Quarantine: A Novel (25 page)

another fifteen that he had tucked away in a medical reference. He changed his clothes—his skin was raw from frequent scrubbings

with vinegar—and he donned his best cotton shirt and his other

frock coat. It was almost nine o’clock when he walked through

Market Square, which was unusually quiet for a summer evening.

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q u a r a n t i n e

Increasingly, Newburyporters had confined themselves to their

homes, yet those who did venture out were now mostly drawn

to the Mall out of a macabre curiosity.

He walked up State Street, which was now in cool evening

shadow. Once, as a cart passed by, he paused and looked back

down toward the square. There were few people coming and

going from the shops. The spars and masts of ships loomed above

the buildings in Market Square, and seagulls wheeled in the

waning sunlight.

Giles continued up State Street. He nodded to Roger Daven-

port as he entered the front door of Wolfe Tavern. Bradshaw was

at the bar, nursing a glass of rum. “Forty-six,” Giles said quietly.

“It’s all I could find.” He took out the bills and placed them on the bar.

“We’ve
got
it,” Bradshaw whispered, looking up and down the bar. He folded up the wad and tucked it into Giles’s coat pocket.

“I happened into Merriweather Awls outside the customs house.

He’s lost an aunt and has two sick cousins, who have just been

delivered to the pest-house.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

Bradshaw squeezed his arm tightly. “My exact sentiments, and

when I explained our dilemma, the man took me to his office

and emptied his coffers. We have it, Giles, we have five thousand now.”

Giles ordered a tankard of ale. They drank in silence, while

the men about them discussed the weather, the tides, and how

the price of fish had increased considerably since the seaport had been placed under quarantine.

One of the waitresses came to where they stood at the bar.

“Dr. Bradshaw?”

“Yes?”

“If you two gentlemen will follow me, please.”

She led them out the back door. Chimney swifts weaved over-

head in the fading light. Directly behind the tavern was a stable, 193

j o h n s m o l e n s

and the waitress gestured toward two young men—sailors, by their tarred pants—who sat on the back of a wagon which was loaded

with crates. Uriah Clapp stood next to the wagon, leaning on his cane. The waitress hurried back inside the tavern.

“Gentlemen,” Clapp said. “I trust you have met with success.”

“We’ve got what you want,” Bradshaw said, removing the

folded packet from his coat pocket. “Now we would like to have

the supplies delivered to the pest-house.”

Clapp smiled. “I’m sure you’ll understand if I decline, Doctor.

We must complete our business here now.” He held out his hand;

after a moment’s hesitation, Bradshaw gave him the packet.

Immediately, the two sailors began unloading the wagon, about

twenty wood crates and eight casks. Clapp seemed oblivious to

their activity as he thumbed through the contents of packet, until he finally looked up and said, “Yes, very good then.”

Giles went to the crates that had been stacked against the stable wall. He lifted the hasp of one crate and raised the lid. The box was filled with bottles, each bearing apothecary labels. He opened one bottle and sniffed the contents: calomel.

“Of course,” Clapp said as he tucked the packet in the side

pocket of his coat. “Do feel free to conduct an inspection.”

“It’s rather dark for that.” Giles returned the bottle. “There is laudanum?”

Clapp came over and he tapped one of the crates with his cane.

Giles opened the lid and found the box filled with quart bottles, which had been corked and sealed. Then he went to the next crate and removed a jar; he took out several white pills.

“Satisfied?”

“That’s hardly the word, Mr. Clapp.”

He moved toward the old man, but both sailors stepped for-

ward quickly. Bradshaw grabbed Giles’s arm, and there was a

moment where no one did anything.

“Right, then,” Clapp said pleasantly. “We’ll be on our way.”

One of the sailors helped him climb up into the wagon.

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“You
do
that!” Giles yanked his arm free of Bradshaw’s grip.

“You hasten back down to Boston, Mr. Clapp, if you think it’s

safe.”

The sailor standing next to the wagon took a step toward Giles.

His grin was inviting, though his broad hand came up and pressed against Giles’s chest.

“All right now, Giles!” Bradshaw again took his arm, firmly

this time, and guided him away from the sailor. “I’ve no time to waste treating you for injuries sustained in an alley. I will go into the tavern and arrange for a cart so we can get these supplies up to the pest-house,” he said. “You just wait here.”

Mr. Clapp motioned with his hand and the sailors climbed

aboard the wagon; one took the reins and slapped them on the

horses’ haunches, and as the wagon moved down the alley, the clop of their hooves echoed off the stable walls. When the rig turned the corner at the end of the building, Mr. Clapp looked back at

Giles and touched his hat brim in farewell.

195

Nineteen

Miranda sat in the dining room eating breakfast alone,

except for Cedella, who stood by the pantry door awaiting instructions. But then the door to the front hall opened, and Fields

admitted Marie. This morning she was wearing her own dress,

blue with lace trim.

“Bonjour,
Madame,” she said. Fields held the chair for her at the far end of the table.

Ignoring her, Miranda said, “More coffee, Cedella.” As the

maid refilled her cup, she said to Fields, “Where is the beloved master of the house this morning? It was unusually quiet last night.

No poetry, no song, no carousers keeping me up till all hours. Is he still asleep?”

Fields, retreating to the door, cleared his throat. “I’m not sure, Ma’am.”

Miranda put her butter knife down on a dish, the clatter stop-

ping Fields before he could escape. “I asked if he was in the house.”

“I’m afraid I don’t rightly know, Madame.”

“Well, find out,” she said firmly. “Search the rooms, climb up

to his hideout in the cupola, inspect all the outbuildings, probe 199

j o h n s m o l e n s

the stacks out in the hayfields—but find him.” She cleared her

throat and said quietly, “And if you happen across my grandson,

tell him I want to see him immediately.”

“Of course, Ma’am.” Fields let himself out of the room, pulling

the door shut.

Marie was now being served by Cedella, and she kept her head

lowered as she buttered a scone. Miranda turned and looked out

the window at the garden. It was a perfect summer’s morning, but it was already too warm for her liking. “I’m afraid I have some

bad news.” She spoke quite loudly, as though addressing an audi-

ence. She glanced down the table; Marie had raised her head, and Cedella stood at attention by the hutch. “I fear I must inform you that you’ll have to seek other arrangements for your lodgings.”

Marie held a forkful of scrambled eggs before her, which

she considered a moment before putting it down on her plate.

“Madame?”

“You are no longer welcome in this house.” Miranda could

feel the pulse on the side of her forehead. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, but, Ma’am,
Monsieur
Sumner—”

“Even Mr. Sumner’s hospitality is not infinite.”

“You speak with him about this?”

“Are you—” Miranda pushed back her chair, the legs scraping

loudly on the floor. “Are you questioning me about matters per-

taining to my own house?” She moved down alongside the table,

causing Cedella to take a hasty step backward until she bumped

into the hutch.
“Care
ful, there’s good china in there that my grandmother brought over from England.” Miranda stood next to

Marie and waited for her to raise her head. “You are to leave this house, today, as soon as you’ve finished your breakfast.”

“But Madame—” Now Marie got up from her chair and went

to one of the front windows. “This is so sudden very. Where will I find to go?”

“That is not my concern.”

Marie turned from the window, flushed. “But
why?
”

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Miranda looked down at the plate; there was but a spoonful of

scrambled egg and a scone nibbled at the corner. Ever since she’d arrived, this woman had shown disdain for the fare offered her—she barely ate, and when she did she assumed an attitude that suggested that she was only doing so out of the necessity. “My grandmother’s china,” she said, picking up the plate, “brought here under great duress. No one should be expected to eat off this plate ever again, now that’s been sullied by your insulting French manners.”

“Madame!”

“Worthless, utterly worthless.” Miranda threw the plate at the

door to the kitchen; it shattered, the pieces of china raining down on the floor, sounding like an intricate chime. “You’ve had your breakfast, now get out.” She turned to Cedella, who was shaking.

“You accompany her—no assistance, mind you, but you don’t take

your eyes off her until she’s out the front door. Be sure that she packs
only
what belongs to her and nothing more.”

“Oh!”
And then Marie released a rapid spray of French.

“Don’t you dare speak that foul language in my presence,”

Miranda shouted as she approached Marie. “English is spoken in

this house!”

Marie retreated to the corner of the room, still sputtering in

French.

“I saw you,” Miranda said, closing in. “I
saw
you run out of the stable yesterday. I saw you, and I saw Dr. Wiggins—my son.”

She now turned again to Cedella. “Isn’t that right, Cedella? They were together in the stable, weren’t they?”

“Ma’am, I—” The maid backed up quickly. “I—” Her head

struck the hutch, causing the china to rattle on the shelves, and she slumped to the floor.

Miranda picked up a small embroidered cushion from the

nearby wingback chair. She took a step toward Cedella, who

looked dazed. Instead Miranda turned and swung the pillow

at Marie, hitting her full on the side of the head. It felt good, swinging her arm like that, so she swung again, and again, though 201

j o h n s m o l e n s

now Marie was able to defend herself with her arms. “See what

you’re doing to my
house,
to my
family!”
Miranda continued to flail away until Marie grabbed the pillow, and as they both pulled and tugged a seam split, sending white feathers into the air, which drifted around them like snow. They both screamed repeatedly,

and now Marie was fighting back, swinging her arms and once

her palm caught Miranda’s cheek.

The door opened and Fields peered in, but he was too stunned,

and perhaps frightened, to act. Marie escaped then, pushing past the butler and running up the front hall stairs.

Miranda took hold of the back of chair and tried to catch her

breath. After a moment, she noticed Cedella, who was lying on

the floor, her hand on her forehead. “Never have I seen such an

accident-prone maid,” Miranda said in disgust. Turning to Fields, who was standing at attention in the doorway, she shouted, “You

get that French whore out of this house at once!”

“Ma’am?” Fields said.

Something was clinging to Miranda’s face, and when she

brushed her cheeks pillow feathers floated about her head. “I

said get her
out!
If no one can bring this house to order, I’ll do it
myself!”
She rushed out of the dining room, past the cooks and maids who had gathered in the hall.

R

Giles had just finished changing the hot linens on several children when he was summoned to Dr. Bradshaw’s tent, where the crates

which had been delivered from Wolfe Tavern were stacked along

the back wall.

“Look.” Dr. Bradshaw had a jar in his hand; he removed the

cork and poured the contents out on his desk. Several dozen white pills bounced on the wood, followed by sand. Bradshaw opened

another jar and dumped its contents on the desk—also mostly

sand. “Every one of them, I venture, is like this.” He reached into 202

q u a r a n t i n e

another crate, taking out several brown bottles. “And these? The bottles on top smell like they contain something—calomel here,

most likely diluted. But the bottles underneath: salt water.” He collapsed heavily in the chair behind the desk. “Five thousand

pounds, and I’ll bet that when we go through all the crates we

won’t have but a few hundred worth of supplies.”

Giles sat on the stool across from Bradshaw and stared at the piles of sand. Bradshaw placed both elbows on the desk and slowly massaged his temples, his eyes closed. Neither man spoke until, finally, Giles leaned forward and with his finger separated one pill from the sand and pushed it to the side. He found another, and then another.

Bradshaw did the same. As though they were children idly whiling away their time, their fingers sifted through the sand, separating out pills, which they gathered at one end of the desk.

R

Leander was the last to arrive at the noon meal. He had spent the morning greasing carriage wheels and his shirt was soaked with

sweat. Reluctantly a gardener made room for him on the end of

the bench. Maids carried pots around the table, ladling out fish chowder. Cedella’s forehead was bandaged and wrapped in a piece