Quarantine: A Novel by John Smolens Page A

doing, of course.”
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    The footman, a boy no older than fourteen, stood on the
    running board and looked through the open window. “Ma’am
    thought you might be hungry, sir.”
    As the carriage rolled across the Mall and down High Street,
    Giles ate bread, cheese, and a plump chicken leg, and there was
    a lidded pewter tankard of Dog’s Nose—ale and rum. When he
    reached Enoch’s house, Fields opened the front door. “Doctor,
    the missus requests your services upstairs.”
    Giles climbed the stairs and found the young Jamaican maid
    waiting in the hall. She had a livid bruise on her forehead. “What happened to you?”
    The girl merely curtsied, whispering, “This way, if you please,
    Doctor.”
    She admitted him to one of the guest bedrooms on the second
    floor. His mother stood by the bed, looking down at a girl, eyes closed, lying motionless beneath a counterpane.
    “I believe she has swallowed a great deal of river water,” his
    mother said. Her hands fidgeted with the bow on the front of her yellow dress. “Apparently, she was on the Miranda, and jumped ship. Nearly drowned trying to swim ashore. Fortunately, a boy
    saved her. She was alert at first, but then she collapsed during the coach ride to the house.”
    “She shouldn’t have been allowed off that ship,” Giles said.
    “Shall we throw her back in the river?” she said apologetically.
    Giles ignored his mother, knowing that to look at her now
    would allow her to register the kind of small victory she delighted in, and he moved toward the side of the bed.
    “Perhaps I should leave while you examine her?” she asked.
    “That won’t be necessary. Who is she?”
    “That is not so easily determined. She’s French, certainly.”
    Giles leaned over the girl. She lay perfectly still on her back, her long brown hair spread over the pillow. She was, he guessed, in her late twenties. He picked up her hand and placed his fingers on the inside of her wrist. Her pulse was steady. Then he lifted 88
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    one eyelid and found no abnormal dilation or coloration in the
    pupil. He pulled the counterpane down from her chin. She was
    wearing a white nightgown. Gently he felt her neck and throat.
    There was an unusual delicacy to her features, and her skin was
    remarkably smooth and fair, considering the long sea voyage and
    time spent fighting the currents of the Merrimack.
    “Has she vomited?” he asked.
    “Water.”
    “No black vomit? No blood?”
    “No, says she’s had the fever while hiding down in the Carib-
    bean. She’s just brought up water—quite a bit of it, but I think she’s fairly dried out by now.”
    “I need to sit her up.”
    His mother went around to the other side of the bed, and together they raised the girl into a sitting position. He untied the drawstring at the top of her night gown and peeled the garment down off her shoulders, exposing her pale back. He thumped her with both hands, then drew the gown up again, allowing his mother to fasten the
    string. When they laid her back on the pillow, the girl coughed once.
    “There’s no sign of fever,” he said. “What do you mean she’s
    been ‘hiding’?”
    As she pulled the counterpane up over the girl, his mother
    said, “Perhaps you should address that question to your brother
    or your nephew.”
    “Samuel?”
    She went to the door but paused. “Yes, he has also just returned from France.”
    “By way of the Caribbean?”
    “Why, yes.” His mother’s voice was all innocence—never a
    good omen.
    “He swam ashore from the Miranda, too.”
    “Oh dear, no. I believe he came ashore in a dinghy. Arrived
    dry as a bone,” his mother said. “But he’s immune as well. Says
    he had the fever in Paris.”
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    “You do realize that’s not the point. This ship is a serious threat to Newburyport, unless the quarantine is observed.”
    “Enforcement of such matters is not my concern, Giles. They’re
    both