Quarantine

by John Smolens

  “It is all about filth,” Miranda said. “It will never invade our house. You see how my staff scrubs and cleans constantly. There is no safer place in Newburyport.”

  “Perhaps.” Samuel tapped the roof of the carriage with his cane and called out, “On, now—down to the wharves.” Settling back on the bench opposite his grandmother, he said, “We mustn’t risk staying here long—these fevers, some say they’re borne on the air. Along with scrubbing every surface, you should instruct the maids to shut all the windows in the house for the duration of this pestilence.”

  “And perhaps you have finally learned something, Samuel.” Flattered, he smiled. “It is always wise to take precautions,” Miranda said. “It is good that you’ve returned now, for I fear that your father’s eccentricities are becoming more of a burden.”

  He leaned forward and whispered, “And it all costs money.”

  “Precisely. People think we are wealthy beyond imagination, but this is not so. For years I have worried about our circumstances—I have lost sleep over it many nights. When your father was young, we went to war with Britain, a great risk if there ever was one, and he was bold enough, shrewd enough to take advantage of the situation. Privateering led to great profit, which led to shipbuilding and trading everything, lumber, molasses, slaves—anything that would turn a greater profit. But comforts acquired by such enterprise does something to a man, and you would be well advised to take note, Samuel. For years I’ve watched your father’s utter and complete disintegration, and such imprudence has naturally led to unimaginable losses. He simply can’t control himself. The worse things get, the greater his excesses. My deepest fear is that without reasonable intervention, he will spend every penny before he dies, leaving his aged mother destitute, and his son.…”

  Samuel’s eyebrow cocked slightly. “If it’s a race to the finish, then perhaps my dear father might do us the favor of finishing earlier, before he’s spent his last dollar.”

  “Exactly, my dear,” Miranda said.

  “But the question is how does one achieve such a … reasonable intervention.”

  Miranda smiled kindly upon her grandson. Like his father, he possessed a vulpine cunning which longed to be bridled. “It’s really a question of survival,” she said, “for you, for me, for the future of this family. It’s an unsavory thought, one that has long plagued me, but there it is.”

  They didn’t speak again as the carriage passed through Market Square, where Samuel again tapped the roof with his cane and called out, “Take us out to the end of my father’s wharf, where the air is freshest.”

  They passed through an alley that ended at the waterfront. There was no activity about the ships. At the end of the wharf, the carriage stopped, and one of the footmen opened the door.

  Samuel climbed down and offered Miranda his hand, but she shook her head, saying, “This is fresh air enough for me.”

  “As you wish.”

  He walked around the corner of a warehouse and after a moment she heard his water splash against the shingles. From her seat, Miranda could look downriver toward the basin. The sun had set and in the last light the water was turning an ink blue, with the gray dunes of Plum Island beyond. Miranda, named in her honor, was barely visible except for several lanterns hanging from her rigging.

  Samuel called out something she didn’t understand—it took her a moment to realize he was speaking French. And then a soft feminine voice responded from the river.

  Miranda got out of the carriage and walked around the corner of the warehouse. Samuel was fastening his trousers in haste. A skiff was approaching, with a boy at the oars, and a young woman sat in the stern, wearing a fine blue dress with white lace. She was soaking wet and shivering. The boy tied the boat to a bollard and helped her climb up onto the wharf. She refused to look in Samuel’s direction as she continued to speak, her voice demanding and agitated.

  Samuel responded in French, which only seemed to cause the girl to turn away angrily. She cut him off, saying in halting English, “I cannot understand whatever you say. So must I speak the British. You—you are the coward.” Her accent was quite musical.

  She noticed Miranda for the first time, her eyes startled.

  “You’re shivering, child.” Miranda removed her light wrap. “You’ll catch cold in those wet things.” Miranda moved cautiously, as though approaching a wary cat; after a moment the girl turned and allowed the chambray fabric to be draped around her slender shoulders. “How in heavens did you get in the river?”

  The girl did not reply and her face became distrustful. Miranda turned to the boy, and said, “What is your name?”

  “Leander Hatch, Ma’am. I found her—she was adrift on a log.”

  Miranda smiled at the girl. “Perhaps you are a mermaid?” The girl appeared to not understand the word. “Even mermaids have names.”

  Samuel said something in French, causing the girl to glance at him impatiently.

  “Marie,” she said. “Marie de Monpellier.” Miranda laughed, causing Marie to glare at her. “You think I am the humorous?” she said. “But it is my name—this is not, how do you say, fonny?”

  “Please,” Miranda said. “Forgive me. I do not wish to insult you.”

  Marie pulled the wrap tightly about her.

  “You called my grandson a coward,” Miranda said. “Either you know him, or you are a very astute judge of character.”

  “He pays one of the crew and gets ashore, and I am left alone on that horrible sheep.”

  “You locked yourself in your quarters,” Samuel said. “I had barely seen you on deck since we left St. Barts. If I had known that you wished to come ashore, I assure you—”

  “Hush,” Miranda said. She studied the shivering girl once more. “My grandson is a coward—he has always been one. And I apologize for any inconvenience you may have suffered during your journey to Newburyport. Now, may I introduce myself? I am Miranda Sumner, and that horrible ship you managed to escape from was named in my honor by my son, who is even more of a coward, if that is possible.”

  Marie managed the briefest smile.

  “We must not be inhospitable.” Miranda took the girl by the elbow. “Come with me, child—you must be famished.” Marie hesitated a moment, but then allowed herself to be guided toward the carriage.

  “Grandmother?” Samuel’s voice cracked, causing Miranda and the girl to stop and look around. His trouser buttons were still fastened improperly.

  “And Samuel,” Miranda said, “give this boy a coin.”

  Marie tensed, withdrawing her arm from Miranda’s grip. “All right,” Miranda said. “I see—he fished you out of the water. Yes, he can come, too. But he rides up top with the driver.”

  “Grandmother,” Samuel pleaded.

  “What, dear?” she said pleasantly.

  “Well, she might …”

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” Marie said. “This fever is a thing most horrible. I am ill with it the first winter I am in the Caribbean.” She began to shake uncontrollably. “But this river—the water is most cold.”

  “Indeed,” Miranda said, taking the girl’s arm again. “Let’s get you home and into dry clothes and a warm bed.”

  PART III

  Salvation

  Nine

  WORD HAD BEEN SENT THAT GILES WAS NEEDED AT THE Sumner house. In order to leave the pest-house grounds, he had to follow the strict procedures established by Dr. Bradshaw and himself. First he removed his wax-coat and disrobed in a tent so that his garments could be boiled and laundered, and then he scrubbed himself raw with bristle brushes dipped in a hot solution of vinegar and camphor. After dressing in a change of clothes, including a much-patched frock coat he’d had since his duty at sea, he was let out through the gate, where townspeople accosted him, demanding information about their relatives who had been admitted to the pest-house. He told them he could make no official comment, that it was Dr. Bradshaw’s responsibility to keep the public informed. Slowly, he made his way throug
h the crowd and toward the waiting carriage.

  “Is someone ill?” he asked the driver, old Mr. Penrose.

  “A house guest, Doctor, a French lady,” Mr. Penrose said.

  One of the footmen held the door open as Giles climbed into the carriage. There was a wicker basket on the bench. “My mother’s doing, of course.”

  The footman, a boy no older than fourteen, stood on the running board and looked through the open window. “Ma’am thought you might be hungry, sir.”

  As the carriage rolled across the Mall and down High Street, Giles ate bread, cheese, and a plump chicken leg, and there was a lidded pewter tankard of Dog’s Nose—ale and rum. When he reached Enoch’s house, Fields opened the front door. “Doctor, the missus requests your services upstairs.”

  Giles climbed the stairs and found the young Jamaican maid waiting in the hall. She had a livid bruise on her forehead. “What happened to you?”

  The girl merely curtsied, whispering, “This way, if you please, Doctor.”

  She admitted him to one of the guest bedrooms on the second floor. His mother stood by the bed, looking down at a girl, eyes closed, lying motionless beneath a counterpane.

  “I believe she has swallowed a great deal of river water,” his mother said. Her hands fidgeted with the bow on the front of her yellow dress. “Apparently, she was on the Miranda, and jumped ship. Nearly drowned trying to swim ashore. Fortunately, a boy saved her. She was alert at first, but then she collapsed during the coach ride to the house.”

  “She shouldn’t have been allowed off that ship,” Giles said.

  “Shall we throw her back in the river?” she said apologetically.

  Giles ignored his mother, knowing that to look at her now would allow her to register the kind of small victory she delighted in, and he moved toward the side of the bed.

  “Perhaps I should leave while you examine her?” she asked.

  “That won’t be necessary. Who is she?”

  “That is not so easily determined. She’s French, certainly.”

  Giles leaned over the girl. She lay perfectly still on her back, her long brown hair spread over the pillow. She was, he guessed, in her late twenties. He picked up her hand and placed his fingers on the inside of her wrist. Her pulse was steady. Then he lifted one eyelid and found no abnormal dilation or coloration in the pupil. He pulled the counterpane down from her chin. She was wearing a white nightgown. Gently he felt her neck and throat. There was an unusual delicacy to her features, and her skin was remarkably smooth and fair, considering the long sea voyage and time spent fighting the currents of the Merrimack.

  “Has she vomited?” he asked.

  “Water.”

  “No black vomit? No blood?”

  “No, says she’s had the fever while hiding down in the Caribbean. She’s just brought up water—quite a bit of it, but I think she’s fairly dried out by now.”

  “I need to sit her up.”

  His mother went around to the other side of the bed, and together they raised the girl into a sitting position. He untied the drawstring at the top of her night gown and peeled the garment down off her shoulders, exposing her pale back. He thumped her with both hands, then drew the gown up again, allowing his mother to fasten the string. When they laid her back on the pillow, the girl coughed once.

  “There’s no sign of fever,” he said. “What do you mean she’s been ‘hiding’?”

  As she pulled the counterpane up over the girl, his mother said, “Perhaps you should address that question to your brother or your nephew.”

  “Samuel?”

  She went to the door but paused. “Yes, he has also just returned from France.”

  “By way of the Caribbean?”

  “Why, yes.” His mother’s voice was all innocence—never a good omen.

  “He swam ashore from the Miranda, too.”

  “Oh dear, no. I believe he came ashore in a dinghy. Arrived dry as a bone,” his mother said. “But he’s immune as well. Says he had the fever in Paris.”

  “You do realize that’s not the point. This ship is a serious threat to Newburyport, unless the quarantine is observed.”

  “Enforcement of such matters is not my concern, Giles. They’re both here in this house now, and their presence has had a detrimental effect upon your brother’s demeanor. He and Samuel rarely get along, and this girl—well, you have eyes. She has become something of a distraction. Please, remain with her, if you wish, and see if you can at least bring her around.” His mother opened the door but paused again. “I keep a clean house. You know that. Such pestilences will find no safe haven under this roof. The filth of those people.…” She left the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

  Giles suddenly felt tired—it was the food, the Dog’s Nose, the warmth of the afternoon. There was a window seat with a fine embroidered cushion. Down on High Street, a wagon passed by, carrying two more people destined for the pest-house. He should return there, for there was much work to be done. Reluctantly, he turned toward the young woman, asleep in the canopy bed.

  Leander had been given lamb stew and bread in the kitchen. Minions and scullions moved about, preparing dinner, ignoring him as he sat at the table. Their aprons were spattered with sauces and gravies, and they went about their tasks with a vengeance. One plump woman, her arms covered with flour, pounded and rolled dough; another basted several chickens; still another ground seasonings with mortar and pestle as though her life depended on it.

  “Fancy some more, love?” the woman in charge asked.

  Leander, his mouth full, nodded. She took his bowl away and at that moment a dark-skinned maid entered through the swinging door. He couldn’t help but stare, embarrassed, at the high fullness confined beneath her uniform. Yet she was slender, remarkably so in the midst of all these fleshy women with their quivering jowls and pink cheeks. She looked toward Leander for a moment, her oval eyes both alert and vulnerable, and then she picked up a silver tray with fine cut glasses and fled the kitchen. It was only after she’d left that he realized there was something peculiar about her face. There was a bruise on her forehead, which was only partially concealed by the black curls that escaped from her lace cap.

  The cook put the bowl in front of him, and he commenced to eat. He was unaccustomed to so much seasoning, and yet he couldn’t spoon the stew into his gullet fast enough. His mother’s fare had always been ample but plain, and seldom enhanced with anything but salt and pepper. As he was wiping his bowl clean with the last of the bread, the lady of the house came into the kitchen. The entire staff paused in their duties and curtsied. She ignored them and walked straight toward Leander, and, along with the others at the table, he hastily got to his feet.

  “You did well today, quite possibly saving that woman’s life.” She held out two coins and placed them in his hand. “You may finish eating and go.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am.”

  She swept out of the kitchen, seeming to take all the air with her. The staff appeared unable to move, unable to breathe as they stared at Leander. Some were aghast, while others looked suspicious. The maid was back—she must have slipped through the service door again without Leander noticing. She gazed at him a moment before raising her head abruptly, as though detecting a bad smell, and pushing out through the door.

  The girl coughed, and Giles got up off the window seat and went to the canopy bed. Her eyes were open, her gaze startled and confused but defiant. There was a water pitcher on the nightstand, and he filled a glass. “Here,” he said, leaning over her. She shook her head. “Just small sips.” He held the glass to her mouth and she drank a little.

  As he was putting the glass on the table, the door opened and Enoch stepped into the room. His shirttails hung below his gold waistcoat, and he was wearing only one silk stocking and no shoes. The crotch of his britches was wet and he smelled of urine. He held a wine bottle by the neck and as he walked toward the bed, he tended to lead with one shoulder, as though breasting a stiff wind.r />
  “So, Doctor, you’ve raised her from the dead.”

  “She’s merely exhausted, and distressed from having swallowed so much brackish water. She should not have been allowed ashore, if she was aboard your quarantined ship.”

  Enoch raised the bottle to his mouth and as he drank, red wine dribbled off his chin and stained his shirt. When inebriated, his eyes tended to gaze in two directions, so that one eye studied Giles’s face, while the other seemed to regard something just behind him. “But here she is.”

  “I understand Samuel has made it ashore as well.”

  “Place a ship under quarantine—you only open the way to bribery.”

  Giles picked up his medical bag, which he hadn’t even opened. “I would see that she gets plenty of rest and nourishment.”

  “Whot would you haf me eat?” she said. “Hooorse? They fed me meat from the hooorse on that boot.” She then muttered something in French.

  “I would eat plainly for a day or two,” Giles said to her.

  She glared up at him.

  He bowed politely and went to the door. Enoch followed him out into the hall, where he took several coins from his waistcoat and offered them.

  “Ordinarily,” Giles said, shaking his head, “Mother insists that Fields compensate me as he ushers me out the front door.”

  “He may yet.” Enoch held out the bottle in his hand. “Perhaps some wine, then?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “This girl, she has been in hiding—for several years.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  Enoch looked down the hall as though he suspected someone might be eavesdropping, then took hold of his brother’s sleeve and drew him toward the stairs. They climbed to the third floor, which was decidedly less decorous—the servants’ quarters—and then they ascended a steep, narrow set of stairs and entered the cupola which was perched atop the hip roof. The view was spectacular; it was a clear evening and the lights of Newburyport spilled downhill to the banks of the Merrimack. Jonathan Bream, Enoch’s bard, was stretched out on a couch snoring gently, and an empty bottle of wine lay on the floor by his hand.