Trueblood helped the limping Daniel up the stairs.
“Nancy said that French privateer pointedly asked where you were,” Daniel whispered. Once Trueblood had pulled the door shut behind them Daniel dropped down onto the bed.
“I caught a glimpse of Dupree on the French ship,” Trueblood answered, searching Daniel’s bureau and finally discovering a worn shirt, which he quickly reduced to bandages. “He did not seem best pleased to see me. But the privateer captain gave me a salute, the sort of gesture one reserves for a worthy opponent.” Trueblood demonstrated to Daniel.
“So I was right about Dupree.”
“Possibly, or Dupree may have been making new friends. He is, after all, French-Canadian.”
“Don’t be so gullible, Trueblood.”
“Just a counterweight to your suspicious nature, Daniel. The packet is in your trunk. Do you want me to take it round for you?”
“No need. It is no more than a few minutes walk.” Daniel got up with a grunt.
“Suit yourself, but you do look a sight.”
“I’ll change first.”
“A fresh bandage would not come amiss, either.”
“Oh, very well, but be quick about it.”
“Where is Daniel?” Mrs. Cook demanded when she came into the sitting room with the tea tray.
“He had an appointment,” Trueblood said, and received a skeptical look from Nancy, who was following her hostess with a plate of cakes.
“And on that leg,” Mrs. Cook scolded as she poured each of them a cup of tea.
“So long as no splinter remains in the wound, it were better it had some exercise to keep from stiffening up,” Nancy replied as she seated herself and looked contentedly around at the polished cherry furniture and cozy chairs. She was wearing a crisp white apron to hide the blood spatters on her gown, “Fancy having an appointment across all those miles of ocean and to arrive within an hour of the time.” She glanced at Trueblood over her teacup.
“All business, is our Daniel,” Trueblood countered before he gulped his tea and reached for the cake.
“Ah, yes, you are traders. How could I have forgotten?”
“We run pack trains of dry goods overland to Pittsburgh and bring back whiskey or furs.”
“Oh, I see, the main part of your business is not with England then. Is it worth it?”
Trueblood passed over her first remark to answer, “Not according to Daniel, but I find so much to interest me in the way of plants I would enjoy the trip even if we made nothing.”
“We were discussing herbs on the ship,” Nancy confided to Mrs. Cook. “But I had thought Trueblood’s interest entirely culinary.”
“Trueblood knows a great deal about healing herbs, as well,” Mrs. Cook said with a nod of approval.
“I have brought some dried ones from home—fennel, mint, tansy and the like. Also some seed. But I know nothing about what I might find growing here.”
“European herbs were introduced so long ago only my people know which ones are native,” Trueblood said proudly. “That is why I have been cataloging them and describing their uses. I have been told I can draw, so I have illustrated a volume to be published in London.”
“Oh, so that was why you were in England,” Nancy said, as though this were a matter of great concern to her.
“Yes, that was it.” Trueblood downed another cake.
“You should see his drawings.” Mrs. Cook beamed as she refilled Trueblood’s cup.
“We have many plants in common now, of course,” Trueblood continued. “Comfrey, foxglove, mint, yarrow…”
“Is there a place to come by a supply of Peruvian bark and some rhubarb, as well? I have not much with me.”
“I can get you a supply of Peruvian bark at the apothecary’s shop,” Trueblood volunteered.
“I have rhubarb in my garden, dear,” Mrs. Cook replied.
“Are you indeed practiced enough in the healing arts to use such things?” Trueblood enquired.
“Oh yes. You see, I have always thought my father would take me off to war with him, so I have studied all manner of fevers and know how to treat wounds. But in Somerset, most of the time I was called on to attend birthings. I must say, I like that better than illnesses, for usually the outcome is good even if the woman has had a difficult time.”
“It does not frighten you, being unmarried and all?” Mrs. Cook asked in a confidential tone.
“It did at first, but the people there are poor. If they had any money they would spend it on food, not on an apothecary. They never blame me if someone does not recover. They know I have done my best.”
“So you have lost…patients?” Trueblood asked, staring at her with those penetrating dark eyes.
“Three. Two mothers to fever and one baby, but he was short-term. I doubt anyone could have saved him,” Nancy said sadly.
“We have seen nothing like the yellow fever that has seized upon the city this summer,” Mrs. Cook offered.
“Describe the symptoms to me,” Nancy prompted as she took a sip of tea. “I have heard of it and had thought it no more than another sort of ague.”
“Violent fever and delirium, and the poor sufferer turns all yellow. That’s why they call it the yellow fever.”
“Jaundice? That is not consistent with the ague.”
Trueblood had been about to pick up another cake when Mrs. Cook continued, “The worst part comes when they start to vomit up the black blood, pints of it….”
“Internal ruptures, then. How many survive?” Nancy asked between bites of cake.
Trueblood decided against the cake and merely stirred his tea.
“Depends how hard they are taken with it. I know many who have survived.”
“I should like to talk to them. Do you suppose an application of leeches—”
Trueblood dropped his spoon into his saucer with a clatter. “Excuse me, I just remembered a pressing errand.” He exited the room and closed the door softly behind him.
“You know, I do not believe he was feeling quite well,” Nancy confided to Mrs. Cook.
“Possibly the sea voyage. Or it may take him a few days to adjust to our climate again.”
“Hmm,” Nancy said, thinking of Trueblood’s exertions of the past hours and why a discussion of illness would bother him. She could only think he did not like to mix such things with his food, which he plainly enjoyed. She would remember that. She wondered if Daniel had to play second best to Trueblood everywhere; Mrs. Cook clearly held the younger brother in more esteem. Nancy supposed so, since Daniel took the slights with resignation rather than resentment, almost as though it did not matter, in the face of more important issues. And what could be so important? That packet surely was not just commercial papers. Daniel was an extremely complex man and Trueblood was merely a part of his disguise, a distraction for anyone who might suspect he was up to something. She let her mind wander pleasantly over all the things she imagined Daniel might be up to.
Daniel had been admitted to a prosperous-looking house on York Street, then let into the library