Diana in the Offing Ch. 03

Fevers burned them both up; she rushed to the kitchen, removed her pack, drew water, then started the large kettle. There would be a great deal of washing, and much hot water would be needed.

Then went back to the room; holding her breath, she forced both women to take a dose of syrup of ipecac; she hoped it would help to clear their lungs, then got them to sip water. Then cool compresses on their foreheads.

"I will be right back; I need to check on Emily," she promised, rushed from the room, then climbed the stairs two at a time. "Margaret, is Emily alright?"

She found Margaret weeping and holding Emily's pale hand. She was perched up on a pile of pillows, a basin of water beside her, she was not as filthy as the two women below, but she was none to clean either. Charlotte thought Emily must have been the last to become ill. She moved to stand beside Margaret, tears streaming down her face.

Then, Emily finally whispered through parched and broken lips, "You stupid girl, why did you come here."

Charlotte was ready to kiss the woman for her words. "We don't abandon those we love to illness and death without a fight. Now, Margaret, I started the kettle; unpack your pack, and I will give Emily something to clear her lungs. Then we need to sort out that infernal clothing washing machine. Now go."

"Yes, Mistress," Margaret snapped back to reality. Then she was gone.

"Charlotte, you should not have come; this pestilence is killing people," Emily was barely audible.

"You saved both Margaret and me, and I will not let you die without fighting the angel of death for you. That bastard has taken too much from me; now open and take your medicine." Charlotte got her to take it, then gave her some water and got a cool compress for her.

"The kettle is boiling, mistress; what do I do?" Margaret appeared at the door, dressed to work, apron on as if she were born to it.

"There are rosehips on the bushes outside; go and collect them. I have read that they have some medicinal value in these situations, what I don't know, but we have nothing to lose." Charlotte moved to the hall linen closet. It was empty; there was nothing clean. "Well, nothing for it but to go and look at the washing machine."

"Touch Grace's washing machine and she will skin you alive," Emily responded with what might have been a cough or possibly a very dry laugh.

"Well, I look forward to her being able to do just that," Charlotte responded, closing the doors and putting her head on the rich dark wood. 'Please, Mother Mary, I know I have not been to mass or confession since... well, you know. But please, help me here, help me with these women, heal them, my lord, and I will do better, I promise. I will say the rosary ten times a day, a hundred; please help me.'

Together they turned out Grace and Deborah's bed first. Working as gently as they could be, placing the women in chairs around the little table they used as their private sitting room. The sheets were soiled to the mattress, so they chose to turn it over. It was a heavy, unwieldy chore, but finally done. Then put fresh sheets on the bed, then turned to the women themselves.

Deborah insisted they clean Grace first as she was a terrible mess; her skin was angry with a rash from the filth. They ultimately had to cut her bush to remove the worst of the matted mess. Her skin had nasty sores; they cleaned it with soap water and sterilized it with a mild boric acid and cornstarch to dry it. They bandaged them as best they could, with torn sheets from the room that had been Charlottes, which was a single bed, and the sheets would fit no other in the house. They sacrificed all but a single set. They finally helped Grace toilet, then got her to bed.

Of the couple, Deborah had been able to stay on her feet longer, so she was not so badly off, but she had more of the illness to go. On the other hand, Grace seemed to have started to turn the corner but was still too weak to help yet. So finally, they got Deborah back to bed, and she and Grace promptly fell asleep.

Finally, they got to Emily; she was ill but not as bedridden as Grace or Deborah. Moreover, her en suite bathroom at least aided in her toilet until just the night before. So although her bed was soiled, it was not as badly off, undoubtedly because it had only one occupant.

Soon, Emily was also cleaned, dressed, and returned to bed.

It was then that Margaret and Charlotte took on the washing machine. It was a filthy business, unwashed linen was piled up in the room, and the smell was astonishing. They both privately prayed that the illness was not in the stench, or they would be the worse.

Perhaps it was Pierre's influence, but Charlotte found the machine less challenging than she had feared, and soon it was happy swishing and swashing its sway through its duties. The only hiccup was that they misjudged the amount of washing powder, and the wave of soaping bubbles that overtopped the machine brought panic, but once it was tamed, a bit of levity. Besides, it was not like the pile of dirty linen would not benefit from additional attention.

So it was by noon that both sick beds had been turned out, and the drying line was entirely covered with freshly laundered sheets to dry in the late autumn sun when Charlotte and Margaret began cooking.

Charlotte, being taller than Margaret, returned to the kitchen, having just pinned the last of the sheets to the line, and she was pleasantly surprised to find a pot on, with the scent of freshly made soup filling the room.

"Hmmmm, that smells lovely; I had no idea you could cook," Charlotte meant it as a compliment, but she was initially greeted with silence.

"I found a bit of chicken in the icebox, the ice has all melted, and the chicken might be a bit off, but I boiled it well. It will make a decent stock, and some vegetables fit only for pigs, but we will still use them; there should be enough for a few days. Thank goodness Emily had gas put in; otherwise, we would be hurting." Margaret did not even look up. "Regarding cooking, I never told you the truth about my childhood."

Slicing a very limp carrot and sliding it into the pot from the cutting board, she wiped her hands and turned to Charlotte.

"I have lied to you, everyone, even my husband." Margaret took a breath. "My father died when I was very young; my mother remarried to the man whose name I carried to my wedding day. Part of the bargain for the marriage so was I got his name through adoption, but he got m virtue when I was sixteen. My mother agreed because she feared we would be destitute and end up as prostitutes anyway. So until that faithful date, I was to be a servant in exchange for food and housing, so I learned to cook and clean."

Margaret turned back to the pot. "My mother told me of the Faustian bargain on my twelfth birthday, and I counted each and every day from then on, waiting for the day of my defilement to come."

Charlotte was aghast listening to the woman who she realized she had never known.

"It never came; you see, my stepfather had many vices. One was enjoying the worst of the brothels. The filthy disease he brought home took him and my mother from me. Luckily, one of my mother's relatives took me in, and through that relationship, I met and married my husband." She sipped the soup and added more garlic and salt.

"So you see, I was left with his name, which I was all too eager to relinquish, and my mother's inherent submissive tendencies, and before you ask, yes, she was more submissive than me. The things he would have her do would turn my stomach, yet she seemed to enjoy them all." Margaret's hand seemed to never know what to do. "Because of that, I have been terrified of poverty. I must have inherited that fear from her as well."

She carefully ladled two small bowls of broth and handed one to Charlotte, "Let's go feed Grace and Deborah; once they have something in them, we shall see to Emily."

And so it went, cleaning, nursing, cooking for several days. Then, finally, Charlotte insisted that Margaret rest and take some rosehip tea and soup. The soup lasted for a few days, and they baked bread to add to the meals; none of their charges were up for much more, so it was a blessing.

Finally, even that ran out, but again through Margaret's authority, the grocer grudgingly delivered vegetables and some eggs, which were becoming rare in the city, most precious of all, some salted pork. The lack of ice was a problem, and the ice man could only deliver himself, and neither woman could lift the forty-pound block of ice, so they went without. Luckily, the nights were turning cooler, and they could use the enclosed patio as cold storage, but meat was sorely needed.

The work was hard, Margaret had not done such tasks in years, and Charlotte had only done so for herself, but they managed, and all three of their charges improved with time. Grace was the first to regain some of her prior strength, followed by Deborah, and somewhat behind was Emily. Margaret would scarcely leave her bedside but was a great help to Charlotte, who worked together almost as mother and daughter.

"You know, I always wanted a daughter," Margaret confided in the quiet of an evening. "When I realized Johnathan was serious about a girl for once, I must admit I was torn. I loved him, perhaps too much, and after losing his father, well, I am afraid I spoiled him. For I knew my son, and I was fearful he would disgrace himself with you."

Margaret could not bring herself to look at Charlotte; she hurt all over. The rosehip tea seemed to help with her fatigued muscles, but she felt exhausted.

"I am sorry, Charlotte," Margaret finally continued, "I know it is cold comfort now, given what I had done, but part of me was afraid for you."

"Society does not punish wayward boys like Johnathan, for there was still a good deal of the boy in him. No, it says they are dashing, ladies' men, or some such foolishness," Margaret continued without pause. "But it is unforgiving of a disgraced woman."

With a deep breath, Margaret looked out the dark sitting room window. "My greatest shame is that part of me found it easier to think you were after his money than to think... to think that I was losing him to you and somehow I would be alone." The older woman reached for her daughter-in-law's hand, "But the greater part of me feared he would do something foolish and leave you alone and destitute."

They sat for some time; the clock struck midnight before Charlotte spoke. "I would not have left you alone nor destitute; I am saddened that you think I would."

"Mores, the pity I never gave you a chance to prove my fears were baseless mores the tragedy that fate did not allow Johnathan to prove me wrong as well." Margaret looked at her daughter-in-law, now closer than daughter. "I would gladly give my life to have been proven very wrong."

Margaret was still tired the next day, and Charlotte allowed her to sleep. Grace and Deborah could travel to the toilet with each other's assistance, which made much of the work lighter. Charlotte was hanging sheets when she heard the cries and commotion in the house next door. She chose to ignore the weeping and shrieks; she had heard that the boys were ill, both young and strong, and it was only in the afternoon that she learned the details.

"Someone passed, didn't they?" Emily asked as Charlotte spooned the salted pork and split pea soup for her. "Which one, Samuel or David?" Emily slurped, trying to remain as ladylike as possible with an old towel tied as a bib.

"Both of them," Charlotte whispered, trying not to think of the boys she had sometimes played with in her time in Emily's home. Both were young men, only in their mid-teens, and she thought they might be suffering from puppy love toward her. The thought caused her heart to ache. "They both passed around midnight, from what I can gather."

"Dear God, poor Agnes, she will be heartbroken," Emily responded, tears falling for yet another tragedy. Little did Emily know, for Agnes Louis Hawthorne died six months later of a broken heart. It became far worse when two months later, a drunk Thomas Hawthorne, the family patriarch, now alone, took himself away to the cemetery, propped himself up the headstone of his beloved wife and sons, put a revolver in his mouth, and joined them in death.

The Spanish Flu had many ways of claiming lives.

None of this last heartbreak was even noted by Charlotte until long after it was all a memory.

"Yes, it is," Charlotte responded, but her mind was not fixed on the drama next door, but upon the one she feared might be unfolding down the hall.

The clock chimed two when she ventured to recheck Margaret. The woman had said she was tired, and after a light breakfast in the room she and Charlotte shared, Margaret had returned to bed. However, she had not stirred since.

Now that her charges were fed, bathed, toileted, thus ready for an afternoon slumber, Charlotte crept down the hall. Anyone who saw her would have considered her a woman going to the gallows.

She lightly knocked, "Margaret, are you awake?" She asked, then opened the door slowly, hands trembling; she was so frightened of what she might find.

Margaret was asleep, deathly pale, and her breath was becoming labored. Charlotte carefully approached the bed as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake her mother-in-law.

Margaret did not stir.

The sleeping woman looked slightly flushed; Charlotte floated the back of her hand across the slumbering Margaret's forehead. She was feverish, skin hot, lips parched. Charlotte nearly ran, grabbing the ipecac, the rosehip tea, and the vapor salve.

She nearly tore the buttons from Margaret's night dress, opening it and applying thick salve coating to the woman's chest, the strong scent of camphor, eucalyptus, and menthol filling the room.

The rosehip tea was next, but Margaret rousing from sleep finally, tried to resist.

"Please, Margaret, you need to drink, please," Charlotte's voice cracked, and she felt the tears wetting her cheek.

Margaret's eyes opened slowly, and there was a weak smile. "I was dreaming about grandchildren," Her smile dimmed a little. "I am so sorry for all I did to you... and me. I truly am."

"I know, now just get better; we can make up for the lost time." Charlotte kissed the woman on the forehead, helping her charge drink the last of her tea. "Now get some sleep; we shall talk later."

Over the next two days, Grace improved enough to help Charlotte with some of the cooking. After that, Grace could focus on Deborah, which took more pressure off Charlotte. After that, Charlotte divided her time between Emily and Margaret. Emily and Deborah steadily improved, and Margaret worsened until the third day when she seemed to rally herself.

One morning Emily asked for pen and paper, dispatching telegrams to all the remote Club members inquiring about their health.

The Soulard house was brutally hit. Several girls had been training as nurses and inadvertently brought the virus back to the house. In addition, some of the girls lived in the house and the house next door, which Emily also owned; the distressing news was that one of the new girls, Caroline, a young girl of only 18, had passed in the night. Worse, one of the older women, Eloise, passed a few days later.

Emily was devastated.

"They were so young?" Emily seemed unable to understand the loss as Charlotte changed the compress on the older woman's forehead.

"It seems to strike hardest at the young, or so the papers say," Charlotte dragged her sleeve over her dripping brow.

"Charlotte, when was the last time you slept?" Emily fixed the young Charlotte in her gaze. Although not entirely herself, Emily felt she was becoming whole again. "Now you get yourself off to bed, young lady. Do you hear me?"

Emily pushed Charlotte away and pulled her covers back. "I have been in this bed long enough; you have been working yourself to death for us, now off with you."

"Emily, you are not strong," Charlotte started to say.

"Nonsense! I have been feeling much better these past days; I insist you take a rest." Emily managed to get her feet to the floor; her nightgown was fresh that morning, and she wondered how often Margaret and Charlotte had washed it.

Feeling as weak as a kitten, she managed to get to her feet, and using sheer British will, she pushed Charlotte out of the room and down the hall.

"We check on Margaret, and then you put you to bed." Emily took Charlotte's arm, mainly to steady herself but also to guide Charlotte. The fact that the young woman did not seem to notice the contact was even more of an emphasis to Emily that the girl was exhausted.

Emily found that Charlotte had been sleeping in the trundle beside Margaret, who was quietly snoring, her breath raspy but steady; the older woman's color was better.

Emily helped Charlotte into her nightgown, and into the trundle bed, Charlotte reached for Margaret's extended hand, and they grasped each other tightly.

"Good night, mama," Charlotte whispered before dropping off.

"Good night, my sweetpea," Margaret responded, lapsing into sleep.

"Sleep well, my girls," Emily whispered, then closed the door.