Part 52 (2/2)
She was shouting in his face. Matthew said quietly, ”Yes, I hear you.”
”If I were a man you wouldn't speak to me with such disrespect! Well, d.a.m.n you! d.a.m.n you and Charles Town and d.a.m.n all you who think you're better than other people!”
”Pardon me, ” he said, and began walking toward the mansion.
”Yes, go on and run!” she hollered. ”Run back to Charles Town, where your kind belongs! You city dog!” Something in her voice broke, but she forced it back. ”Playing in your ludicrous gardens and dancing at your sinful b.a.l.l.s! Go on and run!”
Matthew didn't run, but his walking pace was brisk enough. He saw that the window of Bidwell's upstairs study had opened and there was the master himself, looking out upon this unfortunate scene. Bidwell was grinning, and when he realized Matthew had seen him he put his hand to his mouth to hide it.
”Wait, wait!” the brazen woman shouted. ”Here, take your pie!”
Matthew looked back in time to see Lucretia Vaughan hurl the pie-dish and all-into the spring. Then she fired a glare at him that might have scorched iron, turned on her heel, and stalked away, her chin lifted high as if she had put the Charles Town draggletail in his fly-blown place.
Matthew entered the mansion and went directly up the stairs to the magistrate's room. Woodward's shutters were closed, but Matthew thought the woman's enraged vocals must have frightened birds back in the swamp. The magistrate, however, still slept on, though he did s.h.i.+ft his position to the side as Matthew stood next to his bed.
”Sir?” Matthew said, touching his shoulder. ”Sir?”
Woodward's sleep-swollen eyes opened to slits. He struggled to focus. ”Matthew?” he whispered.
”Yes, sir.”
”Oh... I thought it was you. I had a dream. A crow... shrieking. Gone now.”
”Can I get you anything?”
”No. Just... tired... very tired. Dr. s.h.i.+elds was here.”
”He was? This morning?”
”Yes. Told me... it was Friday. My days and nights... they run together.”
”I can imagine so. You've been very ill.”
Woodward swallowed thickly. ”That potion... Dr. s.h.i.+elds gives me. It has... a very disagreeable taste. I told him I should... wish some sugar in it on the next drinking.”
Here was a reason for hope, Matthew thought. The magistrate was lucid and his senses were returning. ”I think the potion is doing you some good, sir.”
”My throat still pains me.” He put a hand to it. ”But I do feel... somewhat lighter. Tell me... did I dream this, or... did Dr. s.h.i.+elds apply a funnel to my bottom?”
”You had a colonic, ” Matthew said. He would long remember the aftermath of that particularly repugnant but necessary procedure. So too would the servant who had to wash out the two chamberpots filled with black, tar-like refusal.
”Ah. Yes... that would explain it. My apologies... to all involved.”
”No apologies are necessary, sir. You've comported yourself with extreme grace for the... uh... unpleasantness of your situation.” Matthew went to the dresser and got the bowl of fresh water that had been placed there and one of several clean cotton cloths.
”Always... the diplomat, ” Woodward whispered. ”This potion... does tire me. Matthew... what was done... to my back?”
”The doctor used blister cups.” Matthew dipped the cloth into the water bowl.
”Blister cups, ” Woodward repeated. ”Oh. Yes... I do remember now. Quite painful.” He managed a grim smile. ”I must have been... knocking at death's door.”
”Not nearly so close as that.” Matthew wrang out the wet cloth and then began to gently apply the cool cotton to Woodward's still-pallid face. ”Let us just say you were on a precarious street. But you're better now, and you're going to continue improving. Of that I'm positive.”
”I trust... you are right.”
”I am not only right, I am correct, ” Matthew said. ”The worst part of your illness has been vanquished.”
”Tell that... to my throat... and my aching bones. Oh, what a sin it is... to be old.”
”Your age has nothing to do with your condition, sir.” Matthew pressed the cloth to Woodward's forehead. ”You have youth in you yet.”
”No... I have too much past behind me.” He stared at nothing, his eyes slightly glazed in appearance, as Matthew continued to dampen his face. ”I would... give... so much... to be you, son.” Matthew's hand may have been interrupted in its motions for only a few fleeting seconds.
”To be you, ” Woodward repeated. ”And where you are. With the world... ahead of you... and the luxury of time.”
”You have much time ahead of you too, sir.”
”My arrow... has been shot, ” he whispered. ”And... where it fell... I do not know. But you... you... are just now drawing back your bow.” He released a long, strengthless sigh. ”My advice to you... is to aim at a worthy target.”
”You will have much further opportunity to help me identify such a target, sir.”
Woodward laughed softly, though the act seemed to pain his throat because it ended in a grimace. ”I doubt... I can help you... with much anymore, Matthew. It has come... to my attention on this trip... that you have a very able mind of your own. You... are a man, now... with all that manhood entails. The bitter... and the sweet. You have made a good start... at manhood... by standing up for your convictions... even against me.”
”You don't begrudge my opinions?” don't begrudge my opinions?”
”I would feel... an utter failure... if you had none, ” he answered.
”Thank you, sir, ” Matthew said. He finished his application of the cloth and returned it to the water bowl, which he placed atop the dresser again.
”That is not to say, ” Woodward added, in as loud and clear a voice as he could summon, ”that... we are in agreement. I still say... the woman is your nightbird... intent on delivering you to the dark. But... every man hears a nightbird... of some form or fas.h.i.+on. It is the... struggle to overcome its call that either... creates or destroys a man's soul. You will understand what I mean. Later... after the witch is long silenced.”
Matthew stood beside the dresser, his head lowered. He said, ”Sir? I need to tell you that-” And then he stopped himself. What was the use of it? The magistrate would never understand. Never. He hardly understood it himself, and he'd experienced Linch's power. No, putting these things into words might rob the magistrate of his improving health, and no good could come of it.
”Tell me what?” Woodward asked.
”That Mr. Bidwell is hosting a dinner tonight, ” was the first thing that entered his mind. ”The maskers have arrived early, and evidently there's to be a reception to honor them. I... wanted to tell you, in case you heard voices raised in festivity and wished to know why.”
”Ah. This Satan-besieged town... could benefit... from voices raised in festivity.” Woodward let his eyes close again. ”Oh... I am so tired. Come visit me later... and we shall talk about... our trip home. A journey... I sincerely look forward to.”
”Yes, sir. Sleep well.” Matthew left the room.
In his own bedchamber, Matthew settled down in the chair by the window to continue reading the book on English plays. It was not that he was compelled to do so by the subject matter, but because he wished to give his mind a rest from its constant maze-crawl. It was his belief, also, that one might see a large picture only by stepping back from the frame. He'd been reading perhaps ten minutes when there came a knock at his door.
”Young sir?” It was Mrs. Nettles. ”I ha' somethin' sent from Mr. Bidwell.”
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