turned back to my packing. One cannot be too prepared for the wilds of India.
* * *
—
IT WAS PAST MIDNIGHT when Henry returned and stumbled to his room, no doubt having drowned the sorrows of his defeat in Dubonnet. I pretended to be asleep when he crept in to say good night, keeping my breathing deep and rhythmic. Henry stood by my bedside for a long moment and then made his way back to his room.
The next morning, I woke early for a ride. Henry did not emerge from his room so I slipped into my riding clothes and Thomas drove me to the Central Park stables. Caroline was visiting her friend Betty Stockwell for an overnight, so Betty’s mother, Amelia—a friend since our debutante days—joined me for my morning ride.
It was a glorious, clear fall day, for the storm had swept through and left the sky cerulean. We rode north on the Bridle Path in Central Park, toward the reservoir. We were mostly alone up there since, at midmorning, ladies formed the bulk of the civilian cavalry. Amelia had clearly spent most of the morning on her toilette, her chestnut hair pulled back in a snood. Her daughter Betty resembled her in every way, down to the mane of chestnut hair, widow’s peak, and casual offhand manner of speaking.
“Your Caroline is teacher’s pet, Eliza. Miss Webb said if she had a daughter she’d like her to be like Caroline in every way. Who coaches her?”
“Really, Amelia. Caroline is simply like her father.”
“I was having Betty tutored, but the young man resigned, claiming exhaustion. Young people are so delicate today. Maybe it’s for the best. Latin never got a girl a husband. Men just want a warm body. Richard would just as soon have Cook in the bed as me. Wouldn’t know the difference in the dark and he’s always excited by cinnamon.”
“Sometimes I think husbands complicate life.”
“Try making your way in real society without one. Florence Schermerhorn’s James ran off with the wife of a Bible peddler. Doors all over New York shut in her face, poor thing. She had to move out to Larchmont and the only suitor she has is an old parson in a tye wig.”
We made our way along the reservoir and, though I longed for a good canter, kept the horses at a trot, well within the six-mile-per-hour speed limit. The trees laced their fingers above us and the horse’s hooves gave a pleasing thump along the soft path.
I pictured Henry waking, chastened, and seeking strong coffee. It served him right that only Peg would be there to nurse his aching head and bruised ego. Perhaps that would teach him not to play tennis in the rain.
* * *
—
AFTER LUNCH WITH AMELIA and a shopping trip to pick up quinine tablets and other travel sundries, I arrived back at the apartment, brown paper bags in arms. By then I’d decided to forgive Henry. He was only showing off for me after all and would make it up to me on our trip.
Peg met me at the door, face splotched pink among the freckles.
“Mr. Ferriday’s in a bad way, ma’am,” she said, fists clenched under her chin.
“Bad way how?”
She patted her chest with one hand. “Havin’ trouble in here.”
A flash of dread ran through me. “Since when?” I dropped my bags.
“Since I brought ’is tray this morning, ma’am.”
I started toward Henry’s bedroom.
Peg followed. “He’s usually sitting bolt upright on the stroke of seven sayin’ ‘Peg Smith, bring me a gallon o’ coffee,’ but today he’s talking gibberish, the blinds not properly shut.”
I arrived at his room, the door ajar, his breakfast tray in the hallway, untouched.
“You didn’t bring his tray in, Peg?”
She stood in the hallway, arms wrapped around her waist. “Started to, ma’am, but what if I were to catch somethin’?”
I pushed into the room. Henry lay on the bed, curled on his side, on top of the still-made bed, one arm out of his sweater. I touched his hip and felt the wool, wet through.
“Close that window, Peg. You couldn’t get him a blanket?”
Henry shivered and barked a wet cough.
Peg stood in the doorway. “My mam said Joanie Sullivan’s cousin caught lung fever—”
“Help me get these wet clothes off—”
“—and was dead before dawn.”
Peg stayed in the doorway, fingers to her lips. With great effort, I pulled Henry’s sweater off over his head, and the shirt beneath clung to him. What would Mother do? Why had I not paid more attention to their nursing