She starts to rise but doesn’t seem to have enough energy for it. She sags back down to her knees, her hand on her belly. “I should fetch them. The Robichauds are very kind, but they don’t want to be bothered.”

“I’m sure it’s no bother.”

“You know, I’m not even sure they’re Christian. Mrs. Robichaud says they never put much stock in religion. Can you imagine?”

“How about I check on them? In the meantime, if you toss some oats in that water, they ought to be ready enough before we load up again. Mr. Joyner might like something plain.” My daddy always liked plain food best when he was feeling sick.

“That’s an excellent idea. I’ll get started on it.”

I turn to go after the children, but Mrs. Joyner calls out. “Mr. McCauley?”

I stop. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I don’t mean to drive you away.”

“We’re fine, ma’am.”

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly.”

Nothing out here is really fine or perfect. We just have to do the best we can.

Mrs. Robichaud sees me coming and waves.

She’s seated on a trunk, sipping tea, wearing a light yellow calico with lace trim. She was smart to bring a warm-weather dress. “It feels already like a summer of Canada,” she says. “I don’t know what it is I am to do when it makes hot.”

“When it gets hot.”

“‘When it gets hot,’” she intones.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I say. “Thank you for watching Andrew and Olive.” I don’t see them anywhere. Maybe they’re playing nearby.

She flips her hand as if it’s nothing. “How are Mr. and Mrs. Joyner?”

“They’ll be fine,” I say. I sound just like Mama, assuring everyone about Daddy. “It will pass.”

“Poor Mrs. Joyner,” she says. “Her and Mrs. Lowrey.”

“What’s that?” I can’t imagine what Mrs. Joyner and the preacher’s wife have in common. Maybe the reverend is sick too. Then I remember that Mrs. Lowrey is hugely pregnant.

“Ah,” I say, recalling how often I’ve seen Mrs. Joyner with a hand on her belly. No wonder she’s so tired and troubled.

Mrs. Robichaud smiles sadly. “She has much to worry herself, yes? It is to be very bad if she gets sick.”

“I’ll do what I can to help.”

“I know. I gave the enfants some food for lunch,” she says. “I hope that is good.”

“Very good,” I say. “I’m sure the Joyner children were pleased.”

“My own children are not feeling so well. I think they have, I don’t know the word, la rougeole.”

I have no idea what she means, but her face is grave. “Sorry to hear that.”

“I hope Andy and Olive do not catch it. I sent them back to their mother a few minutes ago, for to be safe.”