Quarantine: A Novel (28 page)

Immediately, the maid pushed through the swinging pantry

door. “Ma’am?”

219

j o h n s m o l e n s

“Tell Master Sumner what you observed in the stable yesterday

afternoon.”

The girl seemed frozen with fear.

“Come
on,
child.
Tell him how you saw our house guest in the throes of passion in one of our carriages. Tell him how you

were so aghast that you ran out of the stable in the pouring rain, spilling the basket of eggs in hand.”

Cedella merely stared at them, horrified.

“In one of my carriages?” Enoch said. “Which one?”

“The diligence,” Miranda said.

“The
diligence,”
Enoch said, turning to the girl, who nodded her head reluctantly. “She . . . she was in my diligence with . . .

a man?”

Cedella’s eyes slid toward Miranda, who said, “Go ahead. It’s

all right.”

The maid stood up a little straighter, as though she had decided she might as well show bravery in the face of her imminent execution. “I cannot say, Ma’am.” Her voice was unusually loud.

Miranda scrutinized the maid for a moment, then smiled and

said, “Well, you’ve got some back to you, don’t you.”

“Cannot
say?”
Enoch demanded.
“Who
was the
man?”

“Our doctor,” Miranda said.

“Giles?”
Enoch glared at Miranda.

“Yes.” Miranda tucked a few strands of hair up into the bun

that was piled on her head. “I’m afraid that would be the case.”

“This tea,” Enoch said. “It’s . . . ghastly.” He pointed an

accusing finger at the maid. “Bring me the rum.”

“Sir?”

“Has that lump on your forehead made you deaf?” He pointed

to the glass decanters on the hutch. “I want . . . the rum . . . here.”

“Of course, sir.”

As Cedella brought the rum, Miranda looked across the table

at Samuel, who only glanced up for a moment, his mouth full.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose this is shocking news, darling, which 220

q u a r a n t i n e

requires a drop, or. . . .” She watched Enoch add rum to his tea.

“Here,” she said picking up his teaspoon, “perhaps I could sweeten that a bit.” She stirred in more sugar, and after he picked up the cup and drank, she asked, “Better?”

Enoch looked up at the maid, who obediently took several steps

back from the table. He ran his tongue around his lips, looking

uncertain, but said, “Yes, I suppose that’s what it needs.” He took another drink of his tea.

Miranda rolled her eyes toward Samuel, who was spreading

jam on his toast.

When Enoch put his teacup down, he cleared his throat and

spat in his handkerchief again. “Mother, I know what you’re

doing.”

She looked at him; his gray eyes were stern, emboldened by

the rum. “What do you mean?” she said.

“Sometimes I think you’re trying to kill me.”

The air came out of her as though someone had hit her hard

on the chest.
“Really.”

Enoch turned to his son and said, “You’re probably in on it,

too.”

“Nmm,”
Samuel said, as his fingers rooted around in his mouth, and then he pulled out a masticated strand of gristle.

“Don’t contradict me,” Enoch said.

“My dear,” Miranda said pleasantly, “since you were a boy in

short pants you’ve been convinced that the world is conspiring

against you.”

Enoch leaned back in his chair, parting his coat. Protruding

from the waist of his silk pants was the pearl handle of a small revolver, which he pulled out and laid on the table next to the

teacup. “We have a guest—a refugee, a
royal
refugee—from a foreign country in our house. A personage that brings to our humble surroundings a modicum of grace and distinction, and you, both

of you, immediately begin to conspire against her—against
my
wishes.”

221

j o h n s m o l e n s

“Your wishes?” Miranda’s laugh lilted with sarcasm. “Please,

spare me the usual diatribe about how America will never be a

great country without its own royal order.”

“One can take this business of
democracy
too far,” Enoch barked.

“You’re just upset that your delusional designs on that girl have been thwarted.”

“I’ll tell you what’s delusional—it’s Giles being your physi-

cian. And you insisted that he treat Marie, and look where they

end up—fornicating, in a carriage?” He leaned toward Miranda,

leering. “In the French diligence, no less, the one I had shipped over from Lyon?”

“Enoch, really. You would have preferred they had carried on

in the hay wagon? No, that would be too democratic. And as for

being my doctor, he
is
my son, after all.”

“But only my
half-
brother, nothing but a barber surgeon, skilled at extracting teeth.” He picked up his teacup and drained it. And then his gaze became fixated, as he stared toward the light from the windows. “Open it,” he said. After a moment, he glanced at the maid, and said angrily, “The window—
open
it.
Wide.”

Cedella quickly went to the nearest window and with some

effort pushed the sash up as far as it would go. Enoch picked up his pistol and aimed it at the girl as she turned from the window.

She shrieked, falling to her hands and knees, just as he fired. The report was deafening, and there was angry cawing as birds flew

up and away from the trees that loomed over the side yard. Samuel bolted out of his chair and fled the dining room, choking on his food. In an effort to maintain a sense of poise, Miranda removed her handkerchief from her sleeve and waved it in front of her face, but it was pointless—the dining room was filled with blue smoke

and the smell of gunpowder.

“Crows, they raid the garden,” Enoch said with some satisfac-

tion. “I will not have them on my property.”

R

222

q u a r a n t i n e

After breakfast, Benjamin Penrose told Leander to help him

hitch a team to the hay wagon, and then they set out down High

Street, heading south toward Newbury. Like his father, he had a

ruddy completion from the summer sun and from drink. He often

grinned as though he was sharing a joke with Leander, and when

he wasn’t talking he liked to whistle softly, which seemed to have a calming effect upon the horses in the stable.

“Where are we going?” Leander asked.

“Just a little errand to Newbury, if we ever get there.” Ben-

jamin clucked his tongue, but the horses refused to pick up their pace. He glanced at Leander. “You have any more trouble with

Horseshoe?”

“At table this morning he just smiled at me—those teeth, you

know. But some of the others, they treated me . . . I don’t know.”

“With respect,” Benjamin said. “They won’t say so outright,

but they’re glad somebody finally put that bastard down in the

dirt. But it’s a delicate thing because he’s one of the few that was born and raised in the Sumner household. That confers a privilege of sorts.”

“Were you born there?”

“No,” Benjamin said. “I came from Rowley twenty years

ago, after my mother died and my father lost his farm—she just

dropped dead one day in the kitchen. Her heart just give out. I

was maybe six.”

Leander studied Benjamin a moment; he was tall and his hands

were enormous. “Horseshoe, did he beat you when you first came

to the house?”

“No, he never did.” Benjamin slapped the reins on the horses’

haunches, and they picked up the pace for a few strides, before

settling into a determined walk. “I’m the only one, I guess. Horseshoe and I are about the same age, and he’s bigger—fatter—but

he must have just known he wouldn’t have a chance with me, so

he’s left me alone.”

“That’s why—”

223

j o h n s m o l e n s

“Why, what?”

“Why everyone treats you the way they do. Your father is

supposed to be in charge of the stable, but the first thing anyone says is that you really run things.”

“My father has been head groom all these years. When his

time’s up, I’ll run the stable, I suppose. A man that runs a stable receives a fair amount of respect, provided he keeps good horses.

Say what you want about Mr. Sumner, he keeps good horses.”

Benjamin turned and smiled at Leander. “Horseshoe doesn’t like

it—being stuck back there working over the hot bellows with his

father—but there’s nothing he can do about it. He doesn’t have

the brains to run a stable. And he isn’t going to like it when he learns that you’re going to become my assistant.”

“I am?”

“As of today. So you watch yourself, and you do as I say.

Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Just before Newbury green, they were stopped by two guards—

farm boys with hunting rifles. Benjamin handed a folded sheet of paper to the taller of the two, who didn’t bother to open it.

“We’re picking up a load at Simon Moss’s farm,” Benjamin said.

“Ain’t you Benjamin Penrose?” the tall one said.

“I am. You’re the Miller boys, right?”

They both nodded.

“I believe you have a sister that’s married to my cousin, Obe-

diah. How is she?”

The tall one tipped the folded sheet of paper and several coins

slid out into his palm. “Big as a cow, again.” He handed the paper back up to Benjamin.

“Thanks, boys.” Benjamin handed the slip of paper to Leander

and slapped the reins. “Give my best to your sister.”

As the wagon approached the forked road at the head of the

green, Leander opened the slip of paper. There was no writing on it.

Benjamin said, “I doubt they can read anyway.”

224

q u a r a n t i n e

R

Emanuel’s wife, Sameeka, was notoriously beautiful. West Indians were frequently seen about Newburyport’s waterfront, but she had a bearing that caused people to stop and gape as she passed on the wharves or on her way to market. She was tall with a long, slow

stride. Her cheekbones were pronounced, her nose broad, and

her mouth full and wide. Her dark skin had a polished sheen, and when her hair was loose it fell to her waist.

As she and Marie prepared breakfast together, they spoke

French rapidly, laughing often, and the children, wrapped in

towels from swimming, hovered about the two women in the

galley. When the meal was ready, they all sat at the table and ate fried flounder, porridge sweetened with honey, and black raspberry currant spread on warm flat bread. Strong tea was served

in thick clay bowls. Moving back and forth between English and

French, the two women talked about food, subjects that New-

buryporters never tired of: how to prepare fish, where to dig for shellfish, where the best raspberry and blueberry patches were

located. Giles watched Marie and realized that it wasn’t just the change in dress; she was as at home here aboard this old schooner as she was in Enoch’s well-appointed house on High Street.

When she was finished eating, Sameeka began braiding her

daughter’s hair.

Marie asked Emanuel, “How did you meet?”

He held up his right arm, the stump wrapped in leather with

a protruding hook. “We had a run-in with a British corsair off

of Jamaica, and though we were faster their carronade raked us

good before we got out of range. I took a big splinter through the hand. It felt like Jesus Christ nailed to the cross, I tell you, and the doctor here removed the problem with a few quick strokes.

Eventually we put in at Kingston. Sameeka worked at an inn

there, and she kept me from bleeding to death. So I married her

and brought her north.”

225

j o h n s m o l e n s

Sameeka said something quiet in French, which made Marie

laugh. Emanuel, who understood, looked embarrassed, but then

he rubbed his son’s head and smiled. He turned to Giles and said,

“It has already been decided that Marie can stay here with us.”

“You are too kind,” Giles said to Sameeka. He got to his feet.

“Now I must go to my rooms for a change of clothes, and get

some sleep before returning to the pest-house.”

“I will come by in several hours and go with you,” Emanuel

said, and then to Marie, “I am beginning to go a little mad tied up so long here in harbor. Ordinarily, this time of year we would be coasting between Castine and Boston, delivering goods.”

Giles looked at Marie. “When they’re away from port, I nearly

starve.”

Sameeka laughed and spoke in French, which made Marie

blush, but then she laughed, too. “You need a woman who can

take care of you, Giles,” Sameeka said. “You are a hopeless man

this way. I do not even know if a good woman can salvage you

now.”

“You’re probably right,” Giles said. “But I thank you for the

meal, as always.”

He started up the companionway, and Marie followed him. On

deck there was a fresh sea breeze coming across the river basin. At the rail, Marie took his hand and stared at him for a moment, her eyes bright, and then she kissed him quickly. He started down the gangplank to the wharf, but paused—he wanted to ask her if she

would come back to his rooms with him, despite his exhaustion.

But when he turned around he saw that she had already crossed

to the port side of the boat, where she opened a gate in the rail.

She crossed her arms and drew the gray dress up over her head,

and dropped it on the deck. She was naked, silhouetted against

the morning sun. Raising her long, slender arms, she bent her legs and dove into the river.

R