The Inn at Hidden Run Page 7

  Meri shrugged. “Okay then.”

  “I’ll get my laptop.”

  Jillian paced directly across the living room and through the dining room, pausing at the kitchen threshold to give her father a quick thumbs-up as she ducked across the hall into her office for her computer and returning to Meri before the dinner guest had time to marshal more reasons why this project was untenable.

  “I have a form I use to gather basic facts.” Jillian dropped into a comfortable chair and propped her feet up. She could have invited Meri into her office, but the more casual she made this process feel, the more likely Meri would stick with it. At least that seemed logical in the moment. She had no chance to check the strategy with her dad. “From there it’s easy to import into a family tree or databases that could help us.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Let’s start with your parents’ names.”

  “Michael and Juliette.”

  “Mother’s maiden name.”

  “Mathers.”

  “Birthdays?”

  Meri supplied them.

  “Do you know all your grandparents’ names?”

  “Richard and Olive Mathers. I think her maiden name was Freeman. But I can’t tell you their birth dates. Not the years.”

  “You’re doing great. On the Davies side?”

  “Thomas and Rosie. Rosalie McNeal.”

  “Great-grandparents?”

  Meri shrugged. “I never knew them, but my father’s Auntie Mo used to tell me some stories.”

  “Not your father?”

  Meri shook her head. “He never had time for things like that. He was too busy being important.”

  And there was that edge that took the story out of the realm of strict information and put it in Nolan’s world. Jillian tried to look busy with her form and waited to see if Meri would provide any names in the Davies lineage tracing further back. It didn’t necessarily matter. With her parents’ names and her grandparents’ names, Jillian could search various databases for the next generation back.

  “That’s all right,” she said. “Most people don’t know their great-grandparents. In a lot of families, it only takes two generations before people know almost nothing about more than one branch of the family.”

  “I’m glad we’re normal in at least one way.” Meri’s laugh rang false. “Meri, can I ask about the doctors in your family?”

  “What is there to ask? There have been a lot.”

  “Like who?”

  “My mother is a thoracic surgeon. My father an oncologist.”

  “Who else?”

  “My dad’s sister is in family practice, and his other sister is a physician’s assistant. Everyone thinks she didn’t work hard enough to be a real doctor. And his brother died in a car accident while he was in medical school.”

  “That is a lot of doctors.”

  “I’m just getting started. My grandfather was a doctor, and my grandmother was a nurse. In those days it was really hard for a black woman to become a physician, or I’m sure she would have been one too. On my mom’s side, her sister is a clinical psychologist, which is practically the same as being a doctor, though not quite the same in the eyes of the real doctors in the family, even though she has a PhD.”

  “What about before your grandfather Davies?”

  “My great-grandfather? Yep. Even Auntie Mo was a nurse.”

  “I’m starting to see what you mean about your family having a ‘thing.’ Mo sounds like it’s short for something.”

  “Muriel. I think she was fairly accomplished in her profession, but she was one person who talked to me about other stuff, which I was always glad for, so I’m not sure of any details.”

  “Do you know where any of them worked?”

  Meri crossed and uncrossed her legs. “It was a long time ago. Small towns, I guess. It was the South before civil rights. Black folks had to look after their own, and that’s what they did.”

  “Tennessee?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Where else?”

  There was that shrug again. “Not sure.”

  Not sure or not telling?

  “Did they move around?”

  “I suppose. Don’t most people? Through the generations, I mean.”

  “Depends.” Jillian clicked to a different screen in her form. Maybe sibling information in the current generation would be a safer topic for the moment. “Tell me about—”

  The crash clattered from the kitchen.

  Jillian leaped up. “Dad!”

  “Well, isn’t that a fret!”

  She exhaled and looked at Meri. “He’s all right.”

  “How can you tell?” Meri said.

  “That’s what he says.”

  “Maybe you should check.”

  Jillian nodded.

  Nolan appeared. His apron was no longer white, and his chef’s hat was cockeyed, but he looked otherwise unharmed.

  “All is well,” he said.

  “I don’t think so, Dad.” Jillian kept moving toward the kitchen.

  He spread his arms. “Che bella cosa na jurnata ’e sole!”

  “You’re not going to sing your way out of this,” Jillian said. “Come on, Meri. You can sit in the kitchen while I help clean up and see if there’s anything left of our dinner.”

  “Our Sunday dinner is unscathed, I assure you,” Nolan said.

  “What exactly were you cooking?”

  “Traditional Irish black pudding.”

  Jillian led Meri into the kitchen. “Not true. That requires pig’s blood, and nobody in Canyon Mines sells that.” Which he would know if he had a clue about shopping.

  “I bought it off the internet.”

  “Also not true.” Jillian glanced in Meri’s direction.

  “Crubeens.”

  “Because in the absence of pig’s blood you figure pig’s feet is the next best thing to make our guest comfortable. Nope.” Jillian pointed Meri to the nook and pulled a string of paper towels off the roll to start cleaning up whatever had exploded.

  “Cottage pie?” Nolan said.

  “Now you are in the realm of believability.”

  “That doesn’t sound Italian,” Meri said.

  “It’s not,” Jillian said. “It’s Irish.”

  “But the Italian opera.”

  “He sings the same thing when he makes Saturday morning pancakes.”

  Nolan’s eyes lit. “You must come for pancakes next Saturday morning!”

  “How about we see if Meri survives this meal first?” Jillian said. The noise that had drawn Jillian and Meri in from the other room was accounted for by the set of stainless steel mixing bowls her father had used, probably stacked beside the sink, and managed to knock to the granite tile that made enough noise to wake the dead. The pie itself was safely in the oven. Jillian picked up the bowls and wiped up remains of beef, vegetables, and mashed potatoes from the floor. She would mop properly later.

  Nolan wriggled a finger at Meri’s grinning face. “I assure you, I am a very good cook.”

  “I can tell by your hat,” Meri said.

  Jillian laughed freely. “She’s got your number, Dad.”

  Nolan tossed his hat on the counter. “Aw, sure look it. You know it. I’ll go set the table in the other room.”

  Meri was shaking her head.

  “What’s the matter?” Jillian said.

  “I so did not have your childhood.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Memphis, August 20, 1878

  Here’s the train now.” Sister Hughetta pushed up on her toes as she leaned forward to look down the track.

  Sister Frances grabbed her fellow teacher’s sleeve and pulled her back from the edge of the platform. Eliza simply exhaled relief that the train was arriving on time. Sister Constance, Mother Superior of the teaching order who ran the Church Home orphanage and St. Mary’s day school, was coming home, and Sister Thecla would be with her. Twenty days had passed since William Warren turned up sick
and soon died. The panicked city would look far different than what Constance and Thecla left behind for the much-deserved rest they didn’t get. Their time at the Mother House had barely begun when they got word of the yellow fever outbreak in Memphis. Immediately they’d begun organizing donations, supplies, and extra nursing help before returning as soon as they could.

  Sisters Hughetta and Frances, under the direction of Father George Harris, dean of St. Mary’s Cathedral, had been serving capably in their response to the crisis. So far none of the orphans had fallen ill. Mrs. Bullock and Miss Murdock, who both lived at the Sisters House, rose to every task asked of them to serve all who came to the church for help. Eliza had seen all this during her daily ministrations with the children.

  But Sister Constance was the one who would truly take charge of the sisters. She had already done so in her organizing from afar.

  The numbers of people falling ill were shocking. Every day the tangled snarl of infected neighborhoods distended farther. Even the Appeal could no longer editorialize that the threat was insubstantial.

  The train lumbered to a stop along the platform. Sister Hughetta, least able to contain her anxiety, trotted alongside the cars looking for the familiar faces and habits of her sisters in the windows. It would not take long. The train obviously had been relieved of much of its usual length. The demand for passenger transportation into Memphis was low, and few who remained in the city now had the means to leave. Eliza had fended off multiple inquiries about why she was still there. Even Callie wondered.

  “I will get Ned,” Eliza said.

  But there was no need. The faithful negro driver who had carried the entourage to the depot in a church-owned carriage was already down from his bench and headed for the baggage car of the train.

  Sister Hughetta executed her self-assigned duty and was at the bottom of the steps when Sisters Constance and Thecla descended in their black garb, the only passengers to leave the train in Memphis. Sister Frances held more composure in her steps, but the brightness in her face spoke the joy of the safe return of the weary travelers. Eliza stood back several yards, waiting until Sister Constance caught her eye and gestured wide with one arm.

  “How could I ever have left you all?” Sister Constance said. “I have been so unhappy, but I am so happy now.”

  The five women walked toward the wagon.

  “I do not believe I have ever seen a train come into Memphis so empty,” Sister Constance said.

  “The newspapers estimate less than twenty thousand people remain,” Eliza said.

  “I hope the freights will run. We still need supplies.”

  Ned arrived heaving a handcart loaded with two small worn trunks. With him another man wrestled with a stack of large crates. Nuns did not travel with a great deal of personal worldly goods, but Constance had not arrived empty-handed with useful items.

  “Tinned meats,” she said. “Canned milk. Clean linens and clothing to replace what we burn. There will be more coming soon, but I knew we would need something immediately and insisted on bringing at least a few crates on the train.”

  Ned paused to smear perspiration from his forehead onto a handkerchief.

  “I’ll find some help.” Eliza pivoted and scanned the platform in search of a driver to whom she could offer a coin. They would need to hire a cart to follow them back to the cathedral with the extra crates.

  With the carriage loaded, Ned assisted the passengers in.

  “I see they’ve begun the lime in the streets,” Sister Thecla said.

  “Constantly,” Eliza said. Moving about the city was like navigating layers of fine flour.

  “Oh that our eyes could feast on a vision of streets of gold instead of the white lime of death.” Constance’s words were soft with yearning. “May the souls of the departed have a brighter visage than we.”

  It was hard to say whether covering the streets in lime diminished the rate of infection, but the Board of Health was committed to the strategy, along with firing ammunition into the air every night and burning barrels of tar. Late August heat was made all the more complex by the need to avoid breathing the smoky outdoor air meant to kill off the infectious disease.

  On one corner a half dozen coffins stood stacked—empty, Eliza hoped, though it was hard to be sure. A hearse passed them. The undertaker had squeezed in two coffins.

  Sister Hughetta spoke up. “Sister Constance?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Citizens Relief Committee is very grateful for any assistance we can offer.”

  “Of course. That is why Sister Thecla and I have come home.”

  “They have a proposal I feel you should be aware of at the earliest moment.”

  “What is it?”

  Eliza cocked her head.

  Sister Hughetta leaned forward. “I’ve discussed it with Father Harris and said I was quite sure what your opinion would be.”

  “The proposal, please, Sister.”

  “While they are grateful for us to work in town among the sick, in accordance with our calling—adjusted for the circumstances, of course—they wish us to sleep in the country, out of the infected atmosphere.”

  Eliza gasped.

  “It is for our own good, they say.”

  “We cannot listen to such a plan,” Sister Constance said. “If this is the opinion you gave to Father Harris, then you have spoken rightly.”

  “It was indeed, Sister.”

  “It would never do.” Sister Constance tugged at the front of her habit. “I have been informed daily by telegraph of the numbers of people falling ill. The fever outbreak is already an epidemic, and the need will only increase. We will be nursing day and night. We must be at our posts.” Voices around the carriage murmured agreement.

  “I also want to do everything I can to help,” Eliza said. “I am at your disposal.”

  “Thank you, Eliza,” Constance said. “There will be a great deal to do. A great deal to organize. I’ve arranged with the Trinity Infirmary in New York to send us some nurses who are medically trained. Sisters Ruth, Helen, and Clare will arrive soon and stay at the Sisters House with us. We are teachers. That makes us also learners. We must all learn everything we can from them about providing the best nursing care possible.”

  “Yes, Sister,” came the waves of concordance.

  They arrived at the Sisters House, the large structure next to the cathedral that also housed the school for girls that the sisters operated for paying students. A buggy ride away was the Church Home orphanage and the school they ran for children in need.

  Ned wrestled the crates and trunks into the house. The sisters, Eliza, and Mrs. Bullock sat down together to hear Sister Constance’s report from New York and the outline of her plan going forward.

  “We have ample space,” she said, “especially with school out of session. Obviously we will not undertake to begin the new school year in the middle of an epidemic. We can clear classrooms to suit the more pressing needs. People in our parish already are accustomed to coming to us when they have a particular need, as they should. I’m sure this has continued in my absence.”

  “Especially since the shops closed,” Eliza said. “Some of the shop owners with fresh goods made some arrangements that items not go to waste, but others simply locked up when they left Memphis. Mercantiles may have needed items, but people cannot lawfully get to them.”

  “And many lost their employment when those of means departed,” Sister Hughetta said. “Even if the shops were open and well supplied, money is in shorter supply than usual.”

  “We have taken this into account with the types of support Sister Thecla and I have arranged,” Sister Constance said. “We have donations to underwrite the purchase of needful goods, and the cost of getting them to Memphis. Unfortunately, what we cannot hasten is time to ship them, and not every shipping company is willing to come here—at least not without considerable upward adjustment in pricing.”

  Eliza seethed. Must even a tragedy be turned into
an opportunity for profit? Where was people’s compassion for the sick and dying?

  “There are a few freighters and a few steamers,” Sister Constance said. “We will keep the telegraph office busy with constant communication about the urgency of the need.”

  Mrs. Bullock jumped up. “Telegraph. I almost forgot. I guess I did forget, but now I remember.” She reached into her apron pocket and held a telegram out to Eliza. “Your Callie brought this by.”

  Eliza flinched. “Thank you.” She tucked the telegram, unopened, under her bag on the table.

  “We will turn the House into a dispensary,” Sister Constance said, “of all items we can manage to stock. Tinned foods. Fresh foods, if we can get any. I suspect we’ll find quite a few abandoned gardens, and rotted vegetables will have no value if and when the owners return.”

  “I have a few neighbors with rather large gardens,” Eliza said. “I’ll ask Callie to help me.”

  “We might dare to also send with you a couple of the older orphan girls who can be trusted to be strictly obedient to your instructions and not put themselves at risk by unnecessary contact with anyone.”

  “Penelope,” Eliza said. “And Judith.”

  Constance nodded. “I will post a list of the various items I have arranged to be shipped to us, and we will be unabashed in our prayers that they be delivered. Even if they come one crate at a time, we will give thanks for each clean tunic or bedsheet. Even matches will become dear as we must insist—and assist, if necessary—that members of households that have been infected burn clothing and personal items of anyone who has been ill. Mattresses must, I repeat, must be destroyed. We are nuns who have taken vows and are accustomed to sleeping on wooden planks or at best a bag of straw. A real mattress comes dear for the coloreds and immigrants left in Memphis. I’m doing my best to get some so we have something to give them when we insist that they must burn the old ones.”

  Eliza mentally counted the number of mattresses in her family’s home. She would gladly donate every one of them, including her own, and meet with her mother’s ire later.

  She slipped open the telegram.

  EPIDEMIC ALL OVER PAPERS Stop WORRIED Stop PLEASE COME IMMEDIATELY Stop SEND ARRIVAL TIME WHEN TICKETED Stop LOVE MOTHER