My conscience stings, and I’ve just changed into my riding skirt and cloak to go after Lidia—she can’t have gotten far—when there is a pounding at the door. Huge fists pummel the wooden timbers. I can see them shake from ten feet away.
When I pull it open, John Cowan stands at the threshold stomping his boots on the flagstone to knock off the snow. He takes in my attire, nodding once in approval.
“Good,” he says, “you’re ready.” “For what?”
“To ride.”
It takes a moment. My mind is elsewhere, and I wasn’t expecting the young blacksmith’s apprentice. So it’s a full five seconds before I realize one of the Clarks needs my help.
“Which one of them is ill?” I ask over my shoulder as I go to get my medical bag.
“Mary,” he says, then adds, “the baby. She’s been having fits.”
John Cowan has not bothered with the wagon this time, having instead ridden Charles Clark’s draft horse, Sampson. Better suited for the plow, he looks ridiculous with a tiny saddle on his broad back, as though someone has tacked a square of leather to a Highland steer. He stamps at the gate, impatient.
“Let me get Brutus and we can leave.”
“No need. Your husband’s already gone for him.”
“How—”
“I passed the mill on my way in. Told him you’d been summoned.” And sure enough, he has. For no sooner do I reach the garden gate than
Ephraim comes down the path from the barn, leading Brutus. If he is sorry for his harsh words, he doesn’t show it. He simply helps me into the saddle and wishes us well as we head for the lane. I look back once, hoping to meet his eyes, but he’s already turned back to the mill.
I can handle being out of sorts with half the town, but this—Ephraim’s disappointment—pains me. Sorting that out will have to wait, however.
At a full gallop, it takes less than ten minutes to reach the forge, and then John leads the horses to the barn for water and hay while I make my way to the house. I can hear Betsy Clark crying from the other side of the door. But still I knock, to be polite. Sometimes people would rather keep their tears to themselves. It’s a choice I always try to give when possible.
Charles opens the door with one hand, and I see that he is holding the baby snug in the crook of his other arm. They both exhale in relief when they see me. “Come in,” he says. “Please.”
I shed my riding cloak. Set my bag on the floor. “What’s wrong?”
“It started last night,” Betsy says. “At first I thought it was just a shudder. You know how they do sometimes when they pass water? But then she did it again. Later. And again, in the middle of the night, and both those times her hippen was dry.”
“It got worse this morning,” Charles adds.
I take a seat beside the fire and reach for the bundle in his arms. He hands the baby to me, and I set her in my lap—head at my knees, feet against my belly—so I can unwrap the blanket. Mary Clark is still scrawny, but she’s gotten longer and fills my entire lap now. “When was her last fit?” I ask.
Betsy sniffles. Wipes her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. “An hour ago. Right before we sent John.”
The cabin is warm, and the baby doesn’t protest when her swaddle is fully removed. There are no signs of injury. No lumps. No bruises. She looks at me with large, round eyes as I run my hands across her body. I feel
her legs and back. Arms. I prod her torso gently and move my fingers up the side of her neck, around her ears. “Has she fallen? Perhaps off the bed?”
The baby is too young to roll over, but falling happens sometimes accidentally.
“No.”
I press my fingers lightly against the base of her little skull. Temples. Crown. There doesn’t seem to be any swelling. “Has she been dropped? Perhaps by one of the girls?”
Betsy shakes her head.
“Have they carried her to you? Maybe once when she was crying? Or just around the bedroom and you didn’t know?”
She hesitates. Looks at Charles.
“I’ll go ask,” he says, and slips into the bedroom where their other two daughters are playing quietly out of the way, as they’ve been instructed.
“They would never,” Betsy whispers. “It wouldn’t have been on purpose.”
Charles comes out a moment later. “Neither of them dropped her. They swear on it.”
“And you’re certain they’re telling the truth?”
“Yes. Both of them are terrible liars.” He almost smiles. “They get it from their mother. None of them have a talent for it.”
I am finished with my examination when it happens again. Little Mary Clark goes stiff and still in my lap, then there is a sudden jerking of muscles. Her eyes roll back until I can see the whites. Betsy wails. Charles curses. And I hold the child’s head in one hand and reach into her mouth to make sure she hasn’t swallowed her tongue and blocked her airway. She hasn’t, so I pull her tight against my chest. I can feel all nine pounds of her quivering against my ribs.
Forty-five seconds. That’s how long the seizure lasts. And when it is over, Mary doesn’t cry. Her face is placid, and her eyes look to the ceiling, unfocused.
“I don’t think this was caused by any injury,” I say.
“What then?” Charles asks. It is strange to hear the voice of a big man crack in fear.
I think I know, but I cannot be sure. And I don’t want to share my opinion yet. If I am correct, this is a disease I’ve never treated. A disease that might not even be treatable.
“Go fetch John for me,” I tell Charles.
He hesitates, curious, but does as he’s told and is soon back with his apprentice in tow. He’s been at the anvil and wears a heavy leather apron. Sweat beads his brow.
“Mistress Ballard?” he asks.
“Is Sampson still saddled?” I ask. “No.”
“Then you can take Brutus. But be careful,” I say, noting his startled expression. “He bites. And he’s thrown every rider that’s ever sat him. If you value your life, do not pull too hard at the reins.”
John Cowan swallows once. “Where am I taking him?” “To Burnt Hill. I need you to bring Doctor back with you.”
“I did not think she made house calls.” John looks at the baby. Back at me. “I was told you have to go to her, and I do not think that Mary…”
He doesn’t want to say it aloud, and I do not blame him.
“Then let us see if she will make an exception. Tell her that Martha Ballard begs that she come with you.”
*
It takes almost two hours before we hear pounding horse hooves. John escorts Doctor through the door with the kind of dazed expression I’d expect of a man who’s just been strapped to the top of a carriage and driven off a cliff. I felt much the same way the first time I rode Brutus at full tilt.
“Please, come in,” Charles says, motioning Doctor forward. “I’ll help John with the horses.”
It’s been too much for Charles. He paced while his wife nursed the baby. He paced while I changed her hippen. He paced the entire time we
waited. At one point, he tried to give me the fee for the child’s birth—now overdue—but I’d refused, curling his fingers back over the coins and telling him to pay Doctor instead. He’d paced then, too, afraid of what that meant. So this task, the managing of beasts, is a relief to him. It is a thing he can do, and, like all men, that is where his instinct goes.
Just do something! And fix it if you damn well can, the mind of a man screams. By and large they are useless at a time like this. And it is a relief to all of us when both Charles and John are gone. Betsy relaxes, as does Doctor. Her riding cloak goes on the hook beside mine, and she takes a seat with us.
“Her name is Mary,” I say, handing over the tiny bundle. “The fits started yesterday.”
Doctor lays the baby on her lap, exactly as I had, but is far more cautious. She turns to Betsy and asks, “May I look at her?”
I am aware that this is a permission I never thought to ask. “Of course,” Betsy says.
Only once she’s been granted approval does Doctor strip the child naked and begin her examination. It is a fascinating thing to watch. She looks for injuries, as I had, pokes and prods in all the same places. But then she turns the baby onto her forearm and runs the pad of her index finger all the way up her spine and back down again, checking for deformities in every vertebra. And all the while Doctor whispers to herself.
Several minutes into this, Betsy leans toward me. “What is she saying?”
I shrug. “I don’t speak French.”
Doctor’s voice is deep and calming, and soon the whispers turn into song. A lullaby of some sort, hummed as she bends her ear to the baby’s chest. Listens to her breath. I can see Doctor count each heartbeat with a tap of her finger.
The next seizure is not so violent as the last, but still, Betsy jerks in her chair as though she has been stung by a wasp. It may be a thing that she never grows comfortable with. Doctor, however, remains calm as Mary
twitches in her lap. She holds the baby’s arms down and I hear her counting in French, though I don’t know the numbers past three.
“Trois. Quatre. Cinq. Six. Sept. Huit. Neuf. Dix…” She keeps going, until the seizure stops. “Vingt-trois.”
When the fit is over, Doctor dresses and swaddles Mary, then hands her back to Betsy. “Give her the breast if she will take it. It is the best thing for her right now. But pull away if she has another episode.”
As directed, Betsy unbuttons her blouse and puts the baby to her nipple. Mary latches on, though not as forcefully as I would like.
Doctor looks at me, motions with her head. “Let us talk outside.”
*
The snow has turned to rain, and we stand outside the cabin, unprotected from the downpour. Doctor slides back into her cloak. She pulls on her gloves. After a moment she nods to my riding skirt. “That is very practical.”
“It was easy,” I tell her. “I can show you how to make one.” “Next time, perhaps.”
Charles stomps his way back from the barn. He glances at me, then hands Doctor a small leather pouch filled with coins. “Your fee,” he says, then slips inside to tend his wife and child.
Doctor looks to the door where he has just disappeared. “He is a gentle man.”
“He is learning,” I say, but do not bother her with our history. “I’ve heard of children, adults as well, with that condition. But I don’t know what it’s called. I only know it as ‘the fits.’ ”
“I believe she has the falling sickness,” Doctor tells me, then adds, “Epilepsia. Sometimes they grow out of it. Sometimes they do not. Time will tell.”
“You’ve seen it before?”
“A handful of times. In France. Mostly in children. Often the seizures come in clusters. Lots in a day. Or for several days in a row. Then nothing.
Weeks can go by. Months before another one. If you are very lucky, they never come back after childhood.”
“Are they deadly?” “They can be.”
“Is there no treatment? Nothing I can give her?”
“Oui. Valerian. Skullcap. Horseradish. In various preparations. There are other things too, but none of them grow here. And I wouldn’t give them to a child regardless. Les herbes might do more damage than good. She is too young.”
“When? How old must she be?
Doctor is unwilling to give an exact answer. “Beyond childhood…if she lives that long.”
“Will it cause damage?” I tap my left temple with a finger. “Here?” She gives me a weak smile. “I cannot say.”
When I look up, Betsy Clark is at the window, Mary’s little head against her shoulder, watching us. “I suppose we should go tell them.”
“Non. You will tell her. They are your friends. Your patients. They called for you.”
“And I called for you.”
“Which is why I came. Otherwise I would not have interfered.” “Thank you. I do appreciate it.”
“I am glad to help,” Doctor says. “The people in this town revere you.
That is why they come to me, sometimes, you know.” “No. They go to you because you are more skilled.”
She shrugs as though the point is up for debate. “They come to me when they want to preserve your good opinion.”
“Not all secrets are bad,” I argue.
“Just because a secret isn’t bad doesn’t mean it’s harmless. Speaking of which, how is your other patient? The Foster woman?”
“As poorly as you would expect. And growing ripe with child.” Doctor sets one hand on my shoulder. Smiles. “Bon courage.”
Bon courage. Be of good courage. Courage is good, I think, wishing that I had more than a grain to spare.
As Doctor walks to the barn to collect Goliath, the rain turns hard and cold. Like stones tossed by an angry boy.
Hail.
Hell, why not make a bad day worse?
Epilepsia.
Epilepsy.
It makes so much more sense now. I have read of this disease in three different Shakespeare plays but didn’t know what it meant. Brutus described Julius Caesar as having “the falling sickness.” Othello raged and foamed as if he had “fallen into an epilepsy.” And Kent told Cornwall in King Lear that he wished “a plague upon your epileptic visage.” Leave it to the Bard to name a thing that has hitherto gone unnamed. This realization is no victory, however.
I turn back to the cabin to give Betsy and Charles the news.
*
Wednesday, February 24—Snowed and rained and hailed. I was called to see Charles Clark’s daughter who is destitute by reason of the fits epilepsia.
