Through the fog of my fever, I can see that my accommodations are lovely, if a little shabby. The room they’ve placed me in must be on the second story of the house, with a gentle breeze that comes through the French doors in the evening, stirring the cobwebs in the corners. The walls are papered with a motif of bluebirds and cherry trees. Sometimes, when my fever is at its highest and the doctor covers my sweating body with cold, wet sheets, the wallpaper bluebirds flutter their wings and cock their smooth heads to study me with beady eyes.
In my delirium, I see Rebecca. She sits at my bedside and strokes my hair. Sometimes she sings to me, with a voice like spun honey. Once, she bids me follow her, beckoning me toward an open door, but I refuse. This is how I know I’m dying.
But I don’t die. By some miracle, my fever finally breaks. With the doctor’s assistance, I can sit up in bed for short periods of time and even lower myself onto a chamber pot. He turns his back, like a gentleman,but I feel no embarrassment. He’s a doctor. The human body is far from a mystery to him, and prison destroyed all traces of my modesty.
Even though his caring nature is disarming, I’m wary. A man like him would be well read. Canny. He’ll begin asking questions. Eventually, if I stay here long enough, he’ll figure out who I am. As soon as I’m recovered, I need to leave. To find a new campsite. Or use the rest of my money to leave the Carolinas entirely, though the thought pains me and frightens me almost as much as staying.
One evening, he lingers in my room after bringing me dinner, and sits across from my bed, folding his long, lean body into a chair. I’ve progressed to soup, from broth, and it’s delicious, with bits of carrot and potato. I steal glances of him as I eat. He’s more beautiful than handsome. With his long-lashed eyes and finely sculpted jaw, he reminds me of an angel in a fresco. The plantation is appropriately named.
After I’ve finished eating, he rises to take the tray. He places it on the floor, then presses a cool hand against my forehead. “You’ve not run a fever for two days.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
He smiles. “Yes, very. I think you’re recovering.”
“Thanks to you. You’ve saved my life.”
He shakes his head. “No. Ruby did. And Noah. By bringing you here.”
“Yes. All of you, then.” I run a hand over my untidy, cropped hair, suddenly self-conscious of my appearance. “I must look a fright.”
“May I brush your hair?”
“I’d like that,” I say.
He crosses to the vanity and retrieves a silver hairbrush and comb, then returns, sitting on the edge of the bed behind me. He begins working the tangles free from my shorn locks. His ministrations are as gentle as always. “Why did you cut your hair?” he asks. “You were dressed like a young boy when you came here.”
Just as I feared, he’s curious about me. Too curious. And I’m unprepared for his questions. “I ... I’m a vagrant. I found it safer to resemble a boy on the streets.”
“I see,” he says archly. “What is your name?”
My fever-addled mind skitters like a frightened mouse. In all my days of being alone, in concocting this ruse, I didn’t consider my name. I need a new one. And quickly. “Mary,” I spout. “Mary Jones.” What a common name. My former cleverness has apparently departed along with the fever. I pray he can’t see the flame of my face.
“Well then, Miss Jones, I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Alexander Mayhew.”
Alexander.It suits him. Dr. Alexander Mayhew.
“Likewise, Dr. Mayhew.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Oh, I’m no doctor. My father was, though. I helped him occasionally. Assisted with surgeries, once I was older. I was good with suturing.” The brush stills. He rests a hand on my shoulder, and a quiver of something delightfully unexpected runs through me at his touch. “There we are. Would you like a mirror?”
I shake my head. I don’t relish the thought of looking at my reflection in this state.
“Very well. I’ll leave you to your rest. I can bring you some books from the library if you’d like.”
“Oh, I would like that. Thank you, Dr. ... Mr. Mayhew.”
“Alex, please.” He smiles at me. “There’s no need for formalities here.”
“When ... when do you think I’ll be well enough to leave?” I ask.
“Not for a while. You’ve just recovered from blood poisoning, and the effects of the infection could linger for months. The trap tore through your calf muscles, when you dragged it. It will take weeks for your leg to fully heal. You won’t be able to walk unassisted for a while.”
“That long?”
“I’m afraid so.” That arch look again. “Surely, as a vagrant, you’re grateful for a clean bed and a roof over your head, Miss Jones. I’m pleased to host you until you’re well.”
“I’m grateful, sir.” For what else can I say?
