“You’re feverish, too, just like Jeremiah.” She swept around to the other side of the bed to find that Mr. Wiley was also hot with fever. She stepped back and wrung her hands. What was she to do? She needed to get home to tend to Jeremiah, but his parents clearly needed help.
She needed a second pair of hands. Clara couldn’t come—Deirdre wouldn’t risk her falling ill with her baby. Abigail had to tend to her laundry customers. Perhaps someone who lived at the hotel . . .
“Mrs. McFarland,” she whispered. She’d only met the hotel manager’s wife a couple of times, but the way the woman mothered the girls who worked in the restaurant and the hotel had created an immediate liking for her in Deirdre’s heart.
“I’ll fetch you some cold water,” Deirdre said aloud, although she wasn’t certain whether either of the Wileys heard her. “And I’ll find someone to look after you. Jeremiah is sick too, and I must get back to him.”
She hurried out of the room and back down the stairs, where she asked after Mrs. McFarland at the front desk. It wasn’t long before the woman walked into the lobby, and to Deirdre’s everlasting relief, she agreed to look after the Wileys.
“They’re my husband’s parents,” Deirdre told her as they carried a pail of water and some clean cloths upstairs. “I would look after them myself, but he’s also sick with a fever.”
“Then you must get back to him.” Mrs. McFarland took the water from her at the top of the stairs. “Go on. I’ll send word around to the boardinghouse if anything changes here.”
“Thank you,” Deirdre said. “Thank you so much.”
Satisfied that the Wileys were in good hands, Deirdre hurried back down the hill toward the depot.
“Miss Hannan—I mean, Mrs. Wiley!” A young boy of about fourteen jogged toward her. Deirdre recognized him as Christopher Rennet. He worked for Mr. Thomason at the depot, helping mostly with the mail and delivering telegrams.
He waved a small sheet of paper at her now, and Deirdre, wondering who would send her a telegram, read it the second he handed it to her.
Deirdre. Returning with good news. Arriving Thursday. Liam.
Liam. Deirdre shut her eyes, wondering how she’d managed to forget all about his potential reaction to her sudden marriage.
“Is everything all right?” Christopher asked.
Deirdre opened her eyes and quickly folded the telegram. “Yes, Christopher. Thank you for this.” She patted the pocket of her skirt. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any coins with me.”
“It’s fine, ma’am. I only had to run a few feet from the depot to find you.” He gestured at the nearby building.
“I suppose so.” She smiled at the boy. He was a hard worker, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he one day took over Mr. Thomason’s entire operation when the older man decided to step down. “Could you do me a favor, though?”
He nodded.
“Will you take a message to Mr. Carlisle at the livery? Tell him Mr. Wiley is very ill and won’t be in to work today. I’m certain Mr. Carlisle will give you something for your trouble.”
“I will. Thank you, ma’am.” He tugged at the brim of his too-large hat and took off toward the livery.
Deirdre shoved the telegram into her dress pocket. She couldn’t think about Liam right now, not when she had more worrisome problems at hand.
“He’s doing just fine,” Miss Darby said the second she spotted Deirdre in the boardinghouse. “There’s been no change.”
“I wish that fever would break. Both his parents have it now too, up at the hotel.”
Miss Darby shook her head in sympathy. “It must be making its way around town. I have to get on with my work. You let me know if you need anything. Or if you begin to feel ill yourself.”
Deirdre took up residence on the chair at Jeremiah’s bedside again. The hours passed as she changed the cloth on his head, adjusted the bedcovers, and talked to him about any and everything she could think of. At least she didn’t feel ill herself, and for that she was fervently grateful.
Miss Darby arrived with food at noon, and then again after supper had been served in the dining room. She also brought a message from Clara, asking if Deirdre needed anything, and another from Mrs. McFarland, who assured her that while Jeremiah’s parents were still sick, they had not grown any worse.
When she grew too tired to stay in the chair, Deirdre slipped onto the bed beside Jeremiah again. She laid her hand on his chest, the heat of his body instantly warming her.
“You must begin feeling better,” she whispered. “You and your parents.”
He said nothing back, of course, and Deirdre sighed. Darkness and silence settled around her. All she could hear was Jeremiah’s breathing, blessedly steady and even.
“You’re getting better,” she said to him as his heart beat beneath her hand. “You must be, do you hear me? Your fever will break, and you’ll be angry at all the time you lost away from the livery.” Her attempt at humor felt hollow, even to her own ears.
