Page 99 - Fever 1793

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE November 10th, 1793
The yellow fever will discourage the growth of great cities in our nation.
—Thomas Jefferson Letter to Dr. Benjamin Rush, 1800
I dashed across the street without looking. “Mother!”
I gathered her into my arms. She felt like a frail bird. We stood in silence, rocking and holding onto
each other as if the rest of the world didn’t matter. Which was true.
At last she pulled away from me with a sigh.
“I need to sit down,” she said with a weak smile. “Where are my manners? Matilda, this is my good
friend Mrs. Ludington.”
I curtsied out of habit. “You’ve been with the Ludingtons the whole time?”
Nathaniel stepped forward. “Good day, Mrs. Cook. It is a pleasure to see you survived the terrible
pestilence. Why don’t we go inside where you’ll be more comfortable?” “What a good idea,” Mother said. “Nathaniel Benson, that’s your name?” “Yes, Ma’am,” he said. Very respectful, very smart.
I waited for her to make a sharp-tongued remark, but she didn’t.
Mother could not walk unaided. Mrs. Ludington took one arm and I took the other to help her. Nathaniel walked ahead and opened the door for us.
As we crossed the threshold, the company in the front room fell silent. They were all as shocked by Mother’s appearance as I was. The doctor at the chessboard stood in respect. His companion did the same, then every man in the room rose to his feet to honor her.
She paused for a moment. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
“Lucille!” Eliza stood in the kitchen doorway, her hand covering her mouth. She took two steps and hugged Mother, tears flowing freely and without apology.
“Oh, my Lord,” she said, wiping away the tears. “Let’s get into the kitchen.”
I helped Mother sit at the kitchen table. Mrs. Ludington sat across from her. Eliza quickly poured coffee for all of us, then grabbed a serving tray.
“You stay here and catch up,” she commanded me. “I’ll take care of the front room. If I get desperate, I’ll use that painter of yours.”
Mother picked up her mug, her hand shaking. She sipped once, then set the mug down. It seemed too heavy for her to hold.
There were so many questions, so much to say. Where should I start?
“Do you feel well?” I asked.
She nodded once. “I require a nap these days,” she said with a hint of her old self. “Imagine that, if
you will.”
“Your mother is still recovering,” Mrs. Ludington explained. “The doctors say it’s a miracle she
survived at all.”
“Bunkum,” Mother said.
Mrs. Ludington smiled. “It’s not bunkum, Lucille.” She turned to me. “Your mother joined us at the
farm a few days after she sent you and your grandfather on. When she realized you were lost, she went wild.”
“I was concerned,” Mother said.