movement at all in the room—not even the sound of breathing.
Slowly, she set the cup down on the small table beside the bed, and bent to press her fingers against the girl’s smooth throat. The skin was cold. Though impossible, there was no doubt. Phoebe Morris had died in the night.
Charlotte inched down the length of the bed, and finally turned to plant both hands on the windowsill. Then she pressed her forehead against a pane of cool glass, suppressing the moan rising from deep within her. Withnumb fingers, she somehow managed to raise the sash, then thrust her head outside, while her mind continued to cry out for answers for what lay behind her.
How could it have happened?
Phoebe’s condition yesterday had given them little cause for fear. And Will! What would the boy do, when he learned of Phoebe’s death? Unless—unless he already knew … ?
The air before her shimmered, and she seemed to see the young girl standing in the garden once more, a hand extended toward the window. Deliberately, Charlotte drew back, turned, and took a long breath; she blinked, and ignored what reason told her must surely be nothing more than a memory tricking her eyes.
Then she forced herself to consider carefully. What could be done? For Phoebe, nothing. Nothing! Yet it would be wise to do
something
to make sense of this tragedy, and quickly. Word would soon spread, and wagging tongues would no doubt begin to craft curious tales. After all, if suspicion already grew in her own mind …
Gathering her courage, Charlotte returned to Phoebe’s side. There
was
a bruise above the girl’s cheek, as a child might show for having been at war with another. A small injury, though one she could not remember seeing the day before. But beyond that … ?
In another moment, she reached out to fold back the smooth bed coverings, wanting to look more closely at the girl’s arms and hands. Then she stopped, deciding to leave things as they were for others to see. She looked about the room for anything else, but there seemed to be nothing out of place. On the small table, next to the still-steaming teacup, stood an empty glass and a closed volume, neither of which told her more.
Again, her eyes sought the purple bruise. Could Phoebe have been struck by someone who had seen her last evening? What if she had also been hit from behind—by a much harder blow?
Gently, Mrs. Willett reached down and moved the girl’s fair hair away from her neck, then lifted the head slightly, and bent to look below. No sign of blood or swelling, but the pillow beneath was damp to her touch. She lowered the head, feeling some resistance, knowing from experience that this would soon increase.
Of course, there was one idea much of Bracebridge would be sure to embrace, and it was this: Inoculation had been at fault. But Phoebe had seemed hardly ill at all, while she lived. Though what if the powder she’d inhaled had acted not only as a carrier of the smallpox, but as a poison, perhaps to the lungs, as well?
Almost immediately, Charlotte was struck by a second horrible idea. What if Diana, too—! She whirled toward the door just as Hannah Sloan tried to enter, apparently to speak to the girl herself. Seeing the look on Mrs. Willett’s face, Hannah flung her hands up into the air and fell back.
“I must see Diana!” Charlotte cried, racing for the stairs. In seconds she was outside the bedchamber. Bracing herself, she opened the door and peered inside. Nothing! But then, with a small moan, the quilt-covered body on the bed tossed from one side to the other, before it settled. Greatly relieved, Charlotte crept back down the stairs.
In the kitchen, Hannah Sloan sat hunched before the fire. At Mrs. Willett’s return she looked up mutely, waiting for direction.
“Brew another pot, Hannah—and toast some bread. Have some yourself, with plenty of jam,” Charlotte added, for she had seen the effects of shock to the nerves before. “Stir extra sugar into your cup.
Slowly, she set the cup down on the small table beside the bed, and bent to press her fingers against the girl’s smooth throat. The skin was cold. Though impossible, there was no doubt. Phoebe Morris had died in the night.
Charlotte inched down the length of the bed, and finally turned to plant both hands on the windowsill. Then she pressed her forehead against a pane of cool glass, suppressing the moan rising from deep within her. Withnumb fingers, she somehow managed to raise the sash, then thrust her head outside, while her mind continued to cry out for answers for what lay behind her.
How could it have happened?
Phoebe’s condition yesterday had given them little cause for fear. And Will! What would the boy do, when he learned of Phoebe’s death? Unless—unless he already knew … ?
The air before her shimmered, and she seemed to see the young girl standing in the garden once more, a hand extended toward the window. Deliberately, Charlotte drew back, turned, and took a long breath; she blinked, and ignored what reason told her must surely be nothing more than a memory tricking her eyes.
Then she forced herself to consider carefully. What could be done? For Phoebe, nothing. Nothing! Yet it would be wise to do
something
to make sense of this tragedy, and quickly. Word would soon spread, and wagging tongues would no doubt begin to craft curious tales. After all, if suspicion already grew in her own mind …
Gathering her courage, Charlotte returned to Phoebe’s side. There
was
a bruise above the girl’s cheek, as a child might show for having been at war with another. A small injury, though one she could not remember seeing the day before. But beyond that … ?
In another moment, she reached out to fold back the smooth bed coverings, wanting to look more closely at the girl’s arms and hands. Then she stopped, deciding to leave things as they were for others to see. She looked about the room for anything else, but there seemed to be nothing out of place. On the small table, next to the still-steaming teacup, stood an empty glass and a closed volume, neither of which told her more.
Again, her eyes sought the purple bruise. Could Phoebe have been struck by someone who had seen her last evening? What if she had also been hit from behind—by a much harder blow?
Gently, Mrs. Willett reached down and moved the girl’s fair hair away from her neck, then lifted the head slightly, and bent to look below. No sign of blood or swelling, but the pillow beneath was damp to her touch. She lowered the head, feeling some resistance, knowing from experience that this would soon increase.
Of course, there was one idea much of Bracebridge would be sure to embrace, and it was this: Inoculation had been at fault. But Phoebe had seemed hardly ill at all, while she lived. Though what if the powder she’d inhaled had acted not only as a carrier of the smallpox, but as a poison, perhaps to the lungs, as well?
Almost immediately, Charlotte was struck by a second horrible idea. What if Diana, too—! She whirled toward the door just as Hannah Sloan tried to enter, apparently to speak to the girl herself. Seeing the look on Mrs. Willett’s face, Hannah flung her hands up into the air and fell back.
“I must see Diana!” Charlotte cried, racing for the stairs. In seconds she was outside the bedchamber. Bracing herself, she opened the door and peered inside. Nothing! But then, with a small moan, the quilt-covered body on the bed tossed from one side to the other, before it settled. Greatly relieved, Charlotte crept back down the stairs.
In the kitchen, Hannah Sloan sat hunched before the fire. At Mrs. Willett’s return she looked up mutely, waiting for direction.
“Brew another pot, Hannah—and toast some bread. Have some yourself, with plenty of jam,” Charlotte added, for she had seen the effects of shock to the nerves before. “Stir extra sugar into your cup.
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