They went into Jonathan’s study to talk.
“Diphtheria?” Elisabeth whispered, praying he’d say Trista just had the flu or common cold. But then, those maladies weren’t so harmless in the nineteenth century, either. There were so many medical perils at this time that a child would never encounter in Elisabeth’s.
Jonathan was standing at one of the windows, gazing past the lace curtain at the new, bright, blue-and-gold day. He shook his head. “It’s a virus I’ve never seen before—and there seems to be an epidemic.”
Elisabeth’s fingers were entwined in the fabric of her skirts. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”
He shrugged miserably. “Give them quinine, force liquids….”
She went and stood behind him, drawn by his pain and the need to ease it. She rested her hands on his tense shoulders. “And then?”
“And then they’ll probably die,” he said, walking away from her so swiftly that her hands fell to her sides.
“Jon, the penicillin—there wouldn’t be enough for all the children, but Trista…” Her sentence fell away, unfinished, when Jonathan walked out of the study and let the door close crisply behind him. Without uttering a word, he’d told Elisabeth he had neither the time nor the patience for what he considered delusions.
He’d left his bag on his cluttered desk in the corner. Elisabeth opened it and rummaged through until she’d found the bottle of penicillin tablets. Removing the lid, she carefully tipped the pills into her palm and counted them.
Ten.
She scooped the medicine back into its bottle and dropped it into her pocket.
Jonathan was stoking the fire in the kitchen stove when Elisabeth joined him, while Trista watched listlessly from the improvised bed. Elisabeth could see the child’s chest rise and fall unevenly as breathing became more difficult for her.
Elisabeth began pumping water into pots and kettles and carrying them to the stove, and soon the windows were frosted with steam and the air was dense and hot.
“Let me take her over the threshold, Jon,” Elisabeth pleaded in a whisper when Trista had slipped into a fitful sleep an hour later. “There are hospitals and modern drugs…”
He glowered at her. “For God’s sake, don’t start that nonsense now!”
“You must have seen the cars going by on the road. It’s a much more advanced society! Jonathan, I can help Trista—I know I can!”
“Not another word,” he warned, and his gray eyes looked as cold as the creek in January.
“The medicine, then—”
The back door opened and Ellen came in, looking flushed and worried. When her gaze fell on Trista, however, the high color seeped from her face. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner, but it’s the grippe—we’ve got it at our place, and Seenie’s so hot, you can hardly stand to touch her!”
Jonathan’s eyes strayed to Trista for a moment, but skirted Elisabeth completely. “I’ll be there in few minutes,” he said.
Ellen hovered near the door, looking as though she might faint with relief, but Elisabeth felt nothing but frustration and despair.
“I’ll get your bag,” she said to Jonathan, and disappeared into the study.
When she returned, the doctor had already gone outside to hitch up his horse and buggy. Elisabeth gave the bag to Ellen, but there seemed to be no reassuring words to offer. A look passed between the two women, and then Ellen hurried outside to ride back to her family’s farm with Jonathan.
Throughout the afternoon, Elisabeth kept the stove going at full tilt, refilling the kettles and pots as their contents evaporated. The curtains, the tablecloth, Trista’s bedclothes—everything in the room was moist.
Elisabeth found fresh sheets and blankets and a clean nightgown for Trista. The child hardly stirred as the changes were made. Her breathing was a labored rattle, and her flesh was hot as a stove lid.
Elisabeth knelt beside the couch, her head resting lightly on Trista’s little chest, her eyes squeezed shut against tears of grief and helplessness. This, too, was part of being a Victorian woman—watching a beloved child slip toward death because there were no medicines, no real hospitals. Now, she realized that she’d taken the vaccinations and medical advances of her own time for granted, never guessing how deadly a simple virus could be.
Presently, Elisabeth felt the pharmacy bottle pressing against her hip and reached into her pocket for it, turning it in her fingers. She was no doctor—in fact, she had virtually no medical knowledge at all, except for the sketchy first-aid training she’d been required to take to get her teaching certificate. But she knew that penicillin was a two-edged sword.
For most people, it was perfectly safe and downright magical in its curative powers. For others, however, it was a deadly poison, and if Trista had an adverse reaction, there would be nothing Elisabeth could do to help. On the other hand, an infection was raging inside the child’s body. She probably wouldn’t live another forty-eight hours if someone didn’t intercede.
Resolutely, Elisabeth got to her feet and went to the sink. A bucket of cold water sat beside it, pumped earlier, and Elisabeth filled a glass and carried it back to Trista’s bedside.
“Trista,” she said firmly.
The child’s eyes rolled open, but Trista didn’t seem to recognize Elisabeth. She made a strangled, moaning sound.
The prescription bottle recommended two tablets every four hours, but that was an adult dose. Frowning, Elisabeth took one pill and set it on Trista’s tongue. Then, holding her own breath, she gave the little girl water.
For a few moments, while Trista sputtered and coughed, it seemed she wouldn’t be able to hold the pill down, but finally she settled back against the curved end of the couch and closed her eyes. Elisabeth sensed that the child’s sleep was deeper and more comfortable this time, but she was so frightened and tense, she didn’t dare leave the kitchen.
She was sitting beside Trista’s bed, holding the little girl’s hand, when the back door opened and Jonathan dragged in. “Light cases,” he said, referring, Elisabeth hoped, to the children in Ellen’s sizable family. “They’ll probably be all right.” He was at his daughter’s side by then, setting his bag on the table, taking out his stethoscope and putting the earpiece in place. He frowned as he listened to Trista’s lungs and heart.
Elisabeth wanted to tell him about the penicillin, but she was afraid. Jonathan was not exactly in a philosophical state of mind, and he wouldn’t be receptive to updates on twentieth-century medicine. “You need some rest and something to eat,” she said.
He smiled grimly as he straightened, pulling off the stethoscope and tossing it back into his bag. “This is a novelty, having somebody worry about me,” he said. “I think I like it.”
“Sit,” Elisabeth ordered wearily, rising and pressing him into the chair where she’d been keeping her vigil over Trista. She poured stout coffee for him, adding sugar and cream because he liked it that way, and then went to the icebox for eggs she’d gathered herself the day before and the leftovers from a baked ham.
Jonathan’s gaze rested on his daughter’s flushed face. “She hasn’t been out of my thoughts for five minutes all day,” he said with a sigh. “I didn’t want to leave her, but you were here, and the others—”
Elisabeth stopped to lay a hand on his shoulder. “I know, Jon,” she said softly. She found an onion and spices in the pantry and, minutes later, an omelette was bubbling in a pan on the stove.
“Her breathing seems a little easier,” Jonathan commented when Elisabeth dished up the egg concoction and brought it to the table for him.
She didn’t say anything, but her fingers closed around the little bottle of penicillin in the pocket of her skirt. Soon, when Jonathan wasn’t looking, she would give Trista another pill.
He seemed almost too tired to lift his fork, and Elisabeth’s heart ached as she watched him eat. When he finished his meal, she knew he wouldn’t collapse into bed and sleep, as he needed to do. No, Jonathan would head for th
e barn, where he would feed and water animals for an hour. Then, provided another frantic father didn’t come to fetch him, he’d sit up the rest of the night, watching over Trista.
Elisabeth woke the child while he was in the barn and made her swallow another penicillin tablet. By that time, her own body was aching with fatigue and she wanted to sink into a chair and sob.
She didn’t have time for such luxuries, though, for the fire was waning and the water in the kettles was boiling away. Elisabeth found the wood box empty and, after checking Trista, she wrapped herself in a woolen shawl and went outside to the shed. There, she picked up the ax and awkwardly began splitting chunks of dry apple wood.
Jonathan was crossing the yard when she came out, her arms loaded, and he took the wood from her without a word.
Inside, he fed the fire while she pumped more water to make more steam. Suddenly, she ran out of fortitude and sank against Jonathan, weeping for all the children who could not be saved, both in this century and in her own.
Jonathan embraced her tightly for a moment, kissed her forehead and then lifted her into his arms and started toward the stairs. “You’re going to lie down,” he announced in a stern undertone. “I’ll bring you something to eat.”
“I want to stay with Trista.”
“You’re no good to her in this condition,” Jonathan reasoned, opening the door to her room and carrying her inside. He laid her gently on the bed and pulled off her sneakers, so incongruous with her long skirt and big-sleeved blouse. “I’ll bring you a tray.”
Elisabeth opened her mouth to protest, but it was too late. Jonathan had already closed the door, and she could hear his footsteps in the hallway.
She had to admit it felt gloriously, decadently good to lie down. She would rest for a few minutes, to shut Jonathan up, and then go back to Trista.
The doctor returned, as promised, bringing a ham sandwich and a glass of milk. Elisabeth ate, even though she had virtually no appetite, knowing she needed the food for strength.
Filling her stomach had a peculiar tranquilizing effect, and she sagged against her pillows and yawned even as she battled her weariness. She would just close her eyes long enough to make them stop burning, Elisabeth decided, then go back downstairs to sit with Trista.
There were shadows in the room and the bedside lamp was burning low when Elisabeth awakened with a start. Her throat was sore when she swallowed, but she didn’t take time to think about that because she was too anxious to see Trista.
She was holding her breath as she made her way down the back stairway.
The kitchen lamps were lit, and Jonathan sat at the table, his head resting on his folded arms, sound asleep. Trista was awake, though, and she smiled shakily as Elisabeth approached the bed and bent to kiss her forehead.
“Feeling better?”
Trista nodded, though she was still too weak to talk.
“I’ll bet you’d like some nice broth, wouldn’t you?” Elisabeth asked, remembering the chicken Ellen had killed and plucked yesterday. And even though Trista shook her head and wrinkled her nose, Elisabeth took the poultry from the icebox and put it on the stove to boil.
Although she tried to be quiet, the inevitable clatter awakened Jonathan and he lifted his head to stare at Elisabeth for a few seconds, seeming not to recognize her. Then his gaze darted to his daughter.
Trista smiled wanly at the startled expression on his face.
A study in disbelief, Jonathan grabbed his bag and hastily donned his stethoscope. His eyes were wide with surprise when he looked at Elisabeth, who was grinning at him and holding up the little medicine bottle.
Jonathan snatched it out of her hands. “You gave her this?”
Elisabeth’s delight faded. “Yes,” she answered with quiet defiance. “And it saved her life.”
He looked from the pills to his daughter’s placid, if pale, face. “My God.”
“It’s safe to say He’s involved here somewhere,” Elisabeth ventured a little smugly. “You should give her one every four hours, though, until she’s out of danger.”
Jonathan groped for a chair and sank into it. He opened the bottle, this time with no assistance from Elisabeth, and dumped the remaining tablets out onto the table to stare at them as though he expected a magic beanstalk to sprout before his eyes. “Peni—What did you call them?”
“Penicillin,” Elisabeth said gently.
“I didn’t dream it,” he whispered.
She shook her head and spread her hands over his shoulders. A glance at Trista showed her that the child was sleeping again, this time peacefully. “No, Jon—you were really there.” She began to work the rigid muscles with her fingers. “You never told me what you saw, you know.”
A tremor went through him. “There was a box with women inside,” he said woodenly. “They spoke to me.”
At the same time she was stifling a laugh, tears of affection burned in Elisabeth’s eyes. “The television set,” she said. “They weren’t talking to you Jon—they were only pictures, being transmitted through the air.”
“What else do they have in your world,” Jonathan inquired wearily, “besides automobiles that travel too fast?”
Elisabeth smiled. So he had seen something of the real twentieth century. “We’re exploring outer space,” she said, continuing with the massage and knowing an ancient kind of pleasure as Jonathan’s muscles began to relax. “And there have been so many inventions that I couldn’t list them all—the most significant being a machine called a computer.”
Jonathan listened, rapt, while Elisabeth told him what she knew about computers, which was limited. She went on to explain modern society as best she could. “There are still social problems, I’m afraid,” she told him. “For instance, we have a serious shortage of housing for the poor, and there’s a lot of drug and alcohol abuse.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Which must be why you were so angry when I sedated you,” he ventured.
Elisabeth’s achy throat was tight as she nodded. He finally believed her, and if she’d had the energy, she would have jumped up and clicked her heels together to celebrate.
Jonathan sighed. “There are people now who use opium, but thank heaven it’s not prevalent.”
Elisabeth sat down beside him and cupped her chin in her hands. “Don’t be too cocky, Dr. Fortner. You’ve got a lot of laudanum addicts out there, taking a tipple when nobody’s looking. And the saloons are brimming with alcoholics. In approximately 1935, two men will start an organization to help drunks get and stay sober.”
He rubbed his beard-stubbled chin, studying Elisabeth as though she were of some unfamiliar species. “Let’s talk about that fire you’ve been harping on ever since you first showed up,” he said. Then, remembering Trista, he caught Elisabeth’s elbow in one hand and ushered her out of the kitchen and into the parlor, where he proceeded to build a fire against the evening chill. “You said Trista and I died in it.”
“I said the authorities—Marshal Farley Haynes, to be specific—believed I killed you by setting the blaze. If—” she swallowed as bile rushed into her throat “—if bodies were found, the fact was hushed up. And the newspaper didn’t give a specific date.”
Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head, watching as the fire caught on the hearth, sending orange and yellow flames licking around the apple-wood logs. “You’ll understand,” he said, still crouching before the grate, “if I find this whole thing a little hard to accept.”
“I think I would in your place,” Elisabeth conceded, taking a seat in a leather wing chair and folding her hands in her lap. “Jonathan, we can leave now, can’t we? We can move to the hotel in town, at least during that week?”
To her surprise, he shook his head again as he rose to stand facing her, one shoulder braced against the mantelpiece. “We’ll be especially careful,” he said. “Surely being warned ahead of time will make a difference.”
Elisabeth wasn’t convinced; she had a sick feeling in the pit o
f her stomach, a sense of dire urgency. “Jonathan, please—you must have seen that the house was different in my time. If that isn’t evidence that there really was a fire…”
Jonathan came to stand before her chair, bending to rest one hand on each of its arms and effectively trapping her. “There won’t be a fire,” he said, “because you and I are going to prevent it.”
She closed her eyes tightly, defeated for the moment.
Jonathan’s breath was warm on her face as he changed the subject. “I’m tired of lying in my bed at night, Elisabeth, aching for you. I want to get married.”
She felt her cheeks heat as she glared up at him. “Now, that’s romantic!” she murmured, moving to push him away and rise, but he stood fast, grinning at her. Raw pain burned her throat as she spoke, and the amusement faded from Jonathan’s eyes.
He touched her forehead with his hand. “If you come from a time where some of our diseases no longer exist,” he breathed, “you haven’t built up any kind of immunity.” Jonathan stepped back and drew Elisabeth to her feet, and she was instantly dizzy, collapsing against him. Her first thought was that the rigors of the past twenty-four hours had finally caught up with her.
As easily as before, Jonathan lifted her into his arms. The next thing she knew, she was upstairs and he was stripping her, tucking her into bed. He brought water and two of the precious pills, which Elisabeth wanted to save for Trista.
She shook her head.
But Jonathan forced her to swallow the medicine. She watched, her awareness already wavering, as he constructed a sort of tent around the bed, out of blankets. Presently, the air grew close and moist, and Elisabeth dreamed she was lost in a jungle full of exotic birds and flowers.
In the dream, she knew Jonathan was looking for her—she could hear him calling—but he was always just out of sight, just out of reach.
Chapter Twelve
Jonathan’s fear grew moment by moment as he watched Elisabeth lapse further and further into the depths of the illness. As strong and healthy as she was, her body had no apparent defenses against the virus, and within a matter of hours, she was near death. Even the wonder pills she’d brought with her from the future didn’t seem to be helping.
There and Now Page 16
