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Authors: John Smolens
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but in
the dark he could not tell whether she was wiping a tear from her cheek. “I believed—I was certain I would never see you again. So many men who had gone off to fight the British had been killed.
When you returned on that ship, which had been so damaged,
with so many dead and wounded. And then, only days later you
said you were leaving on another ship.”
“They needed surgeons. I had no choice. We were at war, and
I didn’t return for over a year. When I learned you had married, I couldn’t—and you had a son. What was I to think?”
“We cannot talk of this.” She got up off the step. “Not ever,
Giles. It is not right.” She opened the back door. “I must tend to Sarah.”
“Of course.”
He followed her into the kitchen and took out a vial from his
bag and placed it on the kitchen table. “This should help her sleep.”
He looked at the girl once more, curled up so that she was facing the fire. “I will have someone come for her tomorrow. It is for
your own protection, for all of you. We must isolate the stricken.”
Amanda stared into the fire, her arms folded. “We will deliver
her to the pest-house.”
58
Six
Cedella came to Miranda’s room, slightly winded from
running up the stairs. “Begging your pardon, Ma’am, but it be
Master Samuel.”
Miranda had been dozing in the high heat of mid-afternoon
and she didn’t quite comprehend what the girl had said.
“Samuel, Ma’am—coming down the road on a horse.”
“My grandson? Here now?” Miranda got up from bed and
stepped into her slippers. She went into the hall and looked out the window at the top of the main stairs. The street was empty,
but she could hear the clop of hooves. She rushed downstairs,
where the butler and several of the maids were gathered at the
front door. They parted hastily, allowing her out onto the steps.
The house and grounds were protected on all sides by a fence,
but here at the front there was a tall iron gate facing High Street.
She saw the horse, its black coat glistening in the afternoon sun, and her grandson Samuel bouncing helplessly in the saddle. Even
from this distance she could tell that he’d put on more weight.
The maids had crowded behind her, and Miranda said, “Where
is Mr. Sumner?”
59
j o h n s m o l e n s
“Gone out, Ma’am.”
“Where?” she demanded.
“To the warehouse, Ma’am,” Fields said.
“The whorehouse, more likely,” Miranda said.
Fields cleared his throat. His length of service in the house
allowed him some privilege. “Word came this morning, Missus,
of a problem down on the wharves. People are taking with some
bilious fever.”
“I see—it’s from the filth they live in. You understand why
I insist upon a clean house. Well, he’ll be back soon enough, so there’s still time.” Miranda clapped her hands and said loudly, “All right, everyone, back to your duties—except Fields.” She watched her grandson approach. He had little skill in the equestrian arts, evident in the way he bounced upon his saddle. “Fields, you know what you must do immediately?”
“The guns,” he with appropriate gravity.
“Lock every one up and hide the key.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Fields withdrew to the house. He had been her
second husband’s butler and remained with Miranda through all
these decades of widowhood. He was painstakingly loyal, obe-
dient, discreet, and possessed an uncanny sense of anticipation
(the guns, of course he too would immediately think of the guns).
Never once had he questioned her motives, because that’s not
what a butler did, and over the years she had come to believe that he tacitly understood those motives and sought to see her designs carried to fruition. Utterly devoted and requiring no personal
maintenance, he would have been the perfect third husband.
Miranda went down the steps, and one of the gardeners opened
the front gate for her. Samuel pulled up on the reins, but the horse was
the dark he could not tell whether she was wiping a tear from her cheek. “I believed—I was certain I would never see you again. So many men who had gone off to fight the British had been killed.
When you returned on that ship, which had been so damaged,
with so many dead and wounded. And then, only days later you
said you were leaving on another ship.”
“They needed surgeons. I had no choice. We were at war, and
I didn’t return for over a year. When I learned you had married, I couldn’t—and you had a son. What was I to think?”
“We cannot talk of this.” She got up off the step. “Not ever,
Giles. It is not right.” She opened the back door. “I must tend to Sarah.”
“Of course.”
He followed her into the kitchen and took out a vial from his
bag and placed it on the kitchen table. “This should help her sleep.”
He looked at the girl once more, curled up so that she was facing the fire. “I will have someone come for her tomorrow. It is for
your own protection, for all of you. We must isolate the stricken.”
Amanda stared into the fire, her arms folded. “We will deliver
her to the pest-house.”
58
Six
Cedella came to Miranda’s room, slightly winded from
running up the stairs. “Begging your pardon, Ma’am, but it be
Master Samuel.”
Miranda had been dozing in the high heat of mid-afternoon
and she didn’t quite comprehend what the girl had said.
“Samuel, Ma’am—coming down the road on a horse.”
“My grandson? Here now?” Miranda got up from bed and
stepped into her slippers. She went into the hall and looked out the window at the top of the main stairs. The street was empty,
but she could hear the clop of hooves. She rushed downstairs,
where the butler and several of the maids were gathered at the
front door. They parted hastily, allowing her out onto the steps.
The house and grounds were protected on all sides by a fence,
but here at the front there was a tall iron gate facing High Street.
She saw the horse, its black coat glistening in the afternoon sun, and her grandson Samuel bouncing helplessly in the saddle. Even
from this distance she could tell that he’d put on more weight.
The maids had crowded behind her, and Miranda said, “Where
is Mr. Sumner?”
59
j o h n s m o l e n s
“Gone out, Ma’am.”
“Where?” she demanded.
“To the warehouse, Ma’am,” Fields said.
“The whorehouse, more likely,” Miranda said.
Fields cleared his throat. His length of service in the house
allowed him some privilege. “Word came this morning, Missus,
of a problem down on the wharves. People are taking with some
bilious fever.”
“I see—it’s from the filth they live in. You understand why
I insist upon a clean house. Well, he’ll be back soon enough, so there’s still time.” Miranda clapped her hands and said loudly, “All right, everyone, back to your duties—except Fields.” She watched her grandson approach. He had little skill in the equestrian arts, evident in the way he bounced upon his saddle. “Fields, you know what you must do immediately?”
“The guns,” he with appropriate gravity.
“Lock every one up and hide the key.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Fields withdrew to the house. He had been her
second husband’s butler and remained with Miranda through all
these decades of widowhood. He was painstakingly loyal, obe-
dient, discreet, and possessed an uncanny sense of anticipation
(the guns, of course he too would immediately think of the guns).
Never once had he questioned her motives, because that’s not
what a butler did, and over the years she had come to believe that he tacitly understood those motives and sought to see her designs carried to fruition. Utterly devoted and requiring no personal
maintenance, he would have been the perfect third husband.
Miranda went down the steps, and one of the gardeners opened
the front gate for her. Samuel pulled up on the reins, but the horse was
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