Murray Brunt was a big man, his feet reaching to the end of the bed. He lay there writhing, head rolling from side to side. Sweat sheened his brow.
“How long has he been like this?” Essie asked.
“It started yesterday.”
“Why did you not get someone to come and look at him? There is Mrs. Amon in the village now, who knows about healing.”
Beth looked at the hands she was wringing.
“Because the doctor is not here, and he would not see anyone else. Namely, a woman or a Sinclair?” Essie guessed.
“Y-You have not been back in Crunston Cliff long,” Beth whispered.
Murray Brunt had no idea they were there; if he had, he would not have allowed them into his house. The man was a thug and a bully, and he abused his wife terribly.
His eyes were glazed, head thrashing, body a furnace. Essie opened the neck of his nightshirt, and they both saw the rash.
Dorrie felt a chill sweep through her. She hoped she was wrong, and yet was sure she knew exactly what that rash was.
“Do you have honey in the house, Beth?”
The woman shook her head.
“Vinegar?”
She nodded.
“Dampen a cloth and put some vinegar on it and apply it to your husband’s throat where it’s red and swollen. I shall return with something for him after I have collected my things,” Essie said.
They left the house, and Dorrie hauled in a deep breath when they were in the fresh air.
“Essie, is that scarlet fever?” Dorrie said.
Her sister grabbed both of her hands. “I can’t be sure yet, but it looks similar to what you had when you were a babe, Dorrie. Your rash looked like that. At the time, it was sweeping through Crunston Cliff, but as the rest of our family were away from Oaks Knoll, we managed to avoid the worst of it.”
“Dear Lord.” Dorrie looked around them. “It has terrible consequences for some children, doesn’t it?”
“It does, but until we are absolutely sure we need to—”
“Miss Essex!”
“What is it, Miss Hill?” They hurried to where the woman stood at her gate. But Dorrie knew exactly why she wanted to speak with them.
“My Ely is sick, Miss Essex.” The woman was wringing her hands. “I’ve tried everything, but naught is helping him.”
They went inside and found the young boy lying on a cot. Essie checked his symptoms; they were similar to Murray Brunt’s.
“Poke out your tongue, Ely,” Essie instructed.
It was red and lumpy.
“Rest now, and I’ll fetch something to make you easier,” Essie said, bending to speak with the boy. “If you have honey, Miss Hill, a little on the rash at his throat, and some in his month to soothe the soreness.”
The woman nodded.
“I will return with something more for him soon.” Essie gave the mother a reassuring smile, and Dorrie did the same, even though inside she was frozen with fear.
They were called in to a further two houses. One woman, and two children.
