“Is it snowing?”
Hannah jerked at the sound. Her patient had not been conscious for the past two days, and Hannah had not thought to hear her voice again on this side of the grave. She looked down at the sick woman. Priscilla’s eyes shone unnaturally blue next to the red flush of her face.
“Aye, mistress. There’ll be snow for Christmas, I reckon.” The Websters were among the few in Philadelphia who celebrated the holiday, Hannah had been delighted to discover. The past two Christmases had been full of all the merriment that she had once longed for as a child back in England. But there would be little celebrating this year.
Priscilla gave a barely perceptible nod. “The bairns will like that.” Her voice was faint.
“Will you take some broth, mum?” Hannah asked, reaching for the bowl that had been sitting untouched on the bedside table.
Priscilla swallowed, and her chest moved in a feeble reminder of the violent coughs that had racked her for so many months. She looked up with a serene smile that made Hannah’s heart ache. “No, Hannah, lass. No food,” she said slowly, laboring over the words. “I’ll need no…earthly…sustenance…where I’m going.”
Tears stung Hannah’s eyes. When Priscilla’s coughing had become so bad that Mr. Webster had quietly moved his things to the spare sleeping room, the sick woman had not uttered a word of complaint. When her lace handkerchiefs had revealed a terrible black sputum, she had merely apologized to Hannah for the extra laundry. And when the delicate hankies had been replaced by rough cotton towels that more and more often showed bright splotches of red, she had gripped her servant’s hand with weak fingers and told her how grateful she was that Hannah had come from afar to take care of her family. Hannah had never met a sweeter soul.
“Let me call the master,” she said.
Priscilla’s eyelids drooped, shuttering her bright eyes. Hannah quickly crossed the room and opened the door, admitting a whoosh of cold air. She didn’t have to call. Randolph Webster was waiting in the next room and was on his feet the minute he saw her.
“What’s happened?” he asked, moving toward her.
“She’s come ‘round a bit. She spoke to me.”
Hannah turned back to her patient with Mr. Webster close behind her. “Priscilla?” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
His wife’s eyelids fluttered and she answered weakly, “It’s snowing, Randolph.”
“Yes, love.” He moved around Hannah to sit in the chair at the side of the bed. Taking his wife’s hand, he asked tenderly, “How are you feeling?”
Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Randolph looked at Hannah. There was anguish in his brown eyes. His hair had pulled out of its binder and hung unkempt around his gaunt face. He leaned closer to his wife. “What is it, my love?”
“Dress…the bairns…warm.” The strength seemed to flow out of her body with each word. She looked up at his confused expression and desperation flickered in her eyes. She turned her head toward Hannah.
“It’s the snow,” Hannah explained gently. “She wants us to dress the children warmly.”
Randolph nodded briefly at his servant, then turned back to his wife. “Don’t fret yourself, Priscilla. Peggy and Jacob’ll not be going out in this weather. It’s blowing up a storm.”
Priscilla’s chest moved with another ghost of a cough. “Then…every…thing’s…just…fine.”
Her eyes closed, and her hand fell from Randolph’s to the coverlet. He quickly retrieved it and leaned over to bring it up against his cheek. “Everything’s fine, love,” he repeated, his throat sounding full.
Hannah blinked hard and turned to tend the fire. It was a moment before she felt she could speak. “Shall I leave you with her, sir?” she asked without turning.
There was no answer from behind her. She put another log on the huge blaze, then moved around to the opposite side of the bed. “Do you want some time alone, Mr. Webster?” she asked again.
Still clutching Priscilla’s hand, he looked up at her, and Hannah was shocked to see that his cheeks were wet with tears. She averted her eyes. “I’ll just wait m the next room,” she said.
She leaned over to tuck the coverlet around her patient. The body underneath it had become so frail these past few weeks that it was sometimes hard to tell the bed was occupied at all. Hannah’s hand hovered, then froze. There was no movement. The almost undetectable rise and fall of Priscilla’s sunken chest had ceased. A feeling of dread settled in Hannah’s stomach. She glanced at Mr. Webster, but his head was bowed.
She turned to the mistress’s wardrobe chest behind her and, with suddenly cold fingers, grasped the ornate handle of Priscilla’s prized silver mirror. Slowly she brought it back to the bed and held it over Priscilla’s mouth. There was no cloud. Hannah closed her eyes, and instantly the tears poured down her cheeks.
An anguished sound from Mr. Webster made her look up. He reached across the bed and snatched the mirror from her fingers. “Priscilla,” he said, then repeated his wife’s name, almost shouting.
“She’s gone, sir,” Hannah said, choking on a sob. “She’s gone to her Maker.”
The mirror fell from his hand and slid down the covers to the floor. He grasped his wife’s shoulders and pulled her inert body into his arms, rocking back and forth in silent agony.
Hannah’s own grief subsided for a moment as she witnessed her employer’s pain. Randolph Webster was not a warm man, and she had not grown close to him as she had to Priscilla. He had never made an effort to help her forget that she was his bondwoman, bound to him body and soul for three more years. But he was a good man and had loved his wife dearly. If Hannah dared, she would move to the other side of the bed and put an arm around his shaking shoulders. It was one of those moments when it seemed as if only physical contact could serve to comfort.
Her torrent of tears dried as she stood watching him, unsure of what to do next. “Shall I fetch the children?” she asked finally.
He shook his head without looking up, still cradling his wife’s body. “No! They’ll not see her this way.” His harsh voice ended Hannah’s urge to touch him. She took a step back from the bed.
“Do you want me to go for the MacDougalls?” Priscilla’s parents owned a public house just down the lane from the Webster home.
Randolph didn’t reply for a moment. He placed Priscilla’s body tenderly back down against the pillow, then looked up at Hannah and spoke in a weary tone. “I’ve lost my wife, not my wits, girl. I’d not send you out in a storm like this.”
“It’s not far. I’m willing to go.”
Randolph stood. “I’ll go myself. They’ll want to come be with the children. Then I’ll go on to Newbury.”
Hannah’s eyes widened. “All the way to Newbury…in this weather?”
He glanced at the bed. “She’d not want any but her brother to perform the service.”
“But the storm…” Her voice trailed off as Randolph’s expression hardened.
Neither spoke for a moment. Then Randolph bent to kiss his wife’s forehead. Without looking at Hannah, he said. “You will…tend to her?” His voice broke.
“Aye.”
Without another word, he was gone.