Judas Flowering (33 page)

“Can you wonder?” said Abigail.

It was late in October, with the harvest all in, but still Gordon refused to give orders to bring in at least the domestic staff from Winchelsea. He shrugged off Mercy's protests. “I was out there myself just the other day. Everything as right as can be. I don't know why you indulge yourself in these alarmist fancies, Miss Mercy. It is like a female, I know, but not like you. And talking of the ladies.” Archly. “You will never imagine who I met taking their promenade out there.”

“No, I suppose I probably will not.”

“Who but Miss Bridget and Miss Claire! They feel no danger in driving out there to call on friends and take a peep, as they described it, at Winchelsea on the way back. I cannot imagine what makes you so timorous.”

“Common sense perhaps.” But she wished she knew what had taken the McCartneys to Winchelsea.

She was wakened, very early, a few mornings later by the news that the packet was in and that Captain Smythe wished to speak to her. “I came myself.” His greeting was unceremonious and she did not trouble to apologise for her thrown-on clothes. “It's good news, I hope. I have him on board.”

“Hart! Oh, God bless you.”

“Don't say that yet. I've done my best. But, Miss Phillips, he was a dying man when he came on board. He'd been on one of those stinking hulks they call prison ships. All through
the summer in New York Harbour. Please God, his exchange came through just in time. The passage has certainly done him good. Fresh air, the little food we could get him to take, but you've a nursing job on your hands, and not a light one. I'm on my way to report to the Assembly, but I thought you'd want to start making arrangements for getting him home. My men have orders to help any way they can. He should not stay down there in the harbour a minute longer than need be.”

“He's bad?”

“Very bad.”

“Wounds?”

“Nothing to signify. If they'd been tended. Miss Phillips, if I had a British prisoner here, at this moment, I think I'd strangle him with my two hands.”

“No!”

“Wait till you see him. I should warn you, he won't know you.” He picked up hat and cane. “And—good luck.”

“I haven't thanked you.”

“No need. And no time.”

Saul Gordon was away on one of his visits of inspection to Winchelsea, and Mercy was glad of it. She rang, sent for William, gave her orders, and then hurried upstairs to wake Abigail and break the news. “Will you tell his mother and aunt while I go down to the quay and fetch him. Don't let them hope too much, Abigail.”

“No? Oh, Mercy!” And then, making herself be practical, “His room. Have you given orders for it?”

“No use. Captain Smythe says we cannot possibly get him up the stairs.” Her mind had been nibbling at this problem. “Only one thing for it,” she said now. “Abigail, have them set up a cot bed in the office. It's the only way.”

“Mr Gordon won't like it.”

“No, he won't, will he?”

Nothing Smythe had said had prepared her for the reality of Hart's condition. Gaunt as a skeleton, pale as a ghost, he lay in his ship's cot, hands twitching at the blankets, lips constantly in movement, saying something unintelligible. But a blessing, for the moment, that he did not recognise her. It made the undignified business of getting him ashore and up the bluff a little easier.

And, arrived in Oglethorpe Square, she was relieved to find that not even the news of Hart's arrival had got the two older
ladies up and dressed yet. She was able to get him into the room Abigail had had prepared with a minimum of muss and confusion.

“I've sent for the doctor.” Like the servants who had helped get Hart to bed, Abigail was crying quietly. “He should be here directly.”

“Bless you. I should have thought of that.”

Dr Flinn was less discouraging than Mercy had feared. He had met Captain Smythe in Broughton Street, he told her, and had a preliminary report from him. “I do not wish to raise your hopes unduly, Miss Phillips, but from what Smythe said, I think a very pronounced change for the better must have taken place on the voyage down. We have found this, you know, on each of our unlucky expeditions southwards. The fever cases and the wounded alike tend to improve enormously in the course of the voyage back through the inner channel. It's the fresh air, I suppose, or something.” He rolled up his shirt-sleeves. “And now, if you'll leave me, I'll examine these wounds of his.”

“Had I not better stay,” said Mercy. “I intend to look after the nursing myself.”

“You do?” She had surprised him. “Would it not be more suitable if one of the servants—”

“It might be more suitable, but it would be a great deal less satisfactory. One cannot trust them to keep things clean, and my father always said that cleanliness was half the battle when treating wounds.”

“Your father spoke like a sensible man. Very well then, so long as you promise not to faint or have hysterics.”

“I don't think I know how,” said Mercy.

“He's been lucky.” Dr Flinn summed it up when the examination was over. “A good constitution, and he must have been hard as nails when it happened to him. And only superficial wounds. I'd say they must have nearly healed on the march from Monmouth up to New York. Impossible to tell, of course, but that's the way it looks to me. And then broken out again owing to the frightful conditions on the hulk. Another few weeks of that and it would have been gangrene, and death. As it is, rest and care, Miss Phillips. Keep the wounds clean and dry. I hope you haven't given all your linen for bandages. I know how generous you and Miss Abigail have been.”

“No, I'm afraid I saved some for our own emergencies.”

“And very sensible too. I'll call again tomorrow. Oh”—he was putting on his black coat—“no excitement whatever, Miss Phillips. No tears, no scenes of joyful reunion.”

“It's hardly the occasion for that,” she said. “Yet. But, Dr Flinn, would you add to your kindness by seeing Mrs Purchis and explaining to her? She would take it better from you, I know.” It was going to be difficult to keep Hart quiet in this room, which opened off the main family living room, but it must be done. “Could you perhaps suggest the possibility that it might be a fever?” she asked. “Maybe catching?”

He had known them all a long time. “An excellent idea. I'll go through straightaway.”

Left alone with her patient, Mercy stood for a long moment, letting herself imagine he seemed a little better, now that his wounds had been dressed. Then she went over to the back door of the office and looked out into the yard, where, as always, a group of the servants' children were playing under the catalpa trees. She sent one of them for William, and when he came, she asked him to put a bolt onto the door that led from the office into the big ground-floor room. “Mr Hart must have absolute quiet,” she said.

“Yes, miss.” He hesitated for a moment. “My Amy say she'd be right down proud if you'd let her help nurse the master. She don't reckon much to fevers, she says.”

Agreeing gratefully, she was amazed as always at the speed with which family news travelled among the servants. Equally, and of course, it would be all over Savannah. When William returned and put on the bolt, she sent him off to hunt the house for screens to mask the door from the outside. “We must keep him quiet at all costs,” she explained. “And we are bound to have visitors. Miss Abigail will have to see them, since I have exposed myself to the fever. I shall go to and fro by the back way.”

“Yes, miss. I surely hope the rain don't start. But if it do, I'll think of something.”

“I'm sure you will.”

It was peaceful, nursing Hart. Since she would not allow either the front door of the office or the one into the house next door to be opened, she could only see people in the back yard, and it was not many who would come round through the servants' quarters. Captain Smythe came, to be thanked once again, and wish her luck, and Dr Flinn came daily, and, daily, allowed a little more hope. “But it will be a long business,”
he warned her. “And I think I should tell you that, even if he does recover, I fear some permanent damage to the muscle of his right arm. He must have thrown up his arm to protect his head, and the sabre caught him in an awkward place. Well.” He was making ready to go. “It's the end of fighting for him, which may be no bad thing.”

“Doctor, you speak as if you thought he would recover.”

“That's true,” he said. “I think I do. Thanks to you, Miss Phillips. And if you can go on keeping him quiet. I shall be glad when his mind stops wandering.”

“So shall I. Though, mind you, it makes him easier to nurse.”

“Yes.” Dr Flinn had grown very fond of her. “I think you must expect trouble when he does come round. He won't a bit like your nursing him, you know.”

“Of course he won't.” And that was an understatement if ever there was one. What in the world would Hart say when he found who was nursing him? But that, like all the others, was a bridge she would cross when she came to it. She smiled at Dr Flinn. “I am rather hoping that by then he will be well enough so I can let Amy and her daughter take over and pretend they have been nursing him all the time.”

“You think of everything, Miss Phillips. I shan't worry myself about you. Except, I wish you will not over-tire yourself. Do you get out at all?”

“Oh, yes, in the evenings, when I am less likely to frighten people with thoughts of the fever.” In fact, she now habitually put on her peasant's shawl and went down to take the air on the bluff and gather what news she could.

When she returned that evening, it was to crisis. Saul Gordon had arrived from Winchelsea, Amy told her, and was furious at finding himself turned out of the office. “You can hear him,” said the old woman, and it was true. The angry voice in the next room penetrated through screens and door alike.

“I'll go and speak to him,” said Mercy. “Let me out the front way, Amy, it's quicker. But lock up tight behind me.” Luckily, she and Dr Flinn had agreed that very morning that the pretext of the fever could now be abandoned, since the nine days' wonder of Hart's return had been superseded by new rumours of a possible invasion from St Augustine.

Her appearance, for the first time, in the family living room caused an apprehensive stir in the agitated little group
there. Saul Gordon had been haranguing the two older ladies while Abigail listened and looked anxious. Now they all turned to stare at Mercy. “Is this wise?” Mrs Purchis took a step backward and picked up her fan from the table.

“Yes. And necessary. You are disturbing my patient, Mr Gordon, with your shouting.”

“Your patient is in my office,” he said angrily.

“I think you forget, Mr Gordon, that my patient is your employer.”

“That's as may be,” said Gordon.

Before she could take him up on it, Mrs Purchis interrupted, “Keep away,” she exclaimed, as Mercy took a step forward. “Do you want us all dying and the whole house quarantined! Things are quite bad enough as it is, with hardly a soul coming near us since the news of Hart's fever got about.”

“My apologies.” Mercy's voice was dry. “I quite forgot to mention that Dr Flinn pronounced Hart clear of the fever when he called today. But he still needs quiet. No visitors, the doctor says, until his mind is clear.” Which, please God, would be soon.

“Oh!” Saul Gordon pounced on it. “So he's still out of his mind, is he? And it's you, I take it, that I have to thank for this high-handed decision to turn me out of my office?”

“I'm afraid so. Did no one explain that I had all your papers moved, with the greatest care, to a room at the back?”

“Entered from the slaves' quarters! I thank you, yes, they did explain. And as for tampering with my papers in my absence! Mrs Purchis”—he turned angrily back to her—“since your son is out of his mind and likely to remain so, and since you let this young person rule the roost here, I have no option but to offer you my resignation.”

“Mr Gordon! You'd never do that after all your years with us!”

“On the contrary.” He drew himself up to his full five feet four inches. “I have quite made up my mind. Frankly, I have had good offers of employment and refused them out of loyalty to you. This high-handed behaviour on your housekeeper's part has made up my mind for me. I will but collect my papers from the slave's hovel where she has had them put and take my leave of you.”

“No, you will not,” said Mercy. Something in his tone as he spoke of the papers had alerted her. “They are not your
papers, Mr Gordon, but Mr Purchis'. For your own sake, I know you will wish an independent observer to be by as you remove what is yours and leave what is his. I suggest we send for Mr Purchis' lawyer.”

“He's out of town.” But the fight had gone out of Saul Gordon.

“Then we will wait until he comes back. In the meantime, the papers will remain locked up and I shall keep the key. Naturally, Mr Gordon, you must do what you think best about your own affairs. If you really wish to leave, I do not imagine that Mrs Purchis will try to prevent you. Indeed, ma'am”—she turned to Martha Purchis—“with business so quiet and the harvest safe in at Winchelsea, I am sure Sam and I could see to things between us until Hart recovers.”

“If he recovers.” But Saul Gordon's tone had changed. “Of course, I will not abandon you at this anxious time, ma'am. If you will give me the keys to my new quarters, Miss Phillips, I will start setting things to rights there.”

For a moment, she was tempted to refuse. She was more certain than ever, now, that there was something very wrong among those papers, but looking at the relieved faces of the three other women she knew that this was a battle she was bound to lose, and gave way with good grace. Only, afterwards, sitting in the quiet of Hart's room was there time to wonder whether it was evidence of public or of private treachery that Saul Gordon was, doubtless, this very moment destroying.