Page 90 - Fever 1793

“Mattie Cook!” Mrs. Epler cried. “Thanks to Gott you survived. But you are so thin, liebchen. You look just like your mother, she works so hard. Here, two fat hens for you and your family. And have some eggs.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Epler,” I said pulling out my purse.
“No, no, no money. My gift,” the plump egg seller insisted. “How is Mrs. Cook? Did you go out to the country?”
I laid the dead hens in my basket. “Mother is missing,” I said. “Grandfather is dead.”
Mrs. Epler’s hands flew to her cheeks. “You poor child!” She pulled me close and squeezed me hard, her head barely as high as my shoulder. “Little Mattie, little Mattie.”
“It’s fine, Mrs. Epler, I’ll be fine.” I unwrapped her arms from me. “I’m sure Mother will be home soon. But please, ask folks if they’ve seen her.”
“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Epler said, bobbing her head up and down. “I’ll ask everyone in the whole city.”
I had to smile at that. The news would be halfway to New York by nightfall if Mrs. Epler had anything to do with it.
All the farmers were cheerful and generous. I paid very low prices for peaches, carrots, and beets. Though my basket was full, I found room for a sack of hard candy and a small loaf of sugar. “For the children,” I told myself.
I had to taste the candy, of course, to make sure it was not stale. I was so vigilant that I tasted several pieces. Nell, Robert, and William deserved the best.
My shopping was done and I had questioned everyone about Mother, but still I lingered, caught between wanting to leave and wanting to stay until I could sort out the thoughts battling in my head.
What now? Should I travel to the Ludingtons’ farm? Wait in town a few more days?
I looked over a selection of bruised apples. Part of me did not want to know what had happened. If Mother was dead, I’d have to sell the coffeehouse, or have the orphans court sell it for me. I’d get work as a scullery maid, or move into the orphanage and do laundry.
I looked past the apple seller to the haberdasher’s window behind him. My face looked back at me from the thick glass. Mrs. Epler was right: I was thin. Yellow fever had certainly done away with vanity. I lifted my chin. The shape of my face looked for all the world like Mothers, her nose, her mouth.
But my eyes were my own. I blinked.
A scullery maid? Ridiculous. I was Matilda Cook, daughter of Lucille, granddaughter of Captain William Farnsworth Cook, of the Pennsylvania Fifth Regiment. I could read, write, and figure numbers faster than most. I was not afraid of hard work.
I would set my own course.
Someone placed a hand on my elbow.
“I hoped I might find you here,” a low voice rumbled in my ear.
My heart jumped.
“Nathaniel!”
I wanted to throw my arms around him, or jump up and down, or . . . I wasn’t sure what I wanted to
do. I wanted to stop blushing. I tried to collect myself.
“How are you?” I asked. Think of something intelligent, I commanded myself. Don’t be a ninny.
A slow smile spread across his face. Had he grown even taller?
“Much better now that I’ve found you,” he said. His hand stayed on my elbow. “I’m sorry I didn’t
bring you flowers.”
“That’s all right,” I said, a ridiculous smile on my face. “I have your painting on the mantle. It was
beautiful. You look... quite well. Did you have the fever?” “No. We were most fortunate.”