Too Soon for Flowers (11 page)

Thursday

N
EARLY DONE WITH
the early milking, Charlotte Willett asked herself the question once more: Where on earth was Will Sloan?

Had the boy overslept? She supposed he might have lingered well into the evening, talking with his bride. Courtship, after all, could be an exhausting business! And Will wouldn’t be the only one to have lost sleep for pleasure, on a spring night like the one just over. She had looked from her own window for a while, after the climbing moon awakened her with its brightness. She’d watched an owl flit like a pale ghost from treetop to field, to return with a lifeless, long-tailed trophy in its claws. It had been a fine night for many of God’s creatures—though less so for others, she knew with equal certainty.

When she had finished milking, she walked with Orpheus through wet grass to the opposite side of the house. Will was not in his lean-to. Perhaps his mother had sent
him out on a dawn errand, and he’d been delayed somewhere. She would go in and chat with Hannah. Then, having cleared up the mystery, she could enjoy a cup of Cicero’s good, strong coffee.

At her own back door, Charlotte went in to find her kitchen deserted. While shafts of sun reached through the windowpanes, she revived the fire, first stirring the ashes, then adding split sticks. That raised a little smoke and finally a burst of flame. Leaning over the hearth, she pulled the hanging kettle forward.

A cup of tea would be welcome to all, she told herself as she made her way with a pail to the keg of spring water outside. She scooped up and drank a dipperful, thinking it would be another fine day. The month of May was surely one of the prettiest, before the dust and haze of summer began to rise. There were some, like Hannah, who disliked new buds and flowers, for they brought tickling noses and scratchy eyes. But for the rest, they were a welcome sight.

When the water had boiled and the pot was brewing—and Hannah still had not appeared—Charlotte thought of taking up a cup of tea. Then she decided against it. Phoebe would better enjoy being awakened to the new day. Mrs. Willett set a china cup onto a saucer, filled it, and found a spoon for the sugar pot. Sensing a presence behind her, she turned to see Hannah standing in the doorway, eyes red with sleep or perhaps the effect of the spring air. Whatever the reason, she seemed loath to speak.

Charlotte handed her the cup and saucer with a warm smile. “This was for Phoebe,” she said, making conversation, “but you may need it more. Are you quite well?” she asked with sudden concern.

Hannah only nodded as she raised the teacup to her lips, a noticeable tremor in her thick arm.

“It’s difficult, I know,” Charlotte continued. “I suspect Phoebe feels much the same, being away from her family.
Still, she has you here. And Will, of course, outside—though he isn’t in the garden now, and he didn’t come to help me with the milking. I wonder if you told him last night to run somewhere early?”

“No,” said Hannah, her eyes now brighter.

“Well, we’ll see when he returns—from wherever he’s got to. I’ll take tea in to Phoebe, and ask her where he is. She’s probably the last to have seen him. And fairly late, too, I would guess.”

At this, Hannah coughed, but made no further comment on Will’s unusual devotion to his fiancée. Mrs. Willett picked up a second teacup and crossed to her study. Once there, she knocked softly on the closed door. Receiving no answer, she lifted the latch and stepped inside.

Though one set of curtains was open and the room was filled with light, Phoebe lay asleep under her covers. Arms close by her sides, she looked like someone from a book of stories. It was a sight Will would soon have to treasure, no matter what else might happen … through a life that would surely include sickness, childbirth, and countless other worries. But for now, Phoebe lay safe in sleep. So peaceful, so pale. So unmoving.

Charlotte felt a sinking in her stomach, and heard the cup in her hand tremble against its saucer. There was no movement at all in the room—not even the sound of breathing.

Slowly, she set the cup down on the small table beside the bed, and bent to press her fingers against the girl’s smooth throat. The skin was cold. Though impossible, there was no doubt. Phoebe Morris had died in the night.

Charlotte inched down the length of the bed, and finally turned to plant both hands on the windowsill. Then she pressed her forehead against a pane of cool glass, suppressing the moan rising from deep within her. With
numb fingers, she somehow managed to raise the sash, then thrust her head outside, while her mind continued to cry out for answers for what lay behind her.

How could it have happened?
Phoebe’s condition yesterday had given them little cause for fear. And Will! What would the boy do, when he learned of Phoebe’s death? Unless—unless he already knew … ?

The air before her shimmered, and she seemed to see the young girl standing in the garden once more, a hand extended toward the window. Deliberately, Charlotte drew back, turned, and took a long breath; she blinked, and ignored what reason told her must surely be nothing more than a memory tricking her eyes.

Then she forced herself to consider carefully. What could be done? For Phoebe, nothing. Nothing! Yet it would be wise to do
something
to make sense of this tragedy, and quickly. Word would soon spread, and wagging tongues would no doubt begin to craft curious tales. After all, if suspicion already grew in her own mind …

Gathering her courage, Charlotte returned to Phoebe’s side. There
was
a bruise above the girl’s cheek, as a child might show for having been at war with another. A small injury, though one she could not remember seeing the day before. But beyond that … ?

In another moment, she reached out to fold back the smooth bed coverings, wanting to look more closely at the girl’s arms and hands. Then she stopped, deciding to leave things as they were for others to see. She looked about the room for anything else, but there seemed to be nothing out of place. On the small table, next to the still-steaming teacup, stood an empty glass and a closed volume, neither of which told her more.

Again, her eyes sought the purple bruise. Could Phoebe have been struck by someone who had seen her last evening? What if she had also been hit from behind—by a much harder blow?

Gently, Mrs. Willett reached down and moved the girl’s fair hair away from her neck, then lifted the head slightly, and bent to look below. No sign of blood or swelling, but the pillow beneath was damp to her touch. She lowered the head, feeling some resistance, knowing from experience that this would soon increase.

Of course, there was one idea much of Bracebridge would be sure to embrace, and it was this: Inoculation had been at fault. But Phoebe had seemed hardly ill at all, while she lived. Though what if the powder she’d inhaled had acted not only as a carrier of the smallpox, but as a poison, perhaps to the lungs, as well?

Almost immediately, Charlotte was struck by a second horrible idea. What if Diana, too—! She whirled toward the door just as Hannah Sloan tried to enter, apparently to speak to the girl herself. Seeing the look on Mrs. Willett’s face, Hannah flung her hands up into the air and fell back.

“I must see Diana!” Charlotte cried, racing for the stairs. In seconds she was outside the bedchamber. Bracing herself, she opened the door and peered inside. Nothing! But then, with a small moan, the quilt-covered body on the bed tossed from one side to the other, before it settled. Greatly relieved, Charlotte crept back down the stairs.

In the kitchen, Hannah Sloan sat hunched before the fire. At Mrs. Willett’s return she looked up mutely, waiting for direction.

“Brew another pot, Hannah—and toast some bread. Have some yourself, with plenty of jam,” Charlotte added, for she had seen the effects of shock to the nerves before. “Stir extra sugar into your cup. I’ll be back!”

Outside, she flew down a twisting garden path, past herbs and flowers that sent sweet scents into the morning air. In another few moments she reached Longfellow’s kitchen door, and soon found her neighbor taking coffee in his study.

“Someone is ill,” he concluded immediately, alerted by her strained expression.

Charlotte nodded. “Please, Richard—call Dr. Tucker.”

“Fever? Is it Diana?”

“Phoebe Morris is dead.”

“What! But how?”

“I supposed you would want to see her before anyone else …”

Longfellow hesitated, opened his mouth to speak, then turned his head away.

“Cicero!” he bellowed. Unable to wait, he leaped to his feet. The two soon came face to face at the study’s door. “Get Tucker up, and be quick! There’s been a death—Miss Morris! He’ll probably take some shaking, and help him to dress if you must.”

The spry old man took the stairs as fast as he could, while Longfellow returned to his study.

“Was it the smallpox?” he seemed to ask himself, while looking to Charlotte with eyes that revealed his disbelief.

“She has no sign of it, that I could see. But must there be signs?”

“I’ve been told no two cases are alike.”

“There’s another thing …” Charlotte began.

“Yes?”

“Well, she seems almost ready—”

“For burial, do you mean?”

“For sitting over, at least.”

“Hannah probably saw to it earlier.”

“No, she was beside herself when she saw the girl, after I’d found her. Hannah slept quite late today—”

Mrs. Willett broke off abruptly, and there was another long spell of silence between them.

“Tucker should tell us something when he sees her,” said Longfellow, beginning to drum his fingers rapidly on the arm of his chair.

Charlotte nodded. But as they waited, she found herself feeling less than certain that her neighbor’s confidence in Dr. Benjamin Tucker would be well rewarded.

HANNAH OPENED THE
door at their approach, this time with eyes surely red from weeping. All four went directly to the study. There, the doctor bent over the peaceful corpse, flexed its fingers, examined its skin, looked under the eyelids, sniffed about the face, and then rose from his knees.

“What was it?” Richard Longfellow asked, obviously moved, yet also impatient. He saw Dr. Tucker shake his head, wincing as he did so. It
should
hurt him this morning, Longfellow reasoned, considering all he’d seen the old tippler pour down his gullet the night before.

“It is difficult to say …”

“Could it have been the smallpox?”

“It could have,” the physician replied, seeming to weigh the idea. “A few do die without the rash, though usually in the second week, and with a high fever. When I examined her yesterday, I thought perhaps she was a bit warm. Yes, it is possible it was the smallpox …”

“Though not certain.”

“Not certain at all. In fact, I think it unlikely.”

“Could it have been a weak heart?” asked Charlotte.

“Again, that is possible. But her heart seemed strong enough only yesterday. You do remember, Mrs. Willett, that I examined each of my patients carefully? This could also be the result of a failure of a vessel carrying blood somewhere within the body—something none of us can predict.”