Of Lands High and Low, page 16
He frowned, scooping the last bit of gruel onto his spoon. “Why do they not come here? A bit of a change for them all.”
Isla’s eyes widened. She hadn’t even considered that her plan might be foiled by her uncle. Forcing herself not to react emotionally, she said, “I suppose that is an option. But you know what a strict schedule Margaret has them on, and I do wonder if that might be disturbed by their coming here. They are very particular about where they sleep.” She paused. “Margaret says Anne has been waking up and crying for an hour in the night.” Such a cry would certainly reverberate in the stone corridors of Braemore, and Uncle John disliked nothing so much as his sleep being disturbed.
“No, no,” he said with a hint of horror in his eyes. “Perhaps it is not the best idea.”
She relaxed slightly. “But I do not wish to leave you, of course, if you are feeling unwell. And with Mr. Westland gone so much.”
He waved a hand. “Mrs. Meldrum can take care of me well enough.” The housekeeper was quite good with him. She was never put off by his finicky wishes or abrupt manner.
“If you are sure,” she said slowly. “Of course I shan’t leave you entirely. I shall come visit when I am able.”
“When you need a reprieve from those little mischief-makers,” he said with an unstable chuckle. “Perhaps you can bring them here to visit one day.”
Isla swallowed, her guilt consuming her again at her uncle’s lightheartedness. “Of course. They would like that immensely.”
Graeme set his hat atop his head and bid farewell to Mrs. Gervy. He was pleased with the state of William and Katherine. Most of their scabs had sloughed off. They couldn’t be permitted to leave the house and return to normal until the last one was gone, though.
“Mr. MacNeill!”
Graeme turned toward the voice.
He faintly recognized the person he was looking at. He had seen the man’s face in the streets from time to time, a bit of curiosity in his eyes as he’d watched Graeme. But now, those eyes were filled with something else. Something urgent.
“How can I help ye, sir?”
“’Tis the Douglases. I wondered if ye might go in and see to them for a moment.”
Graeme hesitated. He had no desire to venture into Mr. Westland’s territory—and certainly not when they were so close to variolation day.
“I’ve tried to call for the surgeon, but he’s fair taken up with patients in Dalleck today.”
Graeme nodded. It didn’t seem right to leave a family with no care when he was fully capable of attending to them. “Where are they?”
“Follow me, sir,” said the man.
They passed a few short, stone houses and crossed the street. “Just in here.” The man opened the door and let Graeme in.
It was dark inside and cold. There was no fire in the grate and no one in sight.
“If ye’ll follow me,” the man said. He led Graeme out of the kitchen, and Graeme stooped under the doorway into a bedroom. A woman and a child lay in the bed, and a man kneeled beside them, hands clasped in front of him as though he might have been praying.
The man who had led Graeme there pulled on Graeme’s shirtsleeve and leaned toward him, speaking in a whisper. “They’re both with fever, and Henry is beside himself with worry.”
The man named Henry rose from his knees and hurried over to Graeme. “Can ye help them?” He looked as though he had been crying, based on the redness of his eyes. His cheeks, too, looked hot to the touch.
Graeme frowned. “When did their fevers set in?”
“Just this morning,” Henry said. “Though Martin was a bit fussier than usual last night when he went to sleep. He tossed and turned all night long, but I didna think anything of it until I saw him this morning.”
Graeme put a hand to the head of the young boy—surely no more than three years old. It was hot, and his eyes stared glassily ahead.
“I’ve got such a thirst,” said the mother in a weak voice, hand to her throat.
Graeme turned to the man who had brought him to the Douglases’. “Will ye go fetch her a cup of ale—” he paused. “What is yer name, sir?”
“Sam Trotter,” he said with a brief dip of the head, then he left the room.
Henry was looking down at his wife and child with a nervous hand covering his mouth. “’Tis naught but a harmless fever.” It sounded more like a plea than a statement of fact.
Graeme continued his examination of the child. He feared it was only the beginnings of what was to come.
“How does yer throat feel, Mrs. Douglas?” he asked.
She swallowed and winced, shaking her head.
Graeme looked up at Henry, grimacing. “I’m afraid ‘tis more than just a fever.”
Henry went rigid, his eyes trained on Graeme. “Ye mean…ye mean ‘tis smallpox?”
Graeme nodded slowly and rose to his feet, putting a hand on Mr. Douglas’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mr. Douglas.” The man was about to be thrown into weeks of caring for an ailing wife and child. And no one could foresee the outcome of their illnesses. He searched the man’s eyes and frowned. “Ye dinna look particularly robust yersel’.”
He shook his head and glanced at his child again. “’Tis worry, no more. Always makes me weak and fidgety.”
Graeme put a hand to the man’s head. “Nay, sir. Ye’re warm yersel’.”
Mr. Trotter returned with a cup of ale, which he took to Mrs. Douglas, assisting her so that she could drink it. It may have quenched her thirst, but her face crumpled in pain as she attempted to swallow.
“Ye said ye tried to call for Mr. Westland, Mr. Trotter?” Graeme asked.
“Aye,” he said, rising from the bedside. “I dinna think to see him today or tomorrow. There were three deaths in Dalleck yesterday.”
If Mr. Douglas was falling ill as well, the family would be left with no one to see to their needs. Graeme could help them today, but soon he would be taken up with tending to his own patients. As for Mr. Westland, even when he did return to Craigmuir, he would have a host of other patients to see. Graeme had little affection for the surgeon, but he felt for the man. He couldn’t be getting much sleep at all as things stood in the parish.
But he couldn’t leave the Douglases with no one to care for them. Only one solution presented itself to him, but it was certainly unusual.
“Mrs. Douglas,” he said. “Do ye think ye might walk with my assistance?”
The mere question seemed to send her deeper into feverishness.
“Whisht,” he said with a soothing voice. “’Tis nay bother.” His jaw shifted back and forth in thought, and he stared at her for a moment. She was a woman of small frame, thankfully. He looked to Mr. Douglas. “Ye’re going to be in bed just like them within a few hours, with no one to tend to all yer needs as the fever takes hold. Mr. Trotter,” he said. “Can ye carry the lad?”
Mr. Trotter nodded, looking a question at Graeme.
“I wish to bring them to Pitcairlie,” he said. “I can tend to all of ye there.” And when he wasn’t home, his servants could do it. The ones who had had smallpox or been variolated, at least. They might not like it, but everyone’s lives were being uprooted by the disease. It would require something more of all of them.
Mr. Trotter’s eyes widened, and Mr. Douglas regarded him with something not unlike admiration.
“But…but…we couldna ask such a thing of ye,” Mr. Douglas said.
“Ye didna ask it of me,” Graeme said. “I’ve offered it to ye mesel’. Come. I can carry yer wife and Mr. Trotter will carry the bairn.” He stepped over to the bed and leaned over toward Mrs. Douglas. “Dinna fash yersel’, Mrs. Douglas. I’m going to take ye to my own house, and yer husband and son along with ye.”
She nodded somewhat dazedly, and he slipped his arms under her back, squatting and hefting her into them. Mr. Trotter took the young Martin in his arms, and the three of them made their way out of the house and toward Pitcairlie.
Chapter Twenty
The pews were even more empty than the week prior, but instead of the persistent hush of whispers, somberness hung over the congregation like a heavy fog. Isla was on edge during the services, worrying that something might go wrong to prevent what was planned for the morrow. She noted a number of eyes on her over the course of the two-hour sermon by Mr. Malison, all of them people who had put their names on the list. People who would be variolated in the morning.
Uncle John had, for the first time in as long as Isla could remember, decided not to attend services. Guilt clawed at her. How could she leave him—and in such a way—when he was clearly feeling more ill than ever?
There was no palatable alternative, though. Graeme could simply not tend to the number of patients he had by himself. She would have to make a concerted effort to visit her uncle as often as she could.
On her walk home from church, she found Graeme waiting for her at their usual place. She had hoped she might see him, in truth. They had much to discuss.
“How was it?” he asked.
“Subdued,” she said. “I think everyone is feeling the weight of the death and disease. And Mr. Malison isn’t precisely equipped to lighten the mood.”
“Nay,” Graeme said with a wry smile.
“There is good news, however. Well, not precisely good—certainly not for Mr. Smith. His mother is ill, and he leaves tomorrow morning to go see to her. He doesn’t expect to be back for a few days.”
Graeme raised his brows. “Nay. ‘Tis no’ good news for him, but it does grant us a bit of a reprieve.”
She nodded.
“The Douglases have fallen ill,” Graeme said. “All three of them. And Mr. Westland too busy in Dalleck treating the ill to tend to them.”
She frowned and kicked at a rock. “The Douglases stand no chance of being looked in on when there is more money to be had elsewhere.”
“Sure, ’tis a difficult position he’s in,” Graeme said. “More patients than he has time for. He has to decide who to care for, for he canna attend to them all.”
“Or,” she said, “he might have listened to us and simply helped with the variolation before the disease took such strong hold.”
Graeme smiled and reached for her hair, rubbing a lock between his thumb and finger. “There’s that fire ye inherited with the hair.”
She let her head brush against his hand for a moment, shutting her eyes and breathing to calm herself. “I am sorry. I think it is all getting to me.”
“What is it?” he asked her, nudging her chin up with a gentle finger and seeking her eyes.
“I dislike deceiving my uncle. Especially when he is unwell. He didn’t attend church today.”
He dropped his hand and nodded his understanding. “Ye dinna have to do this, lass. I can manage the variolations mesel’.”
“What? All thirty-five of them?” she asked with unconcealed skepticism.
“Aye,” he said. “’Twill be a great task, I grant ye, but I am no’ so feeble as ye think me.” He smiled teasingly at her, and she needed it. Everything felt so heavy, so impossible, so serious. She felt as though she was standing atop the sea stack beyond the crag, shrouded in mist. On every side, roiling, white currents pushed and pulled each other, and there was nothing to do but jump into the tumultuous abyss below her if she wanted any chance of coming to shore.
Graeme alone felt like a lighthouse, a reminder that somewhere, if she could only swim long enough, there was steady, dry land nearby.
“You don’t wish for my help?” she challenged him.
“Och, lass. I can think of nothing I wish for more than yer company,” he said.
Her heart sped at his words.
“But my wishes are only a wee part of it,” he said. “I wouldna wish for ye to neglect yer uncle. Or lie to him. ‘Tis as I’ve told ye—let the blame fall on me.”
She shook her head vehemently. “No. It is only a matter of time until it all comes out.” She took in a large breath. “I wouldn’t be telling the truth if I said I have no fear at all of what might happen when that occurs, but”—she put a fist over her heart—“I feel it, Graeme. What we’re doing is right.”
He stared at her a moment. “Verra well, then.” He glanced back at Pitcairlie. “I came from tending to the Douglases just now. I brought them to Pitcairlie, since they had no one to see to their needs. They’ve terrible fevers, all three.”
“They are at Pitcairlie?” Isla asked in surprise.
“Aye.”
“But…but…”
He shrugged. “Heaven knows there is room enough and to spare. I dinna ken what my uncle was thinking when he built the place. ‘Twas as if he thought he might host the King himself and all his court. But bringing the Douglases has me thinking.”
She waited for him to continue.
“I’ve known a great deal of misgiving, lass, ever since Peter Baxter took ill.”
She reached a hand out to him. “You cannot blame yourself for that, Graeme.”
He looked away. “I assure ye, I can.”
She began to reply, but he put a hand up. “But leaving that matter aside, I still worry what might happen if one of the people we variolate should do what wee Willie did. These people are in great need, in the most difficult part of the year. I couldna blame them if they felt the need to set about a few tasks for the sake of their families—to earn some money to see them through. And if the entire village was variolated or, like ye, had survived the disease, ‘twould no’ matter if they did. But there are plenty of people who would be put in danger by such a thing in this situation. We canna allow it to happen.”
She chewed on the tip of her thumb. “I quite see what you mean. I can imagine few things more awful than knowing that, while intending to do good, we had made things worse—spreading the disease we are attempting to stop. But what do you propose?”
“What I propose,” he said with a large breath, “is to turn Pitcairlie into a hospital.”
Isla blinked. “A hospital,” she repeated.
He nodded. “We do the variolations there tomorrow, and have everyone stay there afterward. We can ensure that they dinna leave the first few days when they’re feeling naught but a bit of pain in their arms from the incision. I have nearly enough beds to fit everyone, and we can make makeshift beds for the others. Instead of variolating everyone under the cover of night and risking discovery, we can do it at Pitcairlie. Instead of going to everyone’s houses, day in and day out, I can tend to them there. And ye can do so, too, of course.”
She looked at him, searching his eyes.
“What is it?” he said. “Ye dinna care for the idea?”
“No,” she said. “It isn’t that. I just…it is very kind of you.”
He chuckled. “Or just a wee bit lazy. ‘Twill be much easier for me, ye ken.”
He might joke and make light of what he was proposing, but Isla wasn’t fooled. He was welcoming into his home the very people who had looked askance at him since his arrival. And he was consigning himself to their constant care. These were people Isla knew, but Graeme did not, and despite having sworn off the practice of medicine, he was willingly taking upon himself the task of salvaging as many of their lives as he could.
She could have kissed him for it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Graeme spent all of Monday morning caring for the Douglases and instructing for the preparation of Pitcairlie for the sudden influx of “visitors.”
Mr. Douglas seemed to be a day behind his wife and child in symptoms, as his throat was now paining him as his wife’s had the day before. Their son, Martin, had the worst fever of the three, and Graeme spent a great deal of time bathing his head and body with cool water.
He asked the servants in the house whether they had either been variolated against smallpox or had the disease itself in the past. Thankfully, Uncle David had apparently taken his staff from outside the area, so all were able to respond affirmatively to the questions save one. She was offered the option of being variolated or returning home to protect herself and her family. She chose to return home, and Graeme did not attempt to persuade her otherwise.
Isla had taken on the task of informing the villagers of the new plan. In order to avoid drawing attention to what they were doing, each family had been instructed to arrive at Pitcairlie in fifteen-minute intervals.
Isla arrived a quarter hour before the first family.
“How are the Douglases?” she asked as he took her cloak.
He let out a sigh. “I’ll ken more in a few days. I’ve left them with the maid for now. Did ye come from Braemore or Kyntire House?” he asked her as he took her cloak.
“From Kyntire,” she said. “I went there this morning. My uncle seemed to be feeling better than he was yesterday, but”—she shook her head—“I felt so very awful letting him think I would be spending my days at Margaret’s.”
Graeme finished hanging the cloak on the hook in the entry hall and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, lass. What ye’re doing is more difficult than what I am—trying to balance the good of people who wish for conflicting things. ‘Tis the benefit of everyone disliking ye and expecting the worst of ye—ye canna hurt them.”
“Not everyone dislikes you,” she said with a smile.
“I’m more grateful for that than ye ken. I wouldna be here still if it were no’ for ye.”
“You mean if it weren’t for my uncle and his stubbornness,” she said.
“Nay, lass. I came here for one purpose only: to set this house in order and sell it. And I may have used what yer uncle insisted upon as an excuse to stay, but the truth is, I could have had Atcheson handle it all. In my heart, I think I kent ‘twas ye that kept me here.”
Her smile faded, and she looked at him intently. He let his hand slide down her shoulder along her arm, until it reached her hand, which he picked up along with her other one.
He looked down at the small fingers in his. He hadn’t planned to tell her his feelings, but he hadn’t planned on any of this. That was just it: Isla Findlay made him want to do things he never thought he would want to do. She had taken all of the goals he had made for himself and forced him to dig deeper, to truly understand whether he had chosen them well.
