CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

UNNECESSARY CAUTION

Mark’s parents barely alluded to my overnight absence during supper, other than to say they were glad to see me safely home. I didn’t expect Mark to share the details of my experience, but the intensity of the silence surprised me.

Mark left in the truck after supper, to seek out friends who could tell him what he’d missed this day.

Bruce retired, as always, to his study to “catch up.”

Sherri and I carried plates to the sink.

“Let me do the dishes,” I said.

“No, dear, I’ll take care of it. You’ve had a hard day.” She opened the dishwasher and added the plates. “Before you go, though, I have a couple of things I’d like to know.”

“Certainly.” I waited by the island.

She finished loading the dishwasher, closed the door, and then leaned against the counter. “How long had you been planning this trip?”

“Two weeks.”

Her brow creased. She dropped her gaze to her feet, as if the tips of her shoes held answers she needed. “Why did you work so hard to hide what you were doing?”

“Mark would’ve fought my decision. I chose to delay this disagreement until my return.”

“Maybe we could have all gone with you.”

“I didn’t want you with me.”

“Wow, Susanna.”

I kept my gaze steady. “I will not satisfy your curiosity further. Please drop this.”

“It’s more than curiosity.” Her face flushed. “Why won’t you tell us where these people are? They should be brought to justice.”

“You have looked for them before. You have pressed me on this issue many times. Yet I have never cooperated.” Tension rose within me. I took a deep breath to calm myself. “There were only two truly bad men, and their authority was diminished when I left. The others in the village are good, ordinary people. I shall do nothing to disrupt or confuse their peace.”

She pushed away from the counter and stepped closer to me, genuine distress in her demeanor. “They must not live all that far away if you got there and back this quickly.”

“Please, Sherri. This subject must remain forever closed.”

“Why do you resist our help?”

“Because I do not require any.” How could I make her understand? We had been warming to each other of late, and I was sorry my absence had altered that. But I wouldn’t apologize for my choice. “My sister leads a life of contentment. The bad men cannot hurt her. You must trust me on the matter.”

“Did you see the man you used to call master?”

I drank in another breath before responding, for the thought of him was never without discomfort. “I did indeed see Mr. Pratt. It was unpleasant, but as you can see, I am here and unharmed. He has no power over me.”

“Fine.” She grabbed a pot from the stove, walked to the sink, and flipped on the faucet.

Taking her actions as dismissal, I returned to the apartment, alone with Toby and the journals, finally ready to discover how history had changed.

If Phoebe had taken my advice, had the treatment worked? Could Mark be correct that the mix of pills might have made her more ill?

I sat in my chair, hands folded, eyes closed. I did not make things worse. I was certain of this. I had no need to sit here nervously.

Enough. It was time. I opened the laptop and went to the folder marked “Archives.” There were three journals present. Not two.

An ember of joy burned in my belly. Phoebe had written an additional journal because she could use her hand. Because she had more to say.

I opened the second journal and went directly to the end—to see how the story had altered—and browsed through the pages until the week of the birthday ball.

September 29th, 1800

I received the most glorious surprise yesterday. As I walked from the house to the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of a person, standing on the lane. It was Susanna.

The sight of my sister froze my limbs and my thoughts, even my breath.

She wore a most unappealing gown and shoes more ugly than a laborer’s boots. Her body and face had rounded from too much good food. Yet it was my sister. I would have known her anywhere.

Was she saying that I had grown fat? It was true that the supply of food here was endless, even decadent. I could eat my fill, but had I become noticeably rounded?

Perhaps I should ask Mark, although he would be unlikely to agree if he were wise.

I had been told Susanna was dead. Yet she had not been swept away. She stood before me, strong and well.

The night was not long enough. I know I dozed at times, but I could not sleep deeply for fear that she might slip away.

The morning came too quickly, but for a time it felt as if we were little girls again. We braided each other’s hair and talked quietly and then went our separate ways.

Phoebe didn’t mention the medicine. Had she forgotten already?

I went to the next page, eyes hot with the need to know more.

September 30th, 1800

My hand trembles to hold the quill, but I am anxious to record my thoughts while they are still fresh.

Mid-evening, I was pulled from my duties serving food at the ball and ordered back to the kitchen…

This entry, from the night of the ball, was identical. I couldn’t tell that a single word had changed.

October 1st, 1800

Two days have passed and still my finger aches. It is swollen and hot.

Mrs. Eton is worried. She has plied me with a potent tea. It tastes so foul that surely it will work.

My sister brought me medicine but it is too soon. I should take it only for a fearsome injury like she described. The hole in my thumb is no longer visible.

I shall wait a little longer.

Still, the pain makes my hand shake. I can perform no delicate work until this affliction has passed.

I ignored the flutters of anxiety over her unnecessary caution. There was a new journal. Something had changed.

October 9th, 1800

It has been a week since I last wrote and yet much has happened. Indeed, a week ago I wondered if I would ever write again.

I have my dear sister to thank.

For many days after the ball, the pain from the needle prick would not let my finger go. I dabbed on a bit of the ointment each night and hoped it would be enough.

Late one evening, as I left the dining room with a tray of soiled dishes, my mistress beckoned to me from the doorway of the family parlor. I obeyed but with reluctance.

She asked to study my thumb, expressing great concern over my discomfort and that their efforts to heal my thumb had yet to succeed.

She called to her son, who joined us in the hall. “A nasty infection has taken hold of Phoebe’s thumb. We must do something before it is too late.”

Mr. William took my hand in his, casually at first. Then his attention sharpened. He laid a probing finger on the joints of my thumb. I could not contain my hiss. He commented that the pain must be severe.

I agreed in a voice so hoarse that I hardly recognized it.

He closed the parlor door behind him, shielding the three of us from curious eyes. When his mother asked him what he had learned in college about such afflictions, he nearly smiled as he said “blood-letting.”

She snorted in contempt. I would not receive that treatment.

Drawing me closer to a candle, she pressed her fingers gently yet firmly to my wrist and asked her son if he had ever performed an amputation.

I gasped in horror and tried to pull my hand away.

Mr. William nodded and then took over the scrutiny of my hand, turning it this way and that. With a sigh, he agreed with her assessment.

Mrs. Eton declared her intention to “consult my book.”

We all knew what that meant. Mrs. Eton’s mother had been a noted healer. Her recipes and wisdom had been written into a secret

book—a volume that was the envy of doctors and healers throughout

the Carolinas.

She summoned the housekeeper, who had been standing in the shadows nearby. “Mrs. Jasper, ask Cook to boil a measure of vinegar with rosemary and lavender. Dip a bandage in the brew and wrap Phoebe’s finger while it is still as hot as she can stand. William and I shall assess her again in the morning, when the light is better.” She slipped cool fingers under my chin and observed me solemnly. “We shall do our best to save your hand, but you must be brave.”

Mrs. Jasper walked to the kitchen to consult with Cook while I hurried up the stairs to my bedchamber.

No longer questioning the seriousness of this injury, I fetched one of the pills. It had an acrid taste, but I swallowed it down.

As Susanna instructed, I took another pill first thing in the morning and coated my finger with her ointment.

When I reported for chores to Mrs. Jasper, she ordered me back to

Cook’s office in the kitchen building.

Mrs. Eton and Mr. William arrived shortly thereafter, unsmiling and quiet. She carried a basket with jars and bandages. He carried a locked wooden box. The sight of it made my heart lurch.

With exquisite gentleness, he scrutinized my thumb and palm, and then gently turned my hand over. The furrows in his brow deepened as he repeated his study. Silently, he released my hand and took a step back.

My mistress began to unpack her basket, but then she hesitated. With a bewildered frown, she too examined my hand and then asked what I had done. I shook my head, not understanding the intent of her question.

She touched her cool fingers to my forehead and announced that the infection had lightened in such a dramatic way as she had never beheld. She demanded to know if I had tried a special remedy.

I did not care to lie, but neither could I share the entire truth. So I confessed to using Susie’s ointment. Mrs. Eton asked me to fetch it. I ran to my room and found the glass jar, and ran down again. When I handed the jar to Mrs. Eton, she removed the lid and sniffed carefully.

She rubbed the ointment between her fingers and then scowled.

After suggesting it might be wise to postpone drastic measures for another day or two, my mistress dressed the wound with fresh bandages, deliberately ignored Susanna’s ointment, and used a paste she had brought. It had an earthy smell, as if it transported us to a bed of leaves in the darkest forest. It was not unpleasant.

“I shall check again tomorrow. Mrs. Jasper, give her no assignments

that would bump her finger or stain the bandage.” When she rose, she

took my ointment with her.

Once they had left, I smiled to myself, confident in the knowledge that the improvements would continue. My hand—indeed, my life—had been saved.

And there the entry ended. My sister would thrive. I had done my duty.

There were regrets, naturally. Given the harsh words I’d exchanged with Sherri, my relationship with Mark’s parents might suffer. I had left my brother in anger, and I had weakened Mark’s trust.

Yet Phoebe had good options now. I had made the right choice.

After shutting off the computer I rose, walked to the bay window, and watched the night descend.