Too Soon for Flowers (16 page)

Indeed, the acting proprietor, Mrs. Emily Bowers, seemed frozen with indecision. Over by a barrel of coarse sea salt, an older woman finally made a clucking noise, then turned her back. Charlotte had known Mrs. Proctor from childhood, and admired her as a pillar of good works in Bracebridge. And wasn’t that Mrs. Hurd beside her, holding a piece of lace? Yes, it
was
Jemima, whose aches and twinges she had politely followed for years—but Mrs. Hurd, too, looked away without speaking.

Emily Bowers managed to clear her throat.

“What is it that you need today, Mrs. Willett?”

“Peanut brittle, please.”

“How much for you?”

“A quarter-pound will do.”

“I’ll have my husband bring it over to Mr. Longfellow’s house this afternoon.”

“Thank you. I planned to take a few more things, but it seems I may not be welcome here today.”

The other ladies moved slightly, in a way that reminded Charlotte of her hens when they suspected someone might soon take an egg from beneath their feathers.

The distress of Emily Bowers increased, for she knew Mrs. Willett was genuinely liked and respected by more than a few of her female clients. Beyond that, she paid swiftly.

“It’s only that this morning,” the woman explained, “as we’ve been speaking of Phoebe Morris …”

“But I don’t see—”

“People wonder what’s happened, and they want to know who’s at fault,” Emily Bowers hurried on. “We’ve heard talk these past weeks that inoculation is safe—yet I
can’t say all of us believe it. If the talk is wrong, then such a thing should never have been tried on the poor girl, especially not here in Bracebridge! People fear others will soon be contaminated, because of this Boston doctor’s efforts. But now let’s suppose inoculation
is
safe. Then, people are bound to blame the man for doing something else to Phoebe … and, perhaps, they may find fault in those who caused him to come here in the first place …”

“Think of how Will Sloan must feel!” Jemima Hurd fluttered, “to lose his young bride! Though you know,” she reversed herself, “that boy has been a trial to his poor mother. As Hannah Sloan was saying only last week—”

“Reverend Rowe may be correct, as well,” Mrs. Proctor interrupted sharply, “in suspecting both young people of wrongdoing, for there is far too much laxness, these days.”

“I see,” murmured Mrs. Willett. “But shouldn’t we wait to hear what the constable and our selectmen decide?” she asked mildly.

“Fools!” old Mrs. Proctor exclaimed, drawing a nervous titter from Mrs. Hurd. “Count on them to get everything wrong—though they will rarely tell
us
what is going on, so that we might straighten them out! In the meantime, people are afraid
you
might carry the contagion, Mrs. Willett, coming and going from your house. Some say it’s simply a matter of time before you take the smallpox, which I’ve heard you admit you have not had.”

“And a woman’s first duty, before all else, is to think of the children! What of their safety? What of their future?” Mrs. Hurd’s face was uplifted while her cry rang out.

“It was to protect the future of three lives,” Charlotte countered, “that the inoculation was arranged, for it is widely believed to be a wise precaution!”

“I don’t know about that,” Sarah Proctor retorted. “But I do know people have died both of the smallpox, and the inoculation. And do not forget, most in our village are not protected! Only a few have money enough to bring
physicians from Boston, as you well know. Who will help when one of us is stricken, as a result of your encouragement of outsiders?”

“I’m sorry for you myself, Mrs. Willett,” Jemima Hurd admitted, “but what can we do? The village has decided. You should go into your home with the others, and pray that things become no worse. Go home, and stay there!” she finished shrilly.

Charlotte had no wish to hear more hysterical twaddle. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bowers, to have troubled you today,” she said, turning to leave as another walked through the doorway, dressed in well-worn, though newly ironed, garments.

“Mrs. Willett! How good to see you,” the woman exclaimed, offering her hand. “Are you keeping well?”

“Yes, indeed!” Charlotte answered with a force that surprised even herself. “How are the children?”

“Well occupied,” replied Rachel Dudley, “with the garden growing. Winthrop’s father is now letting him chop wood. And Anne lost both of her front teeth this week.”

“That will make life more interesting, when apple season comes again.”

Mrs. Dudley smiled, but Charlotte suddenly recalled a mother in tears. Last October, the Dudleys had lost their eldest son. The memory reminded her now that life did go on, despite great trials, and petty fuss—even though none of them were far from the encircling arms of Death. It called for much courage to recover from the loss of a loved one. Yet most families managed somehow, with the help of friends and neighbors, while each wondered who among them would be the next to go.

Mrs. Willett looked back to the three older women who had been silenced by the hard-pressed mother they knew to be struggling to keep her children fed and clothed—a woman who had just held out her hand gladly to another—someone they had refused to welcome.

“Are you leaving?” Rachel Dudley asked wistfully.

Charlotte thought for another moment, and then shook her head. “I’ll stay awhile, for I could use your advice on mending.” The statement was not exactly truthful, for she always avoided that particular task by bartering with one of Hannah’s girls, all of whom were handy. But Mrs. Willett proceeded to ask about a selection of needles soon put before her, knowing Mrs. Dudley to be a fine seamstress.

Before long, Mrs. Proctor and Mrs. Hurd again began to take up their own business. And Emily Bowers bustled about the room, beaming as she offered her wares to all.

I
N THE LARGEST
dining room on the second level of the Bracebridge Inn, eight individuals sat over Madeira, sherry, cider, and ale, sharing a plate of bread and English cheddar while they discussed the latest dilemma of the village. Four of the men, including Richard Longfellow, were selectmen. Phineas Wise came as their appointed constable, having begun a year’s term (rather than pay the stiff fine for refusing) several months earlier.

Reverend Christian Rowe, legally kept by his godly office from any position in secular government—though stating he was an earthly representative of a higher authority—also claimed a chair. Benjamin Tucker had been called as a medical witness. And Captain Edmund Montagu sat invited as a friend of the village; this was partly a bow to the captain’s somewhat vague connection to the Crown and its Boston representatives, as well as a
recognition of his past service to Bracebridge in a matter of murder.

“So, then,” said Longfellow, putting down his glass, “are we agreed that the remains will be moved today to a better resting place? I suppose Miss Morris can be buried in what she wears.”

The reverend reddened, then answered. “Certainly, for it would be unwise for the village to be further exposed to contagion … by touching her again. She should be interred immediately.”

“Her family may wish to move her to Concord later.”

“Could we not send her there now?” another of the selectmen asked with faint hope.

“I hardly think we can, without her family’s approval. The father and two uncles are away to the north, at Penobscot, seeing to some timber. I take it the mother is too ill to travel, after hearing the news. A sister has written she will come when she can. For now, they leave it to us. I suppose they feel Will Sloan has some claim, and expect his family to see to the girl’s immediate needs.”

“The poor child,” Dr. Tucker whispered, lifting his glass once more.

Odd, thought Richard Longfellow, that Tucker appeared to be more moved than anyone of the village, except perhaps Reverend Rowe. “But now,” he continued, “what about Will Sloan? Has anyone had news of his whereabouts?”

When no one spoke up, he rose and went to one of the tall windows.

“When a man runs away from a thing like this,” said Phineas Wise haltingly, “some say it’s because of guilt. How do you gentlemen feel about that?”

“If,” said Longfellow, turning back, “a man were to see his fiancée lying dead, do you not suppose he would want to be alone, until he could sort himself out? If that is the situation here, Will Sloan’s absence is understandable.
And we might find him before we accuse him—especially as we haven’t any clear idea of what has actually happened. But,” he added, looking from face to face, “we do have another concern. Will may be innocent of harming Phoebe, yet still a threat—if, for any reason, he went into the room to the girl. We all know that only those who have had the disease, or one very like it, can be trusted not to carry it. Will Sloan,” he finished bluntly, “never had the pox.”

“Then if we do find him,” asked Phineas Wise, “exactly what are we to do with him? I myself haven’t had it, either!”

Dr. Tucker answered, his voice weary. “I would suggest keeping young Sloan away from anyone else for a fortnight, at least, until we can be sure he’s over the risk of contagion. Any of you who have not had the smallpox should obviously refrain from looking for the boy in the first place.”

“I would like to add …” Captain Montagu began. While the others looked his way, and Longfellow again took a seat at the table, the captain waited. Then he went on.

“None of us knows exactly how smallpox is spread. But it has come to my attention that handling clothes, and particularly blankets, may be as deadly as making direct contact with a body, or with its gases.”

“I am aware of that, Captain,” Dr. Tucker said slowly. “There may also be a danger of effluvia carried on the air, which could ferment the blood of someone who has not been made invulnerable to infection. The medical community is still vague on that point—but I would be interested to hear of the circumstances on which you base your own conclusion, sir.”

“Recently,” Montagu replied, “during a parley with the Indians, one of our generals suggested to a certain colonel that he give blankets and handkerchiefs infected
by smallpox to Pontiac’s warriors. The colonel followed this suggestion, which had the desired effect. Many died—though some by drowning, as they tried to cool their burning bodies in the waters. In fact, few were spared, even among their women and children.”

There was a moment of silence at the table.

“A shameful thing,” the doctor returned with a shake of his head.

“But we know war’s not always as tidy, sir,” said one of the selectmen, “as might be wished—”

“Pretty maids all in a row, marching with fine red coats on,” growled another, “may be marching to Hell, I tell you, for I’ve seen an Iroquois raid! And it’s not over yet for the brave men across the mountains—as these savages will honor no French treaty!”

Several others muttered their agreement, while Montagu felt his own blood rise. He, too, had known and admired men recently massacred in frontier garrisons: officers who had given their lives for their King, and to protect these very colonists! Yet could the sly murder of even women and children by infection ever be condoned?

The captain eyed the men about him carefully, before he spoke once more. “There are, you will agree, gentlemen, such things as rules of war, and of honor. I would imagine more than one of you has spoken lately of the Natural Rights of Mankind—”

Instantly, the muttering increased, and the conversation of some easily returned to the frequent topics of taxation and Parliament, and the dreaded stamps.

“Only tell me,” continued the previous speaker, banging a fist upon the table, “what rights the Indian may have, after he consorts with our enemy, and that enemy is defeated!”

“I’ve heard your story of blankets myself, Captain Montagu, but I will not believe it of Amherst,” came a different challenge. “For my brother followed the general to
Ticonderoga, and swears he is as fair a man as you’ll meet in the King’s service.”

“In the King’s service,” echoed another suspiciously, casting a glance in Montagu’s direction.