Too Soon for Flowers (7 page)

“How thoughtful,” Dr. Tucker commented, while Charlotte smiled into her sherry.

“It makes one wonder at what is often called
Christian
charity,” Longfellow returned. “At first, in adopting a pair of felines, I planned to observe the differences between our two species. Instead, I’m amazed to see we have a great deal in common.”

“For instance?” Charlotte asked, interested as always in Longfellow’s observations.

“It would seem that Tabby and Tiger are as keen on gardening as I am. At least, they greatly enjoy my glass house, and I’ve concluded they practice several of horticulture’s first principles.”

“How do you mean?” asked Tucker, accepting a second glass.

“They take a natural interest in digging, which lightens the soil. They see the value of enriching the ground broadly, for they never contribute to the same spot twice. And, they kill the birds that are after fruits and berries I go to a great deal of trouble to cultivate. Each, you see, plays a part in maintaining the Grand Balance of Nature.”

The doctor considered before he answered. “I believe I would prefer a dog,” he finally decided.

“Not in a glass house,” Longfellow retorted darkly. “I chased a mongrel last month who destroyed more in a minute than the cats have harmed in three months’ time. Dogs may take an interest in one’s life, Tucker, but they are hardly what you’d call thoughtful animals. Now, Orpheus, of course, is an unusual dog,” Longfellow admitted with a look to Mrs. Willett, “for he always behaves as a gentleman should—better, really, than many I’ve encountered.”

“I’ll tell him you appreciate his breeding,” Charlotte replied, “though I am less sure of it myself. We can all be glad he shares your good opinion of the cats. But, Richard, will you enlighten me about something else?”

“With great pleasure, Carlotta.”

“The powder Dr. Tucker gave to Diana and Phoebe, through the straws. What was it, exactly?”

“I didn’t want to say this in front of Diana, but we decided to try the scab from a recent smallpox patient, which Tucker dried and ground.” Warming to his subject, Longfellow stood and began to walk about. “As you know, it’s now quite common to place a bit of scab, or the matter from beneath one, into an incision. But inhaling the powder appears to be a much older idea originating with the Chinese, which one of my Venetian correspondents passed on to me several years ago. He swore the technique promised less fever and scarring. And I know Diana abhors the idea of so much as a mosquito’s bite marring her complexion; that is why I decided we might try something new—at least, to the Western world.”

Dr. Tucker, too, looked pleased. “One day we may be spoken of as innovators, like the Lady Mary Wortley Montagu!”

“Tucker tells me,” Longfellow confided to Mrs. Willett, “that she lost great beauty to the pox and never recovered her eyelashes, all of which dropped off at the time of her infection.”

“They do say that her pocks were very full. But she remained a woman of great wit and spirit,” the doctor assured them. “No doubt that’s why she took it upon herself, after first seeing the practice of inoculation in Constantinople, to do all she could to convince others to attempt it.”

“Her Ladyship’s own child, I believe, was the first to be inoculated in Britain, during the epidemic of ’21,” said Longfellow. “This was shortly before the Princess of Wales tried the practice on her own small daughters.”

“Much to
her
credit,” said the doctor.

“You may not have heard, Tucker, that when Dr. Boylston introduced it here in Boston the same year, his life was threatened by a mob—even after Cotton Mather himself urged inoculation. In fact, old Cotton had a bomb thrown through his window, to dissuade him.”

“I had supposed the old Boston clergy were against it, as I’m told your own cleric is still,” Dr. Tucker answered slowly.

“Most were. Although that’s all changed now. Except, of course, for a few fanatics. Actually, we may have a good many left, but don’t forget, Mather was not only a preacher—he was also a graduate of Harvard College, and a member of the Royal Society. So he knew something about Science. Extremely fortunate for Boston, as he made many others see the light.”

It was also fortunate, thought Charlotte, that few clergymen now believed, as Mather had, that witches walk among us and might be removed from society in unpleasant ways. But no man, obviously, was perfect—even though he had graduated from Harvard College.

The doctor shook his head. “It’s difficult for me to comprehend how anyone could doubt the procedure to be worthwhile. Why, the figures alone are convincing! Only one or two percent of the inoculated will die, while we can expect a full fifteen percent to succumb, who take it from contagion.”

“Only a fool would refuse its benefits,” Longfellow agreed, scrutinizing his own slightly pock-marked features in the hanging Venetian mirror. “A century or two in the future, I suppose they will scorn those who today shun a risk to life of merely one percent, out of blind fear. Of course, by then a cure will surely have been found for the disease itself.” For a while, both men silently considered the boundless hopes of Science, born to strive against the monumental ignorance of mankind.
^*

“I know inoculation is a wonderful advancement,” Charlotte said eventually. “Still, I feel fortunate to have received my own immunity with no risk at all, to anyone.”

“How was this, Mrs. Willett?” the doctor asked in a puzzled tone.

“When I was younger, I took the cowpox in the dairy.”

“But that is no proof against infection!” Dr. Tucker responded sharply, alarmed that the woman before him might soon be taken, as well.

“Mrs. Willett has been near infected patients before this, and assures me she felt no ill effects,” Longfellow told the physician, turning from his own reflection.

“But without scientific certainty,” Tucker argued, “you
must
agree that she should be more careful!”

“It is obvious, Tucker, that you have had limited experience with milkmaids. Among humble people—and as a farmer, I include myself in this group—I’ve often heard it said that one cannot contract smallpox after having cowpox. Hannah Sloan tells me the Irish have held the same view for generations.”

“Please, sir, go on,” begged the physician, setting down his sherry glass.

“It’s often the case that where there’s a horse with what we in the country call grease-heels, with oozing
fetlocks, you might also find a cow with udder ulcers, and soon after, a milkmaid with the cowpox.”

“Is this a serious disease?”

“Not at all.”

“But, if that is true, then we should all
encourage
the cowpox,” Dr. Tucker reasoned. “Which, I believe, you do not.”

“That has occurred to me. But think. Until a princess, or at least a duchess, can be induced to try her hand at milking an infected beast, the fawning part of humanity will never go along—even at the risk of a mere pock or two on the hand. But then, most would not jump out of a frying pan, having found their feet on fire. I refer here with equal disdain to the garden variety of man, as well as to more regal specimens.”

“Yes …”

“And you know how even physicians resist innovation.”

“I do, yes!”

“But you give me an idea.”

“Eh?”

“Yes. The next time I see a cow with pustules on its udders, I will see if I can shift some of the matter from there—”

“Richard?”

“Carlotta?”

“Perhaps, as Dr. Tucker will be with us for a while, you might talk with him about this another day?”

“Mmmm, yes. I can see … Well.” He paused, but found the subject irresistible. “Of course, if one were to take the infectious matter from such a pustule on a person, rather than a cow! That might be considered more seemly. Actually, it’s quite unfortunate Diana’s already been done … but if we could convince another of our local—”

“Richard! A question?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Willett.”

“Do you suppose that none of the men who favored burning Dr. Boylston walk the streets of Boston today?”

“Well, I suspect there could still be a few …”

“I suspect some very much like them live even closer than that.”

Rubbing his chin, Longfellow considered. “Though I have my doubts our fellow townsmen would destroy one of their own elected officials, I suppose this might
not
be the best time to advance new medical theory, Tucker. And you, Mrs. Willett, know I am the first to stoop, if that is what it takes, in order to spare the feelings of the good villagers.”

Charlotte thought it best to leave that statement alone.

“Speaking of neighbors,” she said, “I wonder, Dr. Tucker, if you spoke with your friend Mr. Pelham last night?”

“I did, madam,” Tucker replied after a moment, during which he tasted his sherry once more.

“I wonder—does he have other acquaintances in the area?”

“I believe not.”

“And yet he chooses this place to visit, for a rest …”

“You might like to invite him here to dine, Tucker,” Longfellow suggested. “We might all enjoy the distraction of fresh conversation during the next weeks. Pelham seemed to me a fellow of at least some intelligence.”

“Well, Mr. Pelham did mention to me,” the doctor began cautiously, “that he would enjoy meeting Miss Longfellow again. He has even asked—if I might see if it could be arranged. Of course, her quarantine makes a dinner somewhat difficult, so I doubt …”

“He might prefer to dine at the inn at that, and give Lydia Pratt his company, if his eye is only for the ladies,” Longfellow answered with a look of irritation. “However! I forget that we can offer Mrs. Willett as an ornament to our table, Doctor! Forgive me, Carlotta.”

Dr. Tucker appeared to be reorganizing his thoughts, until he found an acceptable one. “We’re not closely acquainted socially, you see, Mr. Pelham and I. Our past was little more than a handful of tavern dinners, between poor physician and patient. Now, there is, of course, a great difference in our wealth, and in our standing in the town.”

“I see. Then I must make him the offer myself. Well, I believe my own name has some cachet in Boston, though I’ve lived away from it for a few years. He can refuse if he will—which would scarcely be a loss to us! But I’m surprised I haven’t heard more of Mr. Pelham in town,” Longfellow mused.

Dr. Tucker sent a hand to his yellowed wig, where it fingered a bleached side curl. At the same time, he couldn’t keep himself from eyeing the decanter of sherry with longing. “I believe,” the physician finally responded, “that Mr. Pelham traveled to Europe after the death of his wife, many months ago. He lived there for quite a while before, as well.”

“Excellent! A traveler with interesting stories, one hopes. More wine, Tucker? But here’s Cicero. Pour Tucker some sherry, will you? I suppose you’re on your way to the inn for your evening’s entertainment?”

The venerable African, dressed more carefully than the average inhabitant of Bracebridge, nodded. He bent slowly, picked up the bottle with both hands, and performed his task with precision.

“Trouble with your spine?” Longfellow asked with a squint. Cicero gave a bow, then took a step backward.

“While I do appreciate the performance—is it meant to be Iago? Or possibly Cleopatra’s asp-bearer. At any rate, I don’t believe you will fool the good doctor for long. Our thespian,” Longfellow went on, “was once the highly valued major-domo of our household until my father’s death freed him from bondage, and the wish to excel. Cicero now
works for excessive wages, and his duties are largely doing whatever he chooses—rather like an aging governess.”

The former property of the Longfellows of Boston exhibited the ghost of a smile.

“He may feel,” warned Longfellow, “that a Virginian will enjoy a bit of servility; but it is probably only a plot to soften you for a later savaging at the backgammon board—when he sees you have become thoroughly bored with the country. At any rate, Tucker, if you want something done for you about the place, you had better ask me first,” Longfellow concluded. “But go and learn the news, Yorick, so well have someone to pick apart at breakfast. Oh—and when Pratt brings your Madeira, you might ask him to invite Mr. Pelham to visit us tomorrow morning.”

With a sphinx-like smile Cicero left them, dropping a soft leave-taking to Charlotte on his way to the door.

“As you were talking of your neighbors, Mrs. Willett,” the physician then tried cautiously, “I will admit to being curious about one of them. I refer to Miss Morris.”

“Phoebe Morris is from Concord, Dr. Tucker,” Mrs. Willett replied, “which is where most of her family can be found, I think. Do you know them?”

“I am afraid not … yet I believe I did treat Miss Morris in Boston, briefly. Three years ago. She was barely sixteen—” Tucker broke off to sip from his replenished glass, before he continued. “You know little of her history, then?”

“Very little, for she only came here recently.”

“And yet she’s to be married, you say?”

This time, Longfellow offered the answer. “The Sloans frequently trade goods with Concord farmers, several of them cousins, and the boy has probably visited that place quite often.”

“He is a young man?”

“Quite young. Now sixteen, I think?”

Mrs. Willett nodded.

“There could be certain advantages,” said Dr. Tucker, almost to himself.

“In keeping a boy from worse? Quite possibly,” his host allowed, “especially when one has a habit of getting into trouble—though I believe the kind he’s headed for now will be new to Will Sloan.”

“At least, Miss Morris will gain a protector from a dangerous world.”

“Do you consider this place so?” Charlotte asked the doctor in surprise.

“Beauty,” replied Tucker, “is ever under siege, I fear. As you must know yourself, madam,” he added gallantly.

“Yet Aphrodite often finds means for having her own way,” Longfellow decided.

“Not all of them pleasant,” muttered the physician. Then he shifted uncomfortably. There was a silence, but soon, Longfellow began to hum. He went to the pianoforte, and in a moment began to sing out in a light baritone, while his fingers moved over the keys to produce a martial air.