Fever 1793 Read Free

and Eliza each a mug of coffee. "It's a large family, she still has seven children under ten years, one a babe in her arms.
    "We'll pray they don't take sick," Eliza said as she took the mug. "Are any neighbors ill?"
    Mother blew in her cup and nodded. "An old man who lives across the alley is rumored to be sick in bed, but you know how these stories catch fire. It's strange though. She was a healthy girl, robust. Never saw her so much as sneeze before."
    I kept my eyes closed, trying to see Polly happy, joking, maybe stealing a kiss with Matthew, then bursting through the door to tell me. It couldn't be real. How could Polly be dead?
    "Matilda, are you well?" asked Mother. "She looks peculiar, don't you think, Eliza? Are you feverish?" She laid her hand on my forehead. Her fingers were rough but cool, and smelled faintly of lavender. I wanted to lay my head on her shoulder, but that would have been awkward.
    Mother slipped her hand to the back of my neck.
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    "She did not suffer, Matilda. We must be grateful for that." She removed her hand and peered into my eyes. "This heat is not healthy. You must tell me straight away if you feel peckish."
    I waited for her to say something more about Polly. She did not.
    "We should send along something for the family," suggested Eliza. "Her mother is in no condition to cook. Mattie could take a ham over."
    "No," Mother said quickly. She set the coffee mug on the table with a thump. "I don't want her near there, not with a sickness in the air. Besides, she hasn't played with Polly for years. The girl was our servant, not a friend."
    "Yes, she was," I protested. "Let me go, please. I'll take some food, you know they need it, and I'll pay my respects to her mother. It's the proper thing to do."
    "I've already paid our respects," Mother said. "You'll just upset her mother more. I'll take a food basket there myself. Tomorrow. Now put on a clean apron, Matilda, and wash your hands. It's time to get to work."
    "I want to see her!"
    "No."
    "What about the funeral?" I asked, blinking back the tears. "You must let me attend that."
    "No. Absolutely not. I forbid it. You'll have nightmares."
    "She was my friend! You must allow me. Why are you so horrid?"
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    As soon as the angry words were out of my mouth, I knew I had gone too far.
    "Matilda!" Mother rose from her chair. "You are forbidden to speak to me in that tone! Apologize at once."
    The sun coming in the south window cast deep shadows under her eyes and cheekbones. She held her jaw tight, her eyes flashing with anger. She looked old, much older than she should. She hadn't always been so pinch-faced and harsh.
    When Mother allowed herself a still moment by the fire on winter nights, I could sometimes see the face she wore when Father was alive. Back then Mother smiled at me with her eyes and her laughter and her gentle hands. But no longer. Life was a battle, and Mother a tired and bitter captain. The captain I had to obey.
    "My apologies," I said.
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    CHAPTER FOUR
    August i6th, 1793
    Diet Bread: One pound sugar, 9 eggs, beat for an hour, add to 14 ounces flour, teaspoon rosewater, one teaspoon cinnamon or coriander, bake quick.
    -Amelia Simmons American Cookbook, 1796
    By midafternoon the front room of the coffeehouse was thick with customers, pipe smoke, and loud arguments. A ship's captain finished telling a yarn, and the windowpanes rattled with laughter. Mother poured him a cup of coffee with a steady hand. She looked up as I walked by carrying a tray of fresh gingerbread, but she wouldn't meet my eye.
    "Over here, lass!" Grandfather shouted from his corner seat. Above his head hung the cage of King George, the scraggly green parrot won in a card game. "Bring those delectables over here and give us a kiss."
    My Grandfather was Captain William Farnsworth
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    Cook of the Pennsylvania Fifth Regiment. He was a stout man, thanks to Eliza's cooking, and the heart of all gossip and tall tales in the coffeehouse. He had been an army