In The Face Of Death (11 page)

“Don’t . . . don’t tell . . . Colonel Thomas,” Amanda said, her words barely audible. She pressed her face into the pillow and began to weep in earnest.

Madelaine put her hand on Amanda’s shoulder. “I’m very sorry, Missus Thomas,” she told her.

All the answer she received was more tears as Amanda Thomas began to mourn.

A few minutes later, Olga returned, carrying a tray bearing the bottle Madelaine had asked for as well as a crockery basin of steaming water, a pile of clean cheesecloths, a bottle of spirits, and a china cup. “Christian is on his way, Madame, and your guests are just sitting down to eat. I told Julian to announce that you are still attending Missus Thomas. If you wish me to carry a note to Colonel Thomas, I will have Julian hand it to him.”

“Very good,” Madelaine approved. “And thank you for all you have done.” She reached for the bottle and pried off the seal, then glanced at Amanda once more. “I will need to give you something to drink, Missus Thomas,” she said, speaking carefully. “It will make you feel better.”

Amanda turned a tear-mottled face to Madelaine and regarded her with a passivity that worried Madelaine more than the rest of her symptoms combined.

“Drink?” she asked, almost lazily.

“Yes. To stop the bleeding. It has a sharp taste that you may not entirely like, but it will help you, if you will drink it,” Madelaine went on, knowing she was nattering. She poured out some of the pale golden liquid into the small cup Olga had brought, and leaned down to help Amanda sip from it.

“Dreadful,” complained Amanda before she took a second sip, and a third. Her eyes were slightly unfocused and she moved awkwardly, as if her limbs were not wholly her own.

“Finish it, Missus Thomas,” Madelaine urged, and tipped the cup to a steeper angle.

Olga put her tray down on the dresser that stood beside the window. “What do you want me to do, Madame?”

“Bring me notepaper first,” said Madelaine, watching Amanda narrowly. “Much as I would rather not, I must inform Colonel Thomas what is happening.” She wiped her forehead, smoothing her coffee-colored hair back. “He will have to authorize Doctor Lowrey to treat his wife when he arrives.”

“I have the paper here, and a pencil for you.” Olga took both from the capacious pocket in her apron.

“You are a godsend,” Madelaine declared. She spread the paper on the nightstand next to the lamp and scribbled two hasty sentences:
Colonel Thomas, I regret to inform you that your wife has miscarried. I will remain with her until Doctor Lowrey arrives. M. de M.
This done, she folded the note twice and handed it to Olga. “Here. Tell Julian to deliver it to Colonel Thomas at once.”

“Of course, Madame,” said Olga, and went off immediately.

Madelaine stood beside the bed, her thoughts in turmoil. How long would it take the liquid to work? And Saint-Germain had never said how long it would be effective. What if Amanda Thomas was too far gone for any help? Madelaine had seen enough blood over the last century to know that the woman lying in her guest bed was dangerously depleted of it. She reached out and put her hand on Amanda’s neck again, noticing how erratic her heartbeat was. It would be sensible to look at the toweling between Amanda’s legs to see how much more she had bled, but it seemed to be impossible to make herself do it.

When Olga came back, she told Madelaine that the note was being handed to Colonel Thomas as they spoke. “Julian wanted to know if there is anything you need him to do.”

This offer surprised Madelaine, who had not thought that Julian had any sympathy for his fellow-creatures, let alone this unfortunate woman. “Not yet. Doctor Lowrey may require his help, however. I would appreciate it if you would tell him. Not just now,” she went on reluctantly. “Now I think we ought to see how . . . the bleeding is.”

Olga paled but ducked her head. “Yes. We will have to wash Missus Thomas’ legs if she is to be ready for Doctor Lowrey’s care.”

“Yes,” said Madelaine, and moved the wad of petticoats aside. She saw at once that part of the towel was saturated with blood. Carefully she moved it, saying, “Let me check this toweling, Missus Thomas.”

“Go ahead,” she murmured, and feebly lifted her leg.

Madelaine dreaded what she assumed she would see; to her astonishment there was very little new bleeding. Quickly she checked the pulse in Amanda’s neck; satisfied that there was still a faint beating of her heart, she withdrew the towel and asked Olga to hand her the cheesecloth. “This is better, I think,” she said, trying to recall everything Saint-Germain had told her about the golden liquid in the amber bottle.

“She isn’t . . .” Olga’s voice was very low, and she averted her eyes from the bloody towel.

“I don’t think so, not now, in any case,” said Madelaine. “Put this aside so that Doctor Lowrey can examine it when he arrives.” She folded the cheesecloth tightly and slipped it back between Amanda’s legs. “This will be less . . . intrusive,” she said as she pulled the petticoats away and set the comforter in place around Amanda.

Then a sharp knock on the door demanded her attention. “Madame de Montalia?” called Colonel Thomas from just outside the door.

“Colonel,” said Madelaine, a curious mixture of apprehension and the desire for extrication welling within her. “Do you wish to come in?”

“Would it help?” asked the Colonel uncertainly.

“No,” said Amanda quietly. “No.”

Madelaine indicated to Olga she should come to Amanda’s side. “I will have a word with her husband. I won’t be long,” she said, and slipped out of the room to confront Colonel Thomas. She knew her appearance would not reassure the man, so she did her best to behave as if nothing were out of hand. “You had my note.”

“Yes,” said Colonel Thomas with consternation. “You alarm me greatly.” He looked into her face. “I don’t suppose you can be mistaken about. . . .”

“The miscarriage? I fear not. I am very sorry.” She coughed once, softly. “Her doctor will tell you more when he has had a chance to examine her.”

“Certainly,” said Colonel Thomas, trying to grasp what he was being told. “How is she?”

“Very weak,” said Madelaine.

“Not . . . beyond remedy?” It was more a plea than a question.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Madelaine, trying to infuse optimism into her voice. “I have hope for her.”

“Thank God for that,” exclaimed the Colonel, his voice catching with the force of his contained emotion; then went on with greater propriety. “I am very grateful to you for all you have done.”

“No, no,” said Madelaine hastily. “I am sorry I was not able to help save the child.” It was true; Madelaine was not yet used to the brevity of life as most lived it, and when so directly confronted with mortality, she could not help but feel it as a sadness that carried a portion of guilt that she should continue her life while countless others lost theirs.

But Colonel Thomas was speaking. “. . . any woman so young could deal with so great an emergency.”

Madelaine motioned him away. “I’m sorry, Colonel. I have to get back. . . .” And with that, she slipped away from him, returning to sit with Amanda while she struggled to live.

San Francisco, 30 August, 1855

Amanda Thomas has asked me to call upon her next week; I have accepted her invitation, only because I have been told it would be thought a slight if I refused; as if I blamed her for the supposed failure of my dinner party. How could she think that? So I will go and reassure her that I do not hold her accountable for what happened. As if she could determine when she would miscarry, and did it deliberately for the sole purpose of causing me social embarrassment. . . . I do not want her to burden herself with so ludicrous a notion, so I will visit her, although she probably should not be receiving guests yet. She is said to be recovering slowly, which is to be expected after such an ordeal.

I do not yet know if
I
have recovered from the experience. It was as if I had never seen anyone die before, or was cognizant how fragile life can be. That poor woman, who wanted only to have a child, lost it and very nearly herself along with it. How harrowing it was, watching her become more and more pale, knowing that she could easily die and nothing I could do would change it. For two days afterwards I was rattled, and even now, I find myself harkening back to that evening, my thoughts wholly preoccupied with what transpired. This has slowed my work on my book. I have not yet completed my chapter on the Utes, which I had thought I would have finished by the end of this month, and which I now realize is impossible.

Fanny Kent has called here twice since that evening, determined to renew her sense of shock and amazement. At each recounting, her horror increases; one would think that she endured more than Amanda Thomas. Luckily she has only fainted once, and that was the actual evening of Missus Thomas’ miscarriage; she collapsed when Doctor Lowrey arrived and without ceremony inquired of Julian where his patient was and if she was still alive. If I did not know how great Missus Kent’s distress was that evening, I would have to suppose she was enjoying herself, so eager is she to relive it.

I have yesterday received from Colonel Thomas copies of maps of the former Mexican Territories now in United States possession. He has given them to me as a token of gratitude for the aid I rendered his wife, and to aid me in my travels through the wilderness when I resume traveling in another two months. He has also warned me that great expanses of the Territory have not been explored, and that he cannot tell me what dangers might be encountered in those places. I have taken time to study these maps in order to acquaint myself with the trails I might reasonably expect to travel as I go south and east.

. . . In the last ten days I have seen Tecumseh once, and that was in his carriage with his children, taking them on an outing to the Chinese market where Willy had purchased a paper kite in the shape of a dragon’s head; which he was attempting to fly off the back of the carriage. Tecumseh was meticulously polite, doing nothing that anyone could construe as paying untoward attention to me, but his eyes were haunted. Why he should be so distant now, I do not know, but it saddens me. . . .

Rain was turning the streets from dust to mud as the afternoon wound down toward night. Along the streets, lamps were being lit early to stave off the coming darkness as the first storm of autumn whipped over the hills.

Madelaine sat at her desk, busying herself with writing, when she heard the knocker on the front door. She looked up, annoyed at the interruption, recalling that Olga had taken the afternoon and evening off in order to talk with a man who claimed to know where her sister and her sister’s husband had gone; she hoped he would be able to tell her how to reach them. Clicking her tongue impatiently, Madelaine blotted her half-finished page and reached to pull a vast woolen shawl around her shoulders before hurrying to the front of the house to answer the urgent summons.

“Madelaine,” said William Tecumseh Sherman as the door swung open. He was wet and bedraggled, his hair quenched of fire and rain-slicked to his skull. He glanced over his shoulder at the street. “May I come in? Will you let me?”

“Tecumseh,” said Madelaine, holding the door wider. “Welcome.”

His head continued bowed; he hesitated, and asked in a whisper, “You are willing to speak to me? After my inexcusable behavior?”

Perplexed, Madelaine stepped aside to admit him. “Certainly. Come in. You have done nothing that would keep me from knowing you. What do you want?” It was the only question that came clearly to mind, and it was out before she could soften or modify it in any way.

He pressed the door closed quickly. “I don’t think anyone saw me,” he said cautiously.

“Possibly not,” said Madelaine, her bafflement increasing as she looked at him. “You are soaked to the skin.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, squaring his shoulders and daring to look directly into her violet eyes. “I have been a fool and a coward, and I wouldn’t blame you if you tossed me out on my ass.”

Had she truly been as young as she looked, Madelaine might have taken advantage of his offer; as it was she shook her head. “No. I have a few questions I hope you will answer before I do that.” She indicated the way to the parlor.

“Thank you, Madame,” he said with unwonted humility. He turned and locked the door himself, leaning against it as if he had been pursued by the hounds of hell. “Let me say what I must, Madelaine; if you stop me my courage may fail me and then I will be thrice-damned.” He looked directly at her, but kept his voice quite low. “I have chastised myself every day for not coming to you, and with every passing day it grew more difficult to act at all. I have all but convinced myself that you do not wish to see me because of my cravenness. So I must come to you now, or mire hopelessly in my own inaction. Poor Hamlet had to bear with the same trouble, in his way; I don’t think I ever grasped the full range of his predicament until now.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “I’m maundering. Forgive me; I don’t want to do that.” He straightened up, and moved a few steps to stand directly in front of her. “I’m no stranger to suffering. I have not yet fought a war, but I have seen men fall of fatal wounds, in Seminole ambushes, and I have held my comrades while they bled to death, so that they would not be wholly alone.”

“What has that to do with you and me?” asked Madelaine, growing confused.

“Let me continue,” he said forcefully. “There are things I should have said to you days ago.”

She realized how determined he was and made a gesture of acquiescence. “If you think it is necessary, go on.”

Sherman took a stance as if to fend off attack. “It was the loss of that unborn baby that flummoxed me. You would think that one who is . . . or, rather, has been a soldier would not have such weakness, but I have no resources against that loss. It is the most unbearable of all losses to me, the loss of a child.” He held up his hands to stop any protests she might make. “Oh, yes, it was not yet a child, but it had come far enough that their hopes were fixed on it. And that is bad enough. When I try to think of how I would feel if ever I should lose Minnie or Lizzie . . . or Willy, I have no words to express it, so utterly despairing is the prospect. What the Thomases endured routed me as superior force and materiel could not.” Now he looked away, unwilling to let Madelaine see the shine of tears in his eyes. “I . . . could say nothing to console them, or to support your purpose. And I became ashamed, because I fear that, in the same situation, I would not have had the presence of mind to do all you did.”