Fever 1793 (5 page)

26

hand strayed to a stubborn coffee stain just over her hip.

"I'm so glad you could come," Pernilla continued. "I'm about to die from lack of company!"

"Good afternoon, Pernilla. It was very kind of you to invite us. Allow me to present my daughter, Matilda."

I curtsied slightly, conscious of the few threads barely holding me together.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ma'am," I said.

"Oh, poor little Matilda. I recall your father well. He was such a handsome man, would have gone far if he had been educated. But it won't do to think about tiresome things today. I declare this has been the worst summer of my life, and I'm counting on you both to lighten my mood."

She squeezed Mother's arm. Mother gritted her teeth.

"I'm parched. Let's have tea and I'll tell you all about this wonderful house that Robert built for me." Mrs. Ogilvie rang a tiny bell on the sideboard. "Girls?"

The Ogilvie daughters, Colette and Jeannine, swept into the room, dressed in matching pink and yellow bombazine gowns, wearing their curled hair piled on top of their heads. I should have let Eliza curl my hair. Dash it all.

Colette was the oldest. Her skin was as pale as clean ice, and dark circles ringed her eyes. Jeannine's head only came up to my shoulder, but she looked sixteen, at least. Her cheeks shone pink and chubby as a baby pig's.

48

Jeannine whispered something into Colette's ear. Colette closed her eyes briefly, then snapped them open again. I wondered why she was so tired. No doubt exhausted from being waited on hand and foot.

The mothers sat down first, then Colette and Jeannine flopped carelessly onto the Chippendale chairs. I sat carefully so as not to pop any stitches. After two servants brought in silver trays of rolls and bitesized frosted cakes, Mrs. Ogilvie poured the tea.

"Colette and Jeannine have just finished lessons with their French tutor," Mrs. Ogilvie said. "Are you studying French, Matilda?"

Mother jumped in before I could open my mouth. "You know how old-fashioned my father-in-law is, Pernilla. He prohibits French, no matter how much I implore him. You are so fortunate to have an understanding husband. Do your sons study French as well?"

"Of course. We've had the French ambassador here to dine any number of times."

While Mrs. Ogilvie recounted what she thought was a hilarious story about "Monsieur L'Ambassadeur," I tried to reach the cake plate. My fingers fell just short. If I stretched all the way across the table, the seam under my arm would split open. Jeannine saw my dilemma, picked up the plate, and passed it in the opposite direction to her mother.

"Why, thank you, dear, how kind," said Mrs. Ogilvie. She chose three cakes and handed the plate to Mother,

27

who took two. As Mother handed the plate to Colette, it tilted and the cakes slid to the floor. A tiny dog with a red ribbon between its ears rushed in and gobbled the fallen cakes. My stomach rumbled.

"So tell me, Lucille, what have you been doing for company this tedious August?" Pernilla asked. "Everyone, simply everyone, has rushed out to their country retreats. It is most annoying."

I struggled to keep a straight face as I pictured Mother amidst the weeds, horseflies, and dead mice in our garden.

Mrs. Ogilvie prattled on.

"President Washington and Martha will soon leave for Virginia, of course, the Nortons and Hepstrudels are in Germantown, and my own sister took her family to New York. Did you know that I planned a gala ball and only two families responded? The rest of society has vanished!"

Jeannine unfolded a silk fan and waved it, blowing a cloud of curls off her forehead. Shielding her mouth from her mother with the fan, she stuck her tongue out at me. Her wretched dog nipped at my shoe under the table.

"The only people left in Philadelphia seem to be shopkeepers and wharf rats. Robert has an appointment with the mayor this very day to insist that he put an end to the rumors of yellow fever."

"I heard a man died of the fever in the middle of the

5°

street, and three black crows flew out of his mouth," said Jeannine.

"Don't be vile, Jeannine," snapped her mother. "Those filthy refugees and creatures who live in the crowded hovels by the river, they're always sick with something. But it is a gross injustice that my gala should suffer because the lower class falls ill. Don't you agree, Lucille?"

Mother struggled to keep the smile on her face as she changed the subject.

"Are your sons still in town, Pernilla?" she asked.

Jeannine's eyebrows went up and her mouth opened. Why did Mother have to be so obvious in her intent? Why not just hang a signboard around my neck: AVAILABLE-FOUL-MOUTHED DAUGHTER?

"All of my brothers are away at school, Mrs. Cook," Jeannine answered quickly. "It's a shame they aren't here to meet you, Matilda. I'm sure you would amuse one of them."

I flinched.

"Colette has recently become engaged to Lord Garthing's son," Jeannine continued. "The gala was to have celebrated the engagement. Have you been courted yet, Matilda?"

"Matilda is a bit young for suitors," interjected Mother. "But I must congratulate you on your good fortune, Colette. When is the wedding to be held?"

Colette dabbed her napkin on her forehead. "Mama, it is rather warm in here."

5'

28

"Colette always flushes when we discuss the wedding. She is such a delicate creature. Sensitive nerves." Mrs. Ogilvie had icing on the end of her nose.

"Colette tried to avoid our lesson this morning by complaining of a mysterious illness," tattled Jeannine. "She just wants to lie about and read dreadful novels."

"Has any of your sons found a bride?" asked Mother, determined not to let her subject slip away.

Mrs. Ogilvie poured out another cup of tea. "We have many discussions, as you might imagine. My children are a blessing, to be sure, but it requires a great effort to secure the future of each one."

Jeannine picked up the last cake on her plate, slowly bit into it, and licked the icing off her fingers.

"Mother," I said through my teeth. We did not belong here. I did not belong here. Mother may have grown up with carriages and gowns, but I had not. I had to clasp my hands in my lap to keep from slapping Jeannine or shaking the life out of her mangy dog.

Mother ignored me and plowed ahead.

"Has any of your sons shown an interest in busi-

v ness?

Colette brought her tea cup to her lips, but spilled the tea into her lap. Mrs. Ogilvie didn't notice.

"Trade?" she replied. "Robert thinks that our sons should go into law or banking. Trade is hardly suitable for someone of our background."

Jeannine threw her fan down on the table. "Oh,

52

Mama, must you be so thick-headed? Mrs. Cook is asking if you might consider Miss Cook as a wife for one of our brothers. And I imagine their filthy little tavern is part of the deal."

I stood so quickly that the seams under my arms ripped open with a snarl. The dog barked shrilly.

"It's not a tavern, it's a coffeehouse!" I said.

"Grog shop," taunted Jeannine.

At that insult my mother rose. A grog shop was where criminals and the other dregs of society gathered to drink whiskey and fight.

"A coffeehouse," Mother explained. "With respectable customers who mind their manners far better than you."

"Oh, girls, ladies," fluttered Mrs. Ogilvie.

Colette grasped the edge of the table and pulled herself to her feet, knocking over the cream pitcher.

"I fear," she said, panting heavily.

We all turned to stare at her.

"Sit down, Colette," said Jeannine.

"I fear," Colette tried again.

"Pernilla, that girl does not look well," said Mother.

"I'm burning," whispered Colette. She crumpled to the flowered carpet in a faint.

While Mrs. Ogilvie shrieked, Mother knelt down and laid the back of her hand against Colette's forehead. "The fever!"

S3

29

CHAPTER EIGHT

September 2nd, 1793

smelled the breath of death for the first time since all this hardship began, [and] was scared.

-Diary of J. Henry C. Helmuth Philadelphia, 1793

From the time that Colette Ogilvie collapsed, the church bells of Philadelphia tolled without cease. Guns were fired on the street corners, and a cannon blasted in the public square to purify the air. On top of that, we suffered the constant buzz of mosquitoes, blowflies, and hornets. The din was maddening.

The day after our ill-fated tea party, Mother sent a note to the Ogilvies inquiring about Colettes health, but received no response. They had disappeared. She also sent a note to the Ludingtons. No word from them either, thank heavens.

Many of the wealthy families were fleeing. We were lucky to get four or five customers a day. Mother worried

54

even more than usual, but I was too hot to care. A violent thunderstorm on Sunday cleared the air for a few hours, but when the sun came out Monday, it baked the streets until the rainwater rose in ghostly plumes of steam. I felt like a noodle over-boiled in the stewpot. And the bells continued to toll.

"I'm going to climb the church tower and cut the tongues out of those bells myself," Eliza grumbled as she beat a dozen eggs. "Hand me the nutmeg, child."

I passed her the small grater.

"Don't you have something to do?" she asked. "It's hot enough in here without an extra body breathing on me. What did your mother say before she left?"

"I'm waiting for Grandfather to finish his business in the necessary. He said I could go with him to the newspaper office."

Eliza scowled and waved a towel at the flies buzzing above the bowl. "Pick me some fresh asparagus grass. These pests are a plague."

The bright sun blinded me as I stepped outdoors. The garden looked distressingly poor, even with all the watering I had done and the brief rain. It was a good thing we were able to buy at the market.

The asparagus grass grew along the back fence. I gathered a handful of fronds, cut them at the base, and tied the bunch tightly with a piece of twine. Back in the kitchen, I stood on a chair and hung them from an iron hook in the center ceiling beam.

30

"There," I said, pushing the chair back against the wall. "That should discourage the flies."

"Thank you. Taste this pudding and tell me if it's right."

I chewed and pondered.

"It needs more sugar."

"You think everything needs more sugar." Eliza wiped the sweat off her face with a handkerchief. "I think that tea with the Ogilvie sisters affected you. Maybe you would be right for their Edward." She stirred the fire and lay on more wood. "Wasn't that long ago folks didn't have any sugar. No coffee or tea, either."

"Please, Eliza, not another history lesson. I'll scream."

Eliza harrumphed and set the pudding over the fire. "Don't know which is worse, you moaning or your mother staring out the window, hoping someone will walk in and lay a shilling on the table. We have ugly days ahead of us. No sugar for anyone, rich or poor, no-no."

I fanned myself with the wooden spoon. "Grandfather says this trouble will soon be over. He says people don't have gumption anymore."

Eliza mumbled something under her breath that I couldn't quite hear. When it came to strong-headed opinions, Eliza, my mother, and my grandfather were evenly matched. She untied her apron and hung it from the hook.

"Where are you going?" I asked. "Grandfather and I could run any errand you need."

56

"Not this errand, you couldn't." Eliza reached for her pretty straw hat. "The Free African Society is having a meeting about the fever. It should prove a lively gathering. I'll return in time for supper."

Out back, the door of the necessary slammed.

"Mattie Cook!" called Grandfather. "Must I wait all day?"

Andrew Brown's print shop smelled of ink and grease and the sweat of muscular apprentices carrying trays of lead type from the composing table to the printing press. When I was a child, Mr. Brown let me pick out letters and set them in the form. It had been a thrill seeing my words in print.

The printer issued no invitation to me that morning. He was deep in conversation with Mr. Carris as we entered.

"What news, William?" Mr. Brown asked. "Packed your bags for a trip to the country?" He wiped his hands on his apron and sent an apprentice for a bucket of ale.

Grandfather banged his cane on the floor.

"I didn't run from the redcoats, and I won't run from a dockside miasma. What is wrong with people, Andrew? We suffered all kinds of disease in our youth, but folks were sensible. They didn't squall like children and hide in the woods."

Mr. Carris cleared his throat.

"If the yellow fever were a soldier, you'd run it