Enduring Love (21 page)

Quincy drove to the barn and stopped the buggy there.

“He’s not in the house?”

“No. Even as sick as he is, he said it’s not right for him to be living there.”

Hannah didn’t wait for Quincy to help her down but climbed from the buggy and hurried into the barn, making her way around a pile of hay with a pitchfork thrust into it. She moved to the small tack room and found John lying prostrate on a cot. He looked alarmingly sick, his skin pale and damp. With each breath, a whistling sound emanated from the back of his throat.

“Oh, John,” Hannah said, going to him. He didn’t respond. She knelt beside the bed and placed a hand on his brow. His skin was hot. “John. I’m here. I’ll help you,” she said softly, trying to keep the terror out of her voice.

John squinted up at her, his eyes more closed than open. His lips tightened into a grimace. “No. Go . . .” He struggled for breath. “Go away.”

“I’ll be going nowhere, except with you into the house.” She stood and looked at Quincy, who stared at John from the doorway. “He needs a proper bed.” She glanced about the tiny room. “This is no place for a sick man. Help me get him indoors.”

“Right.” Quincy moved quickly to the cot and hefted John, draping an arm around his shoulder. Hannah braced him on the other side. Together they half carried, half dragged him to the house and up the front steps. John tried to walk but couldn’t muster enough strength.

“How’d he get so ill so quickly? I thought you said he had only a sore throat yesterday?”

“Like I said, he was sick when Margaret left and got worse as the day went on, but not so much that I was worried. When I came upon him this morning, I was truly shocked at his state.” Fury reached for Hannah.
Margaret shouldn’t have gone.

Once they made it up the stairs, Quincy held on to John while Hannah opened the door. With a grunt, Quincy picked him up and carried him to the bedroom. Hannah hurried ahead and pulled back the blankets. Fear swelled as she watched Quincy lower John to the bed. He reminded her of a rag doll she’d once had. “It’s intolerably hot in here. Can you open the windows?”

“The flies are bad.”

“Then they’ll just have to be bad. He needs air.” Hannah turned her attention to John while Quincy moved about the house, opening windows. She leaned over John, but he didn’t open his eyes. Each breath sounded as if he were being strangled by unseen hands. A deluge of uncertainty threatened to overwhelm Hannah. Her mind flashed back to her mother. She’d been so ill. Hannah hadn’t known what to do. And she didn’t know now.
Lord, please bring David.

Moving to the armoire, she rifled through the clothing, searching for something John could wear. She found a nightshirt and laid it out on the bed. “We’ll have to get you out of these filthy clothes,” she said, reaching to unbutton John’s shirt.

He looked at her, suddenly seeming alert. “I can do it.” He tried to sit up but only managed to make it halfway before stopping to rest against the headboard. His fingers fumbled to unbutton his shirt. He managed, but the effort took so much from him that he lay gasping.

“Let me help you.” Hannah pulled him upright, allowing him to rest against her, and gently removed the garment. After laying him back down, she stripped off his trousers.

“I can’t . . . breathe.” John’s voice sounded thick.

Trying to keep her tone light, Hannah said, “Of course you can. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to talk.” She rested a hand on his bare chest, frightened at the heat she felt and the rapid thumping of his heart.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” She took the basin from the bureau and went to get water from the barrel on the front porch. She filled it halfway, then retrieved a washcloth from the kitchen. Returning to John, she sat on the edge of the bed and gently washed him, then helped him into his nightshirt.

John rested against her. “You shouldn’t . . . be . . . here,” he panted. “You could . . . get sick.”

“No need to worry about me.” While he leaned against her, Hannah managed to fluff his pillow and then lowered him to the bed. “I’d say you could do with some broth and a bit of milk. Mrs. Goudy said they might help.”

“I can’t . . . swa . . . llow.”

“I’m sure you can get some down if you try,” she said cheerfully, but inside she felt panic. He was deathly ill. Not since her time on the ship had she seen anyone this sick. Hannah stood and turned to find Quincy standing in the doorway. He stared at John, his expression morose. “Quincy, could you be so kind as to bring some milk from the springhouse?”

“Sure.” He remained for a moment, his eyes on John. “Ye think he’ll be all right?”

“Of course.” Hannah’s tone was confident. She didn’t dare give in to her fears or negative thoughts.

Looking unconvinced, Quincy left. Hannah turned back to John. If it were possible, his breathing sounded more labored than before. She pulled him upright and pushed another pillow behind him, propping him up. It seemed to ease his breathing a bit.

Hannah stared at him. He was so focused on finding his next breath that he seemed unaware of anything else. The same alarm she’d felt when she’d watched her mother die crept inside Hannah.
Lord, please help him. Don’t let him die.

She forced herself to leave him and went to the kitchen. Mrs. Goudy had packed at least two dozen onions with instructions to roast them and then mash them into a poultice. Hannah set out several onions.

Quincy returned with the milk. “It’s already been strained and is cool.”

“Thank you. Can you build a fire for me?”

“I can, but what ye going to do with a fire in this heat?”

“Cook onions for a poultice.”

Quincy’s eyes went to the onions on the counter. “All right, then.” He headed outside, seeming glad for something to do.

While Quincy roasted the onions, Hannah unsuccessfully tried to get John to drink some water, then took a glass of milk in for him. She set the glass on the bed stand and scooted a chair next to the bed. The strident sound coming from John’s throat and his fierce fever terrified her. “John, have a go at this. It will help.” She put a hand behind his head and held the glass to his lips.

He tried to drink, but mostly gagged and coughed. Almost none of it went down.

Quincy stepped into the room. “The onions are cooked.” He stared at John, unable to disguise his fear.

“Thank you. Can you put them in the kitchen?”

“Right. I can do that.” Quincy backed out of the room.

Hannah let John’s head rest against the pillows and set the milk on the nightstand. “I’ll just be in the kitchen if you need me.” John didn’t respond.

Hannah set to work crushing the onions. They were still hot. Both her eyes and fingers stung. She added the herbs Mrs. Goudy had sent along, then tied the mixture into a muslin bag. She returned to John. “Mrs. Goudy said this is just the thing.”

John tried to lift his eyelids, but it was as if they were too heavy.

Hannah tied the compress about his neck.

“What . . . is . . . that?” He put a hand to the reeking bundle.

“An onion poultice. It will ease your breathing.”

“It stinks . . .” John choked and started again. “Smells like . . . burned garbage.”

“That it does.” Hannah pressed her hand to the concoction. “But it will help.”

The day passed, and although Hannah did everything she knew to do, John grew worse. She changed the poultice several times and tried to get John to drink a bit of milk, but he couldn’t get it down. He managed to swallow a small amount of broth, but choked so badly Hannah feared he’d suffocate.

She moved a rocking chair into the room and sat reading and watching John. Often, she’d stop and pray. And when he thrashed about or complained that his head hurt, she’d gently rub his temples until he relaxed.

Late in the day, the sound of a carriage approaching carried hope. Perhaps it was David Gelson . . . or Margaret. The idea of Margaret’s arrival wasn’t comforting. Hannah didn’t trust the woman to care for John.

She moved to the window and looked out. “David! Praise be!” She rushed outside and met him as he climbed down from his buggy. “I’m so glad you’re here. Nothing I do is helping.”

“I came as soon as I could.” Looking weary and troubled, he grabbed a leather satchel and moved toward the house.

“David, you look done in. Are you all right?”

“Just tired. I could do with a bit of coffee, if you have some.”

“I’ll make it.”

“No. Don’t bother.” He started up the steps. “Where is he?” “The downstairs bedroom.”

Hannah hurried to the bedroom with David following. John seemed to be unconscious. His chest heaved with the effort to breathe, and drool trickled from his mouth and onto his chin.

David gently wiped the spittle away and began his examination.

John roused. “David. Glad you’re . . .” he stopped and tried to swallow, giving up on whatever it was he’d intended to say. David listened to John’s heart and lungs, then said, “Let me have a look at your throat. Open your mouth.”

John did as he was told. Hannah hovered, afraid of what David would find.

Using a wooden tongue depressor, he examined John’s throat. His brow furrowed. “You can close your mouth.” He dropped the depressor into his bag. “You’ve got quinsy, all right.” He straightened and folded his arms over his chest. “But you’ve a strong constitution, so I expect you’ll soon be right as rain.”

Although his words were confident, his eyes said something else. David reached into his bag and took out a vial of powder. “I’ll need a glass of water.”

Hannah filled a glass and gave it to David. “He can barely swallow. I don’t know that you’ll be able to get anything down him.”

He stirred a teaspoon of the powder into the water. “Give it to him a bit at a time, then. It’s a diaphoretic and will make him sweat. Sweating helps purge the infection.” He inspected the onion poultice. “This is fine, but a muffler will serve well too. Just make sure it’s as hot as he can bear.”

He set the diaphoretic on the bed stand and closed his bag. “Make sure he continues to drink, keep him warm, and if you can get more broth or milk into him, that will help keep his strength up.” He rested a hand on John’s shoulder. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

John didn’t reply. He’d returned to oblivion.

David stood and moved to the door.

Hannah followed. “Will he be all right?”

“I’ll not lie to you. He’s got a bad case. I’d like to stay if I could, but there are others.”

“How many?”

“I’ve about ten cases right now; it’s spreading. Make sure you keep yourself rested and well fed. You’ll be no good to John if you’re sick as well.”

Hannah took a quaking breath. “Is he going to die?”

David gently grasped Hannah’s upper arm. “I don’t know. He has an abscess over his throat that’s blocking his airway. If his body can fight off the infection before the abscess cuts off his air, he’ll make it. Otherwise . . .” He gave a slow shrug. “I’m sorry. I wish I could offer you more hope.” He moved onto the veranda. “Lydia and I will be praying.” His steps heavy, he walked to the buggy. Hannah stared after him, tears blurring her vision.
Lord,
I couldn’t bear it. And Thomas . . . please remember Thomas.
He loves his dad.
She closed the door, wiped at her tears, and returned to John’s bedside.

Sometime during the night, Quincy came in and woke Hannah. She’d been sleeping in the chair. “Ye ought to go to bed. I’ll sit with him.”

Barely awake, Hannah peered up at Quincy in the dim lantern light.

“If ye get sick, ye’ll be no good to him or to yer son.”

Or my baby,
she thought. “All right. I’ll go up and sleep in Thomas’s bed. Call me . . . if anything changes.”

“I will.”

Hannah pushed out of the chair, and with one last look at John, she left the room and climbed the ladder to the loft. When she lay down, her mind went to Margaret. Why hadn’t she returned? Quincy said he’d sent word to the boardinghouse.

Was it possible she was also sick?

16

Four agonizing days and nights passed, and Hannah remained at John’s side. Margaret hadn’t returned.

The morning of the fifth day, Hannah dozed in the rocker in John’s room. With first light she roused and knew immediately that something was different. John’s labored breathing had stopped. Fear, like a fire out of control, burned through her. She pushed out of the chair.
Lord, no. Please, no.

Her eyes on John, she moved to the bed. In the half light of morning, she was unable to see him clearly. Was he breathing? Her hand quaking, she reached out and placed a palm on his chest. He was warm. Beneath her hand she felt the steady rhythm of his heart.
Praise you, Lord.
She leaned closer and could hear him breathing—unobstructed.

John opened his eyes and looked at Hannah.

She placed a hand to his cool brow. “You’re better.”

He nodded and croaked, “Water?”

Hannah quickly poured him a glass, helped him sit upright, and then held it to his lips. He managed to drink most of the contents.

“Tastes wonderful,” he said, and lay back down.

Hannah stood looking at him, joy replacing trepidation. “You’re going to be just fine.”