Quarantine: A Novel (26 page)

of yellow linen. When she stopped behind Leander, there seemed

to be the slightest hesitation in her hand as she filled his bowl.

After the women left, the blacksmith’s son everyone called

Horseshoe repeatedly thumped the underside of the table with his knee. “Fucking on your hands and knees will do that, ye know,”

he said. “And them fine headboards can be hard on the noggin,

even a mahogany one.”

There was laughter amid the slurping of chowder.

Leander put his spoon down in his bowl, the clatter enough

to bring silence to the table. He stared at Horseshoe, who after a moment smiled, revealing large, crooked teeth. “What, the new

boy find a fish bone? In his trousers, would it be?”

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Again, there was laughter, but it was different this time, ner-

vous, constrained.

Leander stood up.

Mr. Penrose’s son Benjamin said, “Horseshoe is always looking

for a fight with a new boy.” His voice was oddly matter-of-fact, friendly. “It gives him a sense of worth, I believe.”

“If he wants a fight, he’s got one,” Leader said.

Horseshoe appeared pleased and was getting to his feet, when

Mr. Penrose said, “Not until we’ve finished our dinner. Then

both you take it outside.”

He resumed eating, as did everyone else.

Leander went out the back door and waited in the yard

between the stable and the hen house. After a few minutes the

men began to come out into the yard and gather along the pad-

dock fence. When Benjamin passed by Leander, he said quietly,

“Mind those teeth—he likes to bite.”

Mr. Penrose moved along the fence, taking bets.

“All right,” Horseshoe said, walking in a slow circle in the

center of the yard. “Let’s see what you’ve got, new boy.”

He crouched down, raised his arms, and moved toward

Leander. The first swing missed, but the second found Leander’s

ribs and he fell down in the dirt, the wind knocked out of him.

The men applauded. Leander was getting to his knees when

Horseshoe kicked him—though he fended off the blow with his

arm, he was knocked to the ground again.

Horseshoe turned toward the fence and held out his hands to

the men, as though he weren’t responsible for such a sorry exhibi-tion, causing them to laugh.

Leander got to his feet and he and Horseshoe circled each

other, until the blacksmith struck with a quick series of jabs to the face. Leander was dazed and blood ran from his nose down into

his mouth, tasting of salt. The men were now cheering. Horseshoe landed a few more punches, one causing a deafening ringing in

Leander’s ear. The next time Horseshoe tried to kick, Leander

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caught his boot with both hands, twisted his leg until he fell to the ground, which brought an explosion of shouts along the fence.

Leander jumped on Horseshoe, and they rolled in the dirt,

wrestling and trying to land punches. Horseshoe was older—he

might have been in his mid-twenties—and he was heavier. His

girth was substantial but hard. There was a great deal of clutching and grabbing, and at one point Horseshoe squeezed Leander so

hard he thought his ribs would crack. Then Horseshoe bit Leander, his teeth sinking into the thick muscle around his left shoulder.

After that Leander wasn’t sure what happened. Somehow they

were on their feet again and he was so angry he became reckless, swinging wildly. Horseshoe landed many punches, but it only

made Leander madder. Then he realized that Horseshoe was

tiring—he was probably used to defeating his opponents quickly.

He was gasping for air and his soaked shirt clung to his chest.

Leander’s right fist caught him square on the jaw, which snapped his head back, and he pounded the stomach, until Horseshoe

doubled over and threw up fish chowder. Horseshoe now swung

desperately, but Leander was able to dodge and circle, occasionally landing another blow. When he caught Horseshoe on the cheek

with his right fist, the blacksmith dropped to his knees. Leander waited. Horseshoe stared up at him, looking both dreamy and

baffled, before he fell forward into the dirt.

Most of the men along the fence were quiet, disappointed.

However, a few, including Mr. Penrose, gathered coins in their

hats. Leander held his bleeding shoulder as he turned away from

them and walked out into the orchard.

R

Late afternoon Giles rode in the wagon up Old Hill Burying Ground.

There were two diggers who wore bandannas over their noses and

mouths, giving them the appearance of highway robbers. They took the three cadavers off the wagon and swung them into the pit.

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“You see, the pit is getting full, Doctor,” one of them said as

he shoveled lime down on the new bodies. “But before we make

it bigger, we wants to get paid first, don’t we, Timothy? We ain’t been paid like Dr. Bradshaw said.”

“Paid? Paid in corpses, yes sir,” Timothy said. “We been here

three days—since the others quit—but we ain’t seen not a penny.”

Giles looked down the hill toward the pest-house. Thick col-

umns of smoke billowed from the laundry vats, and outside the

fence the vendors’ stalls were doing a fair business. Someone was playing a hand organ.

“All right, I’ll talk to Dr. Bradshaw and you’ll get your money

tonight. But first you need to make the grave larger—” and taking long strides, he walked away from one end of the pit, and then

stopped—“at least to here.”

“How long’s this thing going to last?” the wagon driver asked.

“I don’t know,” Giles said. “The weather’s hot, there’s frequent rain, and our medical supplies are running out, so my guess is

we’re a long way from out of it. You open up the ground to here—

and deep, you must go deep. Then come down for your wages.”

Both the diggers stood with their hands folded on top of their

shovels.

“Look,” Giles said. “You think
I’m
getting paid? You think all those people down there helping out are getting paid? They

volunteered, every one of them.”

“Many of them’s dark-skinned,” Timothy said, “and from their

accents you can tell they’re from some island down south there.”

Giles walked over and stood in front of Timothy. Above the

bandanna the man’s eyes were weary, bloodshot. “They volun-

teered, most of them, because they’ve had the fever. They know

what it’s like, what it can do to a community. I’ll wager that every one of them has lost family.”

Timothy didn’t move.

“Dammit, man.” Giles took the shovel out of his hands and

went to the edge of the pit, where he began digging. He worked

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furiously without looking up, until Timothy came over to him.

Giles was sweating heavily and he was out of breath.

“All right, we’ll dig your hole,” Timothy said, taking his shovel back. “And then we come down the hill for our pay.”

The two men began to stab their shovels into the ground.

The wagon driver said, “Come on, Doctor, you’ve made your

point, now climb aboard and I’ll take you back.”

“No. I’ll walk, thank you.”

Giles started down the hill, brushing his hands off on his pants.

When he reached level ground he passed through the small village of stalls and tents. Hawkers bellowed and the air was heavy with the smell of cooking. People standing in his way saw something

in his face that caused them to move aside quickly.

When he reached the pest-house gate he found Dr. Wilber-

force Strong with the Reverend Cary. They were overseeing the

erection of a banner above the stage, which read:
Ye Must Trust in
Him. Only the Hand of God Will Save You.

Giles climbed up on to the stage and took hold of Dr. Strong’s

lapels. People began shouting. Dr. Strong’s eyes, shaded by thick white eyebrows, gazed defiantly at Giles, until he finally let go of the old man.

Dr. Strong tugged at his coat and then fussed with his wig.

“God witnesses all.”

“Indeed, He does,
Doc
tor,” Giles said. “Indeed, He does.”

Giles stepped down off the stage, and the guard opened the

gate for him. He walked quickly through the pest-house and

entered Dr. Bradshaw’s tent. The air was stifling inside, full of flies and mosquitoes.

He stopped short, letting the canvas flap drop behind him.

Marie was sitting on the stool in front of the desk.

“There you are, Giles,” Dr. Bradshaw said pleasantly. “We

have a new recruit.”

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Twenty

In the early evening, Samuel came to Miranda’s room.

“I’ve got just the thing for Father.” He took a small brown

vial from his pocket.

“What is it?”

“I don’t remember the name, but I understand it’ll do the

trick—a few drops at a time,” he said as he tucked the vial back in his pocket. “A little in his wine. A little on his haddock. A little in his rum.”

“Where did you get such a thing?”

He stretched out on her bed, kicking off his shoes before she

could protest. “You remember Winslow Manes?”

“That boy you went to school with, the one that was com-

pletely addled.”

“Hm, yes. Well, he’s a constable now. An uncle got him on

the force.” Samuel folded his hands behind his head. “Ran into

him last night and he said he could help me out, for a price, of course.”

“And where did he get it?”

“Who knows?”

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Samuel gazed up at the ceiling. He was keeping something

from her—Miranda could always tell.

“Look at me,” she said. When he turned his head and stared at

her, his eyes blank, a little startled, she said, “Samuel.”

He sat up on the bed suddenly. “Well, I’ll tell you, I don’t

know exactly, but Manes and some other fellows in the constabu-

lary, they’ve been involved in something. I know this because he asked me about the meeting here yesterday. He knew all these

High Street gents were coming to our house, and he was very

curious about the outcome. He
knew
there was a question of raising money.” Samuel paused a moment, baffled. “Don’t you

see, Grandmother? If Winslow knew they were here because

the doctors needed money to buy these medicines that had gone

stolen, then it only makes sense that he knew something about

the stealing.”

“Of course, dear.” Miranda picked up her needlepoint. “So,

he sold you this—whatever it is in that little bottle.”

Samuel slipped his feet back into his shoes, went to the

window, and looked down into the courtyard. “You sent Marie

away.”

“I threw her out, yes.”

“I wish you hadn’t done that.”

“I couldn’t tolerate her presence anymore.”

“You might have asked me first.”

She looked up from her needlepoint. “Why would I ask

permission?”

“Well, just that—”

“I spoiled your designs.” She laughed until he turned from

the window, hurt and angry. “Oh, my dear, you don’t think you

would have—well, she . . . she’s not your. . . .”

“My what?”

“Darling, your dalliances with the cooks and maids, don’t they

keep you busy enough? Goodness, they are plentiful.”

“And dull as cows.”

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“Oh, I
see,”
Miranda said. “Intellectual stimulation is what you desire.” She picked up her needlepoint again. “Really, Samuel, it’s just because she speaks that bloody awful French.”

“Around here one doesn’t get much opportunity to speak

French.”

“No. A pity, I suppose. I don’t know, I thought her a bit . . .

thin.”

“Grandmother, you couldn’t recognize real beauty if it fell in

your plentiful lap.”

He went to the door but stopped when she put her needlepoint

down.

“Listen to me,” she said quietly. “When this is over with your

father, you can go back to Paris, if you like. Speak French all you want. Buy lots of dainty shoes.”

“Indeed, that’s just what I’ll do,” he said. “And what will you

do?”

She looked up, startled.

“What? Continue to sit here in this room, issuing orders to

Fields?”

Miranda got to her feet and went to the window. “Go,” she

said.

“The money won’t mean much, if you don’t know how to

live.”

“Careful, Samuel.” She heard him raise the door latch. “Tell

me,” she said, forcing him to hesitate. “There was a commotion

out there today, out behind the stable. I could hear the men.”

“Some fight. The usual thing—Horseshoe testing the mettle

of the new boy.”

“Really?”

Samuel opened the door. “Evidentially, the new boy acquitted

himself quite well.”

“Did he?”

“He’ll be sorry, of course.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

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She didn’t turn but listened to the door latch close behind

him.

R

The daughter of one of the cooks came and found Leander lying

on his cot. Silently taking him by the hand, the girl led him into the house and down cellar to the laundry, where the air was warm and steamy and the voices of women echoed off the stone walls.

She brought him to a small room lined with shelves neatly stacked with folded linen and towels.

Cedella was ironing a table cloth. She took a piece of licorice

from her apron and handed it to the girl. “Thank you, Aurora.”