Page 66 of Mail-Order Viscountess

Kate’s vision blurred, but she blinked hard against the moisture. Crying wouldn’t help. Wouldn’t bring the doctor faster or cool Clara’s fever or make the rash disappear.

She needed to keep busy.

She adjusted the ice packs around Clara until they melted to only damp fabric. Mrs. Wang brought another bundle of snow and a cup of tea for Kate that she couldn’t bring herself to drink.

At some point, someone—Rose, maybe, or Mandie—tapped on the door and asked if there was anything they could do. She’d been able to think of nothing, and they said everyone was praying below.

Praying. Kate had been doing little else, though she wasn’t sure God was listening. The words felt hollow in her mind, desperate pleas that seemed to dissolve before they could reach heaven.

Please. Not Clara. Take me, not her.

The rash had spread farther—down Clara’s arms now, angry red patches that seemed to pulse with the fever burning beneath her skin. Her breathing had grown more labored too, each inhale a visible effort that made Kate’s own chest burn.

A sound drifted from outside. Hoofbeats, approaching fast.

Hope surged through her so quickly it almost hurt. She crossed to the window, pushing aside the curtain to peer down at the yard below.

A single rider emerged from the tree line. Kate’s heart leaped⁠—

But no. She knew the set of the shoulders, the dark hair beneath the hat.

Robert. Not the doctor.

He dismounted and handed his reins to someone—James, probably, emerging from the barn. They exchanged words she couldn’t hear, and Robert’s posture went rigid. Even from this distance, she could see the alarm that crossed his features.

A moment later, he strode to the house with a kind of urgent purpose. Had James told him about Clara?

Kate turned back to the bed, to her sister’s flushed face and rasping breaths. Robert’s arrival meant nothing had changed.

They were still waiting. Still hoping.

Still watching Clara slip further away with each passing hour.

The doctor arrived perhaps ten minutes after Robert. Voices sounded downstairs, then boot thuds coming upward. Then Mrs. Wang tapped on the door of Clara’s chamber and opened it.

Dr. Morrison had the weathered look of someone who’d spent decades practicing medicine on the frontier—deep lines carved around his eyes and mouth and a serious focus as he approached the bed.

Thomas stood in the hallway behind him, and she caught his gaze. That look. The support he was trying to offer her…

But he could do nothing. Nothing that would make a difference to Clara’s condition. If there was, she would have already done it.

Bea stepped inside and pulled the door closed, and Kate forced herself to turn and focus on the doctor.

“How long has she had the fever?” Dr. Morrison’s voice was brisk as he set down his black bag and bent over Clara.

“It started yesterday morning.” Kate moved closer, toward Clara’s feet, where she could see but be out of the way. “Just a slight warmth at first. But it spiked this afternoon.”

“And the rash? When did it come?” The doctor’s hands moved over Clara’s neck, pressing as they traveled.

“A few hours ago. It started on her chest but has spread.” She gripped her hands together. “What is it? What’s wrong with her?”

Dr. Morrison didn’t answer immediately. He pulled back the quilts and adjusted Clara’s nightdress to examine the red marks that now covered most of her upper body.

His jaw tightened as he worked—pressing here, listening there with a long cylinder he’d pulled from his bag. His expression remained blank as he examined the splotches, but something in the set of his jaw made her middle twist even tighter.

Finally, he straightened. “It looks like scarlet fever.”

No. Her knees threatened to buckle, but she forced herself to stay upright. “What…what do we do?”