Whirlwind (12 page)

Once he left, Millicent went to the nursery door and peeked in on the baby. After she shut the door, Isabelle took both of her hands and squeezed them. “I know what you’re worried about. What if you fall in love with Arthur, and Mr. Clark marries?”

Before she could ratify or deny that supposition, Isabelle continued on. “Don’t you see, Millie, that that’s not a problem? We’ll be right there in town anyway. You’d still see the little darling. Your heart won’t be broken the way it was when Mr. Eberhardt stole his sweet girls and sent them away.”

“With both of us earning salaries, and Isabelle opening the shop without an outlay other than the sewing machine, we’ll be far better off than if we settled anywhere else.”

The hope in Isabelle’s eyes and the logic behind Frank’s words made it clear how they felt.
They want this—badly. If I don’t, they’ll give it all up. But how selfish would that be of me? I don’t have a single reason not to go along with this.

“Isabelle and I prayed already, but I think that was hasty. We should have waited for you.”

“You’ve prayed and feel this is God’s will?”

“Yes.” Frank motioned to them. “But we’ll pray again, together.”

Sliding her hands from her sister’s hold, Millicent shook her head. “That’s ridiculous. God isn’t like the waves out there, tossed by the wind. He’s unchanging. If you’re assured this is His will, then I’ll agree.” She hastily tacked on, “As long as no one expects me to cook.”

Peals of laughter bubbled out of Isabelle. “Millie, we know better.”

“Good, because I don’t want to murder anyone, and suicide is a sin.” She laughed. “Murder is just as much a sin, but you know what I meant.”

Frank shot to his feet. “I’ll go tell him.”

Isabelle hugged her. “It’ll work out. Just you wait and see, Millie. God is faithful.”

Millicent gave her a squeeze. “As long as we’re together, it doesn’t matter to me where we are.”

They parted. “This is your day off. Go on and enjoy yourself.”

“I can do whatever I’d like, and I want to be with you.”

“How long does Arthur usually nap?”

Millicent glanced at the camelback clock on the wall shelf. “He ought to wake up any minute.” She smiled. “He sings to himself when he wakes up. I can’t understand a word of it, but it’s always the same song.”

“He’s a darling little boy.” Pushing in an errant hairpin, Isabelle tacked on, “One of these days, Frank and I will have children for him to play with.”

“Isabelle! Are you . . .”

“No. Not yet.” She glanced at her tummy with dismay. “I haven’t changed an inch since the day I married Frank.” A faint longing registered in her tone.

“Isabelle, I’m relieved you don’t have a baby to worry about on the voyage.”

“I suppose you have a point. It’s especially hard on the women down in steerage who have babies and toddlers.”

Sing-songy gibberish floated out of the nursery. Both sisters turned to respond.

“He’s mine today.” Isabelle served her a pointed look. “Go read or knit.”

“I’ll copy another dress from one of the magazines I have. There’s a little alcove where the maids and nannies congregate. We all share magazines and books.”

Isabelle entered the nursery and glanced over her shoulder. “So you have fashion books?”

“Yes. Empire cuts are no longer in favor. It’s all skirts and blouses. I’m seeing some differences between French and English styles compared to the American ones. European skirts are gored in the back or have something called an umbrella train. In contrast, Americans still use bustles with some of the styles.”

“Which, I notice, you’re still wearing. Really, Millie, it’s old-fashioned. It’s no more practical to wear while you’re minding a baby than it was for you to struggle with it when you were wedged into steerage. It’s important for us to look stylish. I could probably just take out the bustle and rework the waist so the skirt takes on that umbrella train appearance.”

Millicent laughed. “Whatever the rage is doesn’t matter to me at all. I just don’t want to be tripping over my hem whilst I chase after Arthur. He’s a fast little imp.”

“Me!” Arthur nodded agreement as Isabelle lifted him from the cot.

Millie laughed, stood back, and watched as her sister wiped Arthur’s nose and reached for a fresh nappy.
She’d be a good mother, Lord. Frank would be a fine father, too. Please, Father, bless them with a child.

Counting his blessings, Daniel prepared for bed. All things considered, the day had gone quite well. Though the voyage’s length ought to have been a setback, he’d managed to engage help for his mercantile. Frank Quinsby’s assistance would allow him to make up for the lost time as well as rearrange and restock the merchandise. It stood to reason that his store would benefit from featuring a dressmaker, too.

Best of all, Arthur would keep Miss Fairweather as his nanny. She’d mind Arthur all day, then Daniel would be responsible for his son during the night. Since she’d live with her sister and brother-in-law, there’d be no reason for anyone to look askance at the arrangement.

Daniel reached over, took the list of requirements he’d made for a nanny, and crumpled it. A light-sleeping nanny wouldn’t be necessary. Besides, the considerations he’d enumerated were moot at this point. Miss Millicent Fairweather was a Christian, loving, and good with children. It didn’t matter a whit that she was young and unmarried. Well, it might. Daniel punched his pillow. He didn’t want someone sweeping her away.

I’ll get her to promise me three years. Yes, three. And I’ll offer an attractive bonus for that. By then, Arthur will be getting ready to attend school. Then, if she wants to marry . . .
The thought bothered him. He didn’t want some hayseed farmer or bowlegged cowboy dragging Miss Fairweather off. She was too cultured and delicate to live a life of drudgery.

Irritated with those thoughts, Daniel flopped over and sought a cool spot on his pillow.

“Mr. Clark. Mr. Clark!”

Daniel rolled over, then sat up when he realized he’d awakened to her voice.

The door to his chamber rattled as she rapped on it. “Mr. Clark! Please wake up.”

“Coming.” He slid into his pants and shrugged into the shirt he’d worn last night. The look on Miss Fairweather’s face when he opened the door made his hair stand on end. “What is—”

“Arthur’s sick.”

Nine

I
can’t be sure, but it reminds me of when the Eberhardt girls had the chicken pox. Audrey’s rash looked just like this.” Miss Fairweather ran a tepid washcloth over Arthur’s chest. Just how long she’d been tending his son before summoning him, Daniel couldn’t be certain. Miss Fairweather didn’t seem the sort to cause an uproar over something minor. A glance at the clock said it was seven in the morning.

“There’s no physician aboard the ship.” Daniel paced only a few feet away and back. “The only other possibility—” He didn’t speak the word.

Her head shot up. “No. It can’t be. I’m sure. Remember how he’s been sneezing and his nose got runny? Fiona had those selfsame symptoms the day before she came down with the chicken pox. Before we set sail, did Arthur play with someone who became ill?”

“Not that I know of. His nanny minded him whilst I made the final business arrangements.” He pressed his hand to his son’s forehead. “He’s burning up!”

“Children are like that—their fevers run high.”

“How can you be sure?” Daniel desperately wanted to believe her. “You said you’d only held that one position.”

“Yes, but I allowed Fiona and Audrey to have other children visit. It’s important for them to have little friends. When one of the boys took sick, I distinctly recall Mrs. Witherspoon, the housekeeper, saying such was the way children healed. She likened a fever to a refiner’s fire burning away the dross.”

Steady and gentle, the nanny’s hands continued to cool his son’s sizzling skin with the cloth she’d dip in the washbowl.

Almighty Father, please don’t take my son.
“If it’s not the chicken pox . . .” Daniel gave her a strained look.

“I’ll keep Arthur in the nursery. No one needs to see him. Have you had them?”

“Smallpox? No.”

She shook her head. Small tendrils coiled at her hairline, making her look fragile. “Not that. Chicken pox.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course. Haven’t all children?”

“Dadda!” Arthur reached up with both arms.

“Come here.” Cradling his son to his chest, Daniel felt the heat his tiny body radiated. “Poor boy.”

“I’d best take him, sir.” Miss Fairweather set aside the cloth. “Truly, I don’t think it’s”—her voice dropped to a mere rasp—“smallpox, but if anyone else does, we’ll be quarantined and at their mercy. I’ll keep him out of sight in the nursery.”

She was right. “Go to Nanny.” He pressed a kiss on his son’s brow and relinquished him.

Miss Fairweather was halfway across the parlor when a tap sounded at the door. She rushed the remainder of the way and barely secured Arthur from view before the room steward entered.

“Good morning, sir. Breakfast for the lad and his nanny.” Setting the tray on the table, Mr. Tibbs glanced about the suite.

They’re always out here, ready for breakfast. Does he suspect anything’s amiss?
“Miss Fairweather just took my son back into the nursery.”

“I see. Little Master Arthur’s an early riser—I always deliver his breakfast first.” Taking the dishes from the tray and setting the table, the steward moved with the smooth economy of a man accustomed to performing his job by rote. As he finished, the steward straightened. “With the voyage stretching longer, the menus need to be altered. The cook wants to assure you, however, that there’s still plenty of food.”

Instead of a pair of eggs at each place, there was one apiece. Toast, bacon, and oatmeal completed the trays. “The meal will suffice.” A frown suddenly creased his face. “What about cream?”

“Milk’s in the small pitcher.”

“Tinned milk?”

“Aye, sir. Will there be anything else?”

Just in case the worst happens and we get locked in here
. . .“Yes. Arthur’s teething. A jar of biscuits for him.”

“I noticed the damp washcloth.” Mr. Tibbs emptied the washbasin into a bucket. “My sister used to have her wee ones gnaw on a wet one. Said it helped.”

“By all means, then bring in several.” A terrible thought rushed through Daniel’s mind. “What about fresh water? With the voyage extended as it is . . .”

“Steerage uses sea water for bathing and such. Our drinking water supply is more than sufficient. I’ll see to it that your son has plenty of biscuits. Will there be anything else, sir?”

The nursery door opened and shut. The very picture of composure, Miss Fairweather folded her hands at her waist. It took a moment for Daniel to realize what was different. She’d dressed in her black gown and white apron. He’d not noticed she’d been in her robe with her hair streaming down when she fetched him. Now, though, she gave the impression of the quintessential, unruffled governess. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, Mr. Clark, but since your son is teething, willow bark can soothe the discomfort. If Mr. Tibbs brings it, I’ll brew a little as needed.”

Willow bark for fever. Excellent thinking.

“Poor lad. All you need do is summon me. I’ll brew some any time he requires some; that’s what I’m here for.”

“Then a pot, Mr. Tibbs.” Daniel nodded.

“Bitter as it can taste, could I trouble you to bring along some honey or a glass of apple cider?” Miss Fairweather smoothed back a tendril of hair that caressed her cheek. “The tea won’t do a bit of good if I can’t coax Arthur to drink it.”

“Yes, miss. Right away.”

Once he left, Daniel murmured, “I’m going to the library to see if I can locate a medical text. Is there anything else you need?”

She looked up at him, her eyes steady even though tension strained her features. The color had deepened—becoming far more gray than green, as if to mirror the storm inside her. “Nothing I can think of. I wish we could get word to Isabelle and Frank so they could pray.”

“It would set off a panic. We’re keeping this between us.”

She nodded in agreement.

“Eat. I’ll go fetch a book.”

“Mr. Clark . . .” He turned to look at her. Compassion and worry mingled in her features. “I’ll be praying.”

“Do.”

Five minutes later, his arms full of books, Daniel was back 127 at the suite. “How is he?”

Miss Fairweather was coaxing Arthur to sip something. “Fussy and feverish. Did you find a book?”

“I did.” He set the others off to the side and carried the medical reference to the table. Scanning the index, he found chicken pox and read the pages. “It says here cold-like symptoms, backache, and such occur prior to the onset of a fever and rash.”

“That’s what happened to Arthur.” The little boy fretted, so she slipped off her silver bracelet. “Here, Poppet. Pretty.”

“Preeee.” He gnawed on it.

“According to this, the time of year is right.” He cast a grim look at his son. “Supposedly chicken pox is a springtime malady, but so are smallpox, I recall.”

“The girls both contracted the chicken pox right at Eastertide.”

“Good. Good.” Daniel caught himself. “Not that the girls were ill—that you know they had chicken pox at this time of year.”

Miss Fairweather slid the damp cloth over Arthur’s dark curls, then coaxed him to take another sip.

Though he’d rather shut the book, Daniel forced himself to look up smallpox. His mouth went dry. “The other . . . before the rash the patient seems to take a chill, have a runny nose, sneezing, and such. The fever and rash follow.”

Miss Fairweather bit her lip. Suddenly, she looked at him. “With measles, the rash starts differently than other maladies. Where does it say the spots are for . . . it?”

“Face, arms, and legs primarily. Especially the palms and soles. With chicken pox, it’s mostly on the trunk.” He shoved aside the book and grabbed for his son.

“They’re on his chest and back.” Miss Fairweather’s voice lilted with delight. “See? It’s merely chicken pox. I’m sure of it.”

Carefully checking every inch of his son’s roasting little body, Daniel finally cradled Arthur to his chest. Closing his eyes, he breathed, “Thank you, Lord.”