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CHAPTER 7

“For heaven’s sake, Georgie, stay still,” Abigail whispered hoarsely, shifting the squirming toddler to her other hip. The movement sent a jolt of pain through her ankle, but she gritted her teeth and continued measuring willow bark powder with her free hand.

Georgie responded by grabbing a fistful of her hair and pressing his snotty face against her neck. His little body radiated heat—not dangerous yet, but certainly feverish.

“Mrs. Welling, could you—” The words caught in her damaged throat, dissolving into a raspy cough.

The older woman appeared at her side, hands already reaching for the fussing child. “You shouldn’t be carrying him at all. What did I tell you about heavy lifting?”

“Georgie isn’t heavy,” Abigail protested, though her aching arms begged to differ.

“And I’m the Queen of Sheba.” Mrs. Welling settled the boy on her own substantial hip with practiced ease. “Alice is changing the linens in the south dormitory, Timothy’s finally sleeping, and Cook’s making broth for the little ones. What else needs doing?”

Abigail glanced around the cramped workroom. Three children sat huddled on a bench near the window, each with varying degrees of the same malady—runny noses, glassy eyes, flushed cheeks. A fourth lay dozing on a pallet in the corner where she could keep an eye on him. Beyond the door, she could hear muffled crying from the main room.

“I’ve nearly finished preparing these doses. Could you make sure everyone has fresh water? Marjory should return soon with more supplies.”

Mrs. Welling nodded and carried Georgie away, his chubby hand waving over her shoulder. Abigail sagged against the worktable, closing her eyes for just a moment. The room tilted alarmingly.

Deep breaths. One task at a time.

She straightened, focusing on the precise measurements before her. Willow bark for fever. Feverfew for headache. Honey to soothe raw throats and make the bitter medicines palatable.

A sharp rap at the front door echoed through the building. Abigail stiffened. Marjory wouldn’t knock. Perhaps it was Dr. Hargrove—finally.

Alice’s voice carried down the corridor. “Sir, I don’t believe we’re receiving visitors today.”

“This is not a social call.” A nasal voice responded with clipped precision. “I am Mr. Basil Latchford of the St. Mary Magdalen Parish board. Where is Her Grace? I am here to conduct our quarterly inspection.”

Abigail’s hand slipped, scattering precious powder across the table.Not today of all days.

“Miss Marjory is fetching medicine but Miss Abby is in the workroom, sir.” Alice’s voice grew louder as she drew near.

“The inspection was scheduled for today,” Mr. Latchford replied. “If Her Grace is not available, take me to whoever is in charge.”

Alice opened the door, her face a mask of apology. Behind her stood a thin man with receding hair slicked flat against his skull. Pince-nez perched upon a sharp nose, and he clutched a leather-bound ledger to his chest as if it contained royal secrets.

“Lady Abigail,” he said, surveying the disordered room with obvious displeasure. “I had expected to find Her Grace in the administrative office. The records are to be properly arranged for my review.”

“Mr. Latchford.” Abigail acknowledged him with the barest nod. “As you can see, we are managing an outbreak of spring fever. Perhaps we might reschedule?—”

“Absolutely not,” he cut her off, producing a pencil from his waistcoat pocket. “Scheduling is an essential component of proper administration. Predictability ensures accountability.”

Spoken like a man who has no children—and probably no wife.

“Very well.” She gestured toward the corner where a small desk held ledgers and correspondence. “We can start with the medical records for now. You may examine them while I attend to the children.”

Mr. Latchford’s lips pursed as if he’d tasted something sour. “Irregular. Most irregular. The inspection is to take place in the Administrative Office.”

Abigail pulled a key from her apron. “Here is the key. You know the way to the office, Mr. Latchford. Stay or go, but I must finish preparing these medicines.”

The parish administrator shifted from one foot to the other before edging around little Emily who was curled up with a pillow on the floor and settling himself at the small table with the ledger. The scratching of his pencil against paper punctuated her movements like an irritating metronome.

“Your vinegar usage has increased twelve percent, and your coal expenditure exceeds the Magdalen Orphanage by nearly four pounds.”

“We’ve been cleaning more frequently to contain the fever—and our building faces north. It takes more coal to keep it warm.”

“Excuses don’t change the totals.”