Time Passage: A Time Travel Novel, page 14
An older servant girl named Hilda showed up in Tara’s place, wearing a tight, troubled face, a baggy blue dress and a tight blonde bun. It was the first I’d heard that Tara was in bed with a high fever.
My anger and frustration about Gannon’s sudden return immediately melted into concern for Tara. “Is she okay? Can I see her?”
Hilda went straight to work, distracted, kneeling before the fireplace, mumbling in German as if to herself. “Frau Grieve lässt niemanden in die Nähe des Mädchens, damit sich das Fieber nicht auf uns alle ausbreitet.”
“I don’t speak German. Can you please say that in English?”
Hilda turned about, her face wadded up with fatigue and worry. “Frau Grieve, don’t let nobody see Tara. Says, fever could spread in the house.”
“Well, I’m going to see her,” I said firmly, and then asked Hilda where Tara’s room was. With a shake of her head, Hilda muttered incomprehensible German.
I left the room, marched down the hallway and up the stairs to the fourth floor. Tara’s room was the third door on the left. I knocked lightly and waited. Hearing nothing, I opened the door and peered in. The curtains were closed against the light, but I saw two beds, one neatly made and unoccupied. On the other was a still, gray mound.
I entered softly, closing the door behind me, and approached the bedside. Even in the weak light, Tara’s sleeping face was visible, her breath labored. I leaned, and with the back of my hand, I touched her damp forehead. She was burning with fever.
I didn’t know what to do. Had the doctor been called? I knew they didn’t have antibiotics.
At that moment, the door opened and Mrs. Grieve appeared, wearing her usual funereal black dress and scowling expression.
“I gave strict orders that no one was to come into this room.”
I straightened my back in defiance. I’d had it with these people and their weird ways and sour faces.
“Have you called the doctor?” I asked, ignoring her declaration.
“Leave this room, Miss Adams!” Mrs. Grieve demanded.
“Or what, Mrs. Grieve? What will you do? Stop your bullshit and call a doctor for Tara. She’s sick with a high fever!”
My crude language and demands set the woman back, but only for a few seconds. Her spine stiffened, her sharp little chin lifted. “If you do not leave this instant, I will be forced to call Mr. Hopkins.”
“So call Mr. Hopkins, and while you’re at it, call the doctor, too, because I’m not leaving Tara until I know she’s being cared for.”
Mrs. Grieve’s eyes were angry, narrow slits. “You impudent hussy, entering this house and making demands. I run this house! Do you hear me?”
I’d had it with her, and I’d had it with the entire ridiculous situation. Anger rolled off me in hot waves, just as it had when I was a rebellious teenager. “Shut up, you stupid, arrogant bitch, and go get the doctor! Do it now—or so help me, I’ll punch you in the face!”
Mrs. Grieve took a shaky step back, her stunned eyes blinking fast, her face twisted in shock.
Tara cried out, and I turned, lowering to my knees beside her. “Tara, it’s me, Rosamond. We’re going to get you a doctor, okay? Are you hungry or thirsty? Can I get you anything?”
Tara’s eyes fluttered open, and they struggled to focus. “Miss Adams?” she asked, in a wheezing voice.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“I’m sorry… Sorry I didn’t come…”
“Shh, Tara. Don’t worry about that. Can I get you anything?”
“Water… Please.”
I glanced back to the open door, and Mrs. Grieve was gone. I pushed up, found a pewter pitcher of water and a glass on a side table, poured the glass full and took it to Tara. As I held it to her dry lips, she lifted her head and took small sips, finally dropping back down onto her pillow and falling to sleep.
I found a high-backed wooden chair, carried it to her bedside, sat, and waited, worried about Tara and speculating about who was going to show up next.
A moment later, I stood up and found a basin and sponge in the snug servants’ bathroom. I poured some water into the basin and took it and the sponge back to the narrow bedtable.
For the next half hour, I gently dipped the sponge and blotted Tara’s feverish forehead, hoping I was doing for her what she’d done for me when I’d been sick.
About an hour later, I heard heavy footsteps approach, and I braced for battle. I didn’t turn to look when those footsteps entered the room.
“Miss Adams…”
I turned. It was John Gannon’s deep, commanding voice.
With the sponge in my hand, I gave him a cool stare. I don’t know why, but I wasn’t frightened of him. I should have been, knowing what he was capable of, but at that moment, I was calm and determined.
He stepped further into the room. “Miss Adams, you need to leave this room, as Mrs. Grieve requested. She is the matron in charge of the housekeeping, the maids, and the kitchen servants.”
“I won’t leave Tara until the doctor comes,” I said firmly.
“Miss Adams, we don’t call the doctor for the servants unless it is a life-or-death issue.”
“And how do you know it isn’t a life-or-death issue? Are you a doctor? She’s burning up with a fever.”
“These things come and go. She’s a young girl and she will survive it.”
“And what has caused the fever?”
“I do not know,” he said impatiently.
“I don’t know either, and that’s why the doctor should examine her.”
“Miss Adams, I have had a trying few days and I am weary from travel. Marshal Vance will arrive early this afternoon, and I have much business to discharge before he does. Therefore, I request that you leave and let this servant girl recover from her illness, as I am confident she will.”
I did not back down, although his information about Marshal Vance coming was disturbing. I hoped he saw in my expression an unmovable determination. “I’ll stay here until the doctor comes, Mr. Gannon.”
He sighed heavily, with irritation. “She is a servant girl, Miss Adams. A servant girl from an orphan train. I give her work, her lodging and her meals. Please do not try my patience further in this matter.”
I stood up, facing him squarely. “She is a beautiful young girl who works fourteen-hour days for you. She deserves care when she’s ill, Mr. Gannon. She needs a doctor, and I won’t leave her side until the doctor tells me she’s okay and will improve.”
In a burst of sunlight that briefly lit the window curtains, our eyes met. His were burning. I hoped mine showed conviction.
“You are too bold, Miss Adams.”
“Yes, sir, I am, and I’m not likely to change. I beg you, please… Will you send for the doctor? I will greatly appreciate it.”
His jaw tightened. His mouth twitched, and when he spoke, there was a raspy tone of a threat. “I will summon Dr. Broadbent, but this is the last time you will make demands of me, Miss Adams. Do you understand?”
The rebel in me wanted to say, “Kiss my ass!” But I managed to tamp down the words. “Yes, I understand.”
He pivoted and stormed out of the room.
I stood there, shaking, my right toe tapping the floor like a tap dancer.
It was close to noon before Dr. Broadbent arrived, looking weary and annoyed, his medical bag in hand. I acknowledged him, but he only grunted a “hello” at me as he went to Tara’s bedside.
She remained asleep, and I stood in the shadows, out of his way, while he took Tara’s temperature and pulse, and checked her tongue.
“Has she vomited?”
“Yes. Twice, but not much. I don’t think she’s eaten much in the last two days.”
Dr. Broadbent nodded and made a blurred noise of irritation. “Her fever is high.”
“Does she have the same illness I had?”
“It’s difficult to say. How long has she had the fever?”
“I don’t know… A day or two, I guess.”
“She should drink elderflower tea. Make certain that whoever brews it, mixes two teaspoons in a cup of boiled water. Let it steep for fifteen minutes and then strain out the elderflower. She should drink it three times a day as long as the fever continues. Also, keep applying the cool compresses. Ensure she stays in bed and does not work. I’ll stress that point with Mrs. Grieve. Activity can raise the body temperature, so rest is especially important now.”
“Shouldn’t she eat something?”
“I’ll ask the kitchen to send up chicken or beef broth. When the fever breaks, give her porridge and sausage.”
“So, she’s okay… I mean, it’s nothing serious, is it?” I asked.
He removed his spectacles and looked at me. “The fever will break in response to her young body’s ability to fight it off.”
I folded my hands at my lap. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Broadbent.”
He scratched the end of his nose and considered me. “Miss Adams, the young girl is too thin. Can you see to it that she eats more and works a bit less?”
I was surprised when I saw concern and kindness in his eyes. “I don’t think Mrs. Grieve will listen to me. We don’t get along very well. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”
He looked down. “I examined this girl when she came from the orphan train some years ago. She was too thin then, and she’s too thin now. I will speak to Mrs. Grieve about it.”
I was pleasantly surprised and grateful. “Thank you again, Dr. Broadbent.”
He closed his medical bag, placed his spectacles inside his frock coat pocket, and looked at me with warm consideration. “I have two daughters of my own, Miss Adams. Their names are Beatrice and Mary.”
I waited for more, but he didn’t offer more.
“I will confirm the girl’s needs with the kitchen,” he added.
“Her name is Tara, Dr. Broadbent.”
He nodded. “Just so. Tara. Yes, a pretty name it is. A good day to you, Miss Adams.”
When the doctor was gone, I drew back the curtain and gazed out into the white sheet of the day. More snow. Not heavy, but persistent and blowing.
I hated feeling helpless and unable to take any action. Did Thomas and Rosamond know what was happening? Would they dash off for the Oklahoma Territory without the cash and the jewels, leaving Tara and me trapped in this place?
As I returned to Tara’s bedside, I vowed to find some way to break free from the Gannon Mansion, with or without Thomas, and I’d take Tara with me.
Now, I had to worry about what Marshal Vance had learned—or, more accurately, what he hadn’t learned about me.
CHAPTER 28
I spent the next three days caring for Tara, getting little sleep and having frequent spats with Mrs. Grieve, who complained about Hilda bringing the broth and tea three times a day. From Hilda, I learned, in broken German and English, that the nasty woman complained to Gannon that I was spending “too much time with the girl,” and that “Tara should have returned to her duties by now. Work will do her more good than any broth or tea.”
Mr. Gannon did not visit Tara’s room or ask to see me, and that was great news, but I wondered what he and the marshal had discussed three days ago.
Each day blurred into the next, and I lost all sense of time until the day Tara awakened, with a weak smile and glazed eyes. “Hello, Miss Adams,” she said. “I’m feeling so much better.”
Two days later, Mrs. Grieve put Tara back to work, and three days later was Thanksgiving Day.
I hadn’t heard from or seen Thomas, so I had no idea what was going on, and no way of contacting him to learn if Rosamond had recovered from her illness. No one had mentioned that Thomas had left, but then, no one in that house ever told me anything, so who knew? Meanwhile, everything was on hold.
So, what could I expect on Thanksgiving Day? Again, I had no idea.
While Alice dressed me in a stunning, black and green gown, I asked her. “I’ve only heard bits and bobs, Miss Adams. It will be a lovely spread, no doubt. Mrs. Dockery has been cooking for days, and Mr. Hopkins has brought the finest wine from the wine cellar. Mr. Gannon’s old Aunt Cora will attend, and perhaps a businessman and his wife. Mrs. Dockery was all a flutter when she heard that Marshal Vance was coming as well.”
My eyes widened. “Why is Marshal Vance coming?”
“I don’t know, but that’s what I’ve heard.”
As I strolled to the dining room, I could feel the adrenaline affect my breathing, especially with the corset feeling tighter than usual. Had I gained weight or had Alice wanted me to have a twenty-six-inch waist?
Just before I entered the grand room, I thought, What in the world am I about to walk into?
The formal dining room was broad, with a deep red carpet, mahogany paneled walls, high beamed ceilings and ornate crown molding. On the walls hung heavy, gilded-framed oil paintings, one portraying a muscled, determined farmer at the plow, bathed in golden light, trudging along a furrowed field.
Another painting featured a sundrenched battlefield containing defenses of timber with projecting spikes, and stalwart Civil War soldiers shouldering into battle, with rifles raised, bayonets glinting.
The enormous painting above the stone fireplace depicted two bearded men, wearing western outfits and cowboy hats, astride chestnut horses. They gazed reflectively into distant, dark mountains during a crimson sunset.
The paintings seemed odd choices for a formal dining room, but they certainly projected masculinity, which was surely John Gannon’s intention.
Parlor oil lamps, with painted floral glass bases, added a warm glow to the room. Polished heavy oak furniture and a massive roaring fireplace gave me the impression of stepping into an historical exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.
I had arrived late, on purpose, so I was stiffly introduced to Aunt Cora, and to John Gannon’s business partner and his wife, Otis and Martha Webster. I was then reintroduced to Marshal Vance; our eyes met only briefly as we nodded and smiled.
All but the marshal were dressed in formal attire. He wore a black suit, white shirt and black string tie. In the glow of the fireplace, I thought he was even taller and more striking than the last time I’d seen him in Denver.
Everyone had been seated by the fire with a glass of sherry in hand, except for Marshal Vance, who sipped a whiskey from a cut-crystal old fashioned glass.
Gannon’s partner, Otis Webster, was about sixty years old, with steel-gray eyes, bushy white muttonchop sideburns, and a walrus mustache. His dark frock suit coat was a loose fit over his large frame. The granite jaw and deeply lined face gave him ruggedness and determination; he was a man who appeared ready and able to accept any challenge and overcome it.
His wife, Martha, was a mousy woman, with a round, very white face, thin lips and little mouse eyes that shifted nervously. Her voice was soft, her manner meek, her hair styled tight to her head, with a whisp of bangs.
John Gannon’s aunt, known as Granny Cora, plodded toward the table, cane in hand, poking and pointing it like a weapon at any person, place or thing.
“Let’s get on to eating, John,” she demanded. “I don’t like eating too late in the day because the food don’t sit so well when I put these old bones to bed.”
Cora looked like an old warrior, with a long, black dress and a little, black top hat that I loved. She had wiry white hair, dark, agitated eyes, and a stubby body. Her twitchy mouth uttered grunts, blew out deep sighs, and produced a high, strident voice that sounded like a dog’s squeaky toy.
The six of us sat at a twelve-seat mahogany dining table, covered by an off-white linen tablecloth and an extravagant arrangement of blooming flowers of red, orange and yellow. Crystal glasses gleamed, the porcelain China was gold rimmed, and the silverware was ornate and heavy. There was a golden, three-tiered chandelier overhead that was dazzling, and it gave off a muted glow that added warmth to everyone’s face, except for maybe Granny Cora’s.
John Gannon sat at the head of the table, and Granny Cora sat at the other end. Otis and Martha were seated to John’s left, and Marshal Vance and I were seated to his right, with me closer to Gannon, and the Marshal closer to Granny Cora.
Clad in white tie and tails, Mr. Hopkins emerged from the door of the servants' dining room, bearing a silver platter with a large, brown turkey, embellished by an assortment of nuts and cranberries. Two women servants and Edward followed, carrying trays of crusty sliced bread, boiled potatoes with butter, creamy butternut squash, stewed prunes, and a chicken pie.
Granny Cora put her hands together in prayer and closed her eyes. The guests followed. After she’d wheezed out a mumbled grace, everyone but me whispered “Amen.” I didn’t, because when I was a girl, our family had never prayed over a meal. My father forbade it. “Ain’t nobody but me put food on this table,” he’d once said, “so if you’re going to pray, you sure as hell better pray to me.”
We snapped out our linen napkins and prepared for the feast, with the smells of turkey and freshly baked bread scenting the air. At a sideboard, Mr. Hopkins sliced the turkey, and then Edward served us from a tray that featured both white and dark meat.
While we ate, John Gannon stole looks at me, while the conversation at the table was mostly about the weather and everyone’s health.
Marshal Vance turned to me. “I hear you were ill, Miss Adams. I hope you have entirely recovered.”
“Yes, I’m feeling very well,” I said cordially.
Since weather and health were hot topics, I decided to join in. “And you, Marshal, have you been well since I last saw you?”
“I am fortunate in that I seldom succumb to illness, Miss Adams.”
I looked at him with a small, flirtatious smile, drawn by his lean face and muscled neck. And there was something in his voice and in his quiet, confident manner that flipped a switch inside my fluttering heart and turned me on. Did he see it in my eyes? Did John Gannon? I hoped he did because I was ready to turn on my charm and focus it on Marshal Vance, putting my “let’s make John Gannon jealous” plan into action.
