Last night, sleepless, she had sat up to look through all her notes and extracts and books by candlelight. Hoping for some hint that would make a difference. What she found was not much more than she knew from Richard, who had seen scarlet fever when he was an army surgeon and again in Albany as well.
She could look in every book ever written, speak to every doctor or healer, and no one could tell her the one thing that these children—that everyone—wanted to know: how to stop it.
Hannah would spend the day in the village doing what she could to soothe fears and lessen fevers and fortify those who were still healthy, but she did not doubt that some would die. Most of them would be children. She could not even promise that the sickness would stay away from Lake in the Clouds, even if they quarantined themselves.
Lily sighed as if Hannah had said all this out loud.
Strikes-the-Sky was on the porch when Lily and Daniel came out. He had been eating cherries, and his mouth was red with juice.
Daniel said, “You could talk her out of going to the village.”
Lily poked her brother in the arm. “You know that isn’t true, why do you say such things?”
Daniel scowled and jerked away, but he had no words to answer her. Then he looked Strikes-the-Sky up and down and said, “We aren’t allowed to go with her because of the sickness.”
Strikes-the-Sky made a sound deep in his throat. “I will keep watch over your sister when you cannot.”
“She won’t like that,” Lily said.
“If I were you I’d keep my distance,” added Daniel.
He looked down at them both with one corner of his mouth turned up and one eyebrow—the opposite one—cocked at an angle. It was meant to be a smile but there was more to it, and Daniel took it as a sign of something else entirely.
“Is it settled between the two of you then?”
Lily saw that he wanted to hear both answers: yes, because after long discussions with Father and Grandfather Daniel had decided that the Seneca from the western edge of Hodenoshaunee lands was almost good enough for their sister; and no, because he would never knowingly agree to any plan that took her away from them, no matter how reasonable or necessary to her happiness.
“Not yet,” said Strikes-the-Sky. “But soon.”
“With the sickness in the village she won’t have any time for you.” Lily heard her own peevishness and was embarrassed, but Strikes-the-Sky did not seem to mind.
He said, “We have many years before us. A few more days will not matter at all.”
Daniel had chores still to do and he went off reluctantly, maybe, Lily thought, because he knew that she was determined to ask Strikes-the-Sky some very specific questions about his plans for their sister. She had just got up the courage to start when Joshua Hench came riding into the clearing on Uncle Todd’s great gray stallion, the one that he didn’t let anybody else saddle, much less ride.
That was the first hint that something was amiss, but if Lily wanted another one she need look no farther than the blacksmith’s expression. Joshua Hench was the quietest man Lily knew, quieter even than her grandfather, and it must mean something for him to look so unsettled.
Hannah heard him too, because she came out on the porch just as he pulled up in front of the cabin.
“The doctor sent me. Jupiter, you mind me now!” The stallion was dancing in a circle and Joshua Hench reined him in sharply while he spoke to them over his shoulder. “That German nursemaid is come down with the canker rash, and the little baby too. Got it bad, he says, and would you come straightaway? I’ll take you down on Jupiter if you dare, he’s right peevish today.”
“The new baby,” Lily said aloud to nobody in particular. “Aunt Todd will be sad.”
Hannah didn’t have anything to say to that, but she put her hand on the back of Lily’s head and then in three steps she left the porch and launched herself up to the spot behind Joshua Hench on Jupiter’s broad back.
Strikes-the-Sky handed up her bag, and Joshua hung it over his shoulder. Hannah stuck out her hand for her basket, and he handed that up too.
For once Hannah was taller than Strikes-the-Sky and he had to tilt his head back to look into her face. Strangest of all was the way Hannah was looking at him, as if there were too many things to say and she didn’t know what words to use for any of them.
It wasn’t until they were gone in a flurry of kicking hooves that Lily could put a name to it, and then it frightened her so badly that she had to say it out loud.
“Sister’s not sure she’ll ever come home again.”
Strikes-the-Sky put a hand on her shoulder. “I will see to it that she does,” he said. “I make you that promise.”
“I did everything Dr. Todd told me,” Dolly Smythe said to Hannah. “But none of it made any difference. Oh, I wish Curiosity would come home. How will I tell Mrs. Todd?”
They were standing beside a bed in the little chamber off the nursery where the nursemaid—Esther, Hannah had to remind herself, her name was Esther—had slept. A moody girl, less than friendly, and why not? She had come so far, losing both husband and child along the way to live and die on the edge of the wilderness.
Hannah sat down heavily. She shifted Meg in her arms but there was little reaction on the small, rash-covered face. The simple heat of the baby—it was like holding a bundle of live coals—told Hannah that if there was to be any hope for her the fever must be brought down.
“Don’t worry about Kitty right now, I will talk to her. Tell me again what happened at the end.”
Dolly nodded, willing but shaken. The story was simply told: Esther had been in a fevered and uneasy sleep. She woke suddenly, sat up, and complained of a terrible pain in her head. Or at least Dolly thought that must have been what she was saying, for while she spoke German, she held her head between her hands. Then she fell back against her pillow, dead. That was not a half hour ago.
There was other news from the doctor, which Dolly related in a breathless voice. While she spoke Hannah held the baby on her lap and dribbled water onto a tongue as red as the sunrise. The baby’s throat worked, and she swallowed.
One good sign and there was another: none of the cases of scarlet fever in the village—twelve total—seemed as bad as these two right in the doctor’s home, with the exception of Isaiah Kuick. The doctor was with Molly LeBlanc, who was in a bad way with childbed fever, and when he could get away he would go see Isaac Cameron, who looked to be developing gangrene.
“Is gangrene catching?” Dolly asked her. “I never thought it was but yesterday poor Eulalia and now Mr. Cameron—”
“It is a sad coincidence,” Hannah said softly. Truth be told, she had been having the same thoughts herself. It would not do for the village to start worrying about some new kind of contagious gangrene when they were already struggling with the scarlet fever, and so she said nothing.
“The doctor asked that you go straight to the Kuicks’ when you are done here.” Before Hannah could show any surprise at such a strange order—she was the last person the widow would want to see—Dolly turned away.
“If you can excuse me for a little—” She hesitated, looking almost reluctantly at Meg and then Hannah understood. She had already decided the child could not live. It was something she had seen before: a woman who forced herself to turn away from the living to save herself the pain of another loss.
“I need to bathe her in cool water, and then I’ll bring her to you in the kitchen before I leave. Is Mrs. Todd still asleep?”
“I am right here.” From just beyond the door came Kitty’s voice, ripe with impatience. She pushed past Dolly, her morning coat billowing around her, and came to a stop in front of the bed. For a long moment she looked at the nursemaid, and then she touched her throat with one finger.
“Dolly, you must call Anna Hauptmann or one of the other women to see to her laying-out. And ask Bump to please dig another grave. I hope Elizabeth has enough German to write to this poor girl’s family.” Her head cam
e up suddenly and she held out her arms for Meg, her fingers jerking.
“I can tend to her, if you tell me what she needs.”
“Kitty—” Hannah began slowly, and from Dolly a low wail: “The doctor said—”
It was not often Hannah had seen Kitty truly angry, but it was impossible to mistake in the way the bones of her face seemed to shine with light. “If my husband has any objection I will deal with him directly when he comes home. Now give me the child so that I can tend to her. And do not speak to me of my own health, Hannah. I have never felt better in my life.”
There were two spots of color high on the thin cheeks, but the look in Kitty’s eyes dared Hannah to mention them.
Hannah nodded. “Let’s go into your chamber and I’ll explain what needs to be done.”
“No,” Kitty said, folding the child against her chest very gently. “Leave her to me. You have another call to make. I understand that Mr. Kuick asked for you to attend him personally.”
This time Cookie was in the kitchen. Hannah was glad to see her, and even happier to hear that she need not worry about dealing with Jemima.
“When she ain’t in the office she’s down at the mill,” Cookie said dryly. “Trying to run things in the overseer’s place.” The small mouth puckered as if she had something sweet-sour on her tongue.
“And Mr. Kuick?”
Cookie hesitated. “Becca’s in there with him now. He’s in a bad way, but you’ll see that yourself.”
“The doctor said he asked for me.”
“He did.” Cookie flicked floury fingers over the dough on the table. “If you’re going to ask me why, I really don’ know.”
“And his mother?”
Cookie smiled. “You don’t have to worry about the widow none, she’s so full of laudanum she wouldn’t care if another Indian come to lay hisself down right next to her.”
Becca met her at the chamber door with such relief in her expression that Hannah was sorry she had delayed so long.
“He is a little improved,” she whispered. “At least, it seems to me that his fever has let up a bit. He’s sweat through the linen again, I have to go fetch more.” And she slipped away down the hall at a trot.
From the bed Isaiah Kuick said, “Miss Bonner. Thank you very much for coming.” His voice was raw and hoarse with fever, but he made an effort to smile at her.
Hannah sat down beside him on a small chair with a curved back. Under a heavy load of blankets Jemima Kuick’s husband shivered so that the bed frame shook. His hair was wet through with sweat, and when she put her hand on his forehead she had to stop herself from pulling away in surprise.
“Didn’t know a human being could get so hot,” he croaked. His breath came shallow, with a wheezing sound that meant his lungs could not do their work. Pneumonia right and left, Richard Todd had reported and Hannah knew what she would hear should she put her ear to his chest.
“It would be better if you saved your voice,” she said, taking a rag from the bowl of water on the table to wipe his face.
“Save my voice?” The pale eyes blinked at her. “But I must talk, Miss Bonner. I called you here to hear my confession. You are a Catholic, are you not? I understand that Catholics believe that confession is good for the soul.”
Hannah was so surprised that for a moment she did not know how to answer him.
“I was baptized by a Catholic priest,” she said. “But I have never practiced that faith. What I can do for you—”
“You can do nothing for me,” he interrupted her in a hoarse whisper. “I will be dead within a day. Sooner, if God has any mercy.”
Hannah folded back the blanket to wipe his neck, grainy with the canker rash; she lifted his head from the pillow and turned it while she studied his face: eyes red-rimmed and already a little sunken from having lost so much fluid. She helped him drink some water before she turned to her things to get what she would need.
“What is that you’re doing?”
“Making a tea that will give you some ease.”
“Do not waste your medicines on me, Miss Bonner.”
Hannah sat down again, and the bottles in her hands clinked together softly. She said, “I will not sit by idly and watch you die, Mr. Kuick. If you will not let me treat you, then I must go elsewhere. There are many sick in the village; maybe nobody has told you.”
He looked at her very hard, and then, quite slowly, his eyes rolled back in his head and he began to convulse.
Fever convulsions were not uncommon, but Hannah had never dealt with them on her own. By the time they had passed she was drenched in her own sweat.
He fell into so deep a sleep that she had to convince herself at first that he still lived. His chest rose and fell in an uneasy rhythm, and Hannah watched him for a while, counting his respiration and his pulse, counting her own.
When Becca finally returned with the fresh linen they changed the bed together, not speaking at all.
Isaiah Kuick came to himself quite unexpectedly. He said, “Becca, you had best go sit with my mother. I have things to discuss with Miss Bonner.”
“How many are sick in the village?”
Hannah studied him for a moment. The sound of his breathing was by far the worst sign, watery and wheezing. He was not a robust man, but healthy enough; if not for the inflammation in his lungs he would have every chance of surviving scarlet fever.
Hannah said, “Twelve, with the canker rash. There are other patients to see as well. Take some of this now.”
She lifted his head to help him swallow the thin tea. When he was finished he wiped his mouth with his hand and grimaced. “Foul stuff.”
“But effective, for the most part.”
“So now that I’ve taken your tea, will you listen to my confession?”
Hannah bit back an impatient reply. “You should not overextend yourself,” she said. “You need all your strength to fight your fever.”
Without warning he reached up to take her wrist in a circle of fingers as hot as iron off the fire. “What I need is for you to listen to me. It is in your own best interest, Miss Bonner. Will you not give me my last wish?”
Hannah had begun to think he had fallen asleep again when he began in his wheezing voice.
“You know my wife fears you above all people.”
Hannah nodded warily. “I would say she hates me. Yes, I know that.”
“Watch out for her, Miss Bonner. Once I am gone there will be no one to hold her back. I fear she has already started.”
“Started? Started what?” The skin rose all along Hannah’s spine. “I don’t understand.”
“Early this morning she sent Becca down to the village with two letters to go to Johnstown. Addressed to the circuit judge and the county magistrate. They will have the letters tomorrow, no doubt.”
Hannah sat back in the chair, unable to hide her surprise.
He said, “Becca has been a good friend to me. Sometimes she tells me stories of her family and a grandmother—I forget the name—”
“They called her Froma Anje,” Hannah supplied.
“Becca was fortunate, to have such a family.”
“She still is,” Hannah said, thinking too late of Becca’s sister.
“Becca is a good soul, if a simple one.” His breath came harder, and Hannah helped him sit up against the pillows.
“You were saying about the letters—”
He nodded. “I don’t know what she wrote, but I fear it will be more trouble for you.”
“But what—”
“Let me talk, I don’t know how long my strength will last. You heard that the strongbox is gone, and with it all the money. When I’m dead Jemima will be left here with my mother and no way to get away from her.” Something of real humor passed over his face. “You can see why she would be desperate.”
“She will have her child,” Hannah added. “Your child.”
He turned his face away from her for a long moment. When he spoke again his voice was very lo
w.
“You know only the worst of Ambrose Dye,” he said. “There is no reason for you to believe me given what you saw, but once he was not so hard-hearted.”
There was a longer silence. Finally Hannah said, “He was a friend to you.”
Isaiah let out a rough sound, something that might have been a laugh. “Yes, he was that. Listen now, and mark me. It was my fault, what happened to Reuben and I must take responsibility for it before I die.”
He had turned to look at her, his eyes moving over her face as if he would find some answer there. Forgiveness or understanding; even curiosity, something, now that he had said the words. Hannah could see what he wanted from her but she could not give it.
“Go on,” she said quietly.
He took a deep breath that caused his whole body to shake. “It happened in a fit of rage. Ambrose threw the sack and it broke all over the boy—” He hesitated, and raising a hand, he pressed it to his eyes.
“It all happened so fast—that is not meant to be an excuse. There is no excuse,” he added wearily. “And then I made it worse. I should have called the constable in. It was an accident, after all. But I was afraid.”
Hannah kept herself very still while he wept like a tired child. She had the sense that if she made any noise at all, reached out to him in any way, he would not be able to go on. And she needed to hear what he had to say. For Cookie’s sake, for everyone’s.
“You must think I was worried about Ambrose, what might have happened to him. But I was worried for myself. Always for myself, first and last.”
He shook his head suddenly as if to clear it, pulled himself up higher on the pillow and pointed toward a small ivory box that sat on the dresser. “There’s a letter there that I wrote on the day of Reuben’s burial.”