Author's Note: Thanks for clicking past the preface! This is the product of an idea that I wrote down a few years ago. Here are some things you may want to note before beginning:
First, Carlisle may be a bit OOC in the beginning, but remember that this is set when he first came to America to apply his gathered medical knowledge. In other words, his bedside manner is not yet what it should be.
Second, look up the Wikipedia article entitled "New Harmony, Indiana" for more information on this particular utopian society. I've spun a few historical elements into my story (locations, names, events, dates, etc.) but I'm not going for too much accuracy, just entertainment.
And third, this story moves very fast since I want to actually finish it instead of drawing it out like some of my other stories. I have about eleven chapters planned out so far, excluding the preface and epilogue.
Just to be clear—the first chapter is three months earlier than the preface. Enjoy.
Chapter One: Henry's Birthday
The toll of the blacksmith's hammer pierced through the fog that lingered about the muddy streets of New Harmony. A chilling breeze wept through town, dampening my flushed skin and clinging to my bare hands; my hair stayed secure under my thick hood. The month was February, the year 1824—the year in which I became a woman at the age of eighteen. My name is Anne Joseph, and this is a brief account of my life.
"Greetings, Anne."
A great rush of spice and oak filled my nose as I entered McCoy's General Store. The warm, dry air was welcome after the harshness of the weather outdoors. The door clamored shut behind me as I removed my hood, letting the red material fall around my shoulders. My layered skirts rustling about my ankles as I stepped towards the service counter. "Greeting, Mister McCoy," I replied quietly.
The gentleman who owned the store, Elias McCoy, was an old friend of my father. He often sold goods to me at low prices, perhaps out of sympathy for my orphanhood. "How are you this morning, lass?" he asked.
I eyed the small, brown parcel on the counter as I approached. It seemed to be a special order of some sort, but I couldn't read all the words printed on the postage stamp. "Well. I trust the same for you?"
"Aye." The Irishman grinned, resting his hands on the counter after pushing away a stack of blank order forms. "Marta keeps me busy and happy."
Marta Cooper, who had recently moved to our community with her parents, had been pinning over the shopkeeper for several months. A marriage between them—a seamstress and a shopkeeper—was the natural choice of the Harmony Society, who either chose or approved all unions in our community. A girl in her twenties wasn't single for long in New Harmony. That particular union had surprised me at the time, however; Mister McCoy had been keen on a different woman for many years—my schoolteacher Miss Sarah. Nevertheless, my elders assured me that Miss Sarah's occupation was incompatible with Mister McCoy's, and that Marta was much more suited for the domestic work required to be his bride.
I scolded myself for letting my mind wander—something which happened often. "That's good to hear," I said warmly, wearing a good-natured smile.
Mister McCoy discretely took the brown package that caught my eye and placed it under the counter. As I suspected, it must have been someone else's order, not intended for my curiosity. "What's brought you, Anne?" he asked in a businesslike manner.
My eyes drifted to the shelves behind the counter, which held a variety of ingredients for kitchen use. One bottle in particular stood out to me. "Just one ingredient—vanilla."
His eyebrows rose at my request. "That's twenty cents a bottle, Anne," he mumbled, brushing his fingers across his bushy, red mustache.
"I've saved up," I boasted, fingering the small, leather coin-purse tucked into my waistband. "Henry wants a proper cake for his birthday."
Henry was my younger brother, left solely in my care five years before when my father passed. We stayed in the residence of Sarah Brown, the town's schoolteacher. My mother had died while giving birth to Henry, which occurred just months before we moved to New Harmony twelve years prior. I don't recall the name of the city we lived in before joining the community, but my father had frequently told me that it was a dangerous place.
I carefully fished two dimes out of my purse as Mister McCoy plucked the small bottle of vanilla from the shelf. As I placed them on the counter, he wrapped the bottle in brown paper. "Just one of those'll do, lass," he said kindly, winking as he handed me the wrapped bottle.
I smiled in genuine appreciation as I took my new treasure, withdrawing one of the dimes as well. "Thank you so very much, Mister McCoy."
"Aye," he said hastily, "off you go."
The dreary morning seemed a bit less dismal than before as I ventured back into the streets. Rather than seeing the fragile tops of pine trees swaying in the harsh breeze against the gray sky, I saw happy women chattering about the newest fabric on their way to the tailor shop. Instead of hearing the everyday sounds of people beginning a new day of work, I heard a chorus of men humming a tune on their way to the lumberyard. Suffice it to say, my walk home was much quicker than my weary trek to the general store.
Being it Saturday, Miss Sarah was in her home rather than in the schoolhouse adjacent to it. The town's school was filled with children of all ages from Monday to Friday, including my brother and I. Smoke rose from the chimney of Miss Sarah's small, wooden cabin, which was given to her by the Society when she moved to New Harmony at its founding twelve years ago. I could remember her being the town teacher when my brother was still a baby, and I just six years of age.
I entered the front door with vanilla in hand, announcing my arrival to the other two residents. Miss Sarah responded from the back of the house, calling me into the kitchen. After placing my warm cloak on the hatstand beside the door, I made my way through the hallway and beyond the small sitting room to the kitchen. Smelling cinnamon almost immediately, I wondered what Miss Sarah could be up to. I was the usual house cook—not her.
"Miss S-Sarah?" I coughed as I entered the kitchen, overcome by the amount of cinnamon lingering in the air. "What a-are you making?" I asked, suddenly struck by the need for a drink of water.
The light supplied by the overcast window offered little illumination for the mess of foodstuff on the kitchen worktable. Sarah's hands, face, and apron were covered with a mixture of flour and cinnamon. The poignant smell originated from the large bowl over which she worked, kneading the sticky ball of dough there. "Spice buns!" she exclaimed with her usual cheer.
I couldn't help but smile at the strange concoction; I'd forgotten her affinity to cook on special occasions. "For Henry?"
"Yes," she breathed, momentarily pausing her labor to catch her breath. "For thirteen years of improper grammar and thickheadedness."
I chuckled at the thought of my rascally brother. "You're too kind, teacher."
"Kind where kindness is due," she huffed, returning to her work. "Please rouse your brother before I put these in the furnace . . . he's missing a special day!"
Surprised that Henry hadn't awoken while I was gone, I placed the vanilla in the food pantry and ascended the stairs to the second floor. It was a single room, which had previously been used as a sewing room before Henry and I moved in. I made sure to stomp the hard soles of my boots especially loud on the wooden steps to wake him. The room held nothing more than two small beds and a clothes dresser.
"Henry," I sang, approaching the bed closest to the room's one, dirty window. "Henry, wake up . . ." Pulling the thick quilt from his face, I brushed the yellow hair away from his eyes, which were closed in fitful slumber. I found it odd that his excitement for his birthday the previous evening hadn't already awaken him. "Henry?"
His chapped lips parted as a soft groan fell from them, his blue eyes rolling open. My brother looked much like my father and I—blond hair, blue eyes, sharp nose. Most of our mother's attributes were not present in our features, though I was told she was very beautiful. My father had not kept photographs of her.
"Henry, are you well?" I asked, resting my fingers on his flushed cheek. I gasped at the temperature of his skin; it nearly scorched my hand. "Henry?"
"Annie," he croaked dryly, "I think I'm sick."
My spirits sank. Henry was usually the first of us to take ill when a sickness came through town, allowing me time to care for him. Just that winter, he'd caught a flu that lasted a full week. But since today was his birthday, a day that we'd both planned for and looked forward to, I felt that the sickness was rather inconvenient. "Are you sure?" I prompted, moving my hand to his forehead. His skin there was so hot that I withdrew my hand in discomfort.
"Yes," he sighed, his young face contorting in a frown. "I'm sorry."
"No, Henry," I said softly, realizing that he'd sensed my disappointment. "I'll fetch some water."
A full ladle of water did little for his hoarse voice. He even refused to eat Miss Sarah's fresh spice rolls, which turned out to be simple lumps of flour, sugar, and cinnamon. His eyes were red and dewy, and his neck was covered in pink patches that were dry to the touch. As morning faded into afternoon with no change in his disposition, I began to worry that he'd caught more than a simple cold.
"He needs medicine, Anne," Miss Sarah said solemnly, patting Henry's shoulder as he drifted back to sleep after shunning a cup of fresh milk from our neighbor's cow. "Quickly," she added.
When I wandered back out into the afternoon, the sun was still covered by a thick layer of clouds which seemed to hang unusually close to the earth. My red hood billowed in the wind, forcing me to pull it close to my chin. Though my flaxen hair hung down my back in a long braid, loose strands of it blew around my face to my great annoyance. My palms moistened with worry as I made my way to the doctor's office—a place that I infrequently visited. My last visit had been two summers ago when Henry broke his leg falling from a horse.
The wooden house which served as New Harmony's doctor's office was on the edge of town, nestled in the large residential area for merchants. A white sign plainly marked the establishment, listing the names of the attendants usually on hand. I was most familiar with Doctor Calbert—an elderly, educated man who had come to the community decades before I was born. His wife had died years prior, but his dedication to the medical field was unwavering.
I pulled the small string hanging beside the door, which led to a tinkling bell within. A middle-aged woman, who I recognized as the usual nurse, answered the call and bid me to enter. As I stepped into the cold room, I found it odd that they hadn't yet lit their furnace for the day. Several patients laid on beds throughout the room; it was dark due to the drawn curtains and minimal gas lamps. The nurse pressed something over my mouth, surprising me, and swiftly led me into a smaller, warmer room.
Gasping for air once the nurse removed the towel from my face, I asked her, "Why did you do that?"
She tucked the towel into her white apron and rubbed my shoulder soothingly. Her eyes had deep circles under them. "Those people have a very bad illness, is why."
"Oh." I gazed about the small room for a moment, taking in my surroundings. It held cabinets full of medical supplies, a large water basin, and a writing desk shoved into the corner. A second nurse stirred the basin full of soapy water and bed linens; she looked just as tired as the first. I didn't recognize the man sitting at the desk, perhaps because his back was turned to me. My heart fell when I realized that Doctor Calbert was nowhere to be seen.
"Madeline, we're no longer receiving patents today," the man at the desk said flatly, continuing to drag his quill across the parchment lying before him.
"She doesn't appear ill, Doctor," Madeline replied, taking a moment to look me over with her tired eyes. "Are you?" she asked me.
"N-No," I said uncomfortably. "But my brother is. He needs medicine right away."
At this, the man at the desk abandoned his writing and stood to address me. His face was unfamiliar to me—a rare anomaly in the small society in which I lived. Everyone in town knew everyone else, or at least knew when newcomers were expected to arrive. The Harmony Society controlled the incoming and outgoing population very carefully. So, on that basis, I was quite shocked to find a new face in the doctor's office that day.
"Where is Doctor Calbert?" I rudely asked, forgetting my manners due to anxiety.
"Not present," the man said, offering a hand. "I am Doctor Cullen."
As I took his hand in greeting, I studied his face a bit more carefully. He appeared even more tired than the nurses, with circles under his eyes nearly black. His skin was almost as pale as Henry's was when he had the flu. I couldn't discern the exact shade of brown his eyes were at a quick glance, which was all I took before withdrawing my hand. "Anne Joseph. Pleased to meet you."
"Yes, Miss Joseph, likewise." As he turned back to his work at the desk, I began to dislike his brisk manner. "I'm afraid that we're taxed to capacity today, but if you would patiently wait 'til tomorrow—"
"My brother Henry is terribly ill," I interrupted. "He can't wait another day."
The doctor glanced back at me with thin patience in his eyes. "The symptoms?" he asked blandly.
"Very high temperature," I said emphatically, "red marks on his skin, dry throat, and no appetite."
"And his tongue?"
"Um . . ." I shook my head, unsure if I'd heard correctly. "Pardon?"
"His tongue," he repeated slowly. "Is it unusually inflamed, red in color?"
His strange question left me wondering why I hadn't thought to check Henry's tongue, though it wasn't natural to do so. "P-Perhaps, I'm not sure."
"Most likely it is," said the doctor, turning toward one of the supply cabinets. He extracted a small vial of coughing syrup and placed it in my hands, careful not to touch my skin. "Your brother is taken with scarlet fever."
My brow furrowed; the name of the illness was foreign to me. I clutched the vial as the doctor turned away once again. "Will this help him recover?" I asked apprehensively.
As the doctor began writing again, he said something that sounded as though it had been recited many times before. "Not entirely. Another shipment of the proper medication, which is a heavy herbal mixture, is due at McCoy's store next Sunday, so please bring your brother here at that time. For the time being, please refrain from moving him, give him water and syrup when needed, and do not share the same room with him. His sickness is highly contagious to other viable hosts. Good day, Miss Joseph."
Moments later, I found myself rushed back through the dark room by the nurse, and left out in the damp afternoon. A line of people had formed at the doctor's door, no doubt with the same purpose as I. Passing through the crowd, I noticed that two of them held small children in their arms. I gawked at the children's exposed arms and legs as I stumbled away—their skin was covered in red lines as though it had cracked from the inside, just below the surface.
As I lifted my skirts and sprinted for home, I couldn't help but wonder if Henry's skin would soon look the same.
