Page 59 of Tremaine's True Love
“You could come with me,” Nita said, taking out her habit. “At some point you will be the lady of a household, and you might want to know basic care for the ill and injured.”
Kirsten’s honesty about her own shortcomings should not have surprised Nita—Kirsten was relentlessly honest—but Nita had made the suggestion as a dare. Sisters who interrupted dreams of Mr. St. Michael’s kisses were not entitled to a cordial reception.
“Very well,” Kirsten said, slogging out of the bed. “I had the boot boy alert the stable that you’ll need Atlas. I can go along with you and spare myself Della’s attempts to flirt with Mr. St. Michael at breakfast.”
Kirsten flounced out, muttering about daft sisters and tiresome winter weather, and Nita used the reprieve to send up a prayer. Addy’s last child had not lived past the first few weeks. The weather was miserable, and the mother fond of gin. Mary would not have come at such an hour for anything less than an emergency.
Nita did not want to go, did not want to find another small, lifeless body cradled in Addy’s thin arms, did not want to face the other children, solemn beyond their years and more afraid than any child should be.
Nita did not want to go, but she must go, as always.
By the time Nita and Kirsten arrived at the cottage, the sun had made a grudging appearance just above the horizon, though a low overcast meant a narrow slice of dawn illumination soon disappeared as the sun rose into the clouds.
“How do you do this?” Kirsten asked as they clomped onto the porch. “These people can’t pay you, they’re all likely to die of consumption anyway, and you risk your own health every time you heed their summons.”
The woodpile was diminished, and from inside the cottage, Nita heard not a sound. Not a crying baby, which would have been the case if colic were the problem, not the children stirring about.
Nothing.
Nita stood facing the door when what she wanted to do was leap onto her horse and never return.
“When Papa was dying,” Nita said, “should I have left him alone in his bed for weeks, no one but the servants to change his linens and cajole him into taking some beef tea? He was not long for the world. Nothing I did changed that, nor would he have wanted me to alter matters if I could. Should I have turned my back on him? Addy has no one, these children have no one.”
“I’m sorry,” Kirsten said, pacing away from the door. “I haven’t your moral fortitude, Nita. Sometimes I wonder if I have a single virtue worthy of note. Maybe you’d best leave me out here to freeze.”
Honesty was a virtue, and Kirsten had that in abundance.
“You’re with me now,” Nita said, “and you remembered to raid the larder too.” While Nita had brought only her herbs and medicinals, which wouldn’t feed hungry children, nor had she brought Mr. St. Michael’s gift of coin. “Breathe through your mouth for the first few minutes, and you’ll manage.”
This, oddly, provoked Kirsten to smiling. “Onward, dear Sister. Sooner begun is sooner done.”
Nita knocked softly and opened the door, the familiar stench of soiled nappies, boiled cabbage, and unwashed bodies hitting her harder than usual.
Mr. St. Michael had told her to take a soaking bath this morning, and she’d intended to use Kirsten’s soap on every inch of her skin and her hair too.
“Addy, what’s amiss?” Nita asked.
Addy sat before the hearth, where a meager fire smoldered. The boys were nowhere to be seen, probably tucked up in the sleeping alcove trying to stay warm, while the baby was cradled against Addy’s shoulder.
“She’s got the croup,” Addy said, despair in every syllable. “Poor wee girl has about coughed herself to death.”
Two impressions registered, one positive, one ominous: Addy was sober, and the baby was wheezing with each inhalation. The wheezing was a weak rattle, barely audible.
“How long has she been like this?” Nita asked, setting down her bag and unfastening her cloak.
“Since right after you left yesterday. I didn’t want to bother you. She worsened in the night.”
When Nita might have howled with frustration—what mattered bothering when dying was the alternative?
Kirsten touched her arm. “What can I do?”
If Mr. St. Michael were with her, Nita would have him chopping a batch of kindling, because a roaring fire was necessary and sooner rather than later.
“Bring in the driest of the firewood, then we’ll need water. The cistern is out back, though you’ll have to break the ice. When that’s done, the children need breakfast.”
Somebody should do another batch of laundry, sweep out the ashes spilling from the hearth, start a pot of soup, and otherwise set the place to rights.
“Has the baby taken any sustenance?” Nita asked.
