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.”
With a frown, Longfellow looked away from the girl’s still figure to the untroubled world outside the windows, where the road had begun to see movement. “What about burial?” he asked abruptly. “We’ll assure the village we’ve taken all precautions, but with no clear cause, they’regoing to think the worst. I doubt they will be happy with either of us, Tucker.”
While the men spoke further on the subject, Charlotte wandered from the bed to the open window, feeling increasingly ill and looking for a distraction. There was her rosemary, and next to it the young cherry tree she and Aaron had planted, which now required a light pruning. She set her hands on the frame, then removed
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.”
With a frown, Longfellow looked away from the girl’s still figure to the untroubled world outside the windows, where the road had begun to see movement. “What about burial?” he asked abruptly. “We’ll assure the village we’ve taken all precautions, but with no clear cause, they’regoing to think the worst. I doubt they will be happy with either of us, Tucker.”
While the men spoke further on the subject, Charlotte wandered from the bed to the open window, feeling increasingly ill and looking for a distraction. There was her rosemary, and next to it the young cherry tree she and Aaron had planted, which now required a light pruning. She set her hands on the frame, then removed
Similar Books
