A Place Called Bliss by Ruth Glover Page A

Sophia touched her forehead, she found it startlingly hot, and she drew her hand back in alarm. Her eyes, frightened and questioning, turned to Kezzie.
    “What’s the matter with her?” she whispered.
    “I dinna know, Mum. She didn’t sleep well, first off, so I held her most of the night. She’s only got so feverish this last couple of hours.”
    “Is she eating?”
    “Keeps turnin’ her head away from the bottle, Mrs. Hugh. Takes a sip or two and then throws up.”
    “Spits up, you mean?”
    “No, it’s more of a vomit, I’d say. I think we better get a doctor, Mrs. Hugh.” And Kezzie’s lips trembled with an unusual display of concern that served to frighten Sophia most of all.
    “Tessie,” Sophia said, turning to the girl who had followed her up the stairs and into the nursery, “go tell Mr. Galloway to send for a doctor. He’ll know one, I’m sure.”
    Tessie ran to do her mistress’s bidding. As Sophia watched, the small body jerked spasmodically, and Margaret woke with a wail. Kezzie reached for her, but Sophia was quicker.
    “Oh, my darling,” she crooned, lifting the babe and laying its hot cheek against her cool one. Almost immediately there was a convulsive move of the small body, and a dark, wet stain spread itself foully through the child’s wrappings and ran onto Sophia’s garments.
    Horrified, Sophia’s eyes flew to Kezzie, who reached for Margaret and hurried her toward a padded tabletop in the corner of the room.
    Holding her stained gown pinched out away from her body, Sophia, momentarily, seemed unsure what was happening or what to do.
    “Go change, Mrs. Hugh,” Kezzie said practically.
    “Has she been doing this . . . this . . . bowel thing, before now?”
    “Nae, Mum.” Kezzie was filling a china basin with water, unwrapping the child, and preparing to draw the soiled clothing out and away from her.
    With one anguished glance toward the baby, Sophia turned toward her own room and a hasty discarding of the smeared morning gown. Washing herself thoroughly, still it seemed the sick, unnatural odor lingered in her nostrils. She dressed herself quickly and hurried downstairs to Hugh.
    “Something’s dreadfully wrong with Margaret—”
    “I’ve sent for a doctor. Now sit down and have a cup of tea; you look sick yourself, and that won’t help.”
    “I can’t drink a drop,” Sophia declared, then proceeded to do so, turning eagerly at any sound that might mean the doctor had arrived, her cup wavering in her hand.
    Hugh rose politely when Casper showed the doctor into the room.
    “Doctor Wiggins,” the man said, holding out his hand.
    “Thank you for coming, Doctor. Our daughter seems to be ailing. This is Mrs. Galloway—”
    “Doctor—” Sophia began, wringing her hands.
    Hugh interrupted smoothly, “Relax, my dear. All will be well now. Casper, please direct Dr. Wiggins upstairs. Doctor, if you will please stop in here on your way out—”
    “Certainly, Mr. Galloway.”
    Sophia made as if to follow the doctor from the room. Quietly Hugh drew her back, seating her and saying kindly, “You can’t be any help up there, my dear. Things will go better if you keep calm and in control.”
    For an instant a spark of rebellion at her husband’s authority caused Sophia’s lips to tighten. But, not really being emotionally ready to cope with a severe illness anyway, she allowed herself to be persuaded that Hugh, after all, knew best.
    But after the doctor had made his examination, reporting in ungeneral terms a “flux” complicated with symptoms of colic and teething and saying he had left medicine with the child’s nurse, Sophia, with an apologetic smile for her husband, made her way quickly upstairs. Kezzie, almost as flushed as the baby, was rocking Margaret. Her blue eyes smoldered.
    “What does he know! I tell you, Mum, I don’t have much confidence in this modern mumbo-jumbo. The old ways will do, I’ll be bound. Teethin’? Not at her age! I know