Poison to Purge Melancholy (14 page)

“Two bits or go on your way.”

Sam turned his back and trotted down the steps. “So be it. Good night to you, sir.”

“Wait. Twenty pence.”

“Fifteen.”

“Done.”

Sam was up the steps, waving us on, before the mist from the footman’s lips vanished. “Play for us, fiddler.”

First, I touched young Tom’s shoulder. “Stay without, lad, and in the shadows. If you see the constable, shout for us. If other trouble brews, run for home.”

“Yes, sir.” He sounded both disappointed and relieved.

I struck up my bow and played “The Barring of the Door” as I followed the others inside.

The aroma of cinnamon
wafted in from the dining room. As we entered, I saw that the tablecloth was gone and the dessert platters were set on the bare wood along with new dishes and pewterware. Two trays of black caps were arranged in a geometric squares, the apples steaming hot and dusted with cinnamon sugar. Two pyramids of dried fruit and two types of cookies—one being a neat stack of my pizzelles—anchored the corners, and small bowls of shelled chestnuts, walnuts, and black-and-white raisins completed the symmetry.

We resumed our seats. With no tablecloth to hide hands under, I had to be content with Hugh’s leg touching mine. Still, that seemed to ward off incorporeal practical jokes. Across from us, Acey discreetly let Weisel know about the goo on his nose and he wiped it on his napkin. Too bad. The clown look suited him.

“Again,” Glad was saying, “a much simpler dessert course than I usually put out, but a sampling of what the Carson household might have enjoyed during harder times. Except, of course, these anise waffle cookies Pat brought.” She pointed to my pizzelles with a slight hint of disapproval. “They’re an Italian recipe, I believe.”

“We don’t know they
weren’t
around,” said Evelyn. “Besides, Elizabeth would have put out any food brought by guests.”

Miss Maggie agreed. “And I can vouch for Pat’s pizzelles. They’re scrumptious. Everything looks wonderful, Gladys. Is that gingerbread on the other plate?”

Glad beamed at the compliment. “Yes, from the Raleigh Tavern Bake Shop. And these are black caps, from a 1756 cookbook.”

The Lees, with the exception of Foot, didn’t seem interested in the source or history of the food. They all loaded their plates, replenished their mugs, and dug in. Foot, however, made his mother recite the black cap ingredients. Her litany included a tangent about how I’d prepared the apples and figured out the orange-flower water conversion.

The siblings lowered their forks and stared at me, and Hugh asked, “Mom, you let Pat help you with dinner?”

“Isn’t that why you wanted me to come early today?” I countered, feigning innocence.

He gave me a sarcastic sneer confirming both that I’d won this round and that he was the sexiest man on earth. I grinned back and rubbed my ankle against his, to acknowledge each half of the confirmation.

“Pat was so interested, you see,” Glad said.
And none of you ever were
, she seemed to want to add.

The black caps were good—oh, the sugar hadn’t caramelized, so we were talking more of a simple baked apple, but its flesh had picked up subtle hints of vanilla and citrus, giving it a wonderful light flavor. Recipe-wise, a keeper.

The gingerbread was delicious, too, crumbly and not too sweet, and the chestnuts were still warm from roasting.

The sweets seemed to mellow everyone. Oh, the conversation was still medical, but had shifted to nanotech diagnostics—tiny robots swimming through your innards with a med kit and videocam. Not that I understood half the terminology. Still, I was thankful they weren’t discussing something gross, like colonoscopy prep.

When we were all sated, Glad shooed us back to the parlor so the table could be cleared. We all stood up. Doc Weisel sat back down, a puzzled look on his face.

You’d think, with a room full of doctors, someone would have asked him what was wrong. No one did. Not even Acey.

Weisel shook his head as if to clear it. “Feeling a little dizzy.”

“Shouldn’t have had that third glass,” Horse said. “Ale’s probably stronger than you’re used to.” Apparently it wasn’t stronger than Horse was used to because he’d had just as much.

“No, I’ve had it before,” Weisel said. “At Legends in Richmond.”

Evelyn nodded. “Right. That’s where I got it.”

“Probably an inner-ear infection,” Rich suggested.

Weisel stood again, slower this time, leaning on the table until he was sure of his balance. “Maybe a touch of the flu. I’m feeling chilled, too.”

Acey touched the back of her fingers to Weisel’s forehead—the first time she’d touched him at all, but this seemed clinical. “No fever. In fact, your skin’s cold.”

“You should go lie down,” Foot said, but with no compassion. I wondered if he wanted to get Weisel out of the way so family business could be discussed. If so, he still had to oust me, Evelyn, and Miss Maggie.

“No,” Weisel said. “I’ll be all right.”

* * *

Back in the parlor, most of us resumed our pre-dessert positions, except now Hugh perched on the side of the sofa, one arm behind his head, his hand resting on my shoulder. I leaned into him, in case he got the notion to move his hand for any reason and break contact. My stomach felt comfortably stuffed and the aftertaste of gingerbread and cinnamon apples lingered. Nap time, my body was saying. I tried to rub the sleepiness out of my eyes.

Miss Maggie sat next to me and Beth Ann next to her, if you could call her nearly horizontal slouch sitting. Weisel occupied one of the armchairs. He seemed paler now, dark eyes wide in their sockets, arms crossed over his chest, and a look of general discomfort on his face. Acey dropped into the other armchair, giving her beloved a disapproving LAG.

Before anyone could say anything, Beth Ann, perhaps to steer her aunt and uncles clear of more depressing conversations about Glad, groused, “I wish Grandmom had a Christmas tree.”

My hopes dashed about one being put up later, I turned to Miss Maggie. “No Christmas trees in colonial America?”

She shook her head. “Not until the 1800s. Most of our familiar Christmas traditions come from the Victorians. During the eighteenth century—the Age of Reason, mind you—many ministers held that, if Christ had wanted his birthday celebrated, the Bible would tell us the precise day. On the whole, birthdays weren’t considered noteworthy, except for the king’s, of course, which was a state holiday.”

Miss Maggie shifted her weight forward, gaining energy from talking history. “Christmas was outlawed in early New England—the Puritans didn’t believe in it. Neither did the Quakers in Pennsylvania, which caused friction with the Germans and Catholics who didn’t show up at Market that day. In fact, the reason many Protestant churches began having Christmas services was to keep their congregants from attending the Catholic churches, who often held special concerts as part of their holy day masses. But rather than preach the Christmas story, ministers more often spent the time sermonizing against revelry and debauchery.”

“Mummery,” Foot said as an uncharacteristic smile tugged at his lips.

“Mummers?” That caught my ear. I wondered what the New Year’s parade in Philly—grown men prancing around in elaborate feathered/sequined costumes—had to do with colonial customs.

“The Philadelphia mummers,” Miss Maggie explained, “are only a small remnant of a Christmas tradition that dates back to at least medieval times.”

“Not just Christmas,” Foot said. “Mummery was part of all the festivals that marked the changing of each season—the superstitious rituals that made the winter days grow longer again, or brought plants back to life each spring. Songs were sung and certain plays performed—like
St. George and the Dragon
.” Foot, the whiner and the dinnertime brooder, had been transformed. He obviously loved the topic as much as Miss Maggie. “The first wassails were chanted and danced around apple trees as a wish for a good harvest in the coming year. Mummers began going door-to-door at each holiday, performing their plays and blessing each house in exchange for drinks or money.”

Miss Maggie nodded. “Problem was that here in America the practice got out of hand, especially after the Revolution, which changed the economics of the nation. All of a sudden we had nouveau riche and a middle class. Everyone talked of men being equal, but the poor knew better and resented it. Mummers carried flintlocks and
demanded
money. In the early 1800s, mummery was outlawed and it wasn’t until mid-century that the law was changed to allow limited activity, like parades. Which is why Philadelphia has their Mummers Parade and New Orleans, Mardi Gras. Otherwise, mummery lives on in Christmas caroling, May Day frolics, and Halloween.”

“In regions of Britain,” Foot said, “mummers troupes still perform the plays.”

“In the U.S., too,” Hugh added. “Foot was in a group in D.C. while doing his psych residency. Always played the part of the quack doctor who couldn’t bring the hero back to life.”

“Typecasting,” Rich said.

“He was perfect,” Horse maintained. “Doing exaggerated Heimlich maneuvers, using spatulas as defibrillator paddles, pulling things like smoking potions out of his doctor’s bag. He was hilarious.”

Foot? Making people laugh? I couldn’t picture it. Right now he was red-faced, and his smile had disappeared.

“You ought to start a group in Richmond, Foot,” Horse told his brother. “Heck, you don’t have to go outside the family. I’ll be the hero, Hugh can be the villain, and Rich can dress in drag.”

“No, thank you,” Rich sneered.

“He’d be more appropriate as the guy who collects the money afterward,” Acey said, laughing. “Horse, you be the dress-man, I’ll be the hero.”

“No women allowed,” Horse argued. “It’s tradition. Isn’t that right, Foot?”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Maggie. “In the colonies, anyway, there are records of women dressing as men during tavern revelry. Besides, I want a part, too.”

Without warning, Doc Weisel slipped to the floor, one arm twitching, but the rest of him dead weight. He landed face down and stayed there, eyes closed, hands still trembling. All four doctors were kneeling beside him the next instant, rolling him to his back.

Hugh sprang to his feet with me, now wide awake, right beside him, but he didn’t move beyond that. He knew better than to get in the way of the others.

“Pulse is over a hundred,” Rich said, eyeing his watch as he clutched Weisel’s wrist.

Acey raced out of the room, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll get my bag.”

Rich put his ear to Weisel’s chest, Foot pushed open each eyelid in turn, Horse reached for his cell phone. Acey came back with one of those ergonomic shoulder bags, purple in color, from which she pulled a stethoscope, a blood pressure wrist cuff, and an ear thermometer.

“I think he took something,” Acey said as she fastened the cuff around Weisel’s wrist, which was still occasionally twitching, and held that limb across his chest. “His pupils were dilated.”

I remembered how wide and dark his eyes looked before our mummers discussion.

Foot grunted his agreement. “Skin’s cold. Hand me that thermometer.”

“Is he taking any medication?” Rich asked, now using the stethoscope on Weisel’s heart, lungs, and the sides of his neck.

“Not that I know of,” Acey replied. “He had something on his nose before we went in for dessert—”

The beep sounded on the cuff and Acey checked the numbers. “Low. Ninety-two over sixty-three. But I don’t know his baseline.”

“Tachycardia with possible hypotension,” Horse said into the phone, which is when it occurred to me that he’d called 911.

“Ninety-five point four,” Foot reported and Horse added “below normal body temperature” to his litany of symptoms.

I glanced down at the sofa. Miss Maggie was leaning back, observing the drama, worry creases adding to the swarm of wrinkles on her forehead and around her mouth. She held Beth Ann’s hand—or I should say, Beth Ann held hers, clutching it so tightly the girl’s knuckles were white. The girl had turned her head toward a window, as if the candle, or the blackness outside, fascinated her. She chewed on her bottom lip.

“I’ll go watch for the ambulance,” I volunteered. “Beth Ann, come keep me company.”

She didn’t need a second invitation, but beat me to the room doorway. I told her to get her coat, but she said, “I don’t need it”—half-defiant, half wanting to escape ASAP. We went out onto the wooden stoop, leaving the door open a crack behind us.

Not until the cold air slapped our faces—the breeze had freshened a bit since the afternoon—did I realize I’d crossed the hall war zone without clutching onto Hugh. I’d been concentrating on getting Beth Ann out of the room and forgot all about the ghost. Nothing had happened. Perhaps the spook had been distracted by Dr. Weisel.

The house had no porch light. Only the glow from the window candles, indoor lamps, and the muted streetlight farther downhill let us see the steps, black patch of front lawn, and white shells of the drive, pale and spooky in darkness. I also couldn’t see a house number and no mailbox was perched by the curb. So waiting out here to flag down paramedics proved to be one of my better ideas. I just wished they’d hurry—the damp was already seeping through my sweater. Per doctor’s orders to stay off my feet, I sat down on the top step.