Three Rivers Rising (7 page)

There is more haste than usual in Charles’s departure.
Horses whinny and buck,
raising a great clatter as the carriage starts for town.
I imagine Charles mortified at the commotion,
dabbing his hankie at his brow
and the corners of his mouth.

Interior doors slam,
hall doors open,
lighting the corridor behind me.
Faces appear in the doorways,
looking up and down the hall.
Mrs. Godwin holds up her lamp to see my face,
then scowls
and slams her door.
A child’s voice from another door: “Is it the fever?”
A stern voice from inside: “Come away from the door!
If you catch it,
we’ll all be dead by Sunday.”

I turn back to Father,
but the front room door is closing
on his trail of cigar smoke.
A band of light appears beneath the door.
I tiptoe down the stairs
and toward the back door
to head for the staff cabins.

Words float back to me:
spots
,
beautiful face
,
complexion
,
ruined
,
fever
.
Rumors have already started,
but not the right one,
thank goodness.
Unless someone
else
is ill …

Peter is already waiting.
He meets me halfway
on the path.
We duck into the trees,
always conscious of being seen.

I want to pour the whole mess out to him
but I am afraid it is too awful.
I cannot form my mouth around the words anyway
before he says,
“It’s gone all through the staff cabins like wildfire.”
“The fever?”
“The rumor.”

Peter still holds my arm.
It is very dark.
Perhaps I could not ask it
if I could see his face more clearly
or if he could see mine:
“What are they saying?”

“It could be just talk
and, keep in mind,
by foolish girls, some of them,
scullery maid and the char girl especially …”
“Yes, yes, go on.” I need to know if it is the truth
they are spreading,
or speculation.
“… and they might be jealous of your sister
because of her looks
and having so many fancy things to wear—”
I grab his shoulders. “Say it!”
“They say Estrella is…expecting.”

“They say your sister’s soiled goods
and now no dandy
or son of a steel man
will have her.” Peter gently takes my hands
from his shoulders.

The staff!
They know!
And, first thing in the morning,
they will tell the servants in the clubhouse
who come with the families.
Then those servants will whisper it to their employers.

Peter puts an arm around me as we walk.
“To the staff, it’s still just a rumor.
Estrella’s gone.
They can’t prove it.”
I nod. “Rumors are just as often false,
are they not?
Though her sudden retreat
might incriminate …
Oh, Peter, how can I make
every nosy old busybody
forget about Estrella?”

“Well, I’ll tell you,
by sunrise tomorrow,
every serving girl
is gonna bring this news
up those stairs with the breakfast tray”—
Peter steers me by the elbow—
“so you’d better think of something tonight.”

“I wish I could make them all go away.”

… If you catch it, we’ll all be dead by Sunday
.

By the time we reach the lantern light
of the clubhouse porch,
I know what to do.
The perfect distraction.
A way to make everyone scatter,
or at least lock themselves in their rooms.
Even the scandal-seeking vultures
will remove themselves from society with others.

Club members will be so consumed
with concern for themselves
and their own families,
suspicions about Estrella
will disperse
like fog off the lake.

“Peter, I know how to keep the truth a secret.”
“What can I do to help?”
I think for a moment. “Berries.
Pick some.
Or get preserves from the pantry.
Anything red.
Then meet me back here.”
Peter pauses. “What else?”
I take a deep breath. “A kiss for luck?”

Even before the kiss
my heart is beating so hard
that it scarcely leaves room for air.

Peter bolts
and I take off at a dead run
for the dam.

When I return,
Peter joins me on the road
just before the clubhouse.
I catch my breath
and place his hand on my face.
“How do I feel?”
“Damp?”
“Would you say ‘clammy’?”
“Maybe.”
“Hot?”
Peter starts to nod,
a look of understanding spreads across his face.
He holds up the berries in his handkerchief.
“You really think you can get away with this?”
“This will never work, right?”
“I don’t know. How good an actress are you?”
“Mmm.” I shake my head. “I must
try
, at least.”
I watch him carefully squeeze some berry juice
onto his palm.
When I reach for his hand,
he holds it away. “They’ll see the stain on your fingers.”
“Right. Mind my dress then, too.”

He dabs my cheeks.
“Hurry, I’m beginning to cool.”
He kisses my nose. “You smell delicious.”
“Do you think they’ll notice?”
He shrugs and wipes his hands on his handkerchief.

Our walk to the porch
is solemn;
our kiss too quick.

I stretch out on the porch floor. “Ring the bell.
And run.”
Peter rings the old ship’s bell over and over,
then darts into the shadows.

The door opens and I pretend to moan.

A voice says, “What’s this?”
then yells back into the clubhouse: “Get Mr. Whitcomb!”

Footsteps,
and the voice comes closer. “What happened to you?”
A hand pushes the hair from my face.
A gasp …
“Fever?”
Footsteps again.
And the bell ringing.

The voice cries, “Fever is here!
Scarlet fever!”

Bustling begins immediately.
I hear movement throughout the clubhouse
and an errand boy yelling “Fever!”
as he runs to the guest cottages.

I hear the clicking of little-dog nails
on the wooden porch floor.
That mongrel sniffs my cheeks,
getting ready for a lick, no doubt.

Father arrives. “My God, Celestia!”—
feels my forehead—“you’re burning up!”
His arms go under my shoulders and knees.
He grunts as he stands.
I let my free arm and neck go limp.

The voice says, “You can’t bring her in here!
It is contagious!”

“Stand aside, Louise,
or I’ll run you over.” Father is turning
to get us through the door.
I squint through my lashes.

Mrs. Godwin harrumphs,
and her little dog yelps
when she backs up and
steps on him.

From my window
I can see by moonlight
Mrs. Godwin handing an ornate birdcage into her carriage.
Her coat is over a dressing gown,
her hair still set in rags.

Others wait anxiously for the carriages to return,
sitting on steamer trunks
or hastily tied bundles of whatever
they think they cannot live without—
absurd
rich refugees.

I cannot believe my plan is working—
everyone is leaving.

Their grumbling floats up to my ears:
“… not the season for scarlet fever …”
“… cannot quarantine everybody …”
“… take her all the way to Pittsburgh in the carriage…?”
“… private train car…?”

Mother is frantic,
entreating Father to hurry in packing,
debating burning our clothes and bedding,
fretting about the haste of the drivers,
checking my forehead
every few minutes
while I will myself
to remain hot.
The lights are low
so I splash my cheeks quickly
when Mother leaves the room.
I cannot risk the smell of strawberries
riding in the carriage with us
all the way to Pittsburgh.
Mother returns
and pronounces me “cooler, but quite damp.”

I feel the unease of my secret.

I want to talk it over with Peter before we leave,
but our carriage is ready
and Mother would never let me out of her sight.
She clings
as Father carries me
and hurries us down the hall
as if we could stay one step ahead of death.