Quarantine: A Novel (19 page)

over his ledger.

“Giles, please,” Dr. Bradshaw said, gesturing toward the empty

stool. He poured some rum into a glass and placed it on the edge of the desk. “You look as exhausted as I feel.” He drank down the contents of his own glass, refilled it, and picked up his quill once again. “As of this evening,” he said, studying his ledger, “we have admitted seventy-eight people to the pest-house. We have buried

thirty-one souls. Nine men, twelve women, and ten children. And

tomorrow, who knows? Perhaps another dozen?”

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“More, I suspect,” Giles said. “And my medicine bag is

depleted. I’m nearly out of anything that might prove useful.”

“Yes, we’re almost out of emetics.” Dr. Bradshaw straightened

up, removing his reading glasses, looking perturbed. He took a

slip of paper from the pocket of his waistcoat and dropped it on the corner of the desk. “A messenger delivered this earlier this evening.”

Giles picked up the paper, unfolded it, and read:

Sirs, it has come to our attention that certain medicines and
supplies are required by the pest-house. It is our desire to assist
you in your courageous efforts as best we can. Therefore, we
propose to discuss with you the means by which you may be

provided with some necessary and sundry items. Our humble

representative would be pleased to entreat with you tomorrow
evening. Wolfe Tavern, seven o’clock.

Yours, Concerned Citizens of Newburyport

“Same as during the war, you see?” Bradshaw said. “Public disas-

ters always bring out the profiteers.”

“We could inform the high sheriff,” Giles said, “but that

would only scare our ‘concerned citizens’ off, and we’d be left

with nothing. I’ll wager that some of the constables are behind

the thefts at those apothecaries.”

Bradshaw nodded. “If they didn’t do it themselves, it’s probable that such activities were condoned. Everybody gets a cut. So I’ve already sent word to Jeremiah Storrs, hoping that he, and perhaps some of the other wealthy High Street shipbuilders, might be

willing to finance a transaction for the public benefit.”

“That’s assuming they’re aren’t behind this scheme themselves.”

“True.” Bradshaw drank off his rum. “Much of the wealth of this

town was earned from privateering during the war—activities which we now treat with all due patriotic respect. But the fact is that Letters of Marque was nothing more than piracy, underwritten by

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the government of these United States.” He smiled; a rare thing.

“Odd, but that phrase still doesn’t roll off the tongue with grace or conviction: the United States.”

“Maybe it will, someday, though I’m skeptical.” Giles finished

his rum and placed his glass on the desk. He began to get to his feet, but Dr. Bradshaw fixed him with a stare that caused him

to settle on the stool once again. “There’s something else, Eli?”

Bradshaw cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t suppose you heard about

the fire.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“It was on Orange Street. The Hatch place. Evidently, Caleb

was inside. He didn’t make it out.” Dr. Bradshaw pursed his lips by way of apology. “I would have informed you earlier, but, well, we’ve both been hard at it.”

Giles had to lean forward and place his elbows on the desk for

support, while a vile tremor coursed through his intestines. Caleb Hatch. Giles’s connection to the man had always been tenuous,

yet curiously intimate—strange to know things that are essential to another man’s life, dark knowledge that could never be shared.

Giles inhaled deeply, and as he breathed out, “What about the

boy, Leander?”

“No, he’s all right, I hear,” Bradshaw said.

“You’re sure?”

“Hm, yes. Remarkable. He’s the only one left in that entire

family. Makes you wonder whether he’s blessed or cursed.”

148

Fifteen

The tide was out, and Joppa Flats glistened in the

moonlight as Leander rolled his trousers above his knees and

walked toward the river, his bare feet sinking up to his ankles into cold muck, and when he was a good ways from the beach he stood

still because there was no wind and it was perfectly silent, so he listened carefully, as his grandfather had taught him,
You can hear
them breathing and that’s how you find them,
while chimney swifts flew overhead, looking like cigars with short wings, until out over the river they burst into flames and dropped into the water with a hiss that accompanied the soft whistles and sighs rising up out of the muck, causing him to fall to his knees and dig frantically with his hands, the smell of the mud deep and rich, but there were no hard clamshells, even though he could hear them, their voices becoming louder, and he crept forward, raking his fingers through the muck, and as water pooled about his knees eels slithered past his forearms while in the distance dogfish barked, but directly

below him there was still the sound of breathing, getting louder, calling his name, it seemed, and he dug faster, until he was up to his elbows and something grabbed him, Sarah’s tiny hands, her

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surprisingly strong, cold fingers entwined with his, pulling him down into the muck.

Leander opened his eyes with a scream. He watched Dr. Wig-

gins, who had been standing over him, take a step backwards.

“You must have been dreaming,” the doctor said.

“Where are they?”

“They?”

Leander couldn’t answer.

“Nightmares, I should say.” The doctor went to the window;

the sun was rising above Plum Island, spreading gold across the river basin. “After I saw what happened to your house, I knew you’d

come down here. I’m sorry about your father.” He turned around,

but Leander didn’t want to look at him—it was asking too much.

Leander got up from the rocking chair, annoyed. “I’ve nowhere

else to go.”

“You can’t stay here.”

“Papi did. I’ll work the flats at low tide, sell my haul from

door to door.”

“It’s a pretty thought, but it wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“You aren’t yet twenty. You have a life to live.”

“For how long? My mother and sister are gone. My grand-

father. My father now. I’ll live by the tides and dig clams out of Joppa until it’s my turn. Lots of Newburyporters live by the tides.

You know it’s an honorable life.”

The doctor looked tired, as though he hadn’t slept all night.

“Do you know my grandfather never owned a clock?” Leander

said. “A fact he was proud of, too. He said he lived only by the tides. High and low water here on the Merrimack—that was

true time. It was all he needed.” Leander stared out the window

a moment, watching the light on the river. “If only this fever

would pass. Few people will buy clams now—they’re afraid to

open their doors.”

“It will pass,” the doctor said.

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“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s like time has stopped,” Leander said. “The water rises

and falls, but it doesn’t matter. These are quarantine tides. Water moves, but nothing changes. But I will stay here, where I belong.”

“No, it won’t do, not for you. Listen to me, I borrowed a

horse,” he said. “Come with me. I have an idea.” He turned to

Leander and appeared to have suddenly hit upon a great realiza-

tion. “I’ll bet you’re hungry.”

Leander didn’t answer, and it seemed a concession which

satisfied the doctor, who went outside and mounted his horse.

Leander followed him but paused in the doorway. “Where will

you take me?”

“My brother’s house. I’ll arrange things. I’ll talk to my

mother—she runs the house. You’ll start working in the stable,

or perhaps the garden. You’ll have a place to sleep and plenty to eat. There may be an opportunity for advancement. This is what

your mother would want. I don’t know what to tell you except

you’ve got to take care of yourself.” The doctor shifted in his

saddle, causing leather to creak. “Eventually, if you’d prefer, you might apprentice yourself to one of the tradesmen. Or perhaps go to sea, though I wouldn’t recommend that.”

Leander gazed out at Joppa Flats. “Working the clam beds was

good enough for Papi.”

“That may be. But not for you.” Leander raised his head—the

sun was behind the doctor, so it was difficult to see his face. “Now come on—we’ll go up to High Street and get you situated.”

The large bay did have a good sheen to her coat and for some

reason Leander found this reassuring. He climbed up on the horse, swung his leg over, and settled in behind the doctor on the horse’s broad haunch. Next to the stink of low tide, he’d always loved

the smell of a horse.

R

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Miranda received Giles and the boy in the parlor. There was a

peace and quiet to the house that reminded her of the calm that

follows a nor’easter. The previous night’s festivities had carried on until first light, when most of the revelers left, helped into their carriages by footmen, while others simply collapsed in hallways

and staircases. All morning the sound of snoring came from dif-

ferent quarters of the house.

“It’s our young hero,” Miranda said to the boy standing next

to Giles. “Didn’t you pull our French guest out of the river?”

The boy looked about uncomfortably. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“This is Leander,” Giles said.

“Leander the hero, yes, of course,” Miranda said.

She turned to Giles. “Well, he looks strong. We can always use

another boy out in the stables. Though I suppose he’ll eat more

than he’s worth.” She put her tea cup in its saucer and made a little shooing motion with the back of her hand. “All right, Leander,

you should find Mr. Fields in the kitchen, and he will get you set up.” The boy bowed, and, backing up, he bumped into the door.

“Do
watch where you’re going,” she said.

“Sorry, Ma’am.” He disappeared into the hall.

“If he breaks anything, Giles, I’ll hold you personally

responsible.”

“Of course.” He hadn’t touched his sherry. “I do appreciate

this.”

“Why have you taken such an interest in him?”

He looked away, toward the window.

“Yes, well, it is curious. He reminds me. . . .”

“What, Mother?”

“No, nothing, it’s nothing. Sometimes I just imagine these

things.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Now I’d like you to do me a favor.” Giles turned his head and stared at her. “Our French belle, Marie,” she said. “She’s taken to bed again, I’m told.

I just hope it hasn’t anything to do with this fever. We’ve been so lucky thus far. This epidemic seems to have avoided High Street, 152

q u a r a n t i n e

though I’m told that one of the Larabees’ maids may be down with it—but then she has family that live down by the river.”

Giles got to his feet and Miranda saw it in his face, that eagerness that a man reveals when he is given an opportunity to see a woman who has caught his fancy. “I’ll look in on Marie, of course.”

“Yes, you do that,” Miranda said. “She’s in the same bedroom.

Just take care not to trip over Mr. Bream, who’s sleeping on the floor at the top of the stairs. You know I believe he dreams in

couplets. I heard him talking in his sleep earlier, and he was

making up rhymes—‘litigious’ with ‘fastidious,’ ‘Greek’ with

‘meek,’ ‘stoic’ with ‘heroic’—that sort of thing.”

R

Giles entered Marie’s bedroom and found her fast asleep. He went to the window overlooking the garden that ran along the side of

the house, where his mother was giving animated instructions

to several maids who were working in the flower beds. She now

wore a straw hat with an enormous broad brim and from this

height resembled a mushroom in a blue dress.

When he turned from the window, Marie was staring at him.

Her arms lay on top of the counterpane and her dark hair was

spread in disarray on the pillow.

“You are not feeling well again?”

She moved her head from side to side. “I hurt,” she whispered

as she placed a hand over her stomach, “here.”

There was a straight-back chair in the corner, which he placed

next to the bed. He sat down and took the counterpane and linen

sheet and drew them down to her knees. She was wearing a white

nightgown with a small yellow silk bow pressed flat between her

breasts.

“Please, allow me,” he said, and then he put his hands on her

torso, feeling the soft area between the two halves of her rib cage.

Moving lower, he pressed repeatedly, waiting for her to give a start 153

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when he located the pain. “I feel nothing unusual,” he said. His fingers ventured lower to the soft depression around her navel.

All the while Marie’s eyes stared at the ceiling. “Lower,” she said.

“The intestines,” he said.

“Perhaps it can be this food?” she said. “Horrible, except

sometimes the
feesh
.”

He continued to examine her, his fingers probing through her

nightgown, but he couldn’t locate the source of discomfort. Each time he moved his hand she would shake her head slowly.

Finally, he said, “If you’ll forgive me.”

She nodded her consent.

He looked away toward the foot of the bed as he lifted her nightgown and placed his hand on the warm skin of her abdomen; then

he moved his hands down, pausing when there was a tangle of fine pubic hair beneath his fingers. She shifted on the bed and parted her thighs, allowing his hand to slide between her legs. An odd moment passed where they both seemed dismayed. Giles stared at the heap of blankets covering her legs, and as he was about to withdraw his hand he felt her fingers clutch the sleeve of his coat, holding his arm in place. Ever so slightly she shifted her hips, pressing herself against his fingertips. Nothing happened; they maintained their awkward