Fever 1793 (4 page)

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"Who wants to wager against the cat?" asked Grandfather. "I say he'll have squirrel soup for his supper."

Silas closed in on the bushy tail. The squirrel lurched left and made a desperate leap up onto my clean laundry. Silas followed. The clotheshorse collapsed under the weight of the stupid beast, sending angry cat and white linen into the red dust.

"Hey!" I hollered.

Silas yowled. Eliza and Grandfather burst into laughter.

"Very droll," I said.

The midday meal was near over by the time I had rewashed the tablecloths. Cold chicken, crisp pickles, butter biscuits, and peach pie were laid out on the table. Mother and Grandfather were on their second mugs of apple cider when I finally sat down.

"What do you think we should do with our extra earnings, Mattie?" Grandfather asked.

"I beg your pardon, Sir?"

"Your grandfather has the foolish notion that we should go into trade," explained Mother. "Open a regular store for the hordes of people who are going to settle at this end of the city any day now."

"No need for a mocking tone, Lucille. We should use our windfall to improve our prospects. If it were up to you, we'd bury the money in the backyard to benefit the worms.

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Mother pressed her lips together tightly and set a second piece of chicken on my plate. "Eat," she instructed. "You've worked hard. I don't want you getting sick."

I pushed the chicken to the side. I had plenty of ideas about running the coffeehouse, all of them different from Mother's.

"First we should buy another coffee urn, to serve customers with more haste," I said. I pointed a pickle toward the north wall. "Next is to expand into Mr. Watson's lot. That way, we could offer proper meals, not just tidbits and rolls. You could serve roasts and mutton chops. And we could have an upstairs meeting room for the gentlemen, like the coffeehouses by the wharves."

I took a bite of the pickle.

"And we could reserve space to sell paintings, and combs, and fripperies from France."

"Paintings? Fripperies?" asked Grandfather.

"There is no use talking of expansion, either of you," Mother said. "Our custom improves because business by the docks declines. It's the talk of fever. People are afraid to venture out by the river."

"Philadelphia suffers fevers every August," said Grandfather. "This season it's those cursed refugees. They brought it, just as the ships from Barbados brought it thirty years ago. The mayor should quarantine them on Hog Island for a few weeks and the fever would pass." He lifted his mug to King George. The parrot drank.

"Must you encourage that creature?" Mother asked. "Perhaps we should leave, just until the weather breaks. Elizabeth Bachel's family left this morning."

"I say we keep our heads and turn a tidy profit," Grandfather continued. "Let others flee. We Cooks are made of stronger stuff!"

"Be that as it may, the increased profits are temporary," said Mother. "The fever will pass and these new customers will go back to the wharves. If we do save some money, we'll keep it for a time when business lags."

I thought Grandfather was right. If we didn't open a shop or expand the coffeehouse, someone else would; and then it would be too late. Mother always planned for the darkest days. I took a bite of chicken. How much would Watson want for his lot? He spent most of his time in Baltimore. Perhaps Grandfather could inquire discreetly.

Some chicken slid from my fork onto the floor.

"Dash it aU," I said.

"Dash it all, dash it all," echoed King George. He swooped down for the treat and flew back to Grandfather's shoulder.

"Matilda, your language," Mother started.

Her lecture was interrupted by a knock at the front door.

"We're not yet open," shouted Grandfather. "Come back in an hour's time."

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"A message, Sir," called a boy.

"I'll tend to this matter, Ladies," Grandfather said grandly as he stood. "Don't bestir yourselves."

I ate quickly with one eye on King George. Silas walked under the table, his tail still drooping from his defeat by the squirrel. I tempted him to my lap with his own bite of chicken.

If I could convince Mother to buy an extra urn, it would quickly pay for itself. Then Eliza could cook real dinners, with turtle soup and joints of beef and mutton. If we could get Mr. Jefferson to take his meals here, more business would follow. Maybe even the president himself, and Mrs. Washington for tea.

"Don't feed the cat at the table," said Mother, tugging me back to earth.

"Silas keeps King George away from my plate," I said.

Mother sighed. "I don't know which of you is worse."

Grandfather pulled a coin from his pocket for the messenger. He walked back slowly, rereading the thick sheet of paper in his hand.

"What is that?" asked Mother.

"Nothing, a useless scrap. Nothing of interest for you." A sly smile crept across his face.

"If it's of no importance, then burn it," Mother said. She stacked the dirty plates. "Why are you standing there like an addle-pated nitwit?"

Grandfather looked at the paper again.

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"Oh, my," he said with false surprise. "Is that Pernilla Ogilvie's name I see?"

Mother set the pickle dish back on the table. Grandfather continued.

"Pernilla Ogilvie, isn't she the mother of that fine lad you pointed out to me in church? What was it you said-that he'd be a fine match for our Mattie. Yes, that's what it was. But, if you think I should burn it..."

Mother dove across the room like a hungry hawk.

"Give that to me," she said, snatching the paper away. She read it hastily. "This is the best news in weeks. Pernilla Ogilvie has invited us to afternoon tea, Matilda."

She read the invitation again.

"Oh, good heavens. She wants us there today!"

"We can't go to tea today," I said. "The shop is too busy. We can't close up or turn away customers. Besides, the Ogilvie girls are snobs. Why would they invite us, except to make fun of our dresses? I'm staying here."

"We would make time for tea at the Ogilvies if they held it at midnight," said Mother. "Be sensible, Matilda. Think of their young Edward."

"I was thinking of their young Edward. That's why I'm not going."

Grandfather stepped between us.

"Matilda," he said in a honey voice. "Of all the maids in our city, surely you deserve a day of rest, a day to drink tea and eat sweet cakes. But if you must stay here, I'm

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sure your mother and Eliza would be able to find a suitable list of chores to keep you from boredom. You know how they detest idleness."

The kettles, I thought. They'll make me scour the kettles again. My hands ached at the thought.

"And I've heard their cook excels at pastries. Don't give their young Edward a thought. Enjoy yourself. Let your mother enjoy herself. I will direct the replacement troops here at the coffeehouse."

Mother looked at the old man. He just wanted a quiet afternoon, that much was clear. I saw him wink at her. I didn't know which one made me angrier, but somehow they had both won.

"Fine," I said. "We'll go to tea. Huzzah."

As soon as I conceded defeat, Mother turned her attention to the most important issue-tea-drinking clothes. We had tea-buying clothes, tea-brewing clothes, and tea-serving clothes, but we had no takingtea-with-the-Ogilvies clothes.

Mother's solution lay in the bottom of the trunk in our chamber. She would wear her unfashionable ivorycolored gown, last seen at a victory ball after the War. She said it only had a few stains and fit well. At least she didn't run to fat like some she could name. That was that.

Finding the proper clothes for me was another matter entirely. I could wear my church petticoat, but I needed a proper short gown to cover the bodice. My one

fancy short gown was too small, and I hadn't filled out enough to wear any of Mother's castoffs.

"You'll have to wear the old one," she said. "I'll let out the side seams as far as they can go. Perhaps Eliza can do something with your hair."

"You are determined to make this as unpleasant as possible, aren't you?" I asked.

For once, my short-tempered answer did not rile her. "Pretend you're in France, dear," she said lightly. "The ladies there always do their hair."

Eliza's idea of a hairstyle began with brushing me bald. The more I whimpered, the harder she tugged. In the end, I bit my lip and sulked.

"I'll sit nicely at the table," I said. "But you can't force me to talk to their young Edward."

"Hush." Mother stitched my dress as fast as she could, her needle flashing in and out of the fabric like a bumblebee darting through flowers. "It's not too early to search for a suitable man. With your manners, it could take years. Edward Ogilvie has four older brothers. A bride with an established business, like the coffeehouse, is the best he can hope for."

"You make it sound like I'm one of Mrs. Epler's chickens, ready for market. Ow, Eliza, won't you be finished soon?"

"Have patience and keep your head still," she said. "If you cared for your hair properly, I wouldn't have to wrestle it."

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Nobody was on my side. I crossed my arms over my chest and pouted. "I don't know which is worse, banishing me to the Ludington farm or marrying me off to an Ogilvie."

Eliza combed through a lock of hair stuck together with dried jam. "You're a few years away from a trip to the altar, Mattie, and you are too soft to live in the country," she said. "You have city hands and a weak back. You wouldn't last a week on the farm."

"Your confidence is overwhelming," I said.

She tugged my hair hard and tied it in a green and gold ribbon. "That's the best I can do," she said. "If we had more time, we could try to curl it."

"No!" I covered my head with my arms. "I like straight hair. And I don't need a husband to run the coffeehouse, Mother. You don't have one."

"Try this on and don't be vulgar," Mother said as she broke the thread with her teeth. "You'll marry one day, don't you worry. Just pray that when you do, your husband won't be fool enough to fall off a ladder and break his neck when he's but five-and-thirty like your father did. The last thing this family needs is another miserable spinster."

Eliza pulled the laces of my stays, cutting off my reply. I gasped and saw tiny black dots.

By the time they had tightened, pinned, and locked me into my clothes, I could feel my stomach rubbing against my backbone. Mother pulled my arms back until

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my shoulder blades touched, the proper posture for a lady.

"She looks like a china doll," observed Grandfather as we departed.

"I will break just as easily," I muttered.

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CHAPTER
SEVEN

August 30th, i£93

Wit is the most dangerous talent you can possess. It must be guarded with great discretion and good-nature, otherwise it will create you many enemies.

-John Gregory
A Fathers Legacy to his Daughters,
1774

I had to breathe in short puffs as we waited at the front

1 door of the Ogilvie mansion. The stays bit into my stomach and my shift was already sweat-soaked. If this was how the upper class felt all the time, no wonder they were all so cross.

Mother tugged at my bodice to straighten it.

"Try not to look so pained," she said. "We won't stay long. Knowing your grandfather, he'll be giving away the silver on the street corner when we return."

She licked her thumb and wiped a smudge of dirt off my cheek "You might turn out to be a beauty after all," she said. "You've grown so quickly. I want the best for you."

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I looked at her closely, unaccustomed to the gentle tone of her voice. Mother bent down suddenly to brush off the bottom of her gown.

"Look at this dust," she exclaimed. "When I was young, my family had a lovely carriage, and we always rode to tea. We arrived fresh and clean."

She turned around and swatted the hem of my skirt. The door opened and an Ogilvie maid stared at the backside of my grumbling mother.

"Ma'am?" she asked.

Mother stood up hastily.

"Mrs. William Cook Junior and Miss Matilda Cook are here for tea with Mrs. Ogilvie," she told the maid. "The invitation arrived this morning."

The maid showed us into a drawing room as large as the entire first floor of the coffee shop. The long windows were covered with shimmering damask curtains. A crystal chandelier hung over a gleaming mahogany table, around which were clustered a half-dozen Chippendale chairs. Very expensive.

"Lucille, my dear Lucille, how wonderful to see you!" exclaimed Pernilla Ogilvie. She sailed across the room like a man-of-war, showing the brocaded tips of her shoes and layers of lace-trimmed, starched petticoats. Her overpowdered hair left a trail behind her that settled like smoke on the carpet.

Mother's face sagged as she took in Pernilla's gown of gunpowder gray silk, striped with white and blue. Her