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just as soon as I can get away from the house at last and from . . .” She stopped herself, and Cornelius realized that he was not the only one who dearly wished him fit enough to be on his way.
That night, Cornelius was unable to sleep. He was no longer disturbed by the dog’s snoring, or the baby’s night cries, or the murmured conversations and rustlings from Oliver and Polly’s bed. He had to get out of the Youngers’
house. Polly didn’t need another man to take care of, and Oliver had to be paying extra for what they were feeding him.
He’d leave in the morning. He’d make do with a cane and move back to Dogtown. He’d take over Judy Rhines’s place and be grateful for the peace and quiet of the woods.
He would get by scavenging and doing odd jobs, just as he had in the past.
While Cornelius lay on his back and planned, a bird burst into song in the damp night air. At first he thought there might be more than one bird, cawing, warbling, whistling, trilling, grunting, and cooing. After a while he realized that a single mockingbird was responsible for the medley of faultless imitations: robin, gull, and dove, wild turkey and crow, and then (was it possible?) a frog’s cheep, a cricket’s chirp, and what sounded like the short, husky bark of the Youngers’ ridiculous little dog.
Cornelius strained to find a pattern in the song until his head ached. I’m going mad, he thought. If I don’t leave this place soon, I will be useless.
His leg did feel better the next day, a Sunday, which meant that Oliver was home. “I’m thinking about a cane,”
Cornelius said. “And leaving you in peace.”
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Polly heard the apology in his voice. “We’ll be sorry to see you go,” she said. Even though she had complained to Oliver about his lack of conversation, and even though having him there had meant an extra shirt to wash and an extra mouth to feed, he had been a great help with David and Natty. His attentions meant she’d had more time for sewing, which brought in the money they needed for shoes.
She didn’t remember how she’d managed both boys before Cornelius came; she fell asleep frowning.
Come morning, Polly had a new cause for concern: Cornelius was tossing on his bed, sweating, and moaning in his sleep. He woke up too dizzy to sit, much less stand.
“I don’t like the look of him,” Polly said to Oliver.
“Easter isn’t as handy with a fever as our Judy.”
“I’ll stop off there right now and see if I can’t get her to walk back with me,” he said, kissing her good-bye. “Don’t fret. I’ll bring her back and we’ll all have a nice visit.”
Judy Rhines was pouring water for Mrs. Cook’s
morning tea when Oliver’s face appeared at the kitchen door. “Mistress Rhines,” he said, in a mock-formal voice.
“How good to see you. And how fares your patient?”
“She’s not much worse today, but her spirits are very low.”
“Even with you here as her nurse every day?”
“I wish I could do more than offer her compresses and company,” Judy sighed, as Oliver entered the kitchen and threw his leg over a chair. “The doctor finally let off bleeding her, thank goodness. Between you and me, that man causes her more harm than good.”
“I imagine Easter has told you all about our patient by now,” Oliver said.
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Judy busied herself with the tray. “You and Polly are saints for taking him in.”
“Polly is doing all the real work. It’s in her nature to look after strays. She took me in, didn’t she?”
“Oh, it’s in your nature, too,” said Judy, fondly. “How many more puppies have you got up there now?”
He laughed. “Well, we would have a whole litter but Poppa is too jealous. But the reason I stopped by is on account of Cornelius. He woke with a terrible fever today; he’s so bad, he can’t even get out of the bed. I came to ask if you’d do him a good turn.”
“Easter is as good a nurse as me any day,” Judy said.
“Well, Polly thinks you’re a better hand at fever. And the truth is, Natty was carrying on and crying for his aunt Judy. He misses you so much. Polly, too.”
The mention of Nathaniel melted her reserve. “I miss them too,” she said. “I suppose that if Martha is comfortable and since the Judge is here . . .”
“I’ll stop by for you on my way home,” Oliver said, and rushed out before Judy could make any excuses.
Judy knew that Martha would be fine without her for a few hours. Her misery eased in the evening and the Judge would be home and quite content to spend the evening reading in her room. The truth was that Judy had been staying away from the Youngers because Cornelius was there.
“Judy, dear?” Martha’s voice returned her to the task at hand.
“I’m coming,” she called, hurrying with the tray.
“Was that Oliver I heard?” said Martha as Judy entered the sickroom. “How is the baby?”
“I didn’t even think to ask, can you imagine?”
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“Dear, you must tell me the truth. Has there been a falling-out between you and the Youngers? You haven’t been there in so long, and I don’t recall the last time I heard you talk about Natty. Why is that?”
“There is no falling-out. It’s just that I do not like to leave you.” Judy noticed that the vases needed attention. No matter how often she freshened the flowers, trimmed the lamp wicks, and changed the linens, Martha’s room looked forlorn.
“I’m not alone. That girl is here, day after day,” Martha whined, in a good imitation of their new servant. “What a sullen chit she is, and her mother promised us a cheerful girl. But never mind that. The Judge is home tonight. Will Oliver return for you this afternoon?”
“Yes. They’ve taken in Cornelius Finson, who hurt his leg on the road.” Judy fussed with the fading roses so that Martha could not see her face. “It seems he’s low with a fever now.”
“Well, if he has you as his nurse, he’ll be healthy in no time. And I shall survive this one evening without you.”
Judy read to Martha until she dozed off, and then tiptoed to the bureau and picked up the ivory hand mirror that lay facedown on the lace antimacassar. There were no surprises in the reflection: her hair had a white streak in it now, just beside her left cheek. Her whole face was thicker, the skin a bit mottled at the temples, and the jaw was no longer firm. She had become the complete spinster, she thought, bland and unremarkable. Martha could not bear to witness the way her once-pretty features decayed from month to month, but Judy was fascinated by the alterations in her appearance.
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She examined herself dispassionately, without any thought to improving what she saw, glad to have avoided the perpetual frown that was nearly universal on unmarried ladies of her years. She widened her eyes and smiled brightly: at least her teeth were still sound. Martha stirred and Judy replaced the mirror precisely as it was before returning to her seat by the bed.
When Oliver arrived, she was ready with a satchel filled with fruit and a cake, as well as a small pouch of herbs: yarrow to bring on sweating and to draw out the heat of a fever, sorrel and licorice root for tea, slippery elm, in case there was a sore throat. And a packet of chamomile for Polly, who loved the smell.
As they set out, Judy asked Oliver for news about Natty and the baby, and he obliged in exquisite detail: David had a tooth already, and Natty was smart as a whip. “He can count to one hundred. Polly says Cornelius is teaching him the numbers.”
“I’m bringing him some peaches,”
she said.
“He’ll like that,” Oliver said. “I cannot figure what on earth Cornelius might like, except for our boys. He smiles at them when he thinks no one is looking. But the man says so little . . .” Judy turned the conversation to Polly’s health and welfare, which got them to the house before Oliver could say anything else about their patient.
Natty was hopping from one foot to the other by the side of the road waiting for them. When Judy came into sight, he squealed and ran for her, grabbing her tightly about the knees until she lifted him up for a hug. “If you get any bigger, I won’t be able to do this anymore!”
Judy kissed Polly and declared her radiant. She
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exclaimed over David, who had become a different child since she’d seen him last, bigger and darker and reaching for everything, including her nose. She praised the tidiness of the yard and the house and exclaimed over the fine workmanship in the basket of mending on the bed. Only then did she glance at Cornelius, who was sleeping hard.
He was much thinner than the last time she’d seen him.
His hair had grayed and his damp forehead seemed much longer than she remembered. The sight of him—lying still as a corpse—did not move her or upset her in any way, which was just what she’d hoped.
“He’s resting easier at last,” whispered Polly. “He was thrashing all day. Even David took fright.”
“Let him sleep then,” said Judy. “I’ll tend to him after supper.”
While Polly breaded the fish, Judy cradled the baby until Natty could not bear it for another moment and demanded that she put David down and give him the attention he expected from his auntie.
They dined amid familiar happy chatter. Natty babbled about the flowers he’d picked for his mamma, the slate she was going to get him, and the baby’s bad smells. Neither Polly nor Oliver hushed him, and while Judy wondered if Natty would ever learn his manners, the fondness in the house worked upon her like wine, relaxing and warming her straight through. After dinner, Polly thought Judy looked a good ten years younger than when she had walked through the door.
A loud groan interrupted their party, and all heads turned—even the baby’s. It took Cornelius a few moments
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to open his gummy eyelids. Judy turned away, resting her cheek against Natty’s velvety forehead.
“Judy?” he croaked.
The sound of her name sent her to her feet and Natty tumbling to the floor. After a long, stunned, breathless moment the boy opened his mouth and howled.
“I’m sorry, my pet, my sweetkins, my lamb,” Judy apologized breathlessly, and picked him up. “Your old auntie just took a start, is all.” She carried him outside, kissing him all the while.
“Judy?” Cornelius said, naked longing in his voice.
“Have you come to me? Judy? Is it my Judy, for true?”
Oliver and Polly stared.
“How does he know her?” she whispered.
He shrugged. “They both lived in Dogtown.”
But Judy’s distress and Cornelius’s tone of voice signified something more than polite exchanges between neighbors. Polly wondered exactly what they had shared, how it might have started, why it had stopped, and how such a secret could have kept in such a small, gossipy place.
“Poor things,” she said.
Oliver frowned. He had tried to forget his boyish dreams of winning Judy for himself, and thought of her only as his auntie—his and Polly’s, as well as Natty’s and David’s. It was unsettling to think of her in any man’s arms, and for it to have been Cornelius seemed even more out of the natural order of things.
Judy walked Natty around the house a second time.
He’d stopped crying after the first turn. “Put me down,”
he said.
“Put me down, please,” she reminded, and let him go.
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She circled the house once more to compose herself. The sound of her name in Cornelius’s mouth had turned her upside down. If only she could walk away, back to Gloucester and her books. Even Martha’s pain and suffering were preferable to this. But she had to show the Youngers that there was nothing between her and Cornelius. She had to prove it to herself. And to him, too, she supposed.
With shoulders squared and a crooked sort of smile fixed on her mouth, she returned to her friends and headed directly to the cot, where she had so often slept with Natty tucked under her arm.
“Polly,” she said, briskly. “Put on the kettle, won’t you, dear? I’ll make a tea to draw out the heat further. And then we’ll have some chamomile for compresses, with plenty of extra for your sachets, dear.”
Cornelius listened to Judy’s orders and Polly’s replies, to the sound of the water being poured, to Natty’s prattle and David’s gurgles, to Oliver’s footfalls on the uneven floor. He listened, waiting for Judy to speak his name.
When she gently laid the first cloth on his forehead, Cornelius released his breath and felt her startle. The next applications were more businesslike, with a quick pat, as though he were a dog.
“Cornelius,” she said, briskly. “Cornelius, you must sit up and drink the infusion while it is still hot enough to do you some good.”
He lifted his head to receive the scalding spoon. After a few mouthfuls, he felt the heat rise in him and kicked away the blanket.
“No,” she said, tucking it tightly around his legs. “You must sweat more, not less. The tea is doing its work. Lie still.”
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Polly watched the two of them closely, but they had settled into their roles as nurse and patient and she doubted there would be any more clues forthcoming. Finally Polly’s hunger for company overwhelmed her curiosity and she began a detailed comparison of the differences between Natty and David as babies, wondering why one boy was such a good sleeper and the other such an easy feeder, and how it was that Natty turned out to be blond but David’s hair was darker than Oliver’s.
Polly had a dozen questions for Judy, too. When should she approach Mrs. Stiles about sewing her second daughter’s trousseau, and had everyone had a time with their beans that summer or had she done something wrong? Finally she dropped her voice and asked, “Is it true that Mrs. Cook is at death’s door?”
“Heavens, no. She is sick, but Martha is not dying. Is that the gossip? How awful,” Judy said. “She suffers terribly from the calomel, and I worry that the cure may be the death of her. But she is still very much with us.
“As for the rest of your questions, I am out of the house so little, I have no news to report about Mrs. Stiles or anyone else.” Polly’s disappointment prompted Judy to recount the tale of the Cooks’ new young serving girl who was so inconsolable about being separated from her mother and sisters that she had run away twice. Judge Cook himself had gone to fetch her the second time.
Cornelius heard the bile in Judy’s mouth whenever she mentioned the Judge, and wondered what he’d done to earn her enmity. Behind closed eyes, he waited for her to speak to him again, to say “Cornelius” as she used to. But now he
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would answer her. He would say, “Yes, Judy.” He would do anything she wished.
He lay on his back, swaddled and sweating, and
imagined himself telling her all the stories he knew that she would have liked to hear from him. He remembered the way he’d said nothing when she told him about her mother-less childhood. He was still ashamed about that. He should have set aside his pride, or whatever it was that kept him from confidi
ng in her, and admitted that he was fortunate by comparison; after all, Cornelius did remember his mother’s love and care, and that was no small thing.
Their life had not been easy, but they had not lived so differently from their masters, with whom they had shared the same four rooms, eaten the same bland food at the same plank table, scratched at the same mosquitoes in the summer, and shivered in the same winter drafts.
Judy would have treated the stories about his mother like treasures. But Cornelius had not trusted Judy at first, and then he’d been afraid. Years of shame had followed, and now he was a poor, crippled, old black man. His boyhood stories would be burdens, not gifts.
Noticing his furrowed brow under the beading sweat, Judy applied one last compress.
“How fares the patient?” Oliver asked.
“I believe he will recover,” she said, gathering her things. “This is a passing fever. I doubt that it had anything to do with the knee. I’ve done as much as I can do for tonight.”
“Come back soon,” Polly whispered so as not to wake Natty, who was asleep on her lap.
“I promise.” Judy blew her a kiss.
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Oliver and Judy walked out in the sunset.
“It’s getting dark much earlier these days,” she said.
“There’s a touch of fall tonight.”
He took her bag and, on impulse, offered her his arm.
“Allow me.”
Judy took it and leaned against him, wrung out by the evening.
“You knew Cornelius in Dogtown, then?” Oliver
asked, after they’d been walking for a while.
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“It was a long time ago,” Judy said firmly, and Oliver heard the door close on any further conversation about the African.
Oliver patted her hand, and they continued for a long way without saying a word.
Judy had a headache, and she longed to lie down and sort out the anguish and anger and desire that had roiled up in her when she heard her name in Cornelius’s mouth.
Oliver tried to reconcile his liking for Cornelius with queasy outrage over the way he had moaned for Judy. Her name in his mouth seemed obscene, and yet he was not sure why. Cornelius was a man, same as him, or Everett Mansfield, or every Wharf or Tarr, Tom or William, who ever walked Cape Ann.