After being outside in the fresh air and sunshine, the stuffiness of Aunt Caroline’s bedroom was more noticeable than ever. Since she was sleeping, I pulled back the drapery and opened the window a few inches. A slight breeze carried not only fresh air but also the cheerful song of birds into the room. “There,” I whispered in satisfaction.
As I stood at the window, my frightening encounter with the redcoats jumped back into my mind. With it came the knowledge that Gideon’s freedom had been curtailed. After today, I saw why it was so difficult for him to smuggle out information. But thank heaven he was alive.
Glancing at the bed, I realized that part of the reason for Aunt Caroline’s restlessness while I was gone might be the result of me lessening her dose of laudanum. Though I’d only reduced it by the slimmest amount, her sleep wasn’t as deep or her actions as placid as they’d been three days ago.
I moved restlessly myself. I’d thought my purpose in coming to Boston was finding Gideon and helping the patriots. But in just a week, my path had diverged into two—Gideon and the patriots on one side, helping Aunt Caroline recover on the other.
Hearing a small sound from the bed, I saw that she’d wakened. Her gaze moved to the open window. “Light and air,” she said in a low voice.
“It’s such a lovely day; I wanted you to enjoy it too.”
“Yes.” She lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the brightness.
“Would you like me to close the drapery a little?”
She shook her head and smiled as if she took as much pleasure in fresh air and birdsongs as I.
Sitting down on the chair next to her bed, I took her other hand. As usual, it was cold. I gently rubbed and chaffed it.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re so kind.”
Before I could respond, a soft knock sounded on the door.
“Yes,” I called.
“’Tis Alice with the lunch tray.” As she set it down, her eyes widened at the sight of the open window. For a moment, she looked ready to speak. In the end, she only curtsied and left.
“Mmm,” I said, inhaling the appetizing aroma of the soup. “It smells like Mina’s fixed some of her delicious chicken soup. She and I want to make you well again.” When I unfolded the napkin, I found a second spoon.
Aunt Caroline gave a wan smile. “You’re so kind,” she repeated, but instead of having to be coaxed, she opened her mouth and took a sip of the broth. After the second sip, a knock came again. Before I could respond, a gentleman I’d never seen before entered the room.
Tall, thin, and impeccably dressed in black and white, I felt his dark gaze sweep across my person, then jump to the window. “Who has opened the window?” he demanded.
My hand jerked at the loudness of his voice, and only Providence kept me from spilling the soup. Before I could speak, the man, whom I presumed to be Dr. Barnes, strode across the room, shut the window, and loosed the drapery to shut out the light.
As he strode to the bed, Aunt Caroline spoke. “Dr. Barnes, this is . . . my good friend Abigail . . . who’s come to care for me.”
Acting as if he hadn’t heard her, the doctor set his bag on the bed, took a Sulphur match from his pocket, and lit the twin candles on the table. As they flared to life, he gave me but a cursory nod and fixed his attention on his patient. “I see that you haven’t eaten your tea and toast yet.”
Aunt Caroline’s gaze flicked from me to the doctor. “I was about to.”
“Make certain you do.”
She nodded and quietly allowed him to lift each eyelid and peer into her eyes.
I wanted to ask why he did so, but his haughty manner discouraged questions.
He wasn’t averse to asking them himself, however. “Has Mistress Lind exhibited any sign of agitation since you’ve come?”
Thinking of her actions today, I was aware that both the doctor and his patient watched me—his gaze stern and demanding, hers soft and pleading. Not liking to see her acting like a fearful child, I answered with only the slightest hesitation. “She’s been nothing but amiable.”
“Good.”
Aunt Caroline’s expression immediately relaxed.
“How often do you give Mistress Lind her medicine?”
“Three times . . . just as her husband instructed.”
“Should she ever become agitated, you can increase the dosage to four times.”
Wondering what he would say if he knew I’d decreased rather than increased the laudanum, I picked up the tray with the half-eaten bowl of soup and set it on the floor. When I straightened, Dr. Barnes had unbuckled his satchel and taken out a small bowl and a leather case.
Since Prudence Blood had always attended our family, my curiosity was pricked as I watched Dr. Barnes extract a knife from the leather case. Sliding up the white sleeve of Aunt Caroline’s nightgown, he slipped the bowl under her elbow.
She lay with eyes closed, seeming to have moved to another place as he took a strip of cloth from the satchel and tied it tightly around her upper arm. After kneading the inside of her elbow, he pierced the skin with the point of his knife.
I sucked in my breath as tiny drops of blood trickled from the wound into the bowl. “Why are you . . .” I began.
“I tolerate no distraction in my sickroom,” the doctor snapped. Like his voice, his brown eyes snapped as he gave me a censuring glance. “If the sight of blood upsets you, leave. I have no time or patience for squeamish young women.”
“I’m not upset but curious as to why you’re making Mistress Lind bleed.”
Dr. Barnes kneaded a few more drops of blood from the pale arm. Only when he seemed satisfied did he speak. “Unhealthy humors live in the blood of the sick. For the patient to heal, the humors must be extracted.”
His dark eyes bore into mine. “Unhealthy humors are also present in outside air. This is why I have ordered the windows to be kept closed and the hangings drawn.” The nostrils of his thin nose flared with distaste. “No poisonous air is allowed in this room.”
Though I nodded, I remembered Prudence Blood’s claim that fresh air and sunshine were healing gifts from our Maker—recalled how, while dispensing teas and tinctures, she told those who were recuperating to spend time each day sitting in the sunshine.
As I followed Dr. Barnes’s instructions to rinse the blood from his bleeding bowl, I recalled how hard we’d worked to stop the bleeding when Jon had cut a deep gash in his leg while chopping wood. Instead of helping, the weekly bleeding of Aunt Caroline could only be making her weaker. It took great control not to say such when I handed the bowl back to the doctor.
By the time I returned from emptying the basin of bloody water down the necessary, the candles were snuffed, the doctor gone, and the room again in darkness. Disregarding Dr. Barnes’s instructions, I went to the window and opened it an inch.
Though I wasn’t yet confident enough of my place in the Linds’ home, I promised myself that when the time came, I’d not only open the window wider but help Aunt Caroline sit in a chair so she could see the beauty that awaited her outside.
***
Leaning on the side of caution, I stayed home for the next three days, my mind focused on helping Aunt Caroline rather than finding Gideon. The more I thought about the doctor’s nonchalant bloodletting from a woman already pale and listless, the more it upset me. As for his talk of harmful humors, I preferred to think as Prudence Blood did: that patients were better cured by strengthening foods and the warmth of healing sun.
I had taken a strong dislike to Dr. Barnes. Not only did I think him arrogant, but I disliked his narrow features and fastidious dress too. The silver buckles on his shoes were bigger than Mr. Lind’s, his white powdered wig more elaborate than what was commonly seen in Boston. If the man thought his demeaning words and curt manners would cow me, he was sadly mistaken. Even so, I knew I must use care.
Now, instead of taking my meals in the kitchen with the servants, I fixed a tray for me and Aunt Caroline with an extra fork or spoon hidden under the napkin and her toast and cup of tea set beside my more substantial fare. To Alice’s query about the change, I said I hoped Mistress Lind would eat better when someone ate with her.
My explanation proved true. Not only did she eat without complaint, but her appetite seemed improved as well.
“How often does Dr. Barnes come to see you?” I asked the next morning.
Aunt Caroline frowned as she chewed a bite of toast. “I’m not certain. The days . . .” She frowned and sighed. “One day seems to slide . . . into another.”
“Don’t you remember?”
She stared past me for a minute. “At first . . . I think he came every day. Now . . .” She shrugged. “Perhaps once a week.”
“Does he always bleed you?”
“Always,” she whispered. “I can’t bear to watch . . . so I close my eyes.”
“I’d close my eyes too.”
She smiled as if my words pleased her.
“When my brother cut his leg, Father said if we didn’t stop the bleeding, Jon would die. And yet the doctor . . .” My voice broke in frustration. “Why does he bleed you if he’s trying to make you well? Isn’t there some way you can make him stop?”
Aunt Caroline gave a harsh laugh. “I tried . . . fought. He didn’t care.” Tears slipped from her closed eyes. “Then I was tired . . . and didn’t care anymore.”
I leaned close to her, my voice fierce. “I’m not too tired to care!”
Her eyes flew open, and she gave a sad little smile. “You were always so bold.”
“And so were you!” I took hold of her hand. “I have a plan . . . one I think will succeed if we are careful. My plan will make you care again.”
“If only I could,” she whispered.
“You can.”
A flicker of hope brightened her eyes. Seeing it, I tightened my hold on her hand. “We can.”
Hers lips began to quiver, and tears trickled down her cheeks.
Seeing her distress, I went to the armoire and found a handkerchief. After she wiped her cheeks and blew her nose, she apologized. “My nose and eyes keep running.”
I’d noticed the running nose when I’d arrived with the breakfast tray and hoped she wasn’t coming down with a summer cold. Watching her, I saw her fuss with the sleeve of her nightgown.
Thinking that our talk had upset her and that it was time for her medicine, I went to the shelf and took down the laudanum bottle and glass.
Aunt Caroline stopped fussing when she saw the bottle. “Surely you know . . . what that medicine is,” she said.
“I do.”
“And you . . . still give it to me?”
“I don’t know what else to do. Until Mr. Lind told me this was laudanum, I’d only heard of it once before. Prudence Blood told me that at first laudanum brought pleasure, but in a short time, it became a curse . . . the devil’s curse, she called it.”
“’Tis a curse . . . but I can’t do without.”
“Perhaps in time you can.” Seeing her skepticism, I went on. “As a mother, didn’t you gradually wean your babies to a cup?”
She gave me a puzzled nod. “What has that . . . to do with this?”
I held up the wine glass. “See these leaves etched around the middle?” At her nod, I went on. “When your husband gave me the laudanum and glass, he told me to fill it up to the top of the leaves. But in the ten days since, I’ve decreased it a little each day.”
“Oh, Abigail,” she said on a trembling breath.
“See this petal here,” I said, pointing to a leaf in the middle of the etching. “This is where I filled it today.”
She wiped her nose. “I’ve felt different . . . but I didn’t want the doctor to know.”
“Nor did I. If this is to succeed, we must see that he and your husband don’t suspect.”
“Especially . . . Joseph,” she whispered. “He . . . he—” Tears filled her eyes, and she began to shake. “Please . . . the laudanum.”
Uncorking the bottle, I carefully poured the amber liquid up to the petal. “There.”
Craving showed in her eyes as she eagerly reached for the glass with unsteady hands.
Fearing the contents would spill, I guided it to her lips. She drank it in three quick swallows. Then licking her lips, she closed her eyes and gave a contented sigh.
I looked with pity at her gaunt cheeks and pale skin, the slight tremors that shook her body. Had the laudanum ravished her so, or were the frequent bleedings partly to blame?
As if sensing my gaze, she opened her eyes. “Thank . . . you for caring.”
Setting down the glass, I again took her hand. “I’ll always care about you, but you must realize that what we attempt involves great risk for us both. I don’t know what might happen in the days ahead. You’re already more alert than you were. Restless too. What if by decreasing the laudanum, you suffer worse things? What if I do wrong?”
The confidence that had set me on this path had faltered. Who was I to think I could cure something I knew nothing about? Or to match wits against Joseph Lind and Dr. Barnes? Think before you act or speak, Father’s voice seemed to say. But I had thought and had lost numerous hours of sleep as I wondered and worried. Please, God, make it right.
Seeming to sense my turmoil again, Aunt Caroline spoke with slurred words. “You didn’t . . . do wrong . . . but came like. . . the angel I prayed for.”
I blinked back tears. “Thank you.”
Her fingers returned my clasp, and with a sigh, she settled into the nest of pillows.
Still holding her hand, I sat with her for some time, felt her fingers gradually relax, watched as little by little the agitation subsided and calm settled over her features.
“Sleep well,” I whispered, praying that in a fortnight her sleep would come naturally instead of from the clutches of laudanum.