Page 115 of The Summer Country

“She was also lost in the fire,” said Mr. Turner. “Like her child.”

“Uncle? Shouldn’t you be—” Dr. Braithwaite checked at the sight of Emily, comfortably ensconced on a Louis XV chair. He regarded her with unmitigated horror. “What are you doing here?”

“I came into town to see your uncle,” said Emily, not a little offended. She had thought they had parted on friendly terms.

“Well, get back out again,” said Dr. Braithwaite. Prowling around her chair, he snapped out a series of questions. “Did you go anywhere else? Did you see anyone? Take food with anyone?”

“I came from Beckles this morning. The carriage brought me straight here. Are you quite well, Dr. Braithwaite? Do I need to make you a tisane?”

“You need to get back to Beckles.” Dr. Braithwaite pressed his fingers to his temples, breathing in deeply. “Did no one tell you? It’s not safe in Bridgetown. The Board of Health is posting the notices today. Asiatic cholera.”

Emily’s skin prickled; she could feel the cold sweat forming beneath her arms. “How many dead so far?”

“We don’t know for certain. There are a dozen dead already in Lightfoot Lane, six of them in the Goodrich house alone. And more in Jemmott’s. But it’s moving. It’s moving. And so had you better,” Dr. Braithwaite said, turning to his uncle. “Aunt Ada would never forgive me if I let you come to grief.”

“If you let me?” said Mr. Turner, amused. “I’m master of my own destiny, my lad.”

For a moment, Dr. Braithwaite grinned at his uncle, and the resemblance between the two men was startling. But his amusement quickly faded. “Not with the cholera in the town. With cholera, no man is master of anything but a wooden box in the ground.”

“Always so lyrical,” said Mr. Turner mildly. “Miss Dawson, may I offer you a ride from town? I go to St. Philip. I pass by Beckles on my way.”

Emily shook her head. Her lips felt numb. “I need to wait for my cousin. We came by carriage from Beckles. He was to see a Mr. Montefiore. . . .”

A look passed between the two men. Reluctantly, Dr. Braithwaite said, “I attended on Mr. Montefiore yesterday.”

He didn’t need to tell her what he meant. “Oh no.”

Dr. Braithwaite lowered his chin. “Stomach cramps, evacuations of the bowel.”

Emily’s throat felt very dry. “I know. I’ve seen it before. We had it in Bristol, in forty-nine. There was so much death. . . .”

Whole families dead. Babies, alone in the world, crying next to the bodies of their dead mothers. There had been so little she could do, so little to stem the tide. She could still smell it, in the back of her nostrils, the cologne of the handkerchief she had tied around her face mingled with the putrid stench of death. She could smell it in her dress, in her hair; she could taste it at the back of her throat, after all this time.

At sixteen, she had, secretly, been a little in love with the young doctor who had worked so indefatigably for the poor of Stapleton Workhouse. Until he had died too. “Even Dr. Williams died. He died tending to his patients.”

“I don’t need to tell you how dangerous it is, then.” Dr. Braithwaite made to hustle her out. “Go with my uncle. Get away while you can. I’ll find your cousin.”

“Are you talking about me?” There was a heavy tread on the floor of the hall and Adam tumbled through the door of the study, catching at the doorframe to steady himself. With the exaggerated dignity of the inebriated, he said, “My apologies, sir. There was no one at the door.”

“I’ve sent the servants ahead to the country,” said Mr. Turner.

“Adam,” Emily said, rising from her seat. “Adam, you should know—”

“It’s the strangest thing, Emily,” Adam interrupted. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes and Emily realized he had lost his hat somewhere, leaving him bareheaded, his red hair disordered and darkened with sweat. “He’s dead. Montefiore’s dead.”

“He was a good man,” said Mr. Turner soberly.

Adam didn’t seem to hear him. “I went to his store on Swan Street and they told me he’d never come in, so I went to his home and there was a little boy crying and they were hanging black cloths over the mirrors. They told me he died just this morning. Went into convulsions. One minute he was alive, the next he was gone.”

“Adam,” Emily said urgently. “Adam, we have to get away. There’s illness in the town.”

Adam swayed on his feet. His forehead glistened with a sheen of sweat in the half-light of the shuttered drawing room. “’S hot today.” He tugged at the knot of his cravat. “I’m feeling the heat. Lord, how do people live in this?”

Emily caught at her cousin’s arm. She smelled rum on him, on his clothes, on his breath. “Did you come straight here?”

Adam’s eyes shifted away. “I might have stopped at the icehouse first. Don’t look like that. I only had one cup—spilled some of it. It was very distressing!”

“I’m sure it was,” said Dr. Braithwaite. “Uncle—”