The Sandalwood Tree Read Online Free PDF

towels, humming an Irish ballad under her breath, while Dr. Winfield listened to Felicity’s chest. When he finished, Kaitlin sat on the bed to sponge Felicity’s face and arms saying, “Here we go, miss. You’ll feel ever so much better after I freshen you up.” One day, as Kaitlin leaned across her patient to adjust the pillow, Felicity said, “You shouldn’t come so close, Kaitlin.”
    “Don’t you go worryin’ about me, miss.” Kaitlin plumped the pillow with her characteristic good cheer. She squeezed out the washcloth with strong, chapped hands and swabbed Felicity’s neck and shoulders with practiced movements. Kaitlin had been in service since she was twelve, and before that she’d been her mother’s right hand at home, cooking and cleaning for a family of eight, making meals out of wilted cabbage and old potatoes, and carrying back-breaking loads of peat to warm their two-room stone cottage. Hard work was all she knew and she took pride, even pleasure, in being useful. Adela watched Kaitlin minister to Felicity, marveling at the girl’s unfailing good nature, sure that she herself would be bitter to have been born into similar circumstances. Felicity said, “Really, Kaitlin. At least cover your mouth and nose when you come near me.”
    Dr. Winfield, putting his instruments in his bag, said, “That might be a good idea, Kaitlin.”
    “Now I said you’re none of you to worry about me and I meant it.” Kaitlin smiled. “Me brother had the consumption, and I tended him for a year before he passed.” She pushed a stray wisp of hair off her face with the back of her hand, adding, “I’m a hardy one.”
    Dr. Winfield nodded as he snapped his black bag shut. “You’re one of the lucky ones, Kaitlin. Some people seem to have a natural immunity.”
    Adela, standing in the doorway, suspected she might also be one of the lucky ones. Even Felicity didn’t know how often she sneaked into the sickroom to kiss her friend’s fevered brow—Felicity was often asleep and sometimes delirious—but Adela had never coughed once.
    Felicity grew gaunt, and when the fever threatened to consume her they called the bishop. While he ministered to Felicity’s soul, Adela locked herself in her room and balled herself up on the floor, in a corner, trying to come to grips with the idea of a world without Felicity. It would be like a world without light, without the possibility of joy.
    When Felicity’s fever broke, Mrs. Winfield allowed Adela to bring morning tea into the sickroom. Adela pushed Felicity around in a squeaky wooden pushchair, first around her room, then out in the hallway. When Felicity tried to stand, her legs, weak from lying so long in bed, buckled and gave out under her, but Adela caught her and held her up. After that, Adela came every day to wrap her arms around the patient and walk her around the room in a sort of clumsy dance. They did this every day, then twice a day and soon the girls were able to walk about together, hand in hand. In time, the sound of girlish laughter once again echoed through the house, and the doctor pronounced Felicity cured.

    On Christmas Eve the following year, when the girls were fifteen, they were allowed a cup of wassail with dinner. Cook’s recipe called for hot ale mixed with hard cider, sugar, spices, and clove-studded apples. The girls thought it tasted bitter and much too strong, but they drank it anyway, suppressing grimaces, to show how grown up they were.
    Later, in their shared room, they undressed for bed as usual by candlelight. Adela watched Felicity, in her white cotton bloomers and silk chemise, sitting in front of the oval mirror as she brushed a sheaf of glowing hair over one shoulder. Felicity still wore her pearls, which glowed in the candlelight, and the sight of her—it might have been the wassail, or Felicity’s small breasts browsing under the silk, or the pearls on her bare skin—the sight of her made Adela’s knees go weak. She felt