~Chapter 15~
Margaret clung to her husband as they entered the house, unwilling to ever again allow any distance between them. Once inside, however, she steeled herself to fight this illness with everything within her reach. "Edward," she commanded. "Go for the doctor."
Despite his weariness after carrying the heavy baskets, Edward would gladly have gone – if there had been anyone for whom to go. "Begging your pardon, Mrs. Thornton, but Milton has no doctors as of the present." He tugged at one end of his mustache in apology and agitation at being unable to complete his task.
"No doctors!" Margaret exclaimed. She turned her face up to her husband's and found confirmation in his expression. "Why did you not tell me?"
John smiled grimly. "And risk you taking on the coat of doctor as well as grocer for the city? There was and is nothing to be done. The doctors cannot cure the fever and so have fled it along with every other able individual." He squeezed her hand comfortingly. "Now, I long for my own bed. Come tuck me into it."
Margaret almost gasped aloud at John's words. He would not readily go to bed at this time unless he was truly experiencing the fatigue of illness. She collected herself, nodded, and carefully guided him up the stairs and into their bedroom only to find that it was not sickness that caused John Thornton to seek his bed.
Once inside the door, John crushed his wife against him, tangling his fingers in her hair and impatiently unfastening the buttons that ran down the back of her grey dress. Now that she was in his arms again, he could not keep control of himself. "John!" Margaret cried in surprise. His name on her lips only increased his urgency. His lips burnt a path from her lips down her neck and over the skin that his fingers exposed.
"Margaret. Margaret. I have missed you more than mere words could ever express."
"Then do not use words," she replied.
Some time later, Margaret sat watching her husband slumber. The darkness of the room disguised his fever-rouged complexion as merely flushed in sleep. She reached out and brushed a hand over his forehead, noting with chagrin that it seemed warmer than it had this morning on the porch. John blinked, focused on her kneeling beside him, and tugged at her arm. "Rest," he urged. So she curled herself beside him, her head on his shoulder and her arm across his chest. Thus situated, she dropped off quickly to sleep with the reassuring thrum of his heartbeat pounding in her ear.
First Anna had died in Mary's arms. Then Keenan. Now Patty, when he had seemed to be recovering, followed his twin. Mary did not even have the strength to cry. She sat beside the boy's still body, unable to stop trembling. Her father was off to work, as he had been each day. Johnny sat asleep, holding little Cora's hand as if forcing her to cling to life. She could not face the moment that Johnny woke to find he had held vigil over the wrong sickbed. To find that he had lost another sibling. It was all too much. Too much. Despair choked Mary until she had to escape. She burst from the home, gasping for air. Sinking down in the hot summer dust, she shook with sorrow but still no tears. Only pain and emptiness and a terrible internal chill.
When Margaret woke in the dim room, her face and arm were damp with her husband's sweat. He worsened. Margaret's heart fluttered in sudden panic. Without medicine, what hope had she of escaping the loss that nearly every household in Milton knew? She rose, careful not to wake John but determined to act quickly in order to prevent this love story of theirs from so quickly becoming a tragedy.
Molly stood in the pantry reviewing their stock and thinking with growing fear that it might not be enough. Having just returned from the market, Molly knew only too well that nothing more would be added to their store until the fever ceased and merchants once again dared to bring their wares into the city. Molly gave a decisive nod. It was time to broach the subject of halting the giving of food to the mill workers with Mr. Edward Bates. Had she a family of her own in Milton, Molly might have felt more sympathy for the workers and their families, but she did not. Thus, she saw the food baskets as a nuisance that threatened to empty the coffers of the house at Marlboro Mills and cause Molly to fail in her job of feeding the family within.
Margaret strode down the stairs, through the hall, and into the kitchen by means of the heavy white door. "Molly," she called, when she did not immediately spot the cook within.
Hearing the mistress, Molly exited the pantry, resolving to save the matter for Mr. Bates to handle, as he had the most standing with the family. "Yes'm," she called, coming out from the pantry across the room and dropping into a curtsey.
Margaret waved the formality away. "Have you any knowledge of medicines?"
"No'm," Molly answered, defensively. "Doctoring isna' among m'duties."
"Of course not," Margaret assured her. "I only wondered if you knew of some herbal remedy that we might use to lower Mr. Thornton's fever."
Molly wiped her hands on her apron out of habit. She tilted her head to the side, thinking. "There is sommat that m'mother used to make," she finally offered.
Margaret had to suppress a desire to clap her hands. She had been so certain after their first exchange that the woman would be unwilling to admit anything, lest it be mistaken for a declaration of her ability to doctor others. "Thank you," was all Margaret offered.
Molly nodded her head in response. She waited a moment, then stated, "I will have Mr. Bates bring it up."
"Oh no," Margaret protested. "I would so love to watch." Suddenly, she realized that she might again have overstepped. "That is," she added hastily, "Unless you would rather I did not."
Molly opened and closed her mouth, repressing her desire to admit to the mistress that she would rather not have an audience. It was not so much the presence of another but rather the worrisome realization that she had walked herself into a situation where should the master die, Molly would most likely lose her position. She longed for the space in which to berate herself. Instead, Molly forced a smile that appeared more like a grimace. "Nay, mistress," she managed. "You are welcome to stay."
Unsure how to read Molly's reaction and longing to stay, Margaret did just that. She watched with interest as Molly gathered a strange assortment of ingredients: honey, vinegar, and salt. Molly moved with efficient certainty through the kitchen, putting a kettle of water on to boil and measuring a pinch or dollop of each of the chosen ingredients into a bowl that she selected from so high on a shelf next to the coal stove that Margaret was uncertain if the petite woman could reach it. Finally, the kettle on the stove began to shriek and Molly looped a towel around the hot handle and poured the steaming liquid into the mixing bowl. A cloud of sour, vinegary vapor rose from the bowl, causing Margaret to suddenly feel sick. She suppressed the urge to vomit only with the greatest will, gagging repeatedly. John was to drink that?
Appearing unaffected by the terrible odor, Molly poured the offensive liquid that resulted from her mixture into a decorative teapot, gathered it and a teacup and saucer onto a tray, and motioned for Margaret to go before her from the kitchen. Margaret was only too happy to escape the small space for the clean air of the hall. She led the way from the kitchen to the master bedroom, then took the tray from Molly's hands, thanked her, and entered the bedroom.
"John?" Margaret called into the shadowy room.
"Mmm?" His sleepy reply caused Margaret to smile.
"I have a fever remedy made by Molly for you to drink," she informed him.
John struggled into a sitting position, lit a candle, and accepted the tray that his wife offered him, watching as Margaret opened the shades to let in the mid-afternoon sun. She returned to his side and poured him a cup of the concoction. Again, the smell overpowered her and Margaret hurriedly turned away after John took the cup from her hand.
"Margaret?" he asked, startled by her sudden movement.
"It is nothing," she assured him, "My stomach does not enjoy the scent of your drink." John sniffed, finding the odor unpleasant but not overpowering. He nodded and, as she turned back to him, took a sip. It was not nearly so bad as John had feared. He drained the rest of the cup and would have poured another if Margaret had not dropped to her knees, pulled the chamberpot from beneath the bed, and emptied her stomach into it.
"Margaret!" John cried in alarm. He set the tray on the nightstand closest him and crouched beside his wife. "You are unwell."
Spitting to rid herself of the acidic taste, Margaret shook her head. "As I stated, it is nothing more than an aversion to the concoction created by Molly." She allowed John to gather her close for a moment and then continued, "You, on the other hand, are hardly well enough to be out of bed. Return to your place and I shall tuck you in again."
"I believe myself much improved as a result of my lackadaisical morning. I would join you for dinner," John protested. A hand to his forehead informed Margaret that he did not lie. Thus, a few minutes later master and mistress descended the stair and entered the dining room.
Margaret, her stomach still somewhat unsettled, merely picked at her food, but she was relieved to see that John appeared to have a hearty appetite. They sat in companionable silence for some time until Edward, removing their plates, cleared his throat meaningfully.
"What is it, Edward?" John asked, distracted by the beginnings of a headache.
"I would speak to you of the current supply situation," Edward responded, vaguely, wondering if it might not be better for the master alone to hear his words.
"Supply situation?" John echoed. "Use not riddles, Edward. Of what do you speak?"
Edward nodded, placed the dirty plates behind him on the sideboard, and came to stand before them. "Sir, the epidemic in the city has caused the merchants to flee or find markets elsewhere for their goods. As a result, none remain within the city and there are no open shops or markets to be found. While the household is stocked for many months, the current ritual of providing for the mill workers will deplete it at a rate too high to ensure your own comfort." Edward left it at that, although he thought about adding that the Thorntons had already done more than any other household in Milton for their workers
Margaret opened her mouth to protest, but John cut her off with a hand over her own. "We will discuss this, Edward," John responded, "and give you our answer in an hour."
Edward nodded and excused himself, hoping he had done right by his duty and at the same time that he had not started a conflict between the young couple.
I cannot believe that John would even consider shirking our duty to the mill families, Margaret thought and parted her lips to say as much only to be again silenced by her husband.
"Let us withdraw to the library," John suggested, knowing well the flash in Margaret's dark eyes and the tension radiating from her were not to be suppressed. Indeed, they barely entered the room, walking side by side but not touching, before Margaret turned upon her husband.
"How can you even think of our own comfort when families in far worse situations than us might starve as a result?" she cried, incensed.
"We must consider our ability to feed the staff and ourselves," John stated, raising a hand to his throbbing temple.
"We have no way of knowing how long this will last," Margaret argued. "Should the fever end in a week and one single person die for lack of food, we will be responsible."
"In the same way," John responded, "Should the fever last another two months and we run short of food, what plan have you for feeding Edward and Molly? Is it fair to ask them to starve in order that we might feed others?"
"Is it fair to ask dozens to starve now so that four do not have the slight chance of starvation in the future?" Margaret would have continued on that vein but John winced and sank down into the brown armchair with his head in his hands. She replaced his hands with her own, cool against his hot brow. "The fever is worse!" she exclaimed.
"It is always worse come evening," John assured her, and then his eyes went wide as he realized what words had just escaped his tongue.
"Always?" Margaret repeated, growing hot, herself, with sudden anger. The touch of her hands on his brow ceased. "For how many days have you hidden this fever from me, John Thornton?"
John tried to catch her hand in his own, but she would not allow it. "A week plus one," he admitted, calling himself every kind of fool for his revelation. Silence. Margaret's dark eyes spilled over with tears but when John again reached for her, she avoided his touch. "Please talk to me," John begged.
"I cannot form words strong enough to illustrate my hurt," she choked. "Was I to be called for when you were so delirious with fever that you would not know me? Or would I have been left in the dark until a need for the undertaker arose?" She covered her face in her hands and gave in to the sobs that knotted her throat.
John rose and wrapped his wife in his arms, grateful when she did not resist. "I was wrong to act so selfishly," John declared. "I thought it selfless to hide my illness but seeing your reaction, I know that I betrayed your trust. I beg your forgiveness." Margaret only sobbed louder. "Darling girl," John cooed. "Tell me how to mend this and it will be done."
"I am so afraid," she confided, between sobs, "that even if I am with you, I cannot make you well. I fear the thought of life without you."
John hushed her softly and smoothed a hand over her hair. "It is true that I have been feverish for eight days," John stated. "Yet, in those days, I have been most feverish in the early morning and evening. Today is no different. Let us to bed now, wife. By late morning tomorrow, I swear that I will seem right as rain." Slightly reassured by his words, Margaret allowed herself to be led up the stairs to bed.
Nicholas walked hurriedly home from work, dreading the moment that he saw Mary's face and knew by the pain there that they had lost another of the children. It near to broke him every time. Yet, he could not bear one moment more of uncertainty and fear that had clouded his mind all day. It would be Cora, he told himself. Cora was dead. He clenched his jaw. Emotions did naught for the dead or those left behind.
As he rounded the corner, the flickering lights in most windows told of the families that still remained. That survived. With a start, he realized that his own home stood dark. Fear tightened its cold fingers around his heart. What could have happened? He broke into a run.
Mary lay senseless on the doorstep. Kneeling beside her, Nicholas placed a hand to her forehead, knowing before his skin met hers that his daughter had the fever. Lifting her in his arms, Nicholas struggled through the doorway.
"Is she dead?" Johnny asked from the shadowy darkness before Nicholas had even got in the door. "Patty and Seamus are." His lip trembled terribly. "Mary said Cora will be soon." The boy clung to his sister.
Nicholas swallowed hard. Would he and Johnny alone survive this scourge? "Mary isna' dead," he forced himself to say, as he gently laid her on a pallet by the fire, which had died down to embers in her absence. "You're certain the boys are gone?" A hand to each cold face confirmed it. Nicholas wearily carried Patty and then Seamus through to the back room, their tiny bodies surprisingly heavy. Or perhaps this is what it meant to feel the weight of another's death. He would go for the undertaker in the morning.
"Seamus is afraid o'the dark," Johnny protested, as Nicholas swung the door between the rooms closed.
"He's gone," Nicholas brusquely declared. He dampened a cloth and laid it tenderly on Mary's forehead, so consumed by love and fear that he did not at first realize the noise that grew to fill the room came from the boy.
Johnny buried his face into the quilted coverlet on which Cora lay and choked out the sorrow that had built up within him the entire day. For such a small boy, he had more than his share of losses and just at that moment he could not bear the load.
"Come." Nicholas lifted his son from the bed. Johnny had no choice but to drop his hold on his sister's hand or drag her off the bed. He felt certain in that moment that she would leave him. Not knowing the boy's fear, Nicholas, cradling Johnny, left the house. Outside, he walked a distance away and sat on a low stonewall that ran along the alleyway. Its surface had been smoothed by earlier generations and made a comfortable resting place. This was the first time that Johnny had been outside the home, the scene of his siblings' deaths, in days. He quieted slowly. When he finally sat up, taking in the cool air of the summer evening and the stillness that surrounded them, Nicholas patted him on the shoulder.
"We will get through this, Johnny," he promised. We have to, he added to himself.
Not so sure that he wanted to survive without his brothers and sisters, Johnny nevertheless nodded firmly and leaned back into his father's strength.
Wild dreams and thoughts worried at John's feverish brain. He thrashed in his sleep so that Margaret woke well before even John normally rose and knew her husband had not kept his promise. "Dear God, I need a doctor!" she burst. Margaret rose and poured water into the wash basin then ran one of John's cravats through the water and placed the damp cloth on his forehead. Uncertain what else to do, Margaret then went to the kitchen for more of Molly's fever potion. "The master worsens," she explained in none too steady a voice at Molly's surprised look.
Cursing herself for her foolish revelation, Molly nevertheless had no choice but to again create her mother's remedy. The mistress insisted that Molly did not need to carry the tray and thus Molly was left alone in the kitchen, hoping for the master and mistress' sake but also for her own that the ill man upstairs recovered.
Margaret became sick again while dribbling the foul concoction into her husband's mouth. This time no one offered her comfort. John, still restless, twisted and turned, causing what little of the liquid she managed to pour in his mouth to run out onto the pillows. Terrified, sick herself, and ever so lonely, Margaret began to cry.
Edward had come to check on the mistress after hearing from Molly about the master's poor condition. He could hear Mrs. Margaret Thornton's sobs from the stair landing and approached, uncertain whether to offer her comfort or solitude. "Mrs. Thornton," he finally called, knocking on the bedroom door. "May I be of any service?"
Margaret wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve before pulling open the door. "Have you any skills in doctoring?" she asked, sarcastically.
"I have bled a man before," Edward offered.
Margaret nodded, "Do you have all the tools required?"
The first time Edward bled John, Margaret noted with relief that her husband's face lost its fever-rouged look and he was less agitated. Yet, in the following week, Edward bled John twice a day at the times he seemed most feverish and Margaret noticed that his fever did not improve, only his appearance. Indeed, John acted as though weakened by the healing act. Margaret grew so worried that she barely slept and could not eat. Even when Molly sent tray after tray of deliciously prepared meals, Margaret was so fearful for her husband that her nausea grew worse. Finally, she could no longer take the sight of her husband's life force draining from him.
Edward entered the master bedroom, carrying his bleeding knife and a dish in which to catch the blood. Margaret greeted him with a firm expression. "You will not need those instruments any longer," she stated. "They do not cure my husband and I will not see him further tortured."
Edward read her resolve and did not test it. "Is there aught that I could do for you, mistress?" he asked, "Some food, perhaps?"
Margaret shook her head quickly. "No food. Bring a bath and fill it with cool water."
"It would be no trouble to heat the water for you, mistress."
"The bath is not for me," Margaret explained.
Edward stepped back in shock. Had she gone mad? To soak the master in his current state would surely be to kill him. "Mistress, do not yet lose hope. The master may recover. Yet, to chill him so would surely damage his chances."
Margaret pressed her lips together in displeasure and certainty. "Am I not the mistress of this house?" she asked, her tone cold and hard. The Margaret of a week ago would have gasped at her uncharitable and utterly rude behavior. This Margaret, though, knew the pain of losing her husband by inches each day. She stood firm.
"You are, madam," Edward responded, bowing and going to do as he had been bid. He returned shortly with the unwieldy burden of the copper tub and then began to fill it with bucket after bucket of cool water, sharing glances with Molly but saying nothing of the mistress' madness.
"I require you to lift Mr. Thornton into the tub," Margaret commanded.
Edward balked again. "Madam," he responded. "I will bathe the master and tell you when the task is completed."
"Nay," Margaret declared. "I am his wife. I require you only to lift him to and from the tub."
Edward did as Mrs. Thornton told him, but was quite scandalized at the thought of man and woman together during a bath.
Margaret forgot Edward's shock, forgot her own exhaustion, forgot to worry about wagging tongues. All that mattered, all that filled her thoughts, was John. Edward had placed him into the bath water still clothed in a nightshirt, which Margaret removed with some trouble. She then removed her own skirts and climbed into the bath with her husband, cradling his head in her arms. Shivering, she nevertheless continued to cup her hands and pour the cool water over her husband's face, arms, chest, neck. "Please come back to me, John," she begged. "Please, John, please." Over the next twenty minutes, her pleas changed focus from her husband to God, himself. "Dear God," she cried, "You have taken so much already, in my parents, in my dearest friend, in my brother so far from home. I cannot also lose my husband." A knock at the door interrupted her.
"Mistress," Edward called. "Let me now remove the master from the bath." He had coached himself this last third of an hour on exactly what wording to use to both remain respectful to the mistress and to break her hysteria, the only explanation for her actions.
"A moment, Edward," Margaret responded, hurriedly climbing from the tub, putting her husband's nightshirt back on, and slipping back into her petticoats and dress, unwilling to risk taking the time to change her soaked undergarments. Edward might just decide she had taken full leave of her senses and come into the room uninvited. "I am ready," she stated.
Edward insisted Margaret leave the room while he changed the master into dry things and settled him back onto the bed.
Margaret returned to her husband's side, checking hourly for any signs of improvement or worsening. He seemed the same. She fell asleep beside him while waiting, her undergarments soaking a patch of the bed.
John woke slowly, disoriented at first by the parched feeling in his throat and the strange certainty that some time had passed since he had last been awake. He felt ever so tired despite that long period of sleep. Margaret lay on the bed beside him, but outside the covers. Her sweet face wore lines of worry even in sleep and John thought her cheeks seemed thinner, although it might have been the angle of his view. He lifted a hand, surprised at the difficulty of the simple task, and placed it on her head, stroking her curls with a finger.
Margaret blinked, her confusion mounting as she realized someone touched her hair.
"Hello, my love," John said, catching his breath at the sight of her beautiful dark eyes.
"John!" Margaret cried.
"I am well," he assured her. A hand to his forehead confirmed this and Margaret burst into tears, so astonished was she and so full of joy.