“Think about my offer, Arthur,” the old woman called after him, but he merely waved over his shoulder as the door shut behind them.
vi. In which Arthur makes a decision, which he may well come to regret
Charlotte’s pain and exhaustion persisted. Arthur did what he could: brewed tea, brought heating pads and cold compresses by turn, sent the children outside to play and take care of the chickens and goat so the house would be quiet. He washed the bedclothes and hung them on the line, fed the children lunch, and even, when the time came, attempted to cook supper. The fish was overdone, the vegetables underdone, but Charlotte’s migraine had never gone away and she couldn’t stomach more than crackers anyway. Arthur ate with the children, poking at his fish so moodily that, had one of the children been doing it, he would’ve had the urge to suggest they not play with their food.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Agnes’s proposition. It was so much money. The adventure he’d always wanted.
But how could he leave Charlotte for so long, without anyone to look after her? How could he leave the children for so long? He’d never been apart from them a single night their entire lives.
He could ask one of the villagers to look in on the family, but such a request would likely come to naught. Not onlybecause it was him asking, but because the villagers thought Charlotte, as a healer, ought to be able to heal herself and, more importantly, believed pain and exhaustion ought to be pushed past, not coddled.
Agnes might have agreed to it normally—all right, she might’ve sent a servant, normally—but he doubted she’d leave her cousin alone sick for so much as half an hour, and her servants were gone. Maybe one of the nuns would do it, though they rarely left the convent. The village school was their only connection to the outside world, and even that required their pupils to go into the convent.
Perhaps, instead of checking in, Agnes would let Charlotte and the children stay with her. Assuming Charlotte agreed to such an arrangement.
Jonas stole a sideways glance at him. “Are you okay, Uncle Arthur?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Oh, I’m fine, duck. Just thinking. Check on Mother for me, won’t you?”
Jonas obliged. Sasha was bribed into helping clean up, with a promise she could have three of yesterday’s biscuits when she was done. With biscuits on the line, she whirled through the kitchen so quickly Arthur feared she might break rather than clean the dishes, but she was so enthusiastic that he couldn’t bring himself to tell her to slow down.
Charlotte was still in her armchair when Arthur put the children to bed. As usual, Sasha tried to stall. But when Arthur turned to a kissing scene in his favorite novel and started reading it with relish, she decided bedtime was the lesser of two evils.
Pleased, Arthur filed “read kissing scene dramatically” away as a future solution to bedtime avoidance and went to check on his sister. Her head lolled onto her shoulder; she was asleep, for which Arthur was grateful. Half the time, when she sat downor went to her room for a nap, she failed to fall asleep, no matter how exhausted, and arose groggy and resentful.
He built up the fire in the grate, shook out the blanket on the settee, draped it over Charlotte, and tucked her in. To his dismay, her eyes cracked open before he had finished.
“What time is it?” she mumbled.
“Half nine.”
“Are the children in bed?”
“Yes,” Arthur said with a smile. “Sasha didn’t want me to read about kissing, so she went to sleep.”
Charlotte let out a soft huff of laughter, straightening in her chair. The bruises under her eyes, ever present, didn’t seem as dark as they’d been earlier, though it was difficult to tell in the firelight.
Her laughter faded. “I lost the whole day. I hate it when I lose a whole day.”
“You did manage Mass this morning. And taking care of Mrs. Livingston’s cousin.”
Her eyes flickered toward him and away. She sighed, rubbing her forehead.
“Yes, I took care of her... cousin, for all the good it did. The sickness—I can’t do anything about it, Arthur. I can hardly treat the symptoms.”
“I’m sure you do the best you can,” Arthur said, but Charlotte shook her head.
“My best isn’t good enough anymore. I can’t help anyone.”
“That’s not true. Thomas Young would be out of work if you hadn’t saved his arm after that accident at the cannery. Ada Brown would’ve died in childbirth if not for you, and probably the baby, too. I don’t think her husband would say you can’t help anyone.”
Charlotte twisted her fingers together in her lap. “I couldn’thelp Gracie Buchanan this morning. I haven’t been able to help anyone with wood sickness, and more cases each year.”
“Lottie,” Arthur said softly, because he knew what was coming, but too late.
“I couldn’t save Mam.” Her fingers clenched so hard her knuckles whitened. “I couldn’t save John.”
Arthur knelt beside her, untangled her hands. Her eyes were red rimmed and glassy.
