Wild, Beautiful, and Free(6)

“And what will you grow there, ma chérie?”

“Can I grow lavender?” I loved the fragrant plants that Dorinda grew in the kitchen garden. If I could grow fields of it, I would lie down among the thin branches and sleep there under my mosquito net when the summer nights were too hot to be in bed.

He laughed.

I kissed him on the forehead, then ran my fingers over his brow. It was damp ever so slightly, like dew on the morning grass. He’d never sweated so gently before. Papa’s sweat had always poured forth like tiny waterfalls down his temples. It made me smile.

“Oh, my papa,” I said. “Use your handkerchief.”

He kissed me back and wiped his forehead. I didn’t know it then, but that was when his sickness started. It sneaked up on him slowly, like the sickness had a mind and knew that sneaking was the only way it could take hold of Jean Bébinn. The film of wetness returned and persisted. In the ensuing days, Papa seemed to tire easily.

Then came the morning, in late August, when Papa did not get out of bed. In the kitchen I watched Dorinda prepare a tray for him and saw the same sad veil she’d always had when talking about my mama.

“Don’t look like he’s going anywhere for now,” she said. “He’s mighty ill, Jeannette. Poor man’s shivering like he’s got demons under his skin.”

She lifted the tray and balanced it on her forearm so she could open the kitchen door. When she turned back, I stood next to her, waiting to step through.

“Where are you going, little miss?”

“To see Papa.”

“His sickness might be catching. That room ain’t no place for chilrun.”

“If you can go in, so can I.”

Dorinda gave me the look I’d seen her give Papa when she knew it was no use arguing with him.

When we entered Papa’s room, I saw Robie, Papa’s manservant, gently laying Papa back against the pillows. He held up one of Papa’s nightshirts and showed it to Dorinda.

“Gave him a fresh one. This one’s soaked clear through.”

“Papa,” I whispered. I drew near and touched his arm. His lips fluttered together like they were making words, but nothing was coming out.

The dew I’d seen before now had swelled into a stream. Dorinda set a bowl of water down on the bedside cabinet, wet a cloth, and swabbed Papa’s brow.

“He can’t hear you right now. Best you sit over there.” She indicated the window seat across from his bed. “You can stay hid if Madame comes.”

I scrambled onto the seat and carefully arranged the curtain so I could see Papa without being seen. That was where I stayed.

Not long after the clock on Papa’s dresser chimed two o’clock, Madame Bébinn entered without knocking, followed by Robie and Dorinda. She held a handkerchief over her nose and mouth and spoke to Papa loudly, like he’d gone deaf in his sickness.

“Jean! Jean!”

Papa stirred and nodded slightly.

“Jean, I’ve called for Dr. Clarke. I don’t understand why you have to be sick now! And harvest time already on us. Good Lord!”

Papa’s eyelids slowly opened, and his eyes rolled about in a strange way. All the while Madame fussed at him. I wanted to jump on the witch and make her leave him alone.

“Wh—wh—” was all Papa could manage. It sounded like he wanted to say where, but then his eyes fell on me, sitting still as I could in that window seat. I put my fingers to my lips and held them up to him—a kiss. Papa coughed and seemed to gather himself, determined to speak.

“Where is Robie?” He spoke slowly, each word a struggle, and his voice sounded thick and wet like the swamp. He coughed again, and Robie brought him a tin dish to spit in.

“Tell Mr. Cleaton to come here,” he told Robie. “I will direct him about the work.”

“Stop foolin’, Jean! Nothing will be right about Catalpa Valley until you’re out of that bed.”

“Rest assured, Madame, one way or another I will be leaving this bed.”

She stifled a noise underneath her handkerchief.

“Now if you’ll leave me, I’ll work out which way that might be.”

Madame made another noise of disgust, and I heard the rustle of her skirt as she hurried out of the room.

Papa spoke again. “Dorinda. Water.”

She moved swiftly to hold a porcelain teacup to Papa’s parched and swollen lips.

“Jeannette.”

I pushed the curtain aside, but only a little.

“Come, child.”

I climbed onto the bed and embraced him where he lay.

“Are you scared?”

I nodded and whispered, “A little.”

He kissed me on the top of my head. “Ha! Yes, just a little. Only a little because you are Bébinn. Too strong to be scared a lot!”

“I will stay with you, Papa.”

“Ah! I would like that. We will fight together.”

“Yes, Papa.”

He slept again, and we stayed that way, my arms around him, until Dorinda returned to warn me of Dr. Clarke’s arrival.

Dr. Clarke brought medicines for Papa and advised Dorinda to keep putting the cool cloths on his forehead. He suggested bleeding, too, but Papa roused himself enough to refuse.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep my bodily humors intact.”