Fever 1793 (3 page)

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would be better than the Ludingtons.

Grandfather fed a cracker to King George.

"Must you be so gloomy, woman? You see darkness in every corner. Sending her away-your own child? You shock me. The Ludingtons aren't even family. I can't see the wisdom in that. We'll have to consider this at some length," he said, drawing out his pipe.

The considering could take hours. The sun was growing hotter and the larder stood empty.

"If I don't go soon, everything will be sold or spoiled," I reminded them. "People don't stop eating eggs whenever there's a fever, do they?" I had to get her attention away from that farm.

"The child's right, Lucille. She'll be fine. We must accommodate our lives to the fever for a few weeks, but we shan't overthrow our daily routines. It's important that we not lose our heads."

"But Polly..." Mother started.

"Whatever took that little imp away, it wasn't a fever, I promise you that," Grandfather said. "It could have been a sudden pleurisy or a weak heart. You worry too much. Always have. The market is the safest place in town, next to our own castle here. Now let the child get some air."

Mother pursed her lips a moment, then nodded. "I'll write a list for you."

"I know what we need," I quickly replied.

"Don't shop at any stalls below Third Street. Stay

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away from Second Street Market completely. And no rambles today. You go to the market and then you come home. And do not let me hear of you loitering shamelessly in front of the Peale house."

I turned so she would not see me blush. Why did it matter if I walked past the Peaks'? "I think we should buy extra bread at the Simmons' bakery. We're sure to run out again."

"Good idea, girl," said Grandfather. "See there, Lucille. The child minds the shop as well as you. You mustn't be so hard on her. Come here, Mattie, give this old soldier a kiss."

I pecked his cheek and he slipped a piece of hard candy into my hand. I dashed out the door before Mother could change her mind.

As I crossed Fourth Street, the noise from the market splashed over me like a wave.

'"Ere's yer lily-white hot corn! Get your nice hot corn!"

"Fresh fish fit for the pan!" "Raaaaaaspberries! Blaaaaaaackberries!" "Pepperpot! All hot! Makee strong! Makee live long! Come buy my pepperpot!"

The market stalls stretched for three blocks in the center of the street. West Indian women stood by their pepperpot kettles stirring fragrant stews, while the hot corn girls walked up and down the street. The distant

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call of the charcoal man's horn sounded at the far end of the market. Chickens clucked and geese honked, customers argued about the price of pears, and children ran everywhere.

Eggs, pippins, savory, what else did she want? I thought. Cabbage? Crab apples? I rolled the candy in my mouth. It had a piece of tobacco stuck to it from Grandfather's pocket. I spit it out and walked up to the egg sellers.

"Hello, Miss Matilda Cook!"

"Good morning, Mrs. Epler."

Mr. and Mrs. Epler were German farmers who brought their eggs and chickens to market three times a week. Mrs. Epler fluttered in her stall, her tiny black eyes looking this way and that, her chins flapping as she spoke. Mr. Epler was egg-shaped; narrow at the top and bottom, bulging in the middle. He never spoke.

His wife leaned forward.

"I was just telling Epler here that your people would be already gone. All the farmers talk, talk, talk of this fever." She waved her arms, scaring the chickens in their wooden pens at her feet. "So much fever talk!"

"Don't you believe it?" I asked.

"Them that are sick should the church visit. City folk, sinners at the docks. They don't visit the church, and God gives them the fever. It is a sign from God. The Bible says the soul that sinneth, it shall die."

Mr. Epler nodded his head solemnly.

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"Did you to church go last week, Miss Matilda Cook?" Mrs. Epler leaned her beak forward.

"Yes, Ma'am. Mother never lets me stay home."

Mrs. Epler's face broke into a wide grin.

"She's a good woman, your mother. You go to church and you have no worries! How many eggs you want,
liebcheri?"

With the eggs carefully tucked in my basket, I moved on to Mr. Owens's stall. He wrung his hands and apologized for the sorry-looking cabbages.

"We were lucky to get those, what with this drought and all," he said.

He was so discouraged about the cabbages, it was easy to talk his price down. He may have lowered it even further, but I felt sorry for him. He had more children on his farm than he could count on two hands. (The extra money was just what I needed to buy a bag of hard candy. Without tobacco specks.)

The next stall had fresh lemons. I scratched the peel and held one up to my nose. Paris would smell like a lemon peel, far away and wonderful. I bought a dozen and kept one in my hand as I shopped.

There was no savory to be found, and the apples were small and knobbly. Mrs. Hotchkiss charged an outrageous price for a moldy cheese, but there were no other cheese sellers. I had to use all the hard candy money. I did not bid her good day.

As I rounded the butcher's stall at the far end of the

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market, someone grabbed my basket and spun me around. I clenched my fists and whirled to face my assailant.

Nathaniel Benson.

My stomach flipped over like an egg in a skillet. I brushed my hands on my apron.

"Little Mattie is come to market. Are you sure you haven't lost your way?" he teased.

Nathaniel Benson.

He looked much more a man and less a boy than he had a few months earlier. He had sprouted up over my head and grown broad in the chest. Stop, I cautioned myself. You shouldn't look at him as if he were a racehorse for sale. But his hair was a beautiful chestnut color....

I often walked past the Peaks' house, but rarely had the chance to speak with him. His work as a painter's assistant required long hours. He was known to stroll past the coffeehouse from time to time, but Mother kept me busy when he approached. He wasn't suitable, she said. Had no future, was a scamp, possibly even a scoundrel.

Last New Year's Day, Nathaniel had rubbed snow in my face and chased me across the ice. I pushed him into a snowbank, and Mother sent me home in disgrace. The following week, he took me to watch Blanchard's balloon fly away. He thought it would be marvelous to visit Paris.

Nathaniel Benson.

I cleared my throat.

jo

"Good afternoon, Nathaniel. Kindly return my basket."

"Is that all you have to say? You disappoint me. I thought you would send me sailing into the horse trough at least. I guess you respect my new position as a man of the world."

"You are not a man of the world, you clean paintbrushes, though for the life of me I don't know why Mr. Peak bothers with you. And you will end up in that trough if you don't give back my basket." I paused. "Your shoe buckle is missing."

"What?"

I grabbed the basket as he looked down to inspect his shoe.

"Very funny," he said.

"Why are you here?" I asked. "Shouldn't you be working?"

He snatched an apple from my basket and took a bite. The impudence.

"Master Peak gave me the day off. He has a committee meeting with the mayor and a visit with a banker. I ruin so much when he's present, he's afraid to let me work unsupervised. The day is mine, so I'm going fishing. Want to come?"

Fishing. I hadn't been fishing in months. And I'd known Nathaniel since I was a baby, so I could roll my sleeves up above my elbows in his presence. As long as Mother didn't see me do it.

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He raised an eyebrow and his eyes sparkled.

"Trout?"

He smiled and I got a chill. When had he started smiling at me like that? Maybe I wouldn't roll up my sleeves. One had to be careful with elbows and boys. I would fish like a lady, with good posture and a demure manner. I could set the eggs in the stream so they wouldn't spoil

Bong. Bong. Bong.

The bell at Christ Church tolled heavily.

"Why is that ringing?" asked Nathaniel. "It's not the hour."

Bong. Bong. Bong.

A little boy sitting on the cobblestones covered his ears. The chattering marketplace voices hushed as the ringing continued. Every face turned toward the bell swaying in its tower.

"Another person dead," said the butcher. He brought his cleaver down, slicing the mutton leg on his table into two pieces. "The bell rings once for each year the person lived," he explained.

"Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one," counted Nathaniel. The bell stopped. "Twenty-one years old. Do you reckon it was a fever victim?"

"Don't you start carrying on about this fever," I warned. "When Mother isn't hollering at me about something I've done wrong, she's moaning about the fever." I lowered my voice. "Did you hear about Polly Logan?"

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He nodded. "Hard to believe, isn't it? I recall you pummeled me once when I stole Polly's doll."

I remembered, too. She loved that doll. I turned away so he couldn't see my tears.

Nathaniel put his hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry."

His hand felt kind and warm. "I miss her. I didn't even get to say good-bye." I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and cleared my throat again. "Enough about that. We won't talk about it anymore."

"Suit yourself."

Nathaniel stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at the cobblestones. I balanced the basket on my hip. Conversation started up around us as the last echo of the bell died.

"You won't catch anything," I said. "Fish don't bite this time of day."

Nathaniel grunted. He knew I was right. "Well," he started.

"I must go," I interrupted. "There is so much to do at the coffeehouse. Good luck with your paints."

I curtsied awkwardly, stepping on my shift and nearly falling on my face. Nathaniel tipped his hat to me like a gentleman. I tried to walk away with my head held high. I could still feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder.

Good luck with your paints? Did I really say that? What a ninny.

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CHAPTER SIX

August 3oth, i£93

Directions to the housemaid: Always when you sweep a room, throw a little wet sand all over it, and that will gather up all the flue and dust.

-Hannah Glasse
The Art of Cookery,
1747

I'll never complain about a cold day again," I vowed after another week of unceasing heat Grandfather watched from the shade as I cranked the wheel of the mangle. "Do you remember how thick the river ice was New Year's Day?"

Grandfather patted his pockets absentmindedly. Silas crouched next to his chair, intently watching a quivering cherry branch.

"I remember how many cords of firewood I carried and how the wash water by my bed froze every night. No, thank you, Madam, I'd rather a warm day than a cold one. My bones ache at the thought of another frost. Have you seen my pipe?"

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I threaded another wet tablecloth through the mangle to squeeze the water from it. The flagstones were cool beneath my bare feet, but the sun burned red as it mounted the sky. Another oppressively hot day.

"No, I haven't seen your pipe. And I adore winter. My favorite part was skating around the ships locked in solid by the ice. The Bensons were there, and the Peales, remember? It was delightful."

Grandfather's white eyebrows crept skyward. "Speaking of Mr. Nathaniel Benson," he started.

"Were we?" I inquired.

"Your mother heard that the young man was behaving improperly toward you at the market."

I let go of the mangle. It swung around and hit me in the leg.

"Ouch. No, I mean. Nathaniel was a gentleman. He expressed his condolences on the death of Polly Logan."

Grandfather coughed once. "Better he should express himself into a better apprenticeship. He'll come of nothing dabbling in Peale's paint pots."

The tablecloth came out the other end of the mangle, and I dropped it into a hickory basket. I waved at the bugs hovering above my head. "I do not wish to discuss Nathaniel Benson. That market is full of busybodies," I grumbled.

"You are right about that. Let me help you, girl." Grandfather rose stiffly. We each took a handle of the basket and carried it to the clotheshorse, a rope strung

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between two wooden frames that we used for drying clothes and linens. Silas crept to the base of the cherry tree, tail twitching, head steady.

Eliza came through the gate as we spread the tablecloth over the line to dry.

"She certainly has you busy," Eliza chuckled.

"All of us," answered Grandfather. "Look there." He pointed to two sacks by the back door. "She sent me to fetch those Arabica beans! Me, the hero of Trenton and Germantown reduced to a simple errand boy. What has the world come to?"

"Father! Are you trying to kill us all?" my mother yelled from a kitchen window. "Your pipe is near to burn a hole in the table. And where are those coffee beans? We'll have customers soon."

"Some days I'd rather face the British again than listen to the sound of my dear daughter-in-law," Grandfather said. "Ho! Look at that cat."

Silas's tail shot up like a warning flag. He had sighted the enemy-a squirrel. It scampered down the cherry's trunk and ran between Grandfather and Eliza.

Silas leapt to the chase. They raced twice around the garden and under the mangle. The squirrel scrambled up the side of the necessary to the roof. Silas slowed for a heartbeat, then leapt to the fence to gain access to the roof and his furry meal. The squirrel jumped to the ground, and dashed back across the yard, intent on his cherry tree.