The widow's war Page 9

  16

  The tea and cheese were gone and the second loaf cut into when Lyddie looked out her window and saw her cousin Betsey approaching. She had the door wide when Betsey reached it, and as Betsey pitched straight into Lyddie’s chest Lyddie found herself embracing her cousin more warmly than was her habit.

  “Cousin!” Betsey cried. “Do you know how glad I am to see you standing? Your daughter didn’t know a thing of your condition, but neither did she seem inclined to come and find out; I said very well, then, if no one else will take the trouble I’ll go and see what ails her.”

  “And why should something ail me?”

  “Why, when you weren’t at meeting—”

  “Today is the Sabbath?”

  “Heaven help me! I’ve got you dead on the ground and all you want is an almanac.” She dropped into a chair. “Must I beg for a cup of tea?”

  “Begging won’t help you. I’ve nothing but water from the well, and bread and butter.”

  Betsey’s eyebrows, which had been nestled into the puffy flesh above her eyes, shot up under the edge of her cap. “So. ’Tis true, then. He’s packed you off with nothing.”

  “He’s not packed me off. I went away of my own will.”

  “And does he provide?”

  “He does not.”

  “Then ’tis all the same kettle. You must go back, Cousin. At once.”

  Lyddie stood up. “Would you have that water? A slice of bread? Or perhaps you’d care for some dried herring?”

  “Herring! Think you to live like the Indians? Or do you shock me with such a thing in hope of getting me to stock your pantry? And me with Shubael off in Canada, conserving daily against his delay or demise, living in constant state of penury? This is not to say I wouldn’t be glad to take you in if you could make your keep, but I can’t afford to feed you for nothing. Perhaps if you were to ask your son—”

  “I don’t ask you to feed me or to house me. I came here because I wished to be here. I’ll make my way.”

  “How?”

  As Lyddie had no answer to that she said nothing.

  “Oh, I see how you are, Cousin. I know you better than some others. They have in the past disagreed with me, but I’ve long recognized a stubborn side to your nature. And pride. Pride is a luxury no woman can afford; you must go to your son and ask forgiveness for your intractable behavior. Tell him you will stay with me. In truth, my brother comes so seldom now, and with Shubael away, I’d be glad of the company. I’m quite sure if you asked your son he would provide for you at my home the same as he would have provided for you had you stayed under his roof. My brother puts down fifty pounds a year for Aunt Goss—”

  “My son wouldn’t pay you fifty shillings.”

  “Fifty shillings! I can’t feed a pig for fifty shillings! What do you think I’m made of?”

  “I don’t think you’re made of anything, Cousin Betsey. You may rest easy. Thank you for coming. And please tell my daughter I’m not ailing.”

  “Shall we pray before I go? As you missed meeting?”

  “I’ll tend to my prayers in the usual way. Good-bye, Cousin.”

  The puffy eyes widened, no doubt in suspicion of Lyddie’s usual way of tending to her prayers, but in truth, once Betsey had gone, Lyddie was stabbed with some compunction as she considered the degree of her own neglect. She dropped to her knees and tried to send up an apology for ignoring the Lord’s Day, but as she struggled for the proper humble words she was stabbed by something stronger than compunction, which gripped her first in the stomach and then rolled outward through her body until it had melted all the strength from her limbs.

  Lyddie was hungry.

  She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet and went to the pantry. She unwrapped the cloth that had contained the herring and found one remaining. She picked it up and chewed without pleasure, but after a few minutes the sensation in her stomach eased. She unwrapped the remaining bread and considered. If she baked two loaves once a week…She rewrapped the bread. Her cousin was, of course, right. She had little choice but to go to her son and ask forgiveness and hope it would go better than her recent effort with God. Lyddie looked down at the remains of the leathery herring with distaste. How was it, she wondered, that the darker peoples so enjoyed this food? Or did they enjoy it? What choice did the slave have? And as to the Indians, they no doubt went after the fish because it was plentiful and accessible. Because they would rather eat than starve. As Lyddie would rather eat than starve. As she would rather eat herring than beg forgiveness.

  Lyddie crossed the road and cut through the thick brush to a lonely stretch of the mill creek. It was not as dark with fish as the upper, more congested part of the stream, but as she waited they came, three or four dusty shadows at a time. Lyddie tucked up her skirt, and gripping the tow sack in one hand, knelt down above one of the calm pockets at the edge of the stream. The first pass netted nothing but weeds, as did the second and third and onward until she stopped counting. She sat back to rest and watched the stream. In the protected pool where she’d wildly plunged her sack the herring circled and zigzagged continuously, but directly in the middle of the current the downstream push was so strong that the fish were brought to a temporary standstill. Lyddie edged onto a rock that jutted out into the stream, waited for just that minute of stasis, and thrust in her hands. They closed around the fish; she brought her hands into the air, but the fish torqued violently and flipped free into the stream. The second fish escaped on its way to the sack; the third she dropped into the pouch of her skirt and wrapped it in its folds until it stopped writhing, then transferred it to the sack. She caught two more, and soaked and exhausted, sat back.

  So, she could fish. And come summer she would have cabbage in her garden, and by fall she’d harvest the apples from her orchard and pick the plums that would spring out on the scrubby brush behind her house and by winter she would have stored and dried her squash and pumpkin and beans. Lyddie sat in the quiet wood, for once thinking of what God had provided, not what he’d taken; she felt herself drawn close to prayer until the thought struck her that she was now in a greater state of sin than she had been that morning: she’d been fishing on the Sabbath.

  17

  The fish shrunk to nothing over the fire and tasted like one of Edward’s dirty stockings. If she didn’t wish to sink to the true poverty food of clams or lobsters she’d have to sell something. Lyddie walked back and forth from room to room, trying to choose the best thing to give up. Although Mehitable had been meticulous about returning her linens and clothing, she had not sent back the pewter or the looking glass, which left the tea table or the candle stand remaining. She had nearly decided on the table when the door trembled under someone’s fist.

  “Widow Berry!”

  She opened the door to the Indian. Every muscle in his body was clenched, his head and shoulders already half turned, ready to run. “She’s in a fit. I’m for the doctor. Will you come?”

  Lyddie stood, unmoving, for the space of second. “Come!” he rapped out.

  Lyddie caught up some clean linen napkins and went, the Indian already out of sight by the time she reached the road.

  She rapped at the Cowett door and swung it open without waiting for an answer. A light smoke hung in the air, leaving the house in an afternoon gloom, which made the scene in the tiny sickroom, the one nearest the keeping room fire, seem half surreal. The woman lay twitching on the bed, her eyes rolled back, her teeth clenched, her muscles rigid, the sheet that covered her slimy with vomit. Lyddie folded down the sheet, rested a hand on the woman’s brow, and felt the searing fever. She left the room after cold water, and when she returned from the well she dipped her napkin and began to wipe the woman down.

  Gradually the twitching eased; Rebecca Cowett’s mouth and eyes relaxed, but the body stayed rigid and the eyes closed.

  “Mrs. Cowett?”

  She moaned. The chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow gusts. Lyddie found a cup, raised the woman’s hea
d, and helped her to drink, then eased her back down, listening to her moan with each movement. Lyddie returned to the keeping room and hunted the shelves for brandy, but found no spirit of any kind. Had the Indian drunk it all? Or in an effort not to drink it had he kept it away? Lyddie sniffed. Something was cooking, something rich and greasy and gamy and delicious. She went to the pot and looked in. Stew. With great chunks of dark meat and beans and potatoes and onions and carrots. Lyddie returned to the bed and sat until Sam Cowett arrived with Dr. Fessey.

  The Indian moved to the far side of the bed and knelt down. “Beck,” he said. “Beck.”

  Rebecca’s eyelids flicked open and then crunched back together as if in pain. Dr. Fessey stepped into the room. He’d attended all of Lyddie’s sick children with poor result and she had long harbored ambivalent feelings toward him, but he now looked so gray and shriveled, and he nodded to her with such grave courtesy that she felt the full weight of her previous foolishness. She rose and gave her chair to the doctor. He set his bag on the floor and sat down. He uncovered the patient and set to work listening to her chest, looking in her mouth and ears, palpating her neck and abdomen. Each time Rebecca was touched or moved she moaned, but she kept her eyes closed.

  He sat back and looked at Lyddie and then at the Indian. “How long has she been unwell?”

  “A few days. No more.”

  “What’s she complained of?”

  “Headache. A great headache. Can’t bear light or noise. Neck pain. She won’t eat. Today she vomited. Then the fits came.”

  Fessey nodded. “Your wife has brain fever, Mr. Cowett. Naught to do but rest and quiet, but you’ll need someone to tend her.”

  “I’ll tend my wife.”

  The doctor looked skeptically at Lyddie. “Very well, then. I’ll leave some laudanum with you. The pain in her head will be severe. Twenty drops to an ounce of brandy, no more. You might try a catnip tea every third hour and an onion poultice to the feet to draw the fever. And fluids only. Do you understand?”

  The Indian looked at him. The doctor looked at Lyddie. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a small vial.

  “Twenty drops only. Do you understand?”

  The Indian made no answer.

  The doctor leaned toward Lyddie. “You’re a kind woman to come. Before you go, you might look to the poultice.” He stood up. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Good afternoon, Mr. Cowett. Good afternoon, Widow Berry.”

  As soon as the doctor left Sam Cowett said, “I’ve no brandy.”

  “Nor I,” Lyddie said. “Let me tend your wife while you go.”

  “I’ll tend her.” He left the bed and reached into a pot on the shelf, pulled out some coins, and handed them to her. He picked up the cloth Lyddie had used and began to bathe his wife’s flesh with a practiced intimacy that made Lyddie flush. She hurried out. Once in the yard Lyddie counted out the money—three shillings—more hard cash than she’d held in her hand in some time.

  Sears’s store was a mile to the east; Lyddie covered the ground on foot as fast as she might have done riding pillion. She stepped into the room and Caleb Sears looked up, then down, then up. After a time he said, “Good evening to you, Widow Berry.”

  “Good evening,” Lyddie said. “I’d like two pints of brandy if you’d be so kind.”

  Sears didn’t move.

  “Is there a difficulty?” Lyddie asked.

  Sears cleared his throat. “No. I mean to say, yes. I mean to say, there is some difficulty with the account. Your son—”

  Lyddie reached in her pocket and dropped the coins on the table. “If my son is unable to settle his account I should be happy to assist him.”

  “No, no, Widow Berry,” Sears said. “I meant only to say…There’s absolutely no need…You said…a pint?”

  “I said two.”

  He hurried away and came back with two bottles. He picked one of the coins off the counter and pushed back the others.

  When Lyddie returned she found the dirty sheet replaced with a clean one and Cowett sitting with his hands loose at his sides, staring down at his wife.

  “It hurts her,” he said. He pointed to her head. “I touch her and she twitches.”

  “Perhaps best to leave her alone.” Lyddie fetched a cup and mixed the tincture with the brandy, brought it to the bed, and signaled the Indian to raise his wife’s head.

  Rebecca’s eyes opened and she stared at Lyddie a half second before they closed.

  “Here, Beck, drink,” Cowett said.

  She drank and Cowett eased her back down.

  Lyddie went into the keeping room and rooted out a cheesecloth and bowl. She ladled stew over the cloth and strained the liquid into the bowl, trying not to inhale the enticing smell. She returned to the little room and handed the bowl to the Indian, but when he went to take it from her, his hand shook.

  “Mr. Cowett,” Lyddie said. “Let me feed your wife while you go into the other room and eat some of that stew.”

  To her surprise, he obeyed. It seemed to Lyddie he stayed gone a long time, but when he returned his hand was steady. Lyddie stood up and removed the change from her pocket. The Indian pointed to it. “Yours.”

  “No.”

  “’Tisn’t half a day’s nursing.”

  “No, I cannot.”

  “Shames you, does it?”

  “I can’t afford shame, Mr. Cowett. But what little I’ve done this day I’ve done as a return on your wife’s kindness.”

  He looked at her. “’Tis true, then? Clarke’s struck you off?”

  Lyddie didn’t answer. She left the room, climbed into the Cowetts’ cellar, and retrieved the last of the winter’s store of onions. She sliced them up and laid them out in another of her own napkins, then returned to the patient and bound the napkins to her feet. Sam Cowett never looked up from his wife’s face or the bed or the floor, whatever it was that he stared at so hard.

  In the morning Lyddie found Rebecca Cowett much the same and her husband much altered, his eyes hollowed, his jaw lumpy, his hair loose, his linen shirt stained with his wife’s vomit, or the broth, or the brandy, or all three together. He stood up the minute Lyddie reached the bed and studied her face, as if it would tell him how his wife might do.

  “Have you seen change?” she asked.

  “Another fit. Less pained.” He pointed to the laudanum.

  “Does she speak?”

  “She mumbles. Moans. She looks at nothing, at me as if I’m nothing.”

  Lyddie rested a hand on Rebecca’s forehead and thought it felt cooler. She felt the sheets. Damp. “She’s sweated out some of her fever. If you have fresh linens I’ll change them.”

  Cowett pointed to a six-board chest in the other room. Lyddie opened it and found one set only; someone would need to do a washing. Lyddie wondered if a woman from the Indian village might be got to help out, but the little she’d seen of the Cowetts she’d never seen them with anyone from the Indian nation, and she also remembered his words to the doctor, and to her: “I’ll tend her.”

  Lyddie looked again at Sam Cowett and decided he wouldn’t make it many more nights through. “Best you sleep a while and let me tend to your wife,” Lyddie said. “You can’t afford to sicken yourself.”

  “And you can’t afford another day’s kindness. If you stay you take your pay.”

  Lyddie hesitated. “I would take dinner.”

  He stared at her, nodded. After a minute he said, “Will she die?”

  “Best you ask Dr. Fessey.”

  “I ask you.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She might?”

  “She’s very ill.”

  He stood up and walked to the door. “If she looks for me—”

  “I’ll wake you.”

  He left the room.

  Lyddie waited until she heard the sound of bed ropes strafing and boots hitting the floor, then got up and went into the keeping room.

  Stew.

  18

  The docto
r appeared at noon, drawing Sam Cowett with him into the sickroom.

  “Widow Berry,” the doctor said, as if surprised to see her still there. He looked at his patient, palpated her neck, felt her pulse. He opened one of her eyelids and dropped it closed. “Non compos mentis, eh?”

  Lyddie took a quick look at Cowett; his face had gone dark, and he glared at the doctor.

  “I don’t know if she comprehends,” Lyddie said quickly. “She doesn’t speak or move except to flinch if we move her. She’s had no more fits or vomits. She swallows the tincture.”

  The doctor peered at Lyddie. “Yes, well, you seem quite in touch with the situation.”

  “Mr. Cowett has hired me to nurse.”

  The doctor swung around to the Indian. “Then you’ve got her in good hands, I’d say, Mr. Cowett. Quite the lucky situation for you. All right, then, everything seems as good as can be expected—”

  “Will she die?” Cowett asked.

  The doctor drummed the edge of the bed tick several seconds, then shoved his hands between his vest buttons, as if to keep them still. “Well, my good fellow, I’d have to say yes, I expect she will do. I’m sorry to say it, but as you ask, I feel I must. Not a thing for it other than what the good widow’s doing; and I wouldn’t exactly give her up; we deal with more than what we see in cases like this, you know. The body keeps its secrets; you might say ’tis a good sign the heat has left her, but she’s in what we might call a comatose delirium. That we don’t take as a good sign. Altogether—”

  “How long?”

  The doctor leaned over, lifted Rebecca’s arm, and dropped it. She screwed up her eyes and flinched. “You see? She responds to pain yet. We may take that as a good sign.”