Authors: Cathy Maxwell
“Mr. Sadler, please remove these slop buckets,” she ordered briskly. “And don’t just toss the contents out the window, but have Tommy bury them.”
Mr. Sadler snapped his fingers for Tommy to do her bidding. The lad reluctantly moved forward, holding his nose.
“What is it, Miss Northrup?” Mrs. Sadler asked anxiously. “Do you know what he has?”
Samantha set her basket down. She didn’t have to consult her journal to recognize his illness. “Influenza.”
The word seemed to suck the very air out of the room. Influenza had already hit the village hard this winter and the one before.
Even the healthy and young in Sproule feared
the influenza after seeing how quickly the Vicar Northrup had succumbed. And last month it had claimed the life of the Rymans’ baby.
Mrs. Sadler reached for her son and pulled him back. “Go downstairs and mind your brothers and sisters. Do not let them upstairs.”
“I’ll go with him,” Miss Mabel volunteered. Miss Hattie was already moving down the stairs.
“We must get this man out of my inn,” Mr. Sadler announced. “There won’t be a soul who will come here if they know I’ve a man sick of the influenza under my roof.”
“Our first duty is to offer him aid and comfort,” Samantha corrected. “This man is very sick. I’m not certain it would be wise to move him.” She pressed her fingers against the pulse at Mr. Browne’s neck. She could feel his heart beat. It was weak but steady. As if her touch irritated him, he shifted restlessly and pushed her hand away.
“Mr. Browne?” Samantha said. She leaned over him. “Mr. Browne, can you hear me?” she asked again, louder.
Mr. Browne turned his head away, his brow furrowed. “Go away,” he muttered, his rough voice weak. He was a far cry from the intimidating man she had met only a day and a half ago.
“Mr. Browne, please, open your eyes. Talk to us.”
For a second, Samantha didn’t think he would
respond…and then his eyes opened. She was startled to realize that his eyes weren’t black as coal, as she’d remembered but a warm shade of brown. And there was a touch of red in his black beard.
He stared at her dazed and uncomprehending.
“Mr. Browne, do you remember me? Miss Northrup?”
He didn’t answer. Then, just when she was beginning to believe he wasn’t going to respond, he said in a low voice, “The grave’s mistress.”
Mrs. Sadler gave a small gasp at his words. Even Samantha felt a shiver run through her, especially when he added in his deep, raspy voice, “Have you come to claim me at last?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said hesitantly.
“I’m dying, Miss Northrup,” he whispered. His thin lips twisted into an ironic smile. “Dying.”
She took his hand. It was roughly callused, and in spite of the fever, cold and stiff. She rubbed his fingers between her own to stir the circulation of blood. He had long, tapered fingers like those of a gentleman. But there was strength in them, too. “You are not going to die, Mr. Browne. I will not let you.”
He shook his head slightly, his eyes closing. “Damn hot.” His voice sounded weaker. He tugged at his neckcloth, the knot tight from previous struggles.
Understanding it was important for a patient
to feel comfortable, Samantha hooked a finger into the knot and undid it. She was about to pull the strip of material from around his neck when his hand came up and grasped hers. His grip was surprisingly strong.
His eyes were wide open again, and this time he was seeing her clearly. “Get out. Get away from me.”
This
was the man she remembered from the other night. The dangerous man.
She met his gaze with a steady one of her own. “I will not leave you like this.”
“You can go to the devil with your charity.” His voice was so soft, she almost hadn’t heard his words. “I don’t need you or anyone.”
She pulled back and he released her hand. But instead of alienating her, his words had the opposite effect. A fierce protectiveness welled up inside her.
Everyone needed someone.
She believed that all the way to the deepest reaches of her soul.
“I won’t leave you be, Mr. Browne, because I won’t let the influenza claim another soul.
Not one more.
Do you hear me? Whether you wish it or not, you are going to live.”
His gaze narrowed and then dulled as his energy ebbed. She watched his eyes slowly close.
“Have it as you will.” He slipped from consciousness.
Samantha didn’t know if his words were a curse or a benediction.
“Do you know this man?” Mrs. Sadler asked.
Her blunt question reminded Samantha that she wasn’t alone.
Samantha picked up her basket of medicinals sitting on the floor by her feet, and sitting on the edge of the bed, started rooting through it. If she was going to keep her promise, she needed to start immediately. “We met the other night. He wanted into the Ayleborough vault.”
“He
what?
” Mrs. Sadler said in surprise.
Finding the small muslin bag she was looking for, Samantha glanced up. “He wanted into the Ayleborough vault,” she repeated patiently. “Here, Mrs. Sadler, this is feverfew. Please make a tea of it, the more, the better.”
But Mrs. Sadler did not take the packet from her hands. She turned with distress to her husband. “She met him lurking around the graveyard. What kind of man does that? And did you hear him wish her to the devil? The man’s on his deathbed!”
“Mrs. Sadler, he is not himself,” Samantha said. “He can’t be held to account for what he is saying.”
Her husband stepped forward, the set of his face stubborn. “The man’s not staying here. Not in my inn. I want him out of here.” Taking his wife’s arm, he turned on his heel and started for the door.
Samantha followed. “This man needs our care. You can’t turn your back on him.”
“And what am I to do if he dies in that bed?” Mr. Sadler threw over his shoulder, his heavy
shoes clumping down the wooden stairs. “People are very superstitious, Miss Northrup. There isn’t a soul who will sleep in the room, let alone the same bed, if he meets his Maker in it. Times are tough. The new duke doesn’t come up here as often as his father and all the nobs and gentry around these parts would rather toast their toes in London than brave the Northumberland winter. This man could ruin me.” He marched into the empty taproom.
Samantha followed, her skirts swinging around her ankles as she hurried to catch up with him. After Mrs. Sadler had veered off toward the kitchen, Samantha said, “Mr. Sadler, I will stay here and nurse him. You won’t have to lift a finger. Do you hear me?” she demanded in exasperation as the man went to the keg and poured himself a healthy draught.
“Aye, I hear you, missy, and my answer is no!” He lifted the tankard to his lips and downed the contents in one gulp.
The man’s lack of compassion angered Samantha. “If my father was alive—”
“But he isn’t, because he had the influenza,” Mr. Sadler snapped back. “And I don’t want to end up like the good vicar, God rest his soul.”
Mrs. Sadler came out of the kitchen, her eyes brimming with tears. “The Doyle sisters left. Tommy said they feared for their lives. They’ll spread the news of this all over the village in less than an hour.”
Mr. Sadler shook his head. “Don’t worry,
Birdie. I’ll have him carted to the Post Road and put on the first stage going south.”
“You can’t do that!” Samantha said. “A mail coach ride in this weather will kill him. We have a Christian duty—”
“Bah to Christian duty!” Mr. Sadler said. “I take care of my own.”
At that moment, they were interrupted by Alys Porter, the blacksmith’s wife. She hovered by the front door. “Birdie, I’ve heard some alarming news from the Doyle sisters. Is it true you’ve got the influenza here?”
Mrs. Sadler groaned and fell back down on the bench by one of the trestle tables, covering her mouth with her hand.
Mr. Sadler answered for her. “Aye, it’s true, but he won’t be here long. I’m going to round up a couple of the lads and we’ll send him on his way.” He started for the door.
Samantha practically ran to step in his path. “That man will die without proper care and his death will be on your conscience.”
“Better him than one of my children.” Mr. Sadler walked around her and left. Samantha heard him shouting outside for Roddy, the hired hand, to hitch a wagon.
Tears of frustration filled her eyes. She whirled on Mrs. Sadler. “You cannot just throw the man out! The Lord asks us to care for one another, even if we are strangers.”
Mrs. Sadler stood, her expression as grim as her husband’s. “Then mayhap you should put
the man under your roof, Miss Northrup. That way you may care for him all you like.”
“Why, Birdie,” Mrs. Porter said. “That is a good idea!”
“What is?” Samantha asked.
Mrs. Porter stepped into the room. “The idea of sending Mr. Browne over to the vicarage. You can tend him there, Miss Northrup.”
“Aye,” Mrs. Sadler agreed, her face brightening. “It is the best solution.”
“Wait,” Samantha said. “You know I can’t.”
“Why not?” Mrs. Sadler asked.
“Because I’m a single woman. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Sadler said with blunt northern common sense. “You are not some young girl, Miss Northrup, you are past your prime. Nor do these missish airs become you. Why, you’ve tended many a male patient. And some with little or no clothing on.”
Samantha felt a rush of heat to her cheeks. “But that was different, Mrs. Sadler. I always had a member of the patient’s family with me. I would be alone with this man.”
Mrs. Sadler sniffed. “Seems to me, Miss Northrup, that you trot out the Lord’s rules on us but don’t apply them to yourself.”
At that moment, Mr. Sadler walked back in. Roddy and the blacksmith, Dan Porter, followed him. They walked with deliberate purpose.
Samantha stamped her foot. “You can’t do this.”
The men walked right past her. She listened as the stairs creaked under their heavy boots. She heard them open the door to Mr. Browne’s room. There was the sound of footsteps as they prepared to move his body.
A few moments later, the men clumped down the stairs and came in to the tap room. They carried the unconscious Mr. Browne by his arms and legs. The men were far from gentle.
Samantha watched helplessly as they marched out the front door. She couldn’t let them do this. Her feet began moving toward the door.
Roddy had already hitched a wagon and it waited out front. Large, damp flakes of snow had started to fall. They settled on Mr. Browne and melted into his coat as he was unceremoniously dumped in the back of the wagon.
They couldn’t be doing this, Samantha told herself. It was cruel! Uncharitable!
Roddy walked toward the seat of the wagon.
Samantha turned to plead one more time with Mr. Sadler. “This is wrong. I beg you not to do it.”
“I already have, Miss Northrup,” came his cold reply.
Roddy jumped up in the driver’s seat and lifted the reins—and Samantha knew she could not let them leave Mr. Browne to die.
She ran to the head of the horses, her hair coming lose from its neat bun, and put herself in their path. “Stop.”
Roddy reined the horses in before they ran over her.
“I’ll take him,” she said. “Drive him to the vicarage.”
D
ead silence met Samantha’s announcement.
Then Mr. Porter, a short, barrel-chested man, moved forward. “I don’t think you should, Miss Northrup. Sadler is right. It’s best we send him away.”
Slowly Samantha turned on him, uncertain whether she believed her ears. Mr. Porter was a man known for his fatherly good humor, yet even
he
would turn his back on Mr. Browne.
“I don’t agree, Mr. Porter. In fact, I almost fear a terrible retribution if we don’t do our Christian duty. Do you not see? God tests us, and we are being tested right here and now.”
Mr. Porter shifted uncomfortably. He glanced at his wife, who met his gaze and looked away.
He said to Samantha, “Have it as you will. I do not care as long as this man is no longer a threat to the rest of us.”
“He will not be,” Samantha promised. She faced Mrs. Sadler and Mrs. Porter. “I do value
my reputation. It might be wise if one of the village women came and stayed with me.”
Both women took a step closer to their husbands.
“I am certain your reputation will remain beyond remark,” Mrs. Sadler assured her.
“But you will check with Mrs. Biggers?” Samantha insisted. The squire’s wife was the parish authority on what was right and what wasn’t. “Explain it to her?”
“Aye, I will go and do it now,” Mrs. Sadler promised.
Samantha’s next request was harder. She shivered, but not completely from the cold. It was one thing to offer charity, another to ask for it.
She couldn’t meet their eyes as she said, “Also, if I am to care for him, I will need food, wood, and coal, too, if any of you can spare some.”
Mrs. Porter made a soft sound of dismay, but Mrs. Sadler stoutly agreed. “We can. You’ll have everything you need in an hour.”
Samantha released her breath slowly. “Let me gather my cape and my medicinal basket and I’ll be ready to go.”
Mrs. Sadler ran into the inn herself to fetch Samantha’s things. When she returned, Mr. Sadler helped Samantha place the heavy wool cape on her shoulders and gave her a hand up into the wagon seat beside Roddy.
Roddy snapped the reins and they were off.
It felt strange to be riding the quarter mile through the village. The Doyle sisters had done
their work well and almost everyone had heard of the sick man. They came out of their cottages to watch Samantha drive by.
Mabel Doyle stood by her hedgerow fence, whispering to Mr. Chandler. Mrs. Ryman stood frowning, her arms crossed against her chest. No doubt she was thinking of her poor lost child. No one said anything…and Samantha felt a little like one of the lepers spoken of in the Bible.
At the vicarage, the burly Roddy hoisted Mr. Browne up on his shoulder like a sack of grain and carried him inside. Samantha was going to direct him to her parents’ room and then thought better of it. The new vicar might not appreciate it.
“Please put him in my bedroom, Roddy.”
The stablehand did as he was told, unceremoniously dumping Mr. Browne into Samantha’s bed and then, with a polite pull of his forelock, hurried from the house. He too was afraid of the contagious disease.
Samantha hung her cape on its peg and stood in the center of her kitchen. No sound came from the bedroom, but she could already sense Mr. Browne’s presence filling every corner and nook, just as he had the first night they’d met.
Tucking a few stray strands of hair back into her neat bun, she pushed open the door to her room.
Mr. Browne looked out of place lying on top of her light blue and yellow quilt cover. He still wore his mud-caked boots.
He also still smelled.
A horrifying thought struck her: if she did not get to work, he could very well die, right where he lay in
her
bed.
She moved into action.
Samantha picked up the bucket and hurried outside to pump water. The wood and metal pump handle felt icy cold to her hands. Snow swirled down around her, the flakes big and beautiful, but she didn’t have time to stop and contemplate their beauty.
The water came out in a gush. She filled the bucket to the brim and carried it the few steps to her kitchen door, the weight of it straining her back.
Adding several logs to the dying fire, she brought it back to a blaze and then set a black iron kettle of water over it to boil.
A knock sounded at the door. It was Mrs. Sadler, Tommy, and Roddy. They carried cloth sacks of food.
“Please put those on the kitchen table,” Samantha said.
“Roddy will be back with wood, and if you can use it, a load of coal,” Mrs. Sadler said.
“I can,” Samantha said, thankful. “I have a brazier that we used for my mother that will warm his room just fine with coal.”
“Good,” Mrs. Sadler said, with satisfaction. “Well, then, we’ll be off.”
She was almost out the door when Samantha remembered to ask, “What of Mrs. Biggers?
Have you explained everything to her yet?”
“I haven’t had a chance, but I will speak to her when I see her. Don’t worry.”
She started to leave again, but Samantha asked, “And what of his overcoat?”
“His overcoat?”
“Aye. He had good wool overcoat, but you did not bring it with him.”
Mrs. Sadler pinched her lips together. “He owes us for our trouble.”
Samantha thought of the purse full of money he’d offered her. He had put it back into the pocket of his overcoat. “Did he pay for his room?”
“For one night.”
“And one night is all he stayed. As for
trouble,
you can settle that with Mr. Browne once he is well.”
“What if he doesn’t ever get well?”
Samantha itched to wipe the smug look off her face. “He
will
get well,” she practically growled. “I won’t let him die.”
Mrs. Sadler blinked at her tone of voice, and then backed down. “I will send his coat over later when Roddy brings the coal.”
“Thank you.”
With a nod, the innkeeper’s wife left with her son, but Roddy lingered behind.
“Begging your pardon, Miss Northrup, but I’ve been close to that man. Do ye think I’ll come down with what he has?” There was fear in his usually complacent brown eyes.
“I don’t know, Roddy. He’s very sick,” she answered truthfully. She took his hand. “But you shouldn’t be afraid. God rewards us when we do something right.”
He drew his hand away from her. “That poor little baby died and it had never done anything to nobody. And look at your father. I’m the only one to take care of me ma. I can’t get the influenza.” He slipped out the door, almost slamming it behind him.
So. She was alone to fight this.
She found a hambone in a food bag and set it in a pot of water to boil. She then poured cold water into a basin, grabbed several soft cloths from her medicinal basket, and marched into the bedroom. Behind her in the kitchen, she could hear the kettle starting to boil. Good. Something was finally starting to go her way.
Little light came through the closed shutters. In spite of the fever, Mr. Browne’s face was pale, with a thin sheen of sweat.
She dipped a thick rag in the water and laid it on his brow before leaving to brew the feverfew tea.
A few minutes later, she reentered the bedroom, a cup of tea and a spoon in her hand. He’d flung the rag away from him. She set the cup down on the bedside table and picked the rag off the floor. Rewetting it, she replaced it on his forehead with practiced patience. She knew she would do this a hundred times before the night was over.
She sat on the bed beside him. “Now, listen to me, Mr. Browne. I must have you drink this tea. It will be good for you.”
No response.
She took that for his acceptance. Propping his head against her bosom, she tilted his head and dribbled the tea down his throat with the help of the spoon. It was slow business. “But then, I have no reason to expect you to be agreeable, do I?”
He didn’t answer.
She usually wore an apron to protect her dress whenever she administered medicine this way, but the fair amount of tea that stained her dress didn’t bother her. The battle lines were drawn between her and the influenza.
The medicine in him, she prepared to strip him naked and bathe him in cold water. It was the quickest means for getting the fever down.
Outside, the snow came down harder. She heard it hit the shutters—tiny crystal stabs. She’d always liked the sound of snow, but this time it made her feel isolated.
She moved to the foot of the bed. His mud-caked boots had streaked dirt down her quilt.
“All right, then, the boots come off first.”
But saying and doing were two different things. Mr. Browne’s boots had been made for him. Even worn at the heels, they fit his feet like a glove. By the time she got them off, she was breathing heavily.
She pushed a stray strand of her hair back
from her face. “Now for the rest of you.”
She had few qualms about seeing Mr. Browne naked. Mrs. Sadler was right, she’d nursed many men besides her father. The secrets of male anatomy held no surprises. Both she and Dr. Rees had agreed that humans were the most pathetic-looking creatures without the shield of clothing…and Samantha secretly thought men looked the silliest of the two sexes.
Removing the coat from a solidly built man while he lay like dead weight was not easy, but Samantha was a strong woman in spite of her petite size. Furthermore, she was determined, and after a bit of a struggle to bend his long arms, she’d removed his coat.
His shirt was easier. She climbed up on the bed, rested his head in her lap, and reaching down, yanked his shirt up and off. She dropped it on the floor beside the coat.
As she’d pulled, the back of her hand had brushed his rough, whiskered jaw. There was strength in the lines of this man’s face. Character.
“Who are you, Mr. Browne with an ‘e’?” she asked quietly. “Is there someone waiting for you? Someone wondering where you are?” She paused a moment. “You’re lucky if there is.”
She slid out from beneath him and got up from the bed. “Now for your breeches, sir.”
She efficiently began unbuttoning them. All of his clothes had been made of good material, although they were well worn.
As her fingers reached the last button, and the
more sensitive region of his anatomy, he moved restlessly and swatted at her hand. This was good. Any sign of life was good.
Slipping her fingers under his waistband, she pulled his breeches down—and then froze.
“Oh. My.” Mr. Browne was not built like other men. “Impressive” was the first word that came into her mind.
The room became suddenly close.
Samantha gulped for air. She shouldn’t stare.
“Oh, dear Lord,” she whispered, lifting her eyes to the ceiling. With a swift tug, she pulled his breeches the rest of the way down and over his feet. She tried not to peek, but it was hard because she had a powerful curiosity about all things.
She also couldn’t help noticing Mr. Browne’s legs were
very
well favored. She even liked his long, strong feet.
Dipping more rags into the basin of cold water, she laid them on Mr. Browne, starting with his private parts. He reacted when the wet cloth hit his hot skin, but didn’t push it off. Working quickly, she covered all of him.
She then headed outside to the pump to fetch more water. The snowy air felt good on her hot cheeks.
Mr. Porter appeared at the edge of the cemetery. “How are you doing, Miss Northrup?” he called.
Samantha felt her heart lurch in her chest. Did
her face betray her? Was it still flushed from the heat of embarrassment?
“I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” she managed to say.
“Good then.” He waved and walked on.
She pumped the handle for fresh water. She should fill a second bucket, too, and dash its contents over her head for being such a ninny. She’d never blushed over naked flesh before.
Back inside, the hambone was starting to bubble. She poured dried peas into the water, gave it a stir, and then got up and carried the bucket into the bedroom.
Methodically she began removing the cloth rags and rewetting them with fresh cold water…over and over and over again. The fever had a terrible hold on Mr. Browne. But then, just when she wondered if she’d ever break it, the chills started.
His body shook almost to the point of shaking the bed.
Samantha quickly removed the cloths and reached to pull the quilt over him—except that he lay on it and she was too tired to struggle with him now. She raced to her parents’ bedroom on the other side of the kitchen for more blankets and the coal brazier. Coming through the kitchen, she heard him mumbling, the words incoherent.
In her bedroom, she unceremoniously dumped the quilts on top of him before setting up the brazier with coal and lighting it. By the
time she’d finished, his mumbling had turned to ranting. He was shouting orders: “Kill the bloody bastards! Strike hard!” His arms and hands began flailing in the air and he kicked the covers to the floor.