“She was not showing signs of her illness when Nicolette put her to bed before I left for the dance,” Eleanor told the doctor. “That was earlier this evening, around sundown.” It had been almost seven hours ago. Why hadn’t Nicolette or William called for them when it was clear the baby was sick?
Arran moved close to Eleanor’s side, his steady presence giving her a bit of confidence and hope. He did not touch her, but his nearness, and his concern, were so powerful, it almost felt as if he nestled her into his embrace.
William stood on the other side of the doctor, his brow tight and his gaze locked on his daughter’s face. He did not move or ask any questions.
After several minutes, the doctor stood and held the baby out, looking at William and then Eleanor.
When William did not move to take her, Eleanor went to the doctor’s side and gathered the baby into her arms, snuggling her close.
“The child has croup,” he said. “She is very young to be this sick. I will try to bleed her and restore her humors, and you will need to limit her food, so you dinna feed her fever.”
Eleanor lifted the baby higher to kiss her warm cheek, not wanting to think about starving her, or bleeding her small body.
“Do what you must,” William said, his voice devoid of emotion.
“When will you bleed her?” Eleanor asked.
“I think it best if I do it now.” He went to the table where he had laid a medicine chest upon entering. When he opened it, he pulled out a fleam, which had several different sizes of blades to make the incision for bleeding.
Eleanor turned her gaze from the instrument and pressed her lips together. She couldn’t stop thinking about Arran’s words earlier when he told her about all the death and suffering amongthe colonists. Would Miriam be the first of many losses in Pembina?
Tears gathered in her eyes as she fought the panic rising in her heart.
Arran came close to her and put his hand on her shoulder. “Dinna fash. God is with her. We will do what we can and pray that God does the rest.” The gentle pressure of his hand, and the soft reassurance of his tender words, made tears fall down her cheeks.
She didn’t know what she would do if she lost Miriam.
Chapter Eight
Arran had quickly come to fear the silence more than the barking cough or the heart-rending cries from little Miriam. When there was no sound coming from the room the baby shared with Eleanor and Nicolette, Arran’s neck and back became tense and his breathing grew shallow, trying to hear some sort of life from the wee bairn.
He and Eleanor had hardly spoken in the three days since the dance, but there was no need for words to know what she was thinking and feeling. He saw it in the lines around her mouth, in the sleepless circles under her eyes, and the rumpled appearance of her clothing. She was working night and day to keep the baby alive.
On the fourth afternoon, Arran sat at the desk in Semple’s empty room, writing in the journal where Lord Selkirk had asked him to record the daily activities of the colony. The house had grown silent—too silent—and he stopped the scribbling of his pen to lift his head and listen.
The house creaked and the wind rattled against the windows, but there were no other sounds to mark the existence of life. Setting his pen in the inkwell, he stood and walked into the common room, his ears intent on the closed door of Eleanor’s bedroom.
For a heartbeat, he waited, and then the door slowly opened. Eleanor appeared, just as exhausted as before. When she noticed him, she offered a small, sad smile, closing the door quietly behind her. “Miriam is finally asleep.”
Arran didn’t move. He appreciated these unexpected moments when he and Eleanor had a few minutes alone. West had gone to the main hall earlier that day to perform two separate marriages between company men and their Indian wives. The minister had found a reason to leave the house every day since Miriam became sick, and he stayed away until suppertime. His lack of interest in his daughter was beginning to wear on Arran’s patience and goodwill. The man left the entire care and responsibility of his daughter to Eleanor, though she had no obligation to the child or to him.
Eleanor went to the fireplace and picked up the poker. She started to adjust the wood to coax the flame to life, but a spark jumped out at her. She swatted at the ember on her skirt.
“Here.” He moved to her side and took the poker from her hands. “Sit,” he said, indicating a chair nearby. “Dinna concern yourself over the fire.”
She didn’t protest but lowered herself into the seat. Her hair, which was usually in its proper place, was drooping, with tendrils hanging in her face. He’d never seen her so out of sorts, or worried.
Arran put several more logs on the fire and moved the teapot over the flames to warm its contents. “When was the last time you ate?” he asked gently.
Eleanor stared into the flames, as if she didn’t hear him. “Fiona was here.” Her mouth turned down at the corners. “Two of her children are also ill.”
“Aye.” He had heard rumors that several of the children in the settlement had taken ill. He’d just recorded it in the daily journal.
“Miriam wouldn’t eat.” Eleanor’s words were slow and lackluster. “She’s listless and does not rouse when I pick her up.”
“What does Dr. Stewart advise?” The doctor had returned and bled Miriam for a second time just that morning. His mouth had been set in a grim line when he left.
Eleanor bit her bottom lip and shook her head. Her face pinched and tears began to course down her cheeks. “He says her breathing has worsened and there’s nothing more we can do.” She dropped her face into her hands as the sobs shook her body.
