Too Soon for Flowers (6 page)

“Or your mother might want you,” Lem countered. He watched Will spit exuberantly into the straw with a look of having tasted milk gone bad. “And how you must be looking forward to talking with your fiancée at arm’s length, through a window.”

“Unless she’ll let me help her out of it,” Will returned
with an unpleasant stare. “Wouldn’t that make my mother stew, if she found out?”

“If Phoebe would go along with you … which she won’t.”

“She might, if I asked her to. She’s gone along with me before, on one thing and another….”

“If my aunt were a goose, she might lay eggs,” Lem threw back. Yet he felt uneasy, seeing a new irritation on his companion’s darkening face.

“You think she doesn’t want to?” Will Sloan challenged.

“I don’t think Phoebe will let herself be talked into anything. After all, she’s got far and away more sense than you, Will.”

“We’ll see about that. But what if I do catch the smallpox? They say she’ll have it mild, and that means so will I. Maybe I’ll walk in and see her tonight!”

“And when you leave, if you’ve caught it, you just might carry the sickness out of Mrs. Willett’s house and into your own. Have you thought of that? My mother wasn’t pleased when she heard this doctor was coming, since my brothers and sisters haven’t had the smallpox, either—though there’s not much she can say about it to Mr. Longfellow. But what if it
does
get out? I’d hate to be in your shoes when my mother, or yours, hears you’ve managed to catch the pox on your own!”

“Then
damme
if I don’t!” Will shouted back. He barely avoided injury as a bovine leg swept out, nearly clipping his thigh with a sharp reproof. The boy jibbed and swore at the near miss, before adding, “Nothing in life’s for sure, son, except that women will tie you up in knots, and bring you a world of trouble! But sometimes a man’s got to take a chance. You’ll learn that once you get to Harvard, I suppose, when they pass you your first bucket of rum and ale. They tell me some of those fellows get so drunk on flip—Look out, there’s the doctor! I’d better go and find Phoebe, before they lock her away!”

With that Will rushed off, anxious to throw himself into the arms of his betrothed, leaving his friend to finish with only Mrs. Willett’s herd for company. As he continued to work Lem solemnly considered the risk he was about to take with his own life. But before long, he found himself instead pondering a familiar paradox.

What on earth could a warm and beautiful woman like Phoebe Morris see in a randy, ill-tempered lout like Will Sloan?

BEFORE THE EYES
of six others around a pine table in Charlotte Willett’s kitchen, Benjamin Tucker raised his scalpel over the golden hairs on Lem Wainwright’s forearm. Then he brought the blade down swiftly, making a shallow wound in soft: skin, along the inside of the surprisingly muscular limb. Quickly, the doctor took tiny split-wood tweezers from a clean cloth spread on the kitchen table, inserted them into a vial, and pulled out a thin, moist thread, which he then laid gently into the inch-long incision. That accomplished, he set down his tools carefully, and moved his spectacles back into position.

“There,” the doctor breathed. Again he noticed that the lips of one of his patients, reddened from nervous chewing, were quivering, while her face remained deathly pale.

Across the table, it seemed to Mrs. Willett that Phoebe was hardly more moved by their encounter than was her physician. She looked to Richard Longfellow to see if he, too, had been alerted by the earlier exchange of startled expressions, but her neighbor apparently had more scientific concerns this morning.

Minutes before, the physician had opened his leather bag to take out a cork-stoppered glass tube wrapped in flannel. Inside was a small square of linen, made damp (he had earlier explained to Longfellow) by pus from under the
drying scabs of a lightly affected patient in the city, obtained two days previously. The matter had been kept contained and warm so that, like bread yeast, it would remain potent. Because the initial case had been light, others resulting from inoculation promised to be mercifully uneventful, too. At least, that was the theory, and it often held up in practice—though not always. Some physicians tried to lengthen the odds against serious illness by prescribing rolled pills of powdered metals, plant materials, even sugar, while withholding meat, butter, and bread. Results were mixed. It was uncertain whether diet, beyond the adoption of a plain one naturally favored by those who were ill, made any difference. At Diana’s urging, Dr. Tucker had agreed not to restrict any particular food. He only promised to watch the course of the disease carefully, in case complications were to develop. (Though he had to admit to himself, at least, that however the disease took one, there was not much to do beyond waiting for the illness to end, one way or another.)

“Well done, my boy,” said Dr. Tucker, laying down a patch of clean linen on Lem’s wound, then applying a gauze wrapping. “We’ll take a look tomorrow, to see what progress you’ve made. Now, Miss Longfellow …”

With a move she’d practiced before a mirror more than once, Diana held out her arm, pulling a ruffled sleeve away from the skin above her elbow.

“Miss Longfellow?” the doctor asked with some surprise. “Have you forgotten? Or have you decided against our plan?”

Diana colored in confusion. In the excitement of the moment, she had, indeed, forgotten she was to be saved from the knife by a more unusual method of inoculation. At her brother’s urging, both she and Phoebe were to inhale a powder through straws, to see if they might avoid even the mild symptoms that Lem, following the usual procedure, had been promised. Exactly what this strange
powder was made of, or where it came from, Diana had been careful not to ask.

Sections of hollow straw were given to each of the young women. The doctor poured the contents from another stoppered vial onto two pieces of writing paper. Diana went first, holding the turban she wore, pretending as she inhaled that it was snuff—though she had already found that practice not to her liking.

“Try not to sneeze,” Dr. Tucker cautioned.

Miss Longfellow did as she was told. Her expression brought a sympathetic chortle, disguised as a cough, from Mrs. Willett, who only now realized how tautly her own nerves were stretched.

It was Phoebe’s turn. As if inhaling a blossom’s scent, Phoebe sniffed twice, until all the powder was gone. Closing her eyes, she set the straw down and folded her hands in the lap of her homespun apron; meanwhile, Diana continued to make minor adjustments to her own voluminous robe of parti-colored satin.

“And that,” Longfellow said emphatically, “is that.”

Hannah Sloan let out her breath. “It makes me glad I was taken in the normal way a long while ago,” she grumbled, going back to her pots by the fire. “And I’m not in a hurry to try such a thing on my
own
children. Going out of your way to court trouble! Paying for the privilege—and then praying for the best!”

“That is about the sum of it,” said Dr. Tucker modestly, following her to the fire. He threw in the vials and the flannel. The tweezers, straws, and paper soon followed as Hannah stood gaping.

“
Those pots hold my good dinner!”
she cried out to him in horror.

“Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Sloan. Fire destroys the matter and kills the contagion in it. Anything that comes into contact with the patients’ pustules should also be so destroyed, or washed thoroughly. In the case of letters,
I’ll leave you sulphur powder for fumigation. Remember, it is most important that the smallpox should not spread! I’ve written out instructions, which I’ll leave for you to consult when I’m gone. They’ll answer most queries about the course of the disease.”

“But tell us now, Doctor, what we may look forward to,” said Diana Longfellow, who was forced to admire her own calm. She also asked herself if the beads of moisture she felt at the back of her neck could be seen by the others. If this was to be part of the thing, she thought, she would need to consult a mirror frequently, and keep her powder handy.

“I would be glad to explain, Miss Longfellow,” Dr. Tucker replied. “You will see nothing at all for a few days, or even longer—though not as long as if you had been exposed naturally. Depending on each patient, a mild fever will arise. This will last for a few days more, possibly with various aches and pains. You might then notice the appearance of small bumps, like grains of rice, under the skin; these eventually become blisters, and are most often found on the face and upper body, as well as on the hands. We sometimes refer to this as the ‘flowering’ of the disease … though unfortunately the pustules are rather less than sweet. That is where much putrid matter resides, and where scarring may occur. But these pustules will soon break, and then crust over. The scabs that form should fall away within a week. After this, all risk of contagion is gone, and you are safe from the disease for the rest of your days.”

“A fair trade, it seems to me,” Longfellow said to Diana. “And it’s likely you and Phoebe will have few symptoms. In a warm house, with plenty of clean linen and whatever else you require, you might even enjoy the rest. Though when I was inoculated in England, many years ago, I had quite a time. I’ll long remember several friendships swiftly forged—”

“They all survived?” Diana asked, keeping her voice low so that it might not quiver.

“The friendships? Hardly. Oh, you mean the patients! Certainly—in fact, we soon began squabbling over the golf sticks brought in by a Stuart. I believe we each had them out on the lawn for a try before a week was out.”

“I see.” Diana was encouraged, if somewhat skeptical. “Then you may send for a Scotsman to lighten
my
mood, Richard, but as croquet would be more regal, perhaps you can find instead a member of the French nobility.”

“It is just possible that Montagu can come up with one. Shall we send him a note?”

“At the moment, I would rather you went home, so I can look over my new pattern books. Come along with me, Miss Morris. We will be better off alone. Charlotte, I hope to see you every day. You needn’t bring my brother with you.” With that, the newly inoculated young ladies made their way upstairs, one resembling a harem consort on holiday, the other a chastened waif.

Lem also retired, going into his small room off the kitchen. Dr. Tucker washed his hands in the kitchen basin, then carefully dried the lace at his sleeves.

“I’m not certain you’ll have an easy road, Hannah,” Longfellow sympathized as they eventually took their leave.

“I only pray I’m
alive
in two weeks’ time,” the ample woman returned grimly while she followed them out into the soft air. “Yet if I do survive, I won’t know whether to bless the Lord or blame the Other—for after this, I don’t see how I can ever hope to be the same again!”

T
HAT EVENING, AFTER
a light supper and a stroll through the nearer grounds of Longfellow’s estate, Mrs. Willett took sherry with her neighbor and Dr. Benjamin Tucker.

“Now, we wait,” Longfellow said from a winged armchair in his study.

“It’s often said anticipation is worse than the actual thing,” replied Dr. Tucker. Despite his encouragement, Charlotte had already sensed the doctor was less confident than on the previous evening. But after all, he had shouldered responsibility this morning for three lives.

“One might also say that a dog’s bark is worse than its bite,” retorted Longfellow, “until one is actually bitten! Still, I suppose we can hold every hope of the thing passing easily.” He pulled a piece of string from his pocket and held it above the head of a brindled cat who had come to investigate the party around the fire.

“Here, Tabby!”

The lanky animal, little more than a kitten, came to Longfellow, stared at his string, reached up a paw to bat it, and sat down.

“Good fellow!” Longfellow praised, breaking off a piece of butter biscuit. Tabby sniffed, turned on his long paw, and left the room. Longfellow swallowed the piece of biscuit himself as he turned back to the others.

“I’ve only begun to experiment with commands, but already there is a
rapprochement
between us, as he learns who is master. Last evening he brought a deer mouse into my bedchamber and laid it at my feet.”