Woodward said something that was more gibberish than language, as if he were losing control over even his speech, but then he spoke clearly enough for Matthew to make out the words, 'My back. Pains me.'
'It will be well soon. You must lie still and rest.'
'A bottle, ' Woodward said, drowsing off once more. 'Will you... bring me a bottle?'
'I shall, yes, sir.' It seemed a small but helpful untruth. The magistrate's eyelids had ceased their war against gravity and he lay quiet again, his breathing returned to its accustomed rasp like that of a rusted hinge being slowly worked back and forth.
Matthew finished his task of carefully cleaning Woodward's nostrils. When he left the room, he was stricken in the middle of the hallway by what might have been a crushing weight suddenly applied to his shoulders. At the same time, the icy dagger that had entered his entrails seemed to twist toward his heart. He stood short of his own door, one hand clasped to his mouth and above it his eyes wide and brimming with tears.
He was trembling, and wished to make it cease but could not. A sensation of utter powerlessness had come upon him, a sensation of being a leaf stripped from a tree in a high wind and blown through a terrifying altitude of lightning and rain.
He had realized that every day—every hour—brought the magistrate closer to death. It was not now a question of whether the magistrate might die, but when. Matthew was sure this bleed-ing-and-blistering treatment was not sufficient; indeed, he doubted the ability of Dr. Shields to heal a man who was only half as ill as the magistrate. If Woodward could be gotten to Charles Town, to the attentions of the urban doctors who commanded fully equipped infirmaries and a benefit of medicines, then there was a chance—be it however diminished—that he might be cured of this savage malady.
Yet Matthew knew that no one here would volunteer to carry Woodward the long distance to Charles Town, especially if it meant denigrating the abilities of their own doctor. If he undertook to convey Woodward there, he would lose at the very least two vital days from his investigation, and by the time he returned here Rachel would likely be a black smudge on a charred stake. Woodward might not be his father, it was true, but the man had served in as near that capacity as was humanly possible, saving him from the drear almshouse and setting him on a path of purpose. Did he not, then, owe the magistrate at least something?
He might persuade Winston to take Woodward to Charles Town, under threat of revealing the incriminating bucket, but should such a disloyal dog be trusted with a man's life? Winston could as well leave his charge on the side of the road for the animals to eat, and never return.
No, not Winston. But... would Nicholas Paine be willing to do the job?
It was a spark, but it might kindle a flame. Matthew pulled himself together, wiped his eyes clear with the back of his hand, and continued into his room. There he shaved, cleaned his teeth, and finished dressing. Downstairs, he found Bidwell clad in a lime-green suit at the bountiful breakfast table, the foxtail of his wig tied with an emerald-hued ribbon.
'Sit down, sit down!' Bidwell offered, his mood jovial because the day promised to be as sunwarmed and beautiful as the one before. 'Come have breakfast, but please let us announce a truce on the subject of theories.'
'I haven't time for breakfast, ' Matthew said. 'I am on my way to—'
'Oh, of course you have time! Come sit down and at least eat a blood sausage!' Bidwell indicated the platter heaped with sausages, but their color was so similar to the ebon collapsed blisters on the magistrate's back that Matthew couldn't have swallowed one if it had been shot into his throat from a pistol. 'Or, here, have a pickled melon!'
'No, thank you. I am on my way to see Mr. Paine. Can you tell me where he lives?'
'To see Nicholas? Why?' Bidwell speared a segment of pickled melon with his knife and slid it into his mouth.
'Some business I wish to discuss.'
'What business?' Bidwell now was truly suspicious. 'Any business you have with him is also business with me.'
'All right, then!' Matthew had reached his zenith of frustration. 'I wish to ask him to take the magistrate to Charles Town! I want him placed in an infirmary there!'
Bidwell cut a blood sausage in two and chewed thoughtfully on half of it. 'So you don't trust Dr. Shields's method of treatment? Is that what you're saying?'
'It is.'
'I'll have you know, ' and here Bidwell aimed his knife at Matthew, 'that Ben is just as good a doctor as any of those quacks in Charles Town.' He frowned, knowing that hadn't come out as he'd intended. 'I mean to say, he's an able practitioner. Without his treatment, I'll grant you that the magistrate would have been deceased days ago!'
'It's the days hence I'm concerned about. The magistrate is showing no improvement at all. Just now he was speaking to me in delirium!'
Bidwell pushed his knife into the second half of sausage and guided the greasy black thing into his mouth. 'You should by all means be on your way, then, ' he said as he chewed. 'Not to see Nicholas, but to visit the witch.'
'Why should I wish to do that?'
'Well, isn't it obvious? One day after the decree is delivered, and the magistrate lies at death's door? Your skirt has placed a curse on him, boy!'
'That's nonsense!' Matthew said. 'The magistrate's condition has worsened because of this excessive bloodletting! And also because he was required to sit in that cold gaol for hours when he should have been in bed resting!'
'Oh, ho! His sickness is now my fault, is that it? You cast about for blame from everyone except that to whom it rightly belongs! Besides... if you hadn't pulled your stunt with Seth Hazelton, the witch's case would have been heard in the public meetinghouse—which has a very comfortable hearth, I might add. So if you wish to blame anyone, go speak to a mirror!'
'All I wish to do is find the house of Nicholas Paine, ' Matthew said, his cheeks flushed and his teeth gritted. 'I don't care to argue with you, for that is like trying to outbray a jackass. Will you direct me to his house, or not?'
Bidwell busied himself by stirring the scrambled eggs on his plate. 'I am Nicholas's employer, and I direct his comings and goings, ' he said. 'Nicholas will not go to Charles Town. He is needed here to help with the preparations.'
'By God!' Matthew shouted, with such force that Bidwell jumped in his chair. 'Would you deny the magistrate a chance at living?'
'Calm your vigor, ' Bidwell warned. A servant girl peeked in from the kitchen and then quickly drew her head back. 'I will not be shouted at in my own house. If you wish to spend time hollering down the walls at the gaol, I might arrange it for you.'
'Isaac needs better medical attention than what he's getting, ' Matthew insisted. 'He needs to be taken to Charles Town immediately. This morning, if possible.'
'And I say you're wrong. I'd also say that the trip to Charles Town might well kill the poor wretch. But... if you're so willing to gallop in that direction, you should load him on a wagon and take him yourself. I will even make you a loan of a wagon and two horses, if you will sign a note of agreement.'
Matthew had stood listening to this with his face downcast, staring at the floor. Now he drew in a deep breath, his cheeks mottled with red, and he walked purposefully to the end of the table. Something in his pace or demeanor alerted Bidwell to danger, because the man started to push his chair back and rise to his feet—but before he could, Matthew had reached Bidwell's side and with one sweep of his arm sent the breakfast platters off the table to the floor in a horrendous echoing crash.
As Bidwell struggled to stand up, his distended belly jiggling and his face dark with rage, Matthew clamped a hand on his right shoulder and bore down with all his weight, at the same time thrusting his face into Bidwell's.
'That man you call a wretch, ' Matthew said, in what was barely more than an ominous whisper, 'has served you with all of his heart and soul.' Matthew's eyes blazed with a fire that promised to scorch Bidwell to a cinder, and the master of Fount Royal was for the moment transfixed. 'That man you call a wretch lies dying because he
