Nathaniel watched her.
Not with triumph.
With something quieter.
Respect.
That frightened Clara more than pity.
By sunset, Samuel’s fever had climbed.
Doctor Mills came.
Listened.
Frowned.
“Lung congestion.”
Nathaniel stood beside the bed.
“Pneumonia?”
“Maybe.”
The word still frightened people.
Too many children died after a cough became something worse.
Clara stood near the stove.
Samuel’s small body looked even smaller beneath the quilt.
Ruth sat beside him.
Nathaniel asked:
“What do we do?”
“Warm room.”
“Fluids.”
“Broth.”
“I can leave powders.”
“Will they help?”
Doctor Mills hesitated.
“Maybe.”
Clara disliked maybe medicine.
The doctor left.
Nathaniel sat heavily.
For the first time since arriving, he looked frightened.
Not tired.
Not burdened.
Afraid.
Clara recognized it.
The terror of loving somebody whose body had become uncertain.
She brought him coffee.
He took it.
“Thank you.”
“You should eat.”
“Not hungry.”
“Do it anyway.”
He looked at her.
“You're bossy.”
“So I've been told.”
“You haven't agreed to anything.”
“I don't need marriage vows to know you need supper.”
He almost smiled.
Ruth did not.
She looked toward Clara.