January 4, 1800
Eliza Russell has sat by Mr. White’s side since three men carried him to the house yestermorn on a stretcher made from his greatcoat. During the long hours, she has moved in and out of sleep. Now as she sees a new day’s light through the window pane, she knows she has weathered the night. Has he?
She looks at him. His eyes are closed, but his mouth is open and blood trickles down his chin. “Internal bleeding,” Dr. Baldwin told her and Peter. “He will not last the night.” She holds a glass in front of his face and sees the mist upon it. Still alive.
Job tiptoes in with a good hot cup of tea and a buttered scone. But what she needs most at this moment is the chamber pot. She motions to Job to take her place. Past her brother’s room she goes, listens to his snores, glad she sent him to bed, and that he has had some rest. In her own room, she relieves herself and washes her face, readying herself for the coming hours of the death watch.
Little William and Charles must not see their Papa in this state, that she knows for certain. She dips a quill in the inkwell on the table by her bookcase and writes a note to Mrs. Page telling her to be a-keeping an eye on their to-ings and fro-ings this day. Last night Mrs. Page brought over a sealed note from Mr. White which she had found in the withdrawing room. Later Peter read it to her as they sat together beside their friend’s bed.
As she goes back to the death watch, she sees that the trail of blood on the hallway floor is still there. If any good can come from this wretched duel, it will be to have Mrs. Page in this house in the place of the slattern Peggy. And the children, yes, the children. She smiles to think of childish laughter in their midst once again.
She gives her note to Job. He looks at Mrs. Page’s name on the outside, nods, and indicates that he will deliver it as he is bid.
Mr. White is in a sort of coma from what she can tell. His breath comes in moans. She sits in the chair by his bed a-wondering what can be done to ease his passing. She must not look at his naked body. No.
The minutes tick by . . . The Lord forgive her, she must know the worst. She pulls aside the cotton sheet and the blankets they have covered him with and sees the bandage Dr. Baldwin wrapped around his abdomen. Lordy, Lordy. His whole lower body is seized up with a-shivering and a-shaking that will not stop. The bandage itself is soaked in brown-red blood, a dark contrast to the bright red blood that comes a-leaking from his mouth. She cannot look at it, cannot bear to think of what that body must be enduring. She pulls the sheet and blankets back over to cover the worst. Dear Lord, let this end.
* * *
The sun has long ago moved out of the window. It is late afternoon. Peter comes in, touches her shoulder, looks at their dying friend, and sighs. “May it all be over with soon,” he says.
At the sound of her brother’s voice, Mr. White opens his eyes. They are glassy and unfocused, but he seems to be trying to communicate in some way. She and her brother lean in towards him. “Dear, dear friend,” she says.
Peter looks at her. “Perhaps there are miracles after all,” he says.
Mr. White struggles to speak, but the sound that comes from his throat, along with a bloody spume, they cannot understand. He is looking at them, that is for certain, and he reaches out a trembling hand towards them. She and Peter grasp it. It goes slack in their grip.
Moments pass. They look at the still, silent figure before them. “You must rest now, sister,” Peter says at last. “Go and sleep. I shall see to the arrangements.”
But she cannot rest. After her brother leaves, she sits beside her friend, unwilling to leave his body unattended. She thinks of the day she came upon him and his cook Yvette during the little funeral in the spring garden. How she stood with them as they sang “Joy to the World” with the words about the wonders of God’s love. And she remembers how her friend sat with her and comforted her during those long night hours when her heart near broke over her daughter’s death.
“I think of the wonders of your love, my friend,” she says aloud. Then she leans forward and kisses the pale face streaked with blood.
“May you find peace, dear Mr. White.” She remembers the words he spoke to comfort her after Mary’s death. “Fly to another world now, a world free of pain.”
The End