My threat has the desired effect; it takes the spine right out of her so that she seems to shrink into herself. “That’s not necessary. I just . . . With Mr. Joyner under the weather for a bit, I could use some extra help.”

“I have to take care of myself occasionally, but the rest of the time I’m happy to do what I can.”

“Mr. Kingfisher doesn’t go off nearly as often as you do,” she points out.

“I . . . prefer privacy and modesty. Way my mama raised me.”

Her eyes narrow, but she nods. “Do you mind setting up the table for lunch? As close to the wagon as possible. If Mr. Joyner feels better, he may attempt to share our company.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“I want that tablecloth perfectly straight. Mr. Joyner does love a tidy tablecloth.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And could you pick some flowers for the table? In times of sickness and trouble, it’s more important than ever to hold to the tenets of civilized living.”

I sigh. “Yes, ma’am.”

The table is harder to wrangle by myself than I expected. I could use Jefferson’s help, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I can’t rightly complain after disappearing myself.

Once the table is on solid footing, the wings extended, and the braces in place, I spread out her checked tablecloth. I unpack their box of fine china plates and silver and put out four place settings. I wander far afield to find a few clumps of violet prairie clover, and I pick the best ones for the vase.

When I return, Mrs. Joyner is crouched over the cook fire. The Dutch oven sits nestled in the coals. The lid rattles, loosing bits of steam.

“What’s cooking?” I ask.

She looks up, startled, and her eyes are wet and her cheeks blotchy. She seems as helpless as a babe, and I feel sixteen different kinds of sorry for her and for every harsh thing I ever thought about her.

After a sniffle, she takes a rag and lifts the edge of the pot. “Water, I think.”

“No one can mess up water,” I say, and I realize it sounds like an insult, but she just smiles in response.

“Where are Andrew and Olive?” she asks with a start.

I spied them earlier, playing with the Robichaud twins. “They’re fine, perfectly safe, over with our Canadian friends.”

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.”

“Thank you,” I say. They probably returned by way of the generous Hoffmans, hoping for a treat. “I hope the twins feel better soon.”

I make my good-byes and wander away, my mind still churning over the news of Mrs. Joyner’s pregnancy.

Mrs. Lowrey, the preacher’s wife, is alone on her wagon bench, mending a bonnet.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” I say.

Mrs. Lowrey jumps, startled. She’s a small woman, mousy and plain, with a belly as big as a barn. She almost never leaves the wagon; her husband keeps her under tight rein. He would probably loathe what I’m about to suggest.

“I know you’re busy, Mrs. Lowrey, but with Mr. Joyner sick and all, Mrs. Joyner could use . . . well, not a hand, maybe, so much as an ear. It’d be a blessing if you could check in on her, and maybe offer to pray with her.”

It’s like my words are magic. “Well, no one could have an objection to that!” she says.

No, they couldn’t. As she pries herself up from her bench, I hope it’ll be good for both of them.

I check in with the Major, and let him know that some of our folks are sick—Mr. Joyner, the Robichaud children. I don’t say anything about Mrs. Joyner’s condition, because I’m supposed to be a man now. Soon enough, it’ll be visible for all to see, and there won’t be any point saying something now.