ROMANOV AUTUMN
Chapter Twenty-Two

Much to his aggravation, Jack began to feel worse over the next week. He experienced pangs of dizziness and nausea, which prevented him from getting out of bed in the morning. Margarita came to rouse him at 7:30 on Wednesday and gasped when she realized he had a fever.

"Where does it hurt?" she asked, and Jack tried to lift his head, but was too weak.

"Everywhere," he croaked, shivering from chills. "My throat, my head, my back." He coughed roughly, glancing at her. "I don’t think I can get up."

Margarita pulled the blankets to his chin and hurried to find her master. Mr. Rockefeller came to check on Jack, frowning deeply with concern.

"I’m sorry, sir," Jack whispered when Mr. Rockefeller inquired on what was wrong.

"I’ll send for my physician right away," he said, and hurried downstairs.

Jack was furious with himself. Besides attacks of his asthma, he’d remained relatively healthy over the past year. He never even suffered a cold while working in the movie business—who knew what was wrong with him now?

He broke into another fit of coughing, which made his chest ache, and was grateful when Margarita brought him a cup of tea.

"Poor hijo," the housekeeper clucked, feeling his forehead and cheeks. Jack sipped slowly from the cup, barely able to smell which herb she had used.

"Just sleep now," she encouraged after he handed the cup to her, and he bundled his body beneath the blankets.

Dr. Bliny arrived within the next hour, with Mr. Rockefeller at his heels.

"How long has the boy been ill?" Dr. Bliny asked, and Jack closed his eyes—the light was too much for him.

"I’ve noticed a bit of sluggishness a few days ago, but he insisted he was fine," Mr. Rockefeller replied, and Jack felt his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He was grateful the fever already caused them to flush, so it wasn’t easy to tell.

Mr. Rockefeller left the room when instructed, and Dr. Bliny began digging through his black leather satchel for his medical supplies.

"Well…we have gotten ourselves into a bit of a fix, haven’t we?" he asked, and Jack watched as Dr. Bliny readied his stethoscope and thermometer. "Do you ache anywhere specifically, lad?"

Jack sighed, struggling to sit up against the headboard a little. "My throat, my chest, and my head, sir," he replied, his voice hoarse from coughing.

"Mmm," Dr. Bliny murmured. "There have been cases of influenza making their way through the area…not uncommon for this time of the year."

Jack sneezed, his head spinning, and grasped it with his hand.

"Bless you." Dr. Bliny chuckled. "Let’s have a look at you now."

Jack accepted the thermometer into his mouth, being told to keep it under his tongue for a few minutes. When it was removed, Dr. Bliny peered closely at it. "One hundred and two," he announced, and Jack fought a groan. Then he proceeded to check Jack’s heart and lungs, murmuring under his breath, apparently in thought.

Jack began coughing almost immediately after the stethoscope was removed from his chest, and Dr. Bliny looked at him.

"Sounds very much like influenza to me," he said, and Jack blinked.

"I’m so tired," he whispered, and Dr. Bliny smiled.

"You’ll be on bed rest for at least two weeks," he explained. "I’ll prescribe a list of treatments for you to your employer…steam baths, cough syrup…" He chuckled. "You’ll feel all right soon enough."

Mr. Rockefeller came to check on the situation, and did not seem happy at all when he discovered the result of the checkup.

"It isn’t very serious," Dr. Bliny promised. "As long as he stays in bed, takes plenty of fluids, and has the medicines administered as I’ve written, he’ll be just fine."

Mr. Rockefeller glanced at Jack, who had drifted to sleep again, and went to fetch Margarita. The housekeeper came up to Jack’s room shortly after the doctor left and smiled at him. "I will take care of your niño, Señor," she promised. "You will not have to worry."

"What does niño mean?" Jack croaked, having heard their voices, and Margarita laughed.

"It means child in Spanish. You speak Spanish?"

He shook his head, shivering a little as she dipped a cloth into a bowl of water and began to blot his forehead and cheeks. He was so cold, and when he mentioned this, Margarita went to fetch an extra quilt.

He slept for the rest of the day, though rather restlessly. He was vaguely aware of Margarita sitting with him through the night, easing him into a sitting position when he had to cough.

The next morning, he felt worse. His head was heavy, making it difficult to breathe through his nose. The fever rose a little in the afternoon, causing him to lose consciousness.

Mr. Rockefeller insisted he relieve Margarita for a couple of hours, insisting she get some rest.

"Sir…" Jack whispered. "There’s no need…I’ll…" He struggled to take a good breath, knowing his asthma was kicking in a bit.

"Nonsense!" Mr. Rockefeller retorted. "You saved my life on the Oaysis…the least I can do is look after you when you’re ill."

Jack swallowed, stretching out a little. "D’you have any kids?" he asked, not having had reason before to ask, and Mr. Rockefeller looked at him thoughtfully.

"Beg your pardon?"

Jack smiled. "Do you have any children?" he repeated, and Mr. Rockefeller gave a chuckle.

"Several," he replied honestly.

"Where is your wife?" Jack asked, curious as to why Mr. Rockefeller was living alone.

"She is in Europe with my daughter, Bessie, and her husband, Charles. They are returning within a few months, but I could not go with them due to my business. Our youngest daughter, Edith, is away at boarding school. She won’t return until after you leave for Europe."

Jack nodded in understanding. "What are your other children’s names?" he asked, and his employer frowned.

"You should not be talking so much, Jack," he warned, and Jack lowered his head sheepishly. "My son is John, Jr., and I have another daughter, Alta. We did have a third, Alice, but she died at birth."

It was Jack’s turn to frown. "I’m sorry," he replied, and Mr. Rockefeller shook his head.

"It was God’s choice," he said. "John and his fiancée, Abigail, are coming to spend the Christmas holiday with us."

Jack nodded, curious about meeting another member of the Rockefeller family. He felt his eyes closing after a moment, too worn out to stay awake for very long at all. Mr. Rockefeller shook his head, leaning back against his seat again.

*****

Over the next couple of days, Jack’s breathing continued to grow worse. He endured Margarita’s herbal steam baths, which made him incredibly nauseous afterwards. His fever remained the same, rising in the evening and lowering a degree or two in the morning.

Margarita eased him into fresh nightshirts when he began to get too sweaty, and she would sponge him down before changing him.

"How’d you come to work for…" Jack coughed.

"Señor?" she asked, and he nodded, sighing when she blotted his forehead again with a cloth. "It is a very long story that perhaps you are too ill yet to hear."

Jack squinted in the lamp light--the curtains were kept closed at all times due to the irritation of bright sunshine--and sneezed, groaning miserably.

"I’m bored," he admitted, for being stuck in bed for hours at a time was beginning to take its toll. Sleep was common, but he was often too hot or too cold to be perfectly comfortable.

"I can see that." Margarita chuckled. "Poor hijo. I will tell you my story if you promise to take a bit of soup down for me."

Jack groaned—he hadn’t been able to keep any food in his stomach at all over the past day or so, and even the thought of eating caused his stomach to churn.

"You really know how to twist my arm," he whispered, and she laughed.

"Do you promise?" She straightened and fluffed his pillows.

"I promise," Jack replied. "The question really is—will I be able to keep it down?" He struggled to sit up against the headboard, closing his eyes at the dizziness. She offered him a glass of water, which he accepted gratefully.

"I was born," she began, "to a poor farmer and his wife in Venezuela. When I was thirteen years old, Papa sold me to a Señor Baron, who needed servants to work his house and field. I hated him passionately. Señor Baron was a drunk, and beat his wife and us when he was in one of his rages." Margarita shuddered, her dark eyes clouding over with the memory. "For a year and a half I endured his torture…he even tried to rape me once when I was fourteen, but our butler got there in time to stop him." She looked directly at Jack. "The first opportunity I got to run away I did, but I had a price on my head. Runaway slaves who were caught were punished by death at the gallows."

Jack grimaced, thinking to himself what a good novel this would make.

"But I was determined to leave and start a new life. Unfortunately, I did not get more than a mile away from Señor Baron’s home when I was caught, and indeed, was sentenced to death."

Jack coughed and pulled the quilt closer to his neck, hating the feeling of being cold all the time.

"What happened then?" he asked, for she obviously had been set free if she was still there.

"I was standing at the noose, and it was being wrapped around my neck when I heard someone shouting to ‘Stop! Stop this!’ and who would be coming through the crowd, but Señor."

Jack gasped. "Perfect timing," he squeaked. "How did he know what was going on?"

"Someone in the marketplace told him what the commotion was about; news travels quickly in certain places, Mr. Jack. Señor has a good heart, he really does, niño—even if he rarely smiles."

Jack nodded. "I do like Mr. Rockefeller," he admitted. "He’s treated me well since I came here."

Margarita stroked his hair, brushing his sweat-soaked bangs away from his forehead.

"He promised to take me home with him to America after the guards released me, and paid them for their loss. After explaining myself to Señor, he offered me a job with him here in New York. I was, of course, honored to be going to America—it was something my family always dreamt of, but knew we could never afford the trip. And I have been here ever since."

Jack sighed with contentment, allowing her to ease the spoonfuls of soup into his mouth once she finished.

"How long have you been here?" he asked after swallowing, and found it to be a very bland vegetable broth.

"Let me see," Margarita began, "I am now thirty-two, so I have been here with Señor for seventeen years."

Jack blinked. "You weren’t his housekeeper for seventeen years, were you?" he asked, unable to fathom that Mr. Rockefeller would take a fifteen-year-old in to oversee everything in his mansion. She laughed heartily again, pinching his cheek a little and causing him to grimace.

"Ow," he whined, rubbing the sore spot.

"No," she replied. "I was an assistant to Phillips for a good two or three years in the kitchen. Then I was a cleaning maid, and when Señor got to appreciate how I worked here, he told me he would like me to oversee everything in the house and be in charge when he was not here. The position has stuck, I fear." She winked. "Now, drink your soup…as you promised."

Jack groaned lightly, but he never went back on his word.

When he finished, she noticed his eyes were drooping considerably, and shook her head with a smile. "Silly niño," she teased. "You sleep now, okay?"

Jack let out a very quiet, "Sorry," before allowing his body to slump against the pillows. Margarita once again brushed his hair out of his eyes, determined to give him a trim when he felt better.

She went downstairs to serve her master his late afternoon tea, and found Mr. Rockefeller fingering a framed photograph, a contemplative look on his face.

"Señor?" she asked. "You are all right?"

Mr. Rockefeller looked up, nodding his thanks when she set his tray in front of him.

"Do you think he’ll pull through?" he asked, and Margarita raised her eyebrows.

"Sorry?" she asked, and Mr. Rockefeller cleared his throat.

"Jack. Do you think he’ll make it?"

Margarita smiled. "Yes, Señor, I do think the child will be fine. He sleeps now, but was alert when I told him the story of how I came to be in your service."

Mr. Rockefeller laughed. "He inquired, eh?" he asked. "That boy is full of questions. There are times when I do wish to tape his mouth shut, but I can’t help but appreciate him more often than not."

Margarita sat down and leaned forward. "He does make his way to your heart very quickly, that is true," she agreed, and Mr. Rockefeller smiled at last, glancing at his picture again. "Who do you look at?" she asked, and he displayed the photograph, which turned out to be of his family. "Ah…they are so grown-up now, so beautiful, your children."

Mr. Rockefeller nodded. "Yes, I am very proud of them. I’m quite sure John and his fiancée will find our new hire quite satisfactory."

Margarita grinned. "Yes, I do believe they will."

Mr. Rockefeller set the photograph back on the mantle and folded his hands in his lap. "I suppose we can just do what we are doing and wait," he told her, and she nodded her agreement.

"Si, Señor," she replied. "That is all we can do now." She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder before sweeping out of the room and finishing her usual chores.

Chapter Twenty-Three
Stories