A Fall of Marigolds (4 page)

I
knew with every fiber of my being that I shouldn’t read the letter. I knew decency would have me return the letter to its private place inside Lily’s book. But a force overcame me, a dreadful, relentless curiosity.

My father once told me that when a child is to be born, there is no stopping it from coming. Something inside the mother’s body—something she cannot control—simply decides the child is to come out. The mother might want to wait until the doctor comes or for the snowstorm to end or the sun to rise or the husband to return, but she cannot press a lever to stop the baby from coming. It just comes. I’ve helped my father a time or two with birthings and I can say it’s true. There are some things you can’t stop even if you want to.

I could not stop reading the letter, though my face flamed crimson in shame as I did.

Dear Andrew,

I hope in time you can find it possible to forgive me.

Please do not come looking for me. I am not worthy for you to come after and I do not wish you to. What I want you to do is forget you ever met me.

It was always my plan to disappear when we arrived with our luggage at your brother’s home. From the day I met you, I planned to run back to the hired cab for a forgotten glove, and to find someone on the street to give you the message to look inside my trunk, where I knew you would find this book. This was my plan from before I even knew your name, dear Andrew. This is why you are reading this letter at this moment.

I am not the person you think I am.

I have signed a letter of annulment so that you may move on with your life, but in truth, I do not think you will need it. We are not truly married, as I am already married to someone else. His name is Angus Ravenhouse and he is a monster.

You must know that the beast I was forced to wed stole everything from me when my father died: my life, my father’s estate, and my father’s good name. I do not love Angus. I married him six months ago to protect my mother from ruin and despair, but she died of a broken heart within weeks nonetheless. With her safe in heaven, there is nothing to keep me in the prison that is my marriage. Escaping Angus is my only goal. I had to leave England in a way in which he could not trace me, and get to America, where his money and influence meant nothing. I needed to have a different surname so that Lily Ravenhouse wouldn’t appear on a passenger manifest. There are only so many ways to get a new surname. . . .

I fled London for Liverpool two months ago with the terrible hope that I would meet someone who could help me, knowing full well that only through deception could I get that help. I didn’t have time to wait for you to get to know me, though when I met you on the street the day you got the letter from your brother, I knew you were the kind of man who would help me if you were able. I had to be on the ship with you, as your wife, with your name as my name. And you were leaving in such a short amount of time. So I led you to believe I had fallen in love with you in a matter of days, and I hoped against hope that you could believe it was possible. I could not extend to you then the honesty that you deserve. But I am extending it to you now.

I never wanted to hurt you. I swear before God I never wanted to hurt you. You deserve someone who loves you the way a man should be loved. I am not that person.

I am bound for the West and I ask you not to inquire about me, not that you should.

There is nothing in this trunk I need. You can do whatever you wish with its contents. If it helps you to forget me, burn it.

But please do not hate me for very long. I have lived with hate for six long months. It is like poison, black as pitch, and too dangerous to harbor.

I am and will always be in your debt.

Lily Broadman Ravenhouse

The book of poetry lay open on my lap, and the certificate of annulment rested on its pages when I finished reading the letter. A stunning chill had sneaked in around me and I shivered, the thin paper of the letter rattling a bit and reminding me that I held it.

The weight of what I now knew astounded me. I could see in my mind’s eye how Lily must have envisioned her plan playing out. Making port with Andrew at New York Harbor and then Ellis with their trunks in tow. Processing through immigration. Boarding a ferry that would take them to Manhattan. Meeting Andrew’s brother at the docks. Hailing a cab and stowing their trunks. Arriving at Andrew’s brother’s place. Unloading the trunks. Lily, who runs back out to the street to retrieve a forgotten glove, is counting on Andrew and his brother to be distracted with maneuvering the trunks inside. She pays a beggar woman or a young boy on the street to give the man with the black felt hat a message when he comes out. She steps into the cab to retrieve the glove and instead pays the driver to make haste to the train station.

When the trunks were at last inside the flat, Andrew would look for Lily. He would head back outside but there would be no sign of her or the cab. He would look up and down the street, calling her name, perhaps. Then the paid messenger would approach him, saying he had a message from the lady with the orange scarf. “Look inside her trunk.”

Andrew wouldn’t believe this person at first. He would ask where the lady went. The person would shrug and repeat the message. Andrew would bend down and hold the boy by the shoulders or look deep into the eyes of the beggar woman. “Where did she go?” “In the cab,” the person would say. “What do you mean, ‘in the cab’?” And the messenger would point to the busy street where the cab is no longer in sight. “She went in the cab.” Andrew would then dash back inside his brother’s flat. He would fumble with the luggage keys. He might suggest to his brother that they summon a policeman. He would kneel at Lily’s trunk and his fingers would tremble as he inserted the key into the lock. He wouldn’t know what he was looking for. How long would it take him to find the letter inside the book? Two minutes? Five? Longer? Eventually he would find it. And he would read it. And the many minutes would have tick-tocked the passing of time.

And she’d be gone.

I don’t know how long I sat imagining what would have happened had Lily not contracted the fever.

At some point I realized I couldn’t continue to sit there. I had no business taking the book. Andrew hadn’t asked me for anything from Lily’s trunk. It was my own selfish desire to touch his grief that made me remove the book from Lily’s trunk to give to him. I’d even contemplated reading verses aloud to him, to prove what an amazing caregiver I was. My own hunger for meaning had led me to take the book, because I wanted to be the angel-nurse who helped Andrew find his way out of his in-between place.

I ought never to have taken the book.

I folded the letter and placed it back inside, along with the certificate of annulment. I had to put the book back where it belonged, where it would play the part destiny had already assigned it. I winced at the thought of Andrew reading the letter when he at last arrived at his brother’s. The cruelty of it was beyond belief, especially to a grieving man. But clearly it was not for me to decide the fate of this letter. It was already ordained that he should find it.

I rose, knowing that if I stayed and pondered the matter longer I might rip the terrible letter to shreds.
It is not mine to do anything with
, I whispered aloud as I dropped the little book back into my apron pocket and felt for the luggage keys so that I could return it to its rightful place. Not mine.

The dormitory hall was still quiet as I made my way back outside, into the corridor that led to the ferry house. The noon meal was concluding and the building was again starting to bustle with both new arrivals and those who’d passed their inspections and were waiting for ferries to take them to shore. I quickened my step and arrived breathless at the baggage building. It was as busy as it had been earlier, perhaps more so. I made my way to the front, and was disappointed to see that Lily’s trunk had apparently already been put away. Andrew’s still sat there. I looked for the boy who had helped me earlier. I found him stacking crates on a far wall. I called out to him. He made his way quickly to me, as if to quiet me.

“You’re not supposed to be opening anyone’s luggage. We don’t open luggage here. We store it.”

He’d asked for clarification while I was gone. And had gotten it.

“After this I promise I won’t ask again. I doubly promise,” I said. “I just need to know where the little trunk went. Mr. Gwynn’s big trunk is right where I left it. But the little one is gone. I need to know where it is.”

“They took it.”

“Who took it?”

“I don’t know. Inspectors. They had that one on a list.”

“What do you mean? What list?” But even as I said this, a tremor of dread wriggled inside me. I knew even before he said it what kind of list Lily’s trunk had been on. In that instant I knew why inspectors had taken it.

“There was a killing sickness on the ship that trunk was on. No one’s sure which passenger had it first. They took all the luggage of the people that had it.”

The luggage of the people who had died of it.

Lily’s trunk was headed for the incinerator.

There would be no putting that letter back in the trunk where it belonged.

I sped away with my hand over the book in my pocket, the edges of Lily’s letter crinkling under my fingertips.

SCARLET
fever begins its terrible work before you even know it is inside you. A menacing bacterium, too tiny to see with your eyes, finds its way to you from an avenue of exposure you aren’t even aware of. The minute it is inside, it attacks. That is its only purpose. First you develop a sore throat, the kind that would have you think you’ve swallowed shards of glass. A fever follows, making you feel as if you are being cooked from the inside out. A tremendous headache arrives and by this time you have crawled into your bed and want nothing more than to disappear into sleep and not awaken until the sickness has left, if it indeed leaves. Your body is full of contagion now, and anyone who comes near must cover his or her nose and mouth, in case you cough and spew the sickness into the air he or she breathes. If your caregivers don’t cleanse their hands after having attended you, they will soon have what you have. While you lie there, miserable in your bed, your body produces an angry scarlet rash that starts on your chest and spreads to your arms and legs. The rash is rough to the touch, like a cat’s tongue. About the sixth day, the rash begins to fade and then it will peel like a sunburn. Your tongue blanches white, too, before turning a deep strawberry hue after the white layer sloughs off. This is good news, because it means you will likely survive.

But if the bacteria invades within the belly of a rocking ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, it runs unfettered like a wild colt, from soul to soul. There is no doctor or nurse to rub your fevered body with carbolized oil or to soak your crimson limbs in a soda bath.

And if the infection goes deep into your bloodstream—if it finds its way to the very heart of you—you will develop sepsis or meningitis, and if that happens, there is no hope. Only heaven can cure you now.

The bacteria are so small, so quiet, there is no way to see where they linger. Are they on the clothes of the dead? Are they lurking in the bedcovers? Are they lying in wait in someone’s luggage?

When the menace claims thirteen lives in the hold of one ship, the answer to those questions is always the same. There is only one way to be sure the disease isn’t preparing to pounce from within the deceased’s belongings and onto the shores of the greeting nation.

Burn the belongings.

Burn them all.

•   •   •

I
could have walked straight to the incinerator with Lily’s book and letter.

I didn’t think her trunk was truly full of contagion. From Andrew’s numb responses to Mrs. Crowley’s questions, I was certain Lily had died very recently. Perhaps within the last few days. I was also fairly sure her trunk had been secured in the baggage hold with the other steamer trunks when they left Liverpool and before she became ill. And even if she had opened her trunk after having been exposed to the disease, the incubation period had surely passed. The inspectors at Ellis would take no chances, of course, but I was in no danger.

The book in my pocket was no receptacle of disease.

As I walked back through the ferry house, I imagined the flames of the incinerator consuming Lily’s letter and turning to ash her appalling confession. If I hadn’t taken the book out of her trunk in the first place, that was exactly what would have become of it.

Had I not trifled with what wasn’t mine, Andrew Gwynn would have lost forever the opportunity to learn of his bride’s duplicity. He would have lived the rest of his life—however long that was to be—thinking the woman he had married within days of meeting her had loved him, that she had given up all that was familiar to marry him and sail to America because she was in love.

But now there was an opportunity for him to learn the truth.

And it rested with me.

It seemed I had two choices: dispose of the book and its contents and let Andrew believe his dead wife loved him, or give Andrew the letter and let him grieve for having been cruelly wronged.

Which was worse? Mourning the loss of something without knowing you never actually had it, or mourning the loss of what you thought you had and never had at all?

I thought of Edward, who, before he died, kissed me in my dreams and drew my gaze when I was awake.

I couldn’t answer which was worse.

There could be no deciding at that moment what to do with Lily’s letter. The incinerator would be hungry for it another day. Fire is always hungry for things that don’t belong to it.

I hurried back to the main hospital building on island three. The midday meal was nearly over. There wasn’t time to return to my dormitory room and find a place to put Lily’s book. It jostled in my apron pocket as I ran to get back to my post. Dolly was returning from the staff dining room and I nearly ran into her in the main corridor.

She took in my breathless consternation and crooked an eyebrow. “Where’ve you been? I didn’t see you in the dining hall. Are you all right?”

I forced a smile. “I’m fine. Was on an errand for Mrs. Crowley.”

“Still? She was asking about you when I went in to eat. She was fixing to send someone after you.”

“I’m fine,” I echoed.

She touched my arm as we walked. “I saw you go into the nurses’ quarters earlier. I nearly followed you to see if you were ill.”

My hand reached instinctively for my apron pocket to cover it with my hand. Dolly’s eyes traveled to it, and then she looked back at me.

“I’m fine.” It sounded even less believable the third time. Dolly, being the only one who knew what I dreamed about when I slept, arched an eyebrow. Her concern suddenly seemed like something I could trust. I needed to figure out what to do with the letter, and Dolly wouldn’t turn me in for my questionable acts in the baggage room. I could ask her what I should do.

“It’s not about me. It’s about that man who lost his wife on the
Seville
. I found out something about her. Something he doesn’t know.”

Dolly’s eyes widened in interest. “The man you took to Ward K a bit ago?”

I nodded. “He asked me to get something out of his steamer trunk and when I did—”

“You did it?”

“Yes, I did. The man just lost his wife. Anyway, that’s when I saw . . . when I learned something about her I am sure he doesn’t know.”

“What is it? What doesn’t he know?”

We were now just yards from the main reception area. I could see the tip of Mrs. Crowley’s hat as she sat at her table among a huddle of dark-coated immigrants. “Not here,” I murmured. “I’ll tell you later. But I need to find a way to see him again.”

She lowered her voice, too. “To tell him?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“When are you due to rotate to the wards?”

“Not for three days.”

Dolly shrugged. “Let him find out on his own.”

“He never will if I don’t tell him.”

Dolly looked dubious. “Why not?”

We were now back at the reception area and I snapped my mouth shut. I gave Dolly a wordless shake of my head and we pushed our way to the front to a scowling Mrs. Crowley.

Mrs. Crowley turned to me. “I asked you to find me some interpreters, not travel to Europe to learn the languages!”

“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Crowley.”

She rose from her chair. “I haven’t had my dinner yet and there’s a group of poor souls here from the
Seville
that need to be escorted over to Ward K. One of you needs to take them over and one of you needs to take my place at the table until the others get back from the dining hall.”

“I can take your place at the table, Mrs. Crowley,” Dolly said, even before Mrs. Crowley had fully finished her sentence. Dolly slid into her chair and looked up at me.

Mrs. Crowley handed me a short stack of registration cards and I turned to the group of sad-eyed people who had been aboard Andrew Gwynn’s ship. There were a dozen maybe, mostly men, and three young women huddled together with long blond braids down their backs. The girl in the middle looked a bit pale and glassy eyed. I could tell already she was sick.

“I hope you ate when you were out strolling Ellis,” Mrs. Crowley said as she brushed past me.

“I can eat later.”

“Please tell me the long time you were away means you found some interpreters,” she said over her shoulder as she started to amble away.

“No one can be spared now, I’m afraid. We might see a couple later in the afternoon.”

She waved without turning her back.

I mouthed, “Thank you,” to Dolly and then I faced the little crowd. “If you will follow me, please?”

A few blank stares told me not all of them spoke English. But the ones who did hoisted their haversacks and turned to walk in my direction. The others followed. We made our way quietly to the isolation wards.

This time I took the little group into the wards themselves to help the attending nurses sort them out. I knew Dolly probably needed me back at the reception area, but I also knew she had afforded me these moments for a purpose. As soon as the new arrivals had been shown to their wards, I confirmed where Andrew Gwynn had been taken earlier that morning. I was soon making my way to the far side of Ward K, where other men with suspected scarlet fever had been billeted.

The room held twelve metal beds and most were now occupied. Some of the men sat on the edges of their cots reading, some played cards with one another, and others were lying down with their hands folded across their chests, staring at the ceiling. Half of them were still in street clothes. That would likely change, would certainly change if they came down with the disease. A few lay sick and unmoving. A food cart was being pushed out by a male attendant. The men had just eaten.

I saw Andrew on the left side of the rows of beds. He was standing by a window with his hands in his trouser pockets, looking through the panes to the outstretched arm of the Liberty statue and the expanse of the world beyond. His shoulder bag sat open on his bed and the black felt hat rested against it. Without the hat, I could see that Andrew’s hair was cropped short but hinting of curls that would grow if left alone. He had taken his jacket off and laid it on the chair next to his bed. A bit of sunshine-orange fabric peeked from the folds.

He seemed unaware of my approach. When I was just a few feet behind him I cleared my throat and he turned around. When he saw that it was me he glanced at my hands, no doubt to see whether I had his father’s pattern book. I could feel the hardness of the poetry book at my hip as he looked at my empty hands. It appeared that I was carrying nothing.

“I was able to retrieve your pattern book, Mr. Gwynn,” I said quickly. “I will try to get it to you later. I just wanted you to know it is safe in my room.”

“You have it?” He seemed to doubt that something good could happen this day. He sought my eyes for confirmation that he had heard me correctly.

“I’m sorry you will have to wait for it, but there isn’t a way to get it to you at the moment. My supervisor will be back from her dinner soon and I’m expected to finish my shift in the reception room.”

“Is it safe in your room?” His accent colored his words with tones unfamiliar to me.

“The nurses’ quarters are separate from the wards. And our doors are locked.”

He nodded. “I do not mean to sound ungrateful. I just do not want to lose the last thing I have.”

“You don’t sound ungrateful, Mr. Gwynn.”

He half turned back to the window. “If I should become sick, will you . . . could you possibly do something for me?”

I hesitated only a moment. “If I am able, yes.”

He fully faced me again. “See that my brother gets the pattern book. Keep it safe for me until he comes to get . . . comes for me?”

It didn’t seem too hard a task, though Mrs. Crowley would think it most improper for a nurse to safeguard a patient’s belongings in her dormitory room. But I was already doing that. And had been for the better part of an hour.

“Shall I just keep it tucked away in my room until we see what the future holds?” I asked. “If you escape the fever, you will be able to leave in a few days. I can bring it to you then.”

He nodded, relief evident in his careworn face. “And if I should get the fever, and if . . . if it kills me—”

“You will have much better care here than your . . . than anyone had on the ship, Mr. Gwynn. Many people who contract the fever survive if they receive proper medical treatment.”

I clamped my mouth shut. There was no solace in pointing out the obvious: His wife had died because she had been on a ship in the middle of the ocean. If she had been here on Ellis when she became ill, she would have perhaps survived.

“But if I do not survive,” Andrew went on, as if I had not interrupted him, “you will see that my brother gets the book?”

In the same moment that he asked me this I realized I had a stretch of space for deciding what to do with Lily’s letter. If Andrew Gwynn succumbed to the fever just as his wife had, I wouldn’t have to do anything. He could die in peace thinking his lovely new wife loved him. He would surely go looking for her in paradise and perhaps learn the truth at last in heaven. But heaven seems a place where truth cannot hurt. Here, the truth can be devastating.

If he fell ill and survived I had many days to decide.

If he wasn’t to become ill at all, I had less than a week.

I had time.

He still waited for my answer.

I didn’t want to tell Andrew that I’d make sure his brother got the book provided he came to the island to get it himself. That would have taken too much explaining.

“Of course,” I said. “I am due to rotate into the isolation wards on Monday. We can see how you’re doing then.”

He bowed slightly. “Thank you. I am in your debt.”

“Not at all,” I said quickly, shaking off those last five words.

He sat down on his bed slowly, as though contemplating what might be in store for him had exhausted him.

“I’ll leave you to settle in, then,” I said.

“Thank you.” He held out his hand, palm up, toward me. It was the strangest gesture. Like a poor man asking for alms. I just stared, unsure what he expected me to do.

“My luggage keys?” he said.

“Oh! Of course!” I reached into my pocket, my hand firmly palming the book of poetry and my fingers grazing Lily’s confession. I grasped for the shoelace and claim tickets and quickly drew them out. I placed them in his hands. “I am afraid they’ve sent your wife’s . . . the other trunk to the incinerator. It’s not in the baggage room anymore.”