way with sympathy, but none of them offered to assist. Meanwhile, the baby hollered louder and louder. With each escalation, his breath grew more ragged until David feared the boy would suffocate himself.

  Then he felt the wetness and smelled what could only be described as the vilest of latrines. The baby had soiled himself, and David had no idea what to do.

  Where was that midwife? Fleming Street, Mrs. Walters had said, only a couple blocks away. He rushed down the street, ignoring the curious glances and growing stench. Only a couple blocks. Then he could at least get relief from the immediate problem. But when he reached the area Mrs. Walters had indicated, two buildings matched her description.

  He had no choice but to knock.

  Since the first was in much better condition than the second, he chose it. When he lifted his fist to rap on the door, he noticed the sign: Dr. Clayton Goodenow.

  The man vying for Prosperity’s affection.

  He lowered his hand.

  No matter the need, he could not turn to the competition. He could not let the doctor see how incompetent he was, for the man would surely tell Prosperity. David would never win her back if she thought him unable to manage a tiny baby.

  He backed away from the door.

  “May I help you?”

  David barely heard the man’s voice above little Oliver’s bawling. He spun around to see the doctor, and the immediate problem slipped behind the fog of jealousy. “I don’t need your help.”

  If the doctor was offended, he did not remark on it. “Is your son ill?”

  David recalled the lecture that the doctor had given him after the baby’s birth. The man had insisted the boy was David’s son, whether by blood or not.

  “Let me check for a fever,” the doctor said.

  David jerked the baby away from the doctor’s outstretched hand. “He’s not sick.”

  The corner of the doctor’s mouth inched up a fraction. “Perhaps a change of diaper would remedy the situation.”

  “Naturally,” David said, though he could not admit that he had no idea how to accomplish that much-needed task. His neck heated, betraying his incompetence. No doubt the good doctor would tell Prosperity that little detail. “But first I need to find the midwife.”

  The doctor pointed to the house on David’s right. “She lives next door, but if the door is closed she is with an expectant mother.”

  “I didn’t notice the door.”

  “Let me check.” The doctor returned to the street, and David took the opportunity to leave the man’s veranda.

  “Hmm. That’s peculiar,” the doctor murmured. “Even the shutters are closed.”

  “Closed?” David repeated, still trying to calm little Oliver so he’d stop howling.

  “Marnie would never close up the entire house in such heat.” He knocked on the door, cocked his head, and then pushed the door open. “It’s not locked. Follow me.”

  It felt wrong to enter a home without invitation. “I’ll wait here.”

  “If something’s wrong, I might need your help.”

  David stepped into the stuffy interior. The rooms were dark with the shutters closed and smelled faintly of vinegar and something else vaguely familiar that he could not place. At least the change of scenery had piqued Oliver’s interest enough that he stopped crying.

  The doctor slipped through the rooms as if he knew them well. “Marnie? Are you here, Marnie?” He pushed open a door and stiffened. “What happened?”

  The doctor moved into the room, but David stopped at the doorway. The midwife lay in bed, pale and shaking beneath a thin coverlet.

  The doctor immediately placed a hand on her forehead. “Fever.”

  “Cholera,” she whispered. “From that ship. I helped one of the women.”

  The doctor whirled toward David. “Get the baby out of here at once.”

  Instead David stood gaping, the soldier in him wanting to respond.

  “Go,” the doctor barked.

  This time David obeyed. Only when he reached the veranda did he realize he’d been holding his breath since the midwife first mentioned cholera. One of the dreaded tropical diseases. He’d seen men felled by cholera and prayed he didn’t join them. In over two years, he’d been fortunate, blessed with natural resistance and fortitude, Captain Dutton had claimed.

  “Some are,” the man had said. “Others fall at the first hint of illness. Watch the men closely. An epidemic will set back progress even further.”

  He had followed the captain’s advice, instituting measures of cleanliness that made the men grumble. He didn’t listen to a single complaint. As far as he was concerned, if God required his chosen people to wash before a meal, so could the men under David’s command.

  Oliver let out another wail.

  David pushed the blanket from his damp cheeks. The baby must be dreadfully hot. Or . . . His stomach leapt into his throat. What if the boy had a fever? He touched the baby’s forehead but couldn’t feel anything other than a squirming bundle of displeasure.

  The doctor stepped onto the narrow veranda. “Go home, Lieutenant.”

  That he could not do, not with a baby. “Is there another midwife?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Not since Linnie O’Neill passed. Now with Marnie sick, there’s not a midwife to be found on the island except some of the colored women.”

  David was desperate. He could not return to the post with the baby, and he could not find anyone able to take on the poor child. Fear or prejudice had closed every woman’
s door. “Tell me where to find one of them.”

  The doctor’s gaze narrowed. “Why do you seek the services of a midwife? Is one of the officers’ wives in need?”

  “No.” David knew what he must do, but admitting weakness stung. No Latham ever bowed to need, but a baby’s life depended on him. “I need to find a wet nurse t-t-to take care of him.” He felt heat clear to the roots of his hair. “To change him.”

  There. He’d said it. Now the doctor could take the upper hand with Prosperity. David would lose her, all for the sake of a baby that wasn’t his.

  The doctor’s eyebrow arched. “I thought Miss Jones had recommended someone.”

  “That was two nurses ago.” Desperation tinged each statement. “No one will keep him, and the commander won’t allow him in the garrison.” He stopped short of mentioning the prejudice he’d encountered. “Oliver needs milk. He needs someone to care for him.”

  “Oliver?” The doctor’s expression softened. “You have accepted him, then.”

  Had he?

  “He is my responsibility.” It was the most he could admit.

  The doctor nodded. “Very well, Lieutenant, I shall see what I can do.”

  “Thank you,” David managed to say, though the words stuck in his throat.

  “Return in two hours. I will have an answer for you then.”

  If the doctor succeeded, David would be indebted to him. The price would doubtless be relinquishing all claim to Prosperity’s heart.

  David stood in the street watching the doctor walk toward the heart of town, his top hat dark against the setting sun. He absently rocked his squalling son, fully aware that he still had a diaper to change and no idea how to do it. Engineering a fort in the middle of the ocean would be easier.

  Something was wrong with her. Prosperity dreaded the touch of a decent man who wanted to heal the ill and longed for a kind word from the man who had betrayed her trust.

  On Nantucket, she had known what she wanted—a husband and family to love and nurture. Since coming to Key West, her entire world had been thrown upside down. She’d thought helping the ill would replace the dream she’d lost, but she felt uneasy in the wards and had run from the one woman who needed comfort. Nothing fit together as it ought.