Mrs. Cowley barely waits forSally to slide out of her coat before tossing her an apron.
“You look like a new person, dear. All cleaned up. I’d hate for you to get anything on that dress.”
The dress is the least of Sally’s concerns. “Dr. Foushee hasn’t been back?” she asks as she cinches the apron around her waist.
Mrs. Cowley shakes her head no. “I did meet your brother-in-law, though.”
Sally peeks her head into the parlor, but she doesn’t see Archie anywhere. “Has he gone?”
“He was underfoot, so I sent him out to get some chalk.”
Why does that not surprise Sally?
She checks on Margaret.
“Margaret, it’s me,” she says as she kneels beside her friend, but there is no response. She watches Margaret’s shallow breaths push past cracked lips. “Has she had more laudanum?”
“I gave her some a little while ago,” says Mrs. Cowley. “She was in a great deal of pain.”
Sally picks up one of Margaret’s hands and kisses it, then asks Mrs. Cowley what she can do to help.
“These vinegar baths will consume us all,” says her hostess as she hands Sally a bowl of vinegar and a rag. “And I’m down a set of hands.”
Sally gives her a questioning look.
“I finally had to send Birdie to bed.”
Mrs. Cowley looks exhausted, and Sally thinks it would probably be wise for her to follow suit. “You should try to sleep, too. At least for a few hours.”
“I will. If we can finish up these baths and get the poultices applied. Mrs. Stetson, down the street, has offered me a bed at her place.”
“I’ll take the upstairs,” says Sally as she follows her out of the parlor and down the hall. There is a bloodstain on the floor, at the bottom of the stairs, and it dawns on Sally that Mr. Scott is not where she left him. “Where did he go?” she asks, her voice laced with panic.
“Who?” says Mrs. Cowley.
Sally stutters trying to say his name.
“Oh, your Mr. Scott?”
Sally is tempted to clarify. Mr. Scott is not hers. But it will take too long to explain, and she is sure Mrs. Cowley does not care—one way or the other. “Yes.”
“I asked Mr. Campbell and Mr. Price to take him upstairs. The Crumps came for their mother, so I had a spare bed.”
Sally feels weak-kneed with relief, and she lets out a burst of nervous laughter. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she says. “It isn’t as if I even know the man.”
“Pull a man from a burning building,” says Mrs. Cowley, “and you’ll convince yourself you do.”
The two women spend the next hour slowly working their way through the house, bathing burns and applying poultices. When they get to Mr. Scott, who has been installed in the bedroom down the hall from Maria’s, Mrs. Cowley shows off his new stitches, which are neat and evenly spaced.
“You did these while I was gone?”
“Took three of us to hold him down.”
“I do wish he’d come to,” she says, staring at his blistered neck.
“Don’t count on it anytime soon,” says Mrs. Cowley. “We gave him enough laudanum to kill a small child.”
From downstairs comes Archie’s booming baritone. “Dr. Foushee is here!”
