Marcia Talley - The Last Refuge

I tried to remember. ‘Nothing that the rest of the house hasn’t eaten.’

‘You could be suffering from verdigris, which is usually caused by eating tainted meat. Have you eaten any meat that’s turned green?’

Before I could answer, French sputtered, ‘We’d never serve meat that had turned green in Patriot House!’

Dr Glass held up a hand. ‘Fine, then, fine. Are you having diarrhea, Mrs Ives?’

Just thinking about having diarrhea in a house with no bathrooms made my stomach roil. I curled over. ‘I’m going to vomit!’

French held a basin while I retched, but there was nothing left in my stomach to hurl except nasty yellow bile. I fell back on my pillows, exhausted, as my brain bounced painfully back and forth against the inside of my skull. Even the roots of my hair ached.

‘How about melons? There’s been an outbreak of lysteria linked to cantaloupes grown out in Colorado.’

‘We grow cantaloupes in our greenhouse right here, Dr Glass,’ French informed him. ‘And before you ask, no night soil is involved.’

I closed my eyes for a moment, and my lids scratched hotly against my eyeballs.

‘What kind of treatment would an eighteenth-century doctor usually give in a case like this?’ French asked as she straightened the sheet and tucked it in around me like a cocoon.

Dr Glass had crossed to the washstand where Samuel stood at attention holding the pitcher. As he scrubbed his hands vigorously with soap, the doctor said, ‘Pretty much as I’m doing now, except for the hand washing part.’ He grinned back at French over his shoulder. ‘I must be a visionary. The connection between germs and disease isn’t going to be discovered for another half century or so.’ Samuel rinsed the doctor’s hands with water, pouring it over them into the wash basin, then held out a towel.

Dr Glass dried his hands, then returned to my bedside. ‘There could be something more serious going on, of course, such as a partial obstruction or blockage of the bowel. We’ll have to watch for that.’ He patted my hand where it lay on the sheet, limp and boneless. ‘The odds are, though, that it’s something viral and self-limiting.’

I grabbed the doctor’s wrist, using what little strength I had to pull him down until his ear was close to my lips. ‘Could I have been deliberately poisoned?’ I croaked.

His pale eyebrows shot up under his wig. He straightened, but I kept my vise-like grip on his wrist. Dr Glass laid his hand over my clenched fingers. ‘I very much doubt that, Mrs Ives.’

‘Who would want to poison you?’ French clucked. She gave the doctor a knowing glance. I read the message in her eyes: poor woman must be delusional.

How about a disgruntled Navy SEAL, I thought, who wanted to make sure that I kept his secret?

‘What’s in the box?’ I wondered miserably, as I watched Samuel lift up the lid.

‘Ah, those are my medicinals, my mortar and pestle. I’ve bleeding instruments in there, too. Lancets and such. Sometimes I carry leeches. But don’t worry. We don’t generally bleed post-menopausal women.’ He paused, nodded to Samuel, then bent again to whisper in my ear. ‘I am going to take a blood sample, however, and send it out for testing. Just to be sure.

‘Everyone out now!’ He made shooing motions with his hand, the lace at his wrist flouncing gaily. ‘Miss Fry, please fetch some more hot water.’ He paused, glared into the shadows where Derek was trying his best to blend into the curtains. ‘That means you, too, young man; you and your camera.’

When everyone had gone, Dr Glass rolled up the sleeve of my shift, swabbed the inside of my forearm with cotton soaked in alcohol, and took a blood sample in the twenty-first-century way, using a rubber tourniquet and a syringe.

‘They didn’t know how to do that back then, did they?’ I asked stupidly as he transferred my blood from the syringe to a sealed test tube, gave it a shake. He handed the tube off to Samuel, who wrote something on the label with an anachronistic ballpoint pen.

‘Of course not, Mrs Ives, but I refuse to take chances with a patient’s health, no matter what century she fancies she wants to live in.’ He handed the used syringe to his assistant who disposed of it in a red plastic bag and sealed it shut. ‘As I said, I’m having your blood tested, and if it turns up anything serious, I’ll be back with proper medication.’

‘Can you give me anything now? I feel like shit.’

‘We’ll brew up some tea out of white willow bark. It’s what the American Indians used for pain. It contains salicin which was one of the components used in the development of aspirin.’

‘Popcorn, peanuts, chocolate, tobacco… and aspirin. God bless the Native Americans, doctor.’

Dr Glass smiled and patted my hand like a favorite uncle.

When French came back with the tea kettle, Dr Glass began issuing orders. He had her fill up a pottery hot water bottle, wrap it in cloth and tuck it under the covers next to my feet. ‘Build up the fire,’ he instructed. ‘Make sure you keep the windows open to let the putrid air out. And if you’ve got any fir boughs, you can spread them out on the floor. I’m not exactly sure what that’s supposed to do, but it was common practice back then. Probably served as an air freshener.’

While Samuel packed up his case, Dr Glass sat at the table and wrote something out on a piece of paper. He handed it to French. ‘The tea should take care of the pain, but if you take that to the apothecary, he’ll give you something for her fever.

‘In the meantime, white willow bark tea. There’ll be some in the kitchen. Don’t be alarmed when you see it. In spite of the name, when it’s brewed up, it’s ruby red in color. You can add a stick of cinnamon if she doesn’t like the barky taste. In the morning, you can start her on a broth, chicken or beef. Cool, not hot.’

Samuel helped his master back into his coat; handed him his hat and cane. At the door, the doctor turned, adjusting the lace where it protruded from his sleeves as he spoke. ‘Send for me if you feel worse, or there’s any change. I know you’re reluctant to leave the project, Mrs Ives, but if I think you need modern medical attention, I’ll sling you over my shoulder and carry you off to the hospital myself.’

‘In a horse-drawn carriage?’ I murmured.

‘If I have to,’ he chuckled. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow, same time,’ the doctor said, and he was gone, with Samuel and the box of medicinals in his wake.

French placed another cool compress on my forehead, then scurried off to the kitchen to brew up the tea. Half an hour later, she returned and helped me sit up. Propped against several pillows, I cradled a cup in my hands and sipped the brew slowly, knowing that if it didn’t stay down, it couldn’t work its magic. It tasted like tree bark with cinnamon in it, but felt deliciously warm and soothing as it trickled down my throat.

Soon, I felt myself nodding. French relieved me of the cup, tucked the comforter in around me, then settled into the upholstered chair next to the fire with her feet curled up under her.

‘You don’t have to stay,’ I whispered as sleep began to overtake me at last.

‘I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to read to you?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

She opened the book and began, ‘Eight months after the celebration of the nuptials between Captain Blifil and Miss Bridget Allworthy – a young lady of great beauty, merit, and fortune – was Miss Bridget, by reason of a fright, delivered of a fine boy. The child was indeed to all appearances perfect; but the midwife discovered it was born a month before its full time.’

‘They don’t write ’em like they used to,’ I thought, as I drifted off.