Page 16

A knock startled Sara from a light sleep.

She jumped up from her pallet and rushed to the door before the sound could wake Granny.

Since the wave of illness hit Irish Town, she slept in her clothes, her sack of supplies at her side.

Her services were in demand, probably because she wasn’t afraid to approach the sick.

She was one of the few who had nothing to lose.

Henry stood on the doorstep. “Been sent to fetch you. Got the sickness and they need a nurse.”

Sara stared at Henry, nonplussed. She hadn’t thought scarlatina had reached the other parts of town. Even if it had, she wouldn’t be welcome at Cooper’s Inn. “I don’t understand—”

“Best get going,” Henry urged. “Powerful sick, she is.”

“But I’m needed here.” Mrs. Cooper could hire a doctor. Why would she trust her daughter to Sara’s nursing?

“C’mon, Sara.” Henry tugged her arm. “Before it’s too late.”

“Too late?” Her hesitation wavered. The girl must be very ill.

Molly bustled out from the back room to add her voice to the discussion. She craned her neck to see over Sara’s shoulder. “Sent a carriage? No doubt they’ll pay right well for a nurse.”

There was no way to ignore the summons now that Molly had sniffed out the source of next month’s rent. Swallowing her reluctance, Sara followed Henry outside. He helped her into the carriage, jumped up with the coachman, and they were off.

By the time they’d reached King Street, Sara was no closer to understanding the strange request. Then the carriage turned right onto a sleepy side street. Sara stuck her head out of the window.

“Why are we turning here, Henry? The inn is two blocks on.”

Henry looked down at her. “Brought you straight to Mr. Kinney’s house, just like he said.”

“Mr. Kinney?” Sara collapsed back against the worn leather seat, thinking over her conversation with Henry. He’d never actually said Cooper’s Inn. Still, James Kinney seemed even less likely to summon her than Mrs. Cooper.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of a tasteful rowhouse with a small square of green in front. Henry jumped down and opened her door.

Sara didn’t budge. “You’re sure it was Mr. Kinney?”

“Law, Sara, used to think you was a sharp one. Of course, I’m sure. She’s in an awful bad way, I heard.”

Evie. He must be talking about Evie. Sara sat bolt upright, her throat tightening at the thought. “Evie’s sick?”

Henry held the door and motioned her to descend. “Been asking for you day and night.”

Sara hurried up the walk, her reluctance to see James Kinney again vanishing in the face of her worry for Evie. No one answered her knock, but the faint glow in an upstairs window assured her the house wasn’t yet to bed. She knocked again, louder this time, and heard a heavy tread on the stairs.

The door opened and Sara found herself face-to-face with James Kinney. In shirtsleeves, unshaven, with lines of exhaustion around his eyes, he was hardly recognizable as the same man who’d dismissed her from his life just a week ago. She took an unconscious step back at the torment in his eyes.

“You came. Thank God.” His voice was hoarse. “Please, come in.”

She quickened her pace to follow him up the stairs. “What happened?”

“She took ill a few days ago.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Doctor says it’s scarlatina.”

Sara stopped midstep and grasped the banister, picturing the ravages of the illness on Evie’s small form. She wasn’t strong enough for this. What if—

“Sara?” James looked over his shoulder.

“Yes.” She inhaled, resuming her steps. “Scarlatina is everywhere in Irish Town.”

He stopped at the first door, his hand on the knob. “I figured that must be where she picked it up.” He didn’t look at her, but she felt the weight of blame. “Henry said you’ve nursed the ill with much success. If there’s anything you can do—” His voice broke.

In the face of his distress, she forgot the words he’d spoken the last time they met and her determination to put this family out of her mind. “I...” Her voice cracked. “I’ll do everything I know how.”

He nodded once and reached for a doorknob. He paused, straightening his shoulders as though he were about to face an opponent.

The sour smell of sickness pervaded Evie’s room. A lamp burned low on a table by the bed, illuminating her small form. She was pale, her eyes closed. Sara stood in the doorway, her throat swelling with emotion.

At the bedside, James lifted Evie’s head and held a cup to her dry, cracked lips. She sealed her mouth and turned away.

Sara moved to the other side of the bed and picked up Evie’s hand. “Evie. It’s Sara. You must have a drink. Open up, now.” She tried to infuse all of Granny’s calm confidence into her voice.

Evie stilled, then opened her mouth a fraction, just enough for a trickle of water to enter. Her throat worked as she swallowed. James lowered her back to the pillow.

“Amazing.”

Sara lifted her eyes from Evie’s pale face to find him watching her.

“I’ve been trying to get her to drink all day.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “She doesn’t seem to hear me. I can’t do anything to help her.” He looked down at his fists, the knuckles white with tension.

She felt a strange impulse to squeeze his clenched hands and assure him Evie would be fine, but she couldn’t promise anything of the kind. “She’ll need fluids, and lots of them, to recover.” Sara forced a calm cheer into her voice that she was far from feeling. “Did the doctor leave anything?”

James waved to a bottle on the bedside table. “He left laudanum, but I can’t get it down her.” He turned to her, his eyes wide with hope. “Maybe you can get her to take it.”

“I can try.” She reached out and felt Evie’s forehead. Hot. She grasped her wrist and found the pulse faint and uneven. “What she needs is willow bark tea.” She reached to remove the sack she’d slung over her shoulder. “I brought some.”

Sara expected him to argue with her and insist on the doctor’s remedies. Instead, he nodded. “I’ll boil water.”

She set to work, mechanically tending Evie as she had a score of other children, mixing Granny’s special blend of herbs and coaxing the tea down Evie’s throat, drop by painstaking drop.

James stayed by her side, lifting Evie as needed and watching the slow progress with barely restrained fear.

After an hour he straightened and released a slow breath.

“She looks better.” James leaned over the bed, resting the back of his hand against Evie’s forehead. “I think the fever’s down. That tea did the trick.”

Sara stilled, the cup in her hands suspended over the bed. She remembered the ebb of hope and despair, how she’d searched for the smallest sign of improvement to convince herself Colin would get well.

“Tell me the truth,” he said suddenly, his voice harsh in the quiet room.

Sara put the cup and spoon down on the bedside table with precision, her fingers lingering on the nightstand.

“You’ve seen this before,” he said. “You must have a sense of her progress. If she’s going to—”

Sara rested her hand on Evie’s forehead, debating what to say.

She smoothed back the damp strands of hair, then motioned James to follow her to the hall.

He joined her, standing so close Sara could see his bloodshot eyes and the deep groves of worry across his brow.

If only she had words to comfort him. But she didn’t. She only had the truth.

“It’s serious,” Sara said. “The crisis will be tonight if I’m not mistaken.”

“The crisis?”

“The turning point. Her fever might break, and she’ll recover. Or—”

“Don’t say it.” For a moment, his eyes blazed, and she took a step back at the ferocity of his anger. It left him as quickly as it came. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “It’s just... I can’t lose her.”

His eyes closed for a moment, his dark lashes sweeping down over the shadows of his unshaven face. How could days without sleep make him more handsome? Without thinking, Sara reached up, her fingers hovering inches from his rough cheek. She understood his agony.

A muffled cry from inside the room had them jumping apart and flying to Evie’s side. Heat emanated from her fevered body. The tea wasn’t working fast enough.

“We need to get her temperature down.” Sara’s mind switched to the lessons she’d learned at Granny’s side. “Cold water.”

“There’s a block of ice in the cellar.”

She’d forgotten about the luxury of ice at any time of year. “Yes, that would help.”

James sprang into action, returning with a bowl of ice chips.

They worked steadily, sponging her body, and slipping tiny shards of ice into her mouth.

Finally, she seemed cooler. The restless movement of her arms and legs stilled and she seemed closer to natural sleep.

Sara sank to her chair, her arms quivering with exhaustion.

James sat across from her, holding Evie’s hand, eyes closed. His lips moved, and although she couldn’t hear his words, she knew he was praying. There’d been a time when she’d begged God for Colin’s life, expecting an answer. She hoped James Kinney wasn’t destined for the same disappointment.

He opened his eyes and caught her staring. Flushing, he looked away. “We are told to cry to the Lord in trouble,” he murmured.

She recognized the psalm. One of Granny’s favorites. “Well, it can’t hurt.”

“You think prayer ineffective?” There was no censure in his voice, only curiosity, and it prompted her to answer more openly than she might otherwise have done.

“In my experience, it has been.”

James was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I’ve long sensed you are, like me, not unacquainted with sorrow.”

“My husband.” Sara hadn’t intended to tell him more, but the openness of his expression lowered her guard and loosened her tongue.

James looked up, surprised. “You were married?”

“Yes.” Sara folded the cloth in her hand into a tiny square. “He died from cholera. Back in ’30.”