Page 14

“ F or 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.”

She bit her tongue and reached for another packet.

The pencil scratched again. “Do the residents contribute labor in exchange for their shelter? Sewing, laundry work?—”

“They do.” Abigail pressed her palm flat against the table to steady herself. “But many arrive malnourished or injured. We focus first on recovery.”

“Recovery without industry promotes indolence,” he sniffed.

Anger flickered in her chest, but she tamped it down. The parish’s financial support was essential to Beacon House’s survival. Antagonizing their representative would be foolish.

A small hand tugged at her skirt. She looked down to find Jenny, one of the younger girls, gazing up with feverish eyes.

“Miss Abby,” the girl whispered, “my head hurts awful.”

Abigail bent carefully, suppressing a wince as her ribs protested. “Let’s get you some medicine, shall we?”

She pulled Jenny onto her lap. It was the worst part—seeing them like this.

If she could take their fevers into her own bones, she would.

Every time.Working around the child on her lap, she mixed a dose of willow bark with honey and water, helping Jenny drink it slowly.

The child wrinkled her nose, but drank it down with Abigail’s coaxing.

“Now, how about you rest on that pallet with Thomas?” she murmured, stroking the girl’s hair. “Alice will bring you a cool cloth for your head.”

As she straightened, little Georgie came toddling back into the room, his face streaked with tears. Mrs. Welling followed, looking harried.

“Sorry, miss. Cook needed help with the broth, and this one screamed the place down when I tried to leave him.”

Abigail scooped him up. He immediately nestled against her, his small fingers clutching at her collar.

Mr. Latchford cleared his throat loudly. “I require access to your intake records. How many are from outside our parish boundaries?”

“The records are on the shelf above the desk in Her Grace’s office. You have the key,” Abigail replied, patting Georgie’s back as he snuffled against her shoulder. “But our mission is to help those in need, regardless of their parish affiliations.”

“Need must be balanced against resources,” he replied primly. “And resources must be allocated according to proper jurisdiction and—” He broke off as Georgie twisted in Abigail’s arms to stare at the stranger.

The toddler’s face scrunched in deep, earnest concentration—a warning Abigail recognized a heartbeat too late.

With the force of a small cannon, Georgie unleashed a thunderous sneeze straight into Mr. Latchford’s face. The kind of sneeze that left no survivors.

Latchford jerked back with a strangled noise somewhere between a squawk and a gasp, arms flailing like a startled crane.He fumbled for his handkerchief—lace-edged, pristine, and tragically unprepared—and dabbed frantically at his face.

“Control that child!” he sputtered, stumbling back as Georgie sniffled. “This is—this is appalling. The sanitation standards here are clearly deficient.”

His gaze darted from the sniffling children to the medicines on the table, horror dawning on his narrow face.“They’re all ill? With the same symptoms?” His voice rose an octave.

“It’s a spring fever, Mr. Latchford,” Abigail explained, shifting Georgie to her other hip. “Quite common among children, especially those who’ve known hunger.”

“Fever spreads,” he said, scribbling frantically in his ledger. “Contagion must be contained. This building should be quarantined immediately.”

That would mean locked doors. Children turned away. Mothers left in need. And all fussy little man couldn’t stomach a sneeze.

“It’s not?—”

“You yourself sound ill. It is not limited to children.” He edged toward the door as his voice grew more shrill with each word. “I shall alert the parish authorities. A formal inspection must be conducted. The entire facility may need to be sealed.”

A child coughed wetly from the corner pallet. Mr. Latchford gasped and pressed his handkerchief to his mouth.

Something snapped inside her—like a thread pulled too tight for too long. She set Georgie down on a chair, where he immediately began to wail, and turned to face the administrator.

“Mr. Latchford,” she whispered, her damaged voice giving the words an eerie, rasping quality, “this is not a contagious disease.”

“You cannot know that.” His eyes darted nervously.

“I have cared for more sick children in the past year than you have seen in your entire life.” The quiet intensity of her tone silenced even Georgie’s crying.

“This is a reactive fever brought on by spring damp, poor ventilation, and bodies weakened by malnutrition. It poses no danger to the community.”

His face had gone quite pale. “This is recklessness of the highest order!”

The accusation ignited something molten in her chest.

“Recklessness?” She shuffled forward a step.

“Recklessness, Mr. Latchford, is sitting in a comfortable office deciding which hungry child deserves a bowl of soup based on their address. Recklessness is counting bottles of vinegar while children shiver through winter nights because coal is too ‘excessive.’ Recklessness is threatening to close a shelter because you’re afraid of a snotty nose. ”

He blinked rapidly, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.

“These children aren’t entries in your ledger,” she continued, her voice growing more strained but no less fierce.

“They’re human beings who need warmth and food and medicine.

If you truly wish to quarantine us, Mr. Latchford, I suggest you make yourself useful.

You’ve already been sneezed on by this one?—”

She lifted Georgie from the chair, the boy still sniffling and limp with heat, and stepped forward. “Since you’ll be sealed in with the rest of us, you might as well take a shift.”

She extended the toddler toward him with a smile as sharp as broken glass.Latchford recoiled so fast he stumbled into a pail of mop water, nearly losing his footing.

“That’s—not how quarantine works,” he sputtered, flinging his handkerchief between them like a warding charm. “I would naturally be—be exempt—official capacity and all?—”

“Contagion doesn’t recognize official status,” a deep voice said from the doorway.

Dr. Redchester—Graham—surveyed the room in a single sweep: the sick children, the scattered medicine packets, Latchford mid-retreat. The weight of his silence did more to quell the chaos than any raised voice could have.

Abigail was aware—far too aware—of her sodden collar, the rasp in her voice, and the stain on her bodice. She pulled the squirming child to her and smoothed her hair back from her face.

He must think I live in a perpetual state of disaster.

Heat rushed to her face—not from embarrassment, but something knotted deeper. He’d seen her battered in an alley. Now he could complete the set: bedraggled, hoarse, and elbow-deep in spring fever.

Mr. Latchford sputtered once, eyed Graham’s physician’s black and the hard set of his mouth, then gathered his papers and self- importance.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he managed in a strangled squeak, “I shall return next week to continue the inspection. I expect to find your books in order, Lady Abigail.” He turned on his heel, almost tripping over a stray mop, and bolted for the door.

The brief silence that followed thrummed in Abigail’s ears, and she found herself uncharacteristically grateful for it. She glanced sideways at Graham, unable to resist a crooked, weary smile.

“Doctor Redchester, I do apologize—had I known you were coming, I should have arranged for a more entertaining spectacle. Perhaps a dancing bear.”