Of Lands High and Low, page 20
He took her hand in his with a half-smile. “Nay bother, lass. I canna deny the pleasure I took in seeing the fire come out of ye—and the surprise on their faces.”
She shook her head and buried it in his chest. “I have tried all my life to smother that fire, but I seem to be getting worse at it, not better.”
He let his mouth rest against her hair and breathed it in, eyes closed. “Dinna put out the fire inside ye. ‘Tis a valuable thing, fire—one of the greatest gifts God has given us. Control it, aye, but dinna extinguish it.” He kissed the top of her head. “Besides, if ye hadna said something, I might have been tempted to. But in truth, I wish ye hadna come out of the room at all. Ye ken what Mr. Smith will do now.”
She gave a great sigh and pulled back to look up at him. “Yes. I would be surprised if he wasn’t on his way to Braemore even now.”
“What do ye think yer uncle will do?”
She gave a shrug of the shoulders. “I hardly know what to expect. Nothing good, certainly.”
He looked at the door and frowned. “And apparently I am to be brought before the magistrate if anyone is harmed.”
Isla bit her lip. “I suppose it is possible. My uncle is on close terms with him, and I imagine he could persuade him to take up a suit against you if he truly wanted to—even if only to frighten you. But, I think Mr. Smith is grasping at whatever he can. It must terrify him to think that kirk influence is weakening amongst the villagers.”
“Well, he canna hope more than I that no’ a single person here is harmed.” He looked to the drawing room, where voices still carried through the door. “Soon we shall see the fevers begin. Tomorrow, even. Are ye ready, lass? It willna be pleasant.”
“But we will be together,” she said.
“Aye,” he said, holding her cheek in his hand. “We will be together.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Graeme was right. A few of the fevers began the very next day—six days since the variolations at Pitcairlie and almost four weeks to the day since the Gervys’ variolation. The mood there shifted palpably. The games that had been enjoyed for the past few days were played no more, save for a few children carrying on at hide-and-seek, seemingly oblivious to what the sickening of their peers meant for them.
Isla watched as nearly all of the lightheartedness she had seen in Graeme over the last few days disappeared almost entirely. She thought she knew why.
For all he had brushed off the encounter with Mr. Smith and Mr. Westland, he couldn’t hide the anxiousness in his eyes every time he checked the villagers for signs of smallpox. And Mr. Smith’s threat of holding Graeme responsible for anything that might go amiss couldn’t but affect someone with as troubled a past as Graeme. It was a great weight on his shoulders, and Isla knew that she had set the weight there herself. And now, she could do precious little to help carry it.
She had told herself she would agree to any task Graeme might give her—she would do anything to take some of his burden. When he asked her to look in on the Douglases as he saw to the villagers’ variolation wounds, she promptly agreed.
They had been housed away from the others in the last room in the east corridor out of a desire to keep them away from those who might be susceptible to the full-blown disease the family was struggling through.
When Isla entered, she paused on the threshold, her breath sticking in her throat. It was too familiar, the sight before her, and for a moment, she could almost imagine herself in the bed. People looked eerily similar to one another when their faces were swollen and covered in blisters. The Gervys had never experienced such spread. Their faces had still been recognizable under the few pocks scattered upon them.
But the Douglases had not been so fortunate. The three of them lay next to each other, the child Martin in the middle. If Isla hadn’t been told who she would be tending to, she wasn’t certain she would have recognized any of them.
The curtains were all open, allowing a great deal of light in the room. Isla had hated how dark her room had been during her own illness. Once the splitting aching of her head had dissipated with the fever, she had craved light. It was too easy to believe she was hovering between life and death when, with her eyelids stuck shut, the world was black.
But now, as she looked on the Douglases, she wondered if perhaps the darkness was meant for the caregiver as much as the patients—it was painful to see the ravages of smallpox so clearly in the light.
She swallowed down the emotion in her throat and approached the bed, bowl and rag in hand. She wet the rag in the vinegar mixture, squeezing out the excess. Her hand hovered over the bed as she stared down into Mr. Douglas’s face. To set anything against the blisters went contrary to instinct—and her own experience. But she knew that what she was doing was for his benefit. He wasn’t conscious now, but when he did wake, he would be driven nigh unto madness with the desire to scratch at his scabbing blisters—a desire which, if succumbed to, would only increase his pain.
She touched the rag to his cheek as gently as she could. In the few places that were free of red blisters, his skin was pallid and sickly. She imagined, too, that if the inflammation were gone, he would look thinner. Graeme said they had barely eaten during the first few days they were at Pitcairlie. It was impossible to say whether eating while blisters lined the throat was preferable to starving.
Vague memories of being tended to in her own misery flashed through Isla’s mind. Whether the doctor had been unaware that, beneath her closed eyes and still body, she was awake, or whether he simply chose to ignore it, she was unsure. She only knew that she had wanted so badly for someone to tell her whether there was an end to her misery in sight.
“You are doing wonderfully, Mr. Douglas,” she said softly. “You are fighting and, though you are in pain now, you will not always be. You will win, and you will feel normal.” Even if he didn’t look like his past self.
“Was he talking to ye?”
Isla quickly blinked away her tears. She must not have heard Graeme’s entrance. He came up behind her, and she felt him lean over her should to peer at Mr. Douglas.
“No.” She set the rag on the edge of the bowl and tried to sniff softly. She didn’t want Graeme to know what a weak nurse she was—for him to rethink the duties he was giving her.
“Och, lass.” Graeme knelt down beside her and turned her shoulders toward him, tipping her chin up with a knuckle as he often did. “’Tis taxing on ye, tending to them.”
She shook her head and mustered a smile. “No. I want to do it. It is merely a matter of accustoming myself. It shan’t be so difficult with the others. They shall have it more mildly, shall they not?”
He nodded. “But I dinna wish ye to hurt, Isla. If ‘tis too painful…”
“I can do it,” she said determinedly. “I only feel bad that I am not a stronger nurse. I am so easily affected, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve told ye before, ‘tis no’ a weakness, lass. ‘Tis true it makes it hard for ye, but for yer patients, ‘tis a blessing. Ye understand them in a way I canna. Ye ken what it feels to be in the worst of it. Ye ken what will help them most—what hurts and what aids. If I had it mesel’, I would rather be cared for by ye than by someone like Mr. Westland.” He looked at her another moment then pulled her into his arms.
She shut her eyes and breathed deeply, allowing his physical strength and his words to inspire her own inner strength. He was right. She might suffer with the people she helped care for, but perhaps that was what made her a good candidate as a nurse. And when the patients recovered, her joy would be all the greater, having passed through the difficulties with them.
The following day was Sunday, and, having seen what Saturday evening foretold, Isla arrived at Pitcairlie early on the Sabbath. She found Graeme rushing out of one room and into another, damp rags slung over his arm.
“No’ a single person without the fever,” he said, handing her a rag.
“Margaret too?” she asked with a foreboding in the pit of her stomach.
“Aye. No’ as bad as the others, but the bairns tossed and turned all night.”
“I should have stayed,” Isla said, regretting having allowed Graeme to persuade her back to Kyntire House.
“Nay, lass,” he said. “Ye ken I dinna wish to part from ye every evening, but ‘tis better to take care. Ye’ll go to church today too.”
She shook her head vehemently. “I couldn’t possibly. Not when everyone is in need.”
“Ye must,” he said. “’Twill send a needed message to the Kirk—that ye havna completely succumbed to my wicked ways.” He gave a crooked smile. “That ye can still be faithful even if ye’ve gone contrary to them in this thing.”
He was right—again—but Isla didn’t relish the prospect of attending church. Would her uncle be there? She hadn’t yet heard from him—something that she was both grateful for and worried by. She had told him she would visit him, but the week had been so full that she hadn’t managed it. Had he given up on her entirely? What would he say if he knew that Margaret was at Pitcairlie?
Graeme sent her in his carriage, accompanied by one of the maids, and Isla looked on the kirk with apprehension, her heart thudding inside her as she watched a few people file in.
With all of the people at Pitcairlie and so many others ill, the congregation was pitiful indeed. Families of the sick had been told to keep in their homes, and rather than the usual hundred, there were barely forty people in attendance. None of them conversed with one other as they waited for Mr. Malison to begin the service. Isla waited in the Findlay box pew with fiddling hands, her gaze flying to the door with every entrance. But Uncle John never came, and she worried more than ever. He must still be ill.
Her guilt gnawed at her, but how to address it, she didn’t know. How was she to care for both Uncle John and Margaret and the children at the same time? Had she made the wrong choice to encourage Margaret to variolate?
The presence of the Gervys—and Helen’s ready smile—provided a welcome bright spot to an unnerving church experience. It was precisely the encouragement Isla needed, seeing the healthy Gervy children in the pews with both mother and father beside them.
But Isla was keenly aware of Mr. Smith’s eyes on her. She couldn’t tell from his expression whether her presence pleased or displeased him. Mr. Malison, too, seemed to watch her more than usual. Discomfort and guilt warred within her, making it difficult to listen to the sermon.
She closed her eyes and pleaded with God to assist her, sinner that she was. Surely He understood that she was sincerely trying to do what she thought He would have her do? Did her intentions matter to Him, even if she was misguided in how she applied them? Whatever He thought of her methods, she asked Him to help both her and Graeme in their care for the villagers of Craigmuir. If the two of them were wrong, surely the villagers shouldn’t suffer for it. They merely wanted to protect their families. Had Christ Himself not spent some of His last moments ensuring that His mother was cared for? It was that same sentiment that drove what was happening at Pitcairlie.
She felt a degree of peace rest upon her, relaxing her shoulders, and bringing a few tears to her eyes.
She found Helen after the close of the sermon, and they moved to the corner of the room where they could be more private. Helen was anxious for the news at Pitcairlie. As Isla described to her what things were like there, Helen’s brows wrinkled and drew together.
“Can I help?” she asked. “‘Tis no’ a danger to me, ye ken.”
Isla took her hand. “Oh, Helen. You are already dealing with the censure of the Kirk. I couldn’t ask you to embroil yourself further.”
Helen shrugged her shoulders. “Ye’re no’ asking me, are ye? I’m volunteering meself—and the bairns too, if ye need us. Even if ‘tis only for one or two hours each day. Let us help, Isla. After all ye’ve done for us. And Mr. MacNeill as well.”
Isla hesitated, rubbing her fingers along Helen’s worn hands. She had no desire to heap condemnation from the Kirk on any more people. But it was too late for that, surely. Nearly half of Craigmuir was in that position. And the truth was, she and Graeme needed Helen’s help. They would need all the help they could muster.
“Perhaps you could come tomorrow for a short while. Graeme insisted I come here, but in truth, he can ill spare me.”
Helen nodded vigorously as William appeared at her side, tugging on her skirts. “We will come tomorrow in the morning,” she said.
“Thank you, Helen. Truly.”
Helen sent Isla a warm smile as her son pulled her away and toward Katherine and his father.
Mr. Smith approached Isla next, the ever-watchful look in his eyes present as he greeted her. “I am glad to see ye here, Miss Findlay. I hope this means that ye’ve reconsidered yer decisions and wish to absolve yerself of sin.”
“I came to worship, sir,” Isla said. “I return to Pitcairlie as soon as the services have concluded.”
His mouth pinched together in displeasure. “And what do ye imagine God makes of yer worship when ye’re engaged in something so contrary to His will?”
“I imagine,” she said slowly, “that perhaps we understand His will less than we imagine. Did Christ not heal the sick, sir? And does He not instruct us to do as we have seen Him do?”
Mr. Smith opened his mouth to reply, but she had no desire to argue a point with him that they were bound to disagree upon. She instead turned the conversation to a new avenue, her need for news overpowering her reluctance to discuss family matters with him.
“Have you any word from my uncle, sir? I had expected to see him here today.”
Another censuring glance. “I attempted to pay him a visit the other day, but he was no’ feeling well enough to receive visitors. I intend to try again tomorrow.”
“I see,” she said, feeling the condemnation at the knowledge that he knew more of her uncle than she. “I thank you. If you will excuse me now, I believe we are to begin the service again.”
Isla needed to make a visit to her uncle—and soon.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Graeme knew he had done the right thing to encourage Isla to attend church, but he felt her absence acutely as he hurried from room to room. A few of the Pitcairlie servants assisted him and one or two of the villagers who had survived smallpox in the past, but they peppered him with questions, and it made him sorely miss Isla. He had taken for granted how astute she had been in anticipating his needs and stepping in without being asked to do so.
When she returned from church, she looked nearly as exhausted as he felt. Troubled, too.
But there was no time for him to inquire after the experience. The Douglas boy was in need of attention—one of his wounds was looking like it might fester—and there were various villagers complaining of thirst. The cook had made broth for them to partake of, but they required help to do so, weak as they were with fever.
Graeme tended to Martin Douglas, trusting that Isla would manage to handle the others while he did so. Martin showed signs of a fever, a warm head and a tendency to constantly shift as he tried to find a comfortable position. Graeme bathed the open, angry wound on the boy’s arm in a lime wash he had obtained from the apothecary, cringing as Martin cried out in pain.
If Graeme couldn’t stop the infection, there was no telling what the result would be. Most often, smallpox victims died in the second week of the illness. But he had known others to die later from infected wounds ill-cared for.
The thought of Martin succumbing to such a thing brought Graeme’s heart into his throat and his pulse into a panic. Of course he had considered the possibility that someone might die while under his care. It was a thought he had managed to smother during the days between variolation and the onset of the illness but which he could no longer avoid. The death of his father under his care had paralyzed him for months. How would he manage the death of an innocent child?
He did what he could for the wound then pulled out his father’s rosary from his sporran, clasping it in his hands at the edge of the bed and sending up prayers as his fingers moved along the beads. He ended with a final plea that his efforts would be rewarded—not for his own sake, but for the sake of the boy. Martin had so much more life to live.
Graeme’s eyes flew open. Mr. Douglas had taken hold of his hand and was looking at him with feverish but sincere eyes. “Thank ye,” he said in a croaking voice.
Graeme struggled against the emotion rising in his throat and could only nod. Mr. Douglas let his head fall back onto the pillow, and soon his eyes closed again, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.
Graeme rubbed at his stiff neck as he left the room, taking a slow pace along the corridor. He had hardly seen Isla all day, and things were only just beginning. They had another week—perhaps even two more—of days like this. How would they survive it?
He found her at the bedside of the Humes, seated in a chair but leaning forward with her elbows on the bed, hand holding Alexander’s. She looked up at Graeme’s entrance, and he came over to sit beside her, bringing a chair with him.
“How is Martin?” she asked, and the worry he felt reflected back at him in her eyes.
He lifted his shoulders. “Only time will tell. I’ve done what I can.”
She reached her free hand to Graeme’s, clasping it firmly. He stared down at it—the slight, slender hand and its pitted scars. He brought it to his lips, holding it there for the comfort and warmth it brought him. When he opened his eyes, Isla was biting her lip, staring down at her lap.
“My uncle was not at church. I worry for him, Graeme.”
“And he hasna written,” Graeme said, letting their hands drop to his lap.
“I don’t think he knows,” she said, but there was no relief in her words, only guilt. “Mr. Smith attempted to visit him the other day, but my uncle was not receiving anyone.”
“But sure, Mr. Westland has been seeing him and would have told him.”
