Carolina Gold (34 page)
When they heard the train nearing the station again, Nicholas consulted his pocket watch. “I hate for the day to end, but I suppose we ought to go soon. Dr. Werner asked me to stop by his house this evening, and I promised to have you home before dark.”
“I’m not complaining.” She smiled. “I’ve had a lovely day.”
They boarded the train for the short trip back to the Faubourg Marigny. They had just emerged from the station when Liesl burst from the front door of the infirmary and made straight for them.
“Liesl, what is it?”
The young girl trembled. “I haf terrible news, sir. Miss Clifton is dead.”
C
harlotte heard Nicholas’s quick intake of breath. “Are you certain? Perhaps she’s only sleeping. Sometimes the laudanum will—”
“She is not sleeping. Please come.”
Nicholas and Charlotte followed Liesl into the stench and despair of the crowded infirmary. “Over there.” The girl pointed to the pallet where Josie lay pale and still.
Nicholas made his way closer and reached down to check her pulse. Charlotte stood rooted to the spot, struggling to take air into her lungs. Usually death from the fever was far from instantaneous. How could Josie have succumbed so quickly?
Nicholas got to his feet, his face dark with anger, and strode over to Liesl. “Where is Dr. Werner?”
“He came here zis morning, but he has gone.”
“As well he might be.” Nicholas turned to Charlotte. “Josie Clifton bled to death.”
“No.”
“I’m certain of it. Dr. Werner had no right to bleed my patient. I left explicit instructions for her care.”
Liesl began to cry. “Is not my fault.”
“Of course it’s not.” Nicholas patted the girl’s shoulder and surveyed the room. “Where is Sister Beatrice?”
“She did not come today.” Lisle wiped her tears. “Sister Luke helped Dr. Verner
mit
Miss Clifton, but she left too. There is no one here but me. I am sorry.”
Charlotte placed her arm around the girl’s shoulder. “You mustn’t cry. No one blames you.”
Nicholas let out a long breath. “These patients need tending. Liesl, will you fetch my medical bag, then get the hamper and collect the dirty linens?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And find the undertaker and send him along.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned to Charlotte. “I need your help.”
“Of course.”
For the next two hours, while Liesl removed soiled bedclothes and brought clean ones off the clothesline out back, Charlotte bathed fevered brows, applied salve to cracked skin, offered fresh water to those able to drink. She mopped vomit and urine, changed filthy linens, emptied basin after basin of dirty water. Nicholas listened to failing hearts and feeble prayers and administered doses of laudanum.
The undertaker arrived for Josie’s body just as darkness fell. Nicholas, his face suddenly haggard, spoke quietly with the undertaker, then lit a lamp and set it on the small table beneath the front window.
Charlotte rose from the bedside of a young child and massaged the burning muscles in her back. She rolled her neck and pressed her fingers to her tired eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Nicholas said, his voice rough with fatigue. “You’re exhausted. I had no right to ask you to stay.”
Her eyes met his. “I wanted to help you.”
“Let’s get you home.”
“You should rest too.”
“I will. And tomorrow I intend to have a talk with Dr. Werner. With any luck he will have found that replacement he’s promised. I’m not one to give up easily but—”
“You’ve done more than your share. And your daughters need you every bit as much as these patients do.”
With a last look at his patients, Nicholas spoke quietly to Liesl, one hand resting on her shoulder, and then ushered Charlotte out into the humid twilight. Outside the train station a burly man lit a torch and set fire to the tar barrel. The flame flickered and caught. A puff of black smoke drifted across the square.
“Will Liesl be all right staying here alone?”
“Dr. Werner is due here within the hour. If Liesl needs help before then, she knows to call upon his neighbor, Mrs. Lapierre.”
He found a carriage for hire, handed Charlotte up, and tossed his bag inside.
“Dr. Betancourt?” The moon-faced nun who had assisted Sister Beatrice stepped from the shadows.
“Sister Luke,” Nicholas said. “I wondered what had become of you.”
Sister Luke broke into a fit of weeping. “Sister Beatrice has contracted the fever.”
Nicholas sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, seemingly too exhausted for words.
“I tried to tell Dr. Werner about Miss Clifton,” the nun said. “I told him you wanted only the sleeping medicine and the cool baths, but he insisted he knew best. He ordered me to assist him while he bled her.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t, sir.” The nun’s breath hitched. “It was me that killed her.”
“What?”
“I . . . I gave her the laudanum, like you said, and I never should have. Not after the amount of blood she lost.”
Nicholas clenched his fists until they turned white. “Please go on.”
“He said Miss Clifton was young and strong, and the loss of so much blood would help the fever go out of her more quickly. When he finished, he told me to bandage her arm and then he left.” Sister Luke drew a balled handkerchief from the sleeve of her habit and wiped her eyes. “When I checked on her an hour or so later, she was burning up and begging for medicine, talking out of her head. I didn’t know what to do. There was no one to ask. So I gave her the laudanum, and then she—”
“You mustn’t blame yourself, Sister. Miss Clifton was in her second bout with the fever. We can’t be certain she would have recovered even if Dr. Werner had not countermanded my instructions.” His voice softened. “You eased her suffering. There is nothing wrong in that.”
Sister Luke nodded, her brow still furrowed.
“Where is Sister Beatrice?”
“At the convent. They are looking after her there.”
“Good. As soon as Dr. Werner arrives, I want you to go home and get some rest. Without Sister Beatrice, you’re needed here more than ever.”
“You aren’t angry with me?”
“On the contrary. I’m grateful for the mercy you showed my patient.”
A sad smile spread across the young nun’s face. “Sister always says you are one of God’s own angels, Dr. Betancourt.”
He climbed into the carriage. “Good night, Sister.”
Nicholas seemed to need silence. Charlotte folded her hands in her lap as the carriage rolled along in the darkness. When they reached Prytania Street and the Orleans Palace, he got out first and helped her alight.
The theater troupe that had returned to the hotel early this morning was performing a human tableau for the enjoyment of a small group of people gathered near the main entrance. Illuminated by several large lanterns, two women draped in purple stood poised with bows and arrows, while the men hoisted a fake deer onto their shoulders. In the shadows stood Mr. Dubois and several men dressed in hotel livery.
Nicholas regarded the colorful scene, a small frown creasing his forehead. “What do you suppose they call this particular work of art?”
Charlotte shrugged, too exhausted by the day’s events to give much thought to entertainments. “I’d love to go up to my room, but I don’t wish to disrupt the performance.”
“They can’t hold that pose for very long,” Nicholas said. “Perhaps we can wait in the courtyard.”
They crossed the lawn and entered the walled garden. Light from lamps burning in the guest rooms above them cast a soft glow onto the flower beds and the fountain. Charlotte sank gratefully onto a wrought-iron bench and attempted to tidy her hair.
“May I join you?”
“Of course.”
She made room for him on the bench. For several moments they sat in silence, filled with the particular energy that comes from a shared experience.
At last Nicholas said, “Have I told you how much I appreciate your assistance?”
“You have. I’m glad I was able to help.”
“You’ve a true woman’s heart, Charlotte. Somehow you keep going despite adversity.”
“Circumstances have given me little choice.”
“Still, I don’t know many women who would have done what you did tonight, let alone take on the task of restoring Fairhaven.”
“My father often said the line between courage and folly is a thin one. Sometimes I wonder why I ever imagined I could succeed.”
“The land means everything to you, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but now I realize there’s nothing to be gained by wanting a life I can never have again.”
They fell silent once more, listening to the whirring of crickets in the grass and the murmurs of the crowd watching the tableau.
“I feel terrible about Josie,” Charlotte said. “Her family will be inconsolable when they get the news.”
“Yes. I’ve arranged with the undertaker for burial tomorrow at Lafayette Cemetery.”
“Someone should speak to the minister, choose a reading and a hymn. Perhaps I could—”
He stopped her with a shake of his head. “There won’t be time. Every undertaker in the city and every coffin maker are struggling to keep up. Tonight when Mr. Trimble came for Josie, he told me he has four more burials scheduled for tomorrow and two for Tuesday. A quick interment is all we can expect.”
“At least she won’t be buried in a mass grave somewhere.” She fought the tears welling in her eyes. “I feared that was your fate. I don’t think I could have borne it.”
“Dear Charlotte.” His voice was a mere whisper on the breeze. He turned to her, and she realized he was about to kiss her.
“Nicholas—”
“If you intend to refuse me,” he murmured, “now would be the time.”
His kiss was warm, confident, and tasted slightly of lemon
tart. Her arms went around his neck, and they clung together in the warm darkness.
Whistles and loud applause rippled across the lawn as they drew apart. Nicholas looked into her eyes, and she was overcome with confusion and longing, not knowing what to say that might prolong this perfect moment.
“Either the tableau just ended,” he said, “or else they approve of our performance.”
She was grateful for the darkness that hid the sudden heat in her face.
He gave a soft laugh, and her fatigue fell away. They walked to the door as the crowd dispersed. The performers were carrying their props inside.
“Good night, Charlotte,” Nicholas said. “I have much to do tomorrow, but I want you to rest.”
“I am tired, but I must write to Augusta again. Perhaps she will know how to reach Josie’s family. They must be told, though of course they won’t arrive in time for the burial.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow. As soon as I can.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “That’s what you said the day you left the Waccamaw.”
He squeezed her hand and let her go.
She took her key from her reticule and hurried up the curving stair to the Blue Room. Someone had turned the covers down and replenished the water in the crystal carafe. She drank deeply before shucking off her soiled dress. She ran a bath, letting the warm water relax her knotted muscles and soothe her jumbled emotions.
Nicholas’s kiss had caught her off guard and left her longing for more. Obviously he felt something for her. But how could they have a future when he owned the land that for all her life she’d thought was hers?
She dried off, slipped into her nightdress, and brushed her hair,
her thoughts swirling. This entire journey—finding Nicholas, the trip to Milneburg, Josie’s sudden death—seemed like a long and convoluted dream.
She touched her fingertips to her lips, exhilarated and unsettled by the memory of his kiss. Was this what falling in love felt like?
She dragged the brush through her hair with more force than was necessary. It would not do to fall in love with the man who intended to take Fairhaven from her. Even though in his shoes she would do exactly the same thing.
A shout in the street drew her to the window. In the courtyard below, several members of the theater troupe were milling about, singing loudly and slightly off key. She turned away and drew the curtains.
Nicholas was lucky to have recovered his documents from the burned-out church. How clever of his wife to have had them hidden in the—
Charlotte. The fire . . . the fire.
She went stock still, her stomach clenching as understanding dawned.
She crossed the room to the escritoire and picked up her pen.
Dear Augusta,
It is my sad duty to tell you Josie Clifton has died of yellow fever and is to be interred here tomorrow, July 27th, at Lafayette Cemetery. I have no knowledge of precisely where her family has gone. Josie told me only that they were headed west. Perhaps the Hadleys will know how to reach them, although one almost wishes they could be spared such a wrenching loss, especially as the epidemic precludes any opportunity for a proper farewell. I wrote to you upon my arrival here on Friday the 24th of July, and Mr. Betancourt has written to Marie-Claire and Anne-Louise. I hope both letters reach you soon. No doubt he has told them that he is quite well, having been exposed to the fever in his childhood. The epidemic is no threat to him, except as it taxes his endurance in caring for others.