Contagion

by Joanne Dahme

  Table of Contents

  “TO MY LOVELY ROSE,” PATRICK STATED, RAISING HIS WINE GLASS ABOVE THE FLAME OF ...

  Praise

  Title Page

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  ROSE

  SEAN

  ROSE

  SEAN

  ROSE

  SEAN

  ROSE

  SEAN

  ROSE

  SEAN

  ROSE

  SEAN

  ROSE

  SEAN

  ROSE

  SEAN

  ROSE

  SEAN

  ROSE

  SEAN

  ROSE

  SEAN

  ROSE

  Copyright Page

  “TO MY LOVELY ROSE,” PATRICK STATED, RAISING HIS WINE GLASS ABOVE THE FLAME OF THE CANDELABRA. “YOUR SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY WON’T COME SOON ENOUGH.”

  Newly married, Rose Dugan seems to have it all—a grand house, the most fashionable clothes, and a rich and charming husband. But Rose’s life is changed forever when a series of events unfold before her: threatening letters to convince her husband to stop his plans to build Philadelphia’s first water filtration system, a pair of woman’s gloves found in her husband’s office, and her best friend Nellie is mistakenly murdered while wearing Rose’s cloak.

  With the help of a handsome young man who maintains the Water Works, Sean, Rose must discover who is trying to kill her, while keeping the people of Philadelphia safe from the contagion poisoning the city’s water system.

  PRAISE FOR DAHME’S OTHER NOVELS

  CREEPERS:

  “Who doesn’t like a good ghost story? Creepers is a good one! Thrills and chills? You bet. But it will also warm your heart!”

  —R.L. Stine, author of Goosebumps

  THE PLAGUE

  “... Dahme’s story is engaging and absorbing. It offers romance and sword fights, as well as a forgotten world without mass publications or photography, where most people wouldn’t know what the real princess looked like. Dahme’s strengths are in the moods she creates. Everything feels dark, wet and scary. She conveys the panic of being chased by terrible things—Black Prince and black plague—one is helpless to stop.”

  —New York Times Book Review.

  TOMBSTONE TEA

  “... Readers should find the atmosphere old-fashioned—in a good way; Dahme’s storytelling is more about the journey than the destination.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  TO PROFESSOR JOAN MELLEN,

  TEMPLE UNIVERSITY,

  who nurtured an idea into a story

  AND TO THE PEOPLE OF

  THE PHILADELPHIA WATER DEPARTMENT

  who are still all about clean and beautiful rivers

  PROLOGUE

  “Isn’t he handsome, Rose?” my mother asked,beaming at at Patrick Dugan as he sat with his parents on the opposite side of our dining room table. My mother had told Fanny to set the table with our finest china and the two bottles of claret that Father had stored in the cellar at my birth for just this occasion. Mother’s French lace tablecloth had been ironed and a large vase containing white roses was placed just a little off center to hide a stubborn stain left by a previous dinner guest. The silverware reflected the warm glow of the candles.

  “Well, Rose ...” she nudged me affectionately.

  My voice had retreated. I was thirteen years old and suddenly was the focus of the intense stare of the very handsome Patrick Dugan. He was adjusting his tie. I had caught him stealing a glance of his own reflection in the silver vase just moments before. He looked at me now with a teasing smile.

  It was our betrothal dinner. Patrick was twenty, and we were paired as a result of our fathers’ long friendship and profitable construction partnership. Successful Irishmen in the 1880s were still suspect, my mother told me. We needed to stay together, to prove ourselves to Philadelphia society. What better way than to create a permanent bond between our families.

  “To my lovely Rose,” Patrick stated, raising his wine glass above the flame of the candelabra. “Your sixteenth birthday won’t come soon enough.”

  My mother clasped her hands in delight. I turned a red that shamed the claret.

  ROSE

  Nellie and I followed the stone path, which wound its way from the Gate House—past tombstones, obelisks, and the memorial statuary that often caused me to place my hand over my heart—to Mausoleum Row. They appeared benevolent, blanketed beneath the soft October sunlight. From the top of the hill, the mausoleum and its neighbors looked like the capitols of a sloping city of white marble abodes that I had seen in books about Greece or Italy.

  The goliath memorials were anchored near the bottom of the cemetery’s sweeping slopes.The path was wider here and was cindered to accommodate the line of black bunted carriages that would descend to this site on a solemn day.

  We held hands as we approached the stone structure. Nellie squinted into the sunlight.

  “Most people invite their friends to tea, Rose.” She gave me an impish smile, and I felt the knot in my stomach relax. I had pleaded with Nellie to accompany me.

  “You will get your tea, dear, as soon as we finish our visit,” I replied, squeezing her hand gratefully. “Patrick was so thrilled about the mausoleum’s completion and was anxious for me to see it,” I continued, although I felt my enthusiasm waver. “It is a bit gloomy.” Immediately I flushed with guilt. This was not the response Patrick would have expected of me. He would admonish me for being such a child.

  My eyes sought Nellie’s face. Her red hair appeared to blaze in the wash of sunlight. I thought I saw skepticism in her blue eyes.

  “Why the rush, Rose? Why did he feel that it was so important to build this now?”

  “He’s proud. He feels as if he’s honoring me.” Patrick had used these words, but I blushed at the sound of them coming from my lips. I heard my voice rise defensively, buffeted by a wave of annoyance. Nellie was always finding fault with Patrick. “He pulled many strings, Nellie, to secure this plot,” I argued.

  Last night, Patrick was absolutely gleeful. His eyes, which took on the shade of twilight shadows, shone beneath the light of the hallway chandelier with their usual zeal. Patrick had been challenged to build this mausoleum, and he grasped at the gauntlet with a fevered joy. I loved this vitality in Patrick.

  “Who dared him, Rose?” Nellie replied, raising her chin. Sometimes I felt Nellie knew Patrick as well as I did.

  “Well,” I hesitated. “It wasn’t quite a dare. Another contractor made a remark to Patrick about the difficulty—especially for the Irish—of securing a plot in Laurel Hill Cemetery.” I could imagine the withering smile on Patrick’s face as he listened to this assertion. Patrick considered himself the best Irish contractor in Philadelphia. “He took it as a challenge,” I said, almost distracted by the solemnity of the structure. There before me stood Patrick’s haughty rebuff—and our final place of repose. I shivered suddenly, as if touched by a cold hand.

  Nellie turned to me as we stood beneath the mausoleum’s chilling shadow. “Rose, please don’t misunderstand me.” She stared at the fifteen-foot high structure. Her voice assumed a more serious tone. “I find the permanence of these memorials comforting. If Patrick built this for you, then certainly this is a symbol of his dedication and love. But would not a portrait of you mounted in his study warm your heart just as well?” Nellie’s sudden smile was mischievous.

  “You are wicked, Nellie,” I laughed as I grabbed her elbow. This is why I had asked Nellie to come. Even when she was irreverent, I loved her. “How do you always manage to thread sentences from my thoughts? We have been friends for too many years. I am never safe with you.”

  “On the contrary. It is you who lead us down thi
s path. Some women have tea together.You have me hiking up my skirt to explore cemeteries.”

  “Well, hike it up a bit more. I want a closer look.” My haughtiness was swallowed by the wind. Neither of us approached the few marble steps to the mausoleum door just yet.

  I felt a softer breeze stir the bottom of my skirt and play with the loose strands of my hair. I heard a squirrel chattering and the haunting calls of the large black crows that perched jauntily on top of the cemetery’s wrought iron fence. There was gentle life around us. The mausoleum rebuked this sentiment.

  I stared for a moment at the Dugan name chiseled onto the mausoleum’s face like a banner. Two sets of twin stone columns feigned support of the roof. I felt a quiver of dread. What does it mean to eternally rest in a tomb that looked like a miniature Greek temple? It was indeed magnificent, if that was a term that could be rightfully applied to mausoleums. On the triangular stone block above the family name, an artist had chiseled a copy of the William Rush sculpture, The Schuylkill Freed. The image showed a classically dressed woman, seated by a pump, turning a great waterwheel with her hand, harnessing the feral forces of the Schuylkill River. Patrick had told me that he had commissioned the frieze, at great expense, because of my passion for the city’s river.

  “Promise me, Rose, that you won’t be returning to this site any time soon,” Nellie murmured, as she pulled her cloak tightly about her shoulders. I did the same.

  “It is a bit unnerving, isn’t it, seeing one’s name on death’s door,” I agreed.

  Nellie smiled at the remark and turned to allow the wind to brush her hair from her face.

  “You are eighteen years old, only a year younger than I. Patrick is twenty-five. Both of you, praise God, in good health.” Nellie glanced at the structure again, searching for an answer. “It’s 1895—almost a new century. I cannot imagine Patrick feeling so cautious about the future.”

  I said nothing, although I felt the familiar defensive swelling in my chest whenever someone questioned Patrick’s motives. But even I had never known him to take a challenge quite this far. Unless someone attacked it with cannons, this edifice to pride was unmovable. I sighed, and instead of replying, turned to look at the river undulating through the valley. It pulsed like a vein.

  “Oh Nellie.” I knew my words would be a defense made of feathers. “Let’s admire the view at least. Patrick paid a good sum for it.”

  Our shoulders touched as we gazed down the hillside, which plunged steeply toward River Drive and the Schuylkill River. It truly was a remarkable vista, stunningly beautiful beneath these crystal blue skies. The river serpentined below, bound on both sides by green parkland and oak and maple trees that boasted their age by the thickness of their trunks’ diameters. Their leaves appeared on fire, exploding in color among the staid evergreens. Odd these leaves blaze with life in their final death throes.

  “What do you think will happen at the hearing, Nellie?” I asked, changing the subject to one we agreed upon wholeheartedly. “Do you think our plea to protect the river from contamination will be convincing?”

  It was hard for me to look at the river without thinking about the Women’s Park Beautification Committee. Nellie and I were members. Our most important projects were the protection of the river and the preservation of the Fairmount Water Works.

  Nellie thrust her chin up. She was like Patrick in some ways, I thought, although I knew Nellie would not appreciate the irony.

  “I don’t know, Rose. But we won’t make it easy for the City Councils if they don’t pay our report the respect it deserves.”

  “And it can’t hurt that the mayor’s wife is the chairwoman of our committee,” I added, although I wasn’t sure if Mrs. Warwick’s allegiance caused me to feel cynical or hopeful.

  I turned to the hillside again. Patrick was always right. The spot was inspiring. The only evidence of tumultuous humanity was the ragged rows of tombs and gravestones, stark reminders of all of our destinies. I suddenly felt that our presence here was an affront—Nellie and I chattering like the squirrels.The white slabs and somber structures suddenly reproved our youth.

  A river breeze suddenly gusted around us, setting the desiccated leaves in an airborne swirl. I felt truly cold then and shivered beneath my dress and emerald green cape. “Have you seen enough, Nellie? Have I persuaded you of Patrick’s imagination and foresight?” I taunted affectionately.

  Nellie lowered her eyelids, pretending to glower. “That’s not fair, Rose. You know I’d say anything to get out of here.”

  I laughed and grabbed Nellie’s hand. Only Nellie brought me such unrestrained delight. “Julius will offer us a sip of his warm brandy if we ask,” I promised. “I’m not supposed to notice, but he carries it in his pocket flask.”

  “Rose,” Nellie scolded teasingly. “We are responsible matrons. But then again we may be feeling a bit weak and cold after our long walk back up the hill.”

  As we threaded our way between the gravestones, I paused to watch a crew of laborers dressed in overalls and flannel shirts, coming over the hill. One pulled a horse and cart, which was laden with shovels and other tools. It saddened me to see these harbingers of death. Their faces were blank as if death held no meaning for them.

  “Can you imagine having such employment?” I asked, staring at the men, trying to fathom the trait that enabled them to calmly deal with death. “One must have to struggle to be at peace with this job.”

  “Yes,” Nellie agreed. “Perhaps they find comfort in taking care of the dead. It is a sacred task.”

  The men tipped their working caps as we passed. We returned their nods.

  “Let’s get home to some tea, Nellie,” I said, wondering if our crossing paths were a premonition, although I normally spared no credence to such thoughts.

  We found Julius inspecting the wooden spokes of the carriage’s wheels. We were out of breath and red in the face from the cold air. Julius looked alarmed at our appearance. He rested his hands on his narrow hips. He looked ready to wag a finger at us.

  “Mistress Dugan. Mistress Murphy.You look battered by the wind. Get into the carriage quickly to warm your bones.” Julius opened the carriage door and extended his hand to assist us.

  I had asked him to stop calling me Madame or Mistress Dugan, as I had forged warm feelings for Julius. He reminded me greatly of a favorite uncle I had lost many years ago to typhoid. But Julius had been adamant about maintaining at least the formality of the title between us. He knew how such a privilege would be perceived by Patrick, despite Julius’s long years of service to Patrick’s family. To Patrick, he was a simply a livery servant, and Patrick felt that we were at the top of the political and socially successful Irish upper class. Servants were not familiars. I did not like this about Patrick and had told him so. He had simply shaken his head at me like I was a naïve child.

  Now Julius was shaking his balding head admonishingly at us. “The both of you gallivanting about these hills!” he declared. I could see the concern in Julius’s blue eyes, which were tinged just slightly with the glaze of age, and perhaps the glaze of brandy. But his affection for me shone through them clearly.

  “We are fine, Julius, thank you. And the mausoleum is truly magnificent.Your master has built quite a tribute to his family.” I winced at saying the word out loud. I would talk to Patrick about this again, but Julius only nodded politely as he opened the carriage door.

  Nellie turned to look at me as she stepped into the carriage. I could tell by her smile that she was about to say something, but thought better of it. “I’m not fine, Julius. My cheeks are frozen. Let’s go home,” she called from the carriage.

  “Do you want to warm up a bit in the Gate House before we go?” Julius asked. He was staring at the massive building by the cemetery entrance. My gaze wandered to the black, iron-spiked fence that circled the cemetery. It looked medieval and foreign in the brilliant light of the day. “No, we’re fine, Julius. We’ll warm up in a minute. Pay no attention to Mistre
ss Murphy,” I teased.

  Nellie wrinkled her nose.

  “I don’t blame you for feeling proud, Mistress,” Julius said, as he guided me gently by the arm. “But I can’t help but think that it’s just not natural for a man to build such a monument to death, when he and his wife are young and in good health.”

  I knew that Julius was superstitious. He believed that paying too much attention to death was an invitation to it. “It’s not as if either of you are ill or that there is an epidemic that Mr. Dugan need fear,” he continued, pointing to the blanket on the seat beside Nellie and motioning for us to cover our laps. I slipped beside Nellie as Julius shook his head. “The Master has been telling the City Councils for months to build those plants to clean up the water.The city will be rid of its water epidemics then, and the Master will be a hero.” Julius spit a wad of tobacco across his shoulder with expert aim as he closed the carriage door.

  I could not help but frown as Julius climbed into the driver’s seat. Patrick becoming the city’s hero seemed highly unlikely.

  “What is it, Rose?” Nellie asked. “Please don’t worry about my sensibilities,” she added, tipping her head in Julius’s direction.

  I looked at Nellie gratefully. “No, it’s not that. I’m used to Julius’s antics.” I glanced out the window. Patrick made life so complicated. “It’s Patrick’s insistence on the filter plants, Nellie. I’m afraid our committee will not fare well at the hearing, despite Mrs. Warwick’s best efforts—and position.”

  Nellie took my hand. “All we can do is our best, Rose. And you can be sure we will do just that.”

  Martha was waiting on the landing of our brownstone on Spring Garden Street, having perfectly calculated the time of our arrival. The starched white apron and bib that she wore over her skirt and blouse were spotless. Her hands rested against her wide hips, as she surveyed the street scene around us. Carriages and wagons were passing us, and one another, at a steady pace as Julius directed the horse to the curb. A chorus of clopping hooves and the rumble of wagon wheels on the cobblestoned street charged the air. On the corner, a group of young cooks or maids, wearing reefer coats and holding produce wrapped in newspaper, lingered on the sidewalk.