Provings

Prologue

Prologue 

August 24, 1837

I awaken to an echo of fevered dreams, to a familiar pounding in my head and aching in my limbs and am uplifted; for it means I have finally roused within me the very essence of typhus fever. It wants but the delirium, the black tongue and the rash to be the scourge itself; yet I do not feel those are necessary and repel the rising memory this brings of my dear Sarah's torment. These symptoms are enough to show the formula I am proving - made from Rhus toxicodendron, Bryonia and Stramonium - has worked. 

I hear a noise and turn to see my son William Henry is at my bedside. He looks at me with wide, searching eyes - doleful, hooded eyes, so like Sarah's had once been. I do not wish to worry him, so gather what strength I can and smile. His face brightens; his eyes like changelings sparkle and animate my listless frame. 

"How are you feeling today Papa? Are you better yet?" 

"Not yet, William, though I am certain I will be soon," I answer and am encouraged the more by the faintness of my voice. I raise my arm to touch his face, but the pain in the movement stops me short. 

"Should I give you some more of your medicine?" He produces the glass vial, half filled with my formula, tinged a cherry red by Lucius' dye of Opuntia. I consider it, whether to have more now that I am convinced of its efficacy; it is no longer necessary and this mimicked sickness is not a pleasant thing. But I see William's eager eyes. He is keen to help, to minister to me not knowing the true nature of the tonic. I would indulge him. 

"Just a small measure." 

William produces a spoon and proudly holds the bottle in front of him. He carefully pours the languid liquid and slowly extends the spoon toward me; it brims, but no matter, I will take but a trifle. His face twists as he realizes he cannot feed me where I lie; a drop spills on the twisted sheets and seeps along the threads of cotton. 

"Oh, but you'll have to sit up to take it or I'll surely spill it all." 

I take as deep a breath as I am able before my ribs sear from the exertion and haul myself to sitting. The movement exhausts me and I slump down against the pillows. 

"Oh Papa, that won't do at all. I'll spill all the more! Let me arrange the pillows for you." Full of purpose he pours out the liquid and puts down the spoon. He tugs the pillows about behind me with impressive force. Despite my sickness I feel a wash of pride and think how of late he has grown to robust youth. He is a sturdy boy for seven, built for farm work though I would have him live the life of a gentleman in this wondrous city of New York. 

William manages to supply me with a spoonful of the tonic. I shift back on the bed and he smiles down upon me. 

Nancy enters with Anna Augusta in her arms, dislodging William from my bedside. "Kiss your father Anna," she says as she leans over and presses the baby's face against my aching forehead. Milk and honey attend her. I inhale deeply, savouring the promise in the dewy head until a wave of nausea besets me and I pull back. The baby squirms and lets out a little squeal. Nancy quickly retrieves her. 

"How are you faring this morning darling? It is a glorious day; perhaps a morning stroll might reinvigorate you and cast off this lethargy. Shall I open the window?" 

"Yes Nancy," I answer, though I am loath to admit the mastery of the day. Still holding the baby, she spreads the curtains wide and pushes out the window glass. Sunlight spills across my sweat drenched sheets and forces me to raise my hand to shield my eyes. It is the Stramonium makes me so sensitive to the light. Noises rise from the teeming street - hawkers and carriages and horses hooves. The air moves and a foul smell, not my own, reaches my nostrils and makes me gag.