Page 19 - Fever 1793
P. 19

 “Trout?”
He smiled and I got a chill. When had he started smiling at me like that? Maybe I wouldn’t roll up my sleeves. One had to be careful with elbows and boys. I would fish like a lady, with good posture and a demure manner. I could set the eggs in the stream so they wouldn’t spoil. . . .
Bong. Bong. Bong.
The bell at Christ Church tolled heavily.
“Why is that ringing?” asked Nathaniel. “It’s not the hour.”
Bong. Bong. Bong.
A little boy sitting on the cobblestones covered his ears. The chattering marketplace voices hushed as
the ringing continued. Every face turned toward the bell swaying in its tower.
“Another person dead,” said the butcher. He brought his cleaver down, slicing the mutton leg on his
table into two pieces. “The bell rings once for each year the person lived,” he explained.
“Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one,” counted Nathaniel. The bell stopped. “Twenty-one years old. Do you
reckon it was a fever victim?”
“Don’t you start carrying on about this fever,” I warned. “When Mother isn’t hollering at me about
something I’ve done wrong, she’s moaning about the fever.” I lowered my voice. “Did you hear about Polly Logan?”
He nodded. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? I recall you pummeled me once when I stole Polly’s doll.”
I remembered, too. She loved that doll. I turned away so he couldn’t see my tears.
Nathaniel put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
His hand felt kind and warm. “I miss her. I didn’t even get to say good-bye.” I wiped my eyes on my
sleeve and cleared my throat again. “Enough about that. We won’t talk about it anymore.”
“Suit yourself.”
Nathaniel stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at the cobblestones. I balanced the basket on my
hip. Conversation started up around us as the last echo of the bell died.
“You won’t catch anything,” I said. “Fish don’t bite this time of day.”
Nathaniel grunted. He knew I was right. “Well,” he started.
“I must go,” I interrupted. “There is so much to do at the coffeehouse. Good luck with your paints.”
I curtsied awkwardly, stepping on my shift and nearly falling on my face. Nathaniel tipped his hat to
me like a gentleman. I tried to walk away with my head held high. I could still feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder.
Good luck with your paints? Did I really say that? What a ninny.







































































   17   18   19   20   21