In rare cases back then, Strep Throat was the cause of Scarlet Fever, mainly throgh saliva. I dont think they knew that Strep Throat was the culprit, but for creativity's sake let's say that they did.
Walter went to Bertha's funeral with a heavy heart. He wished he could afford an engraved stone instead of the simple wooden cross. Every penny he had was stored for Anne and Anne alone.
Before the funeral started Martha handed Anne back to him.
"She's a odd one out, ain't she? I've never seen such red hair! I doubt she'll ever fit in."
Walter was enraged by the rude comment but was too exhausted to say anything mean,instead he let out a sigh.
"Thanks for watching her, much obliged."
She just nodded.
Walter quickly took the baby and the bag he had sent with her.
After the funeral he went home and promptly upon arrival he broke down sobbing. The house felt like something was missing in the air; it felt dark; still; dead. As if Bertha took the house with her when she died.
Sniffling he laid a tired Anne down in her second-hand bassinet, picking up her tiny hand he mumbled to himself, "what will become of us?"
That night was rough, Anne didn't take to the cow's milk very well, and Walter almost gave up in frustration, he wished he could afford the new powdered formula that had just recently been invented. Eventually her hunger outgrew her distaste and she ate it willingly.
Thomas Hammond had asked to borrow the buggy for a month or two, his was falling apart, and in exchange he let Walter take a milker to feed Anne with.
Mrs. Thomas came over the next day to see how Walter was doing, she brought some news with her as well.
"Hello, Martha, won't you come in?"
"Yes, that would be nice, thank you."
He held Anne in his arms as they say down for tea.
"It seems as though Miss Knolls doesn't have scarlet fever after all." Martha announced.
"Well that's good. One death is enough for this small town."
"Yes, it seems that she has strep throat. I doubt that she'll live long anyway. She must be around eighty-nine- or ninety."
She stayed a few minutes longer and they chatted about the Thomas farm.
"His hair was a mess, his shirt was untucked, and he had tear stains down his cheeks," Martha would later tell Peter.
Three days later Martha went to check in on Walter and make sure the cow was okay.
After knocking she stepped in; the first sound that she heard was the baby screaming.
"Martha? Would you come into my room?" She heard Walt call out over Anne's cries.
That's odd, she thought.
Upon first glance she saw him lying in his bed looking pale and weak.
"I'm afraid that I've caught the damn sickness," he cursed.
"Oh, Walter," was all she said. What else was there to say?
She picked up Anne and unbuttoned her blouse just enough that the baby would reach her breast.
Instantly the crying stopped.
Bertha should be the one doing that, he thought.
"Please, Martha, take her. There's no one else. I cannot give her this damn sickness," he looked at her with tears of desperation in his eyes.
"I-I," she couldn't afford another baby, let alone have the room in her house rundown house for one. Peter would kill her. But the fear, and desperation in Walter's face.
"I'll take her."
Relief flooded his face, "I cannot thank you enough, Martha. I know it wasn't the easiest thing I was asking of you."
She stepped towards his bed offering Anne to him.
He looked at her with such love in his eyes, it almost made her sick.
Then the eyes that showed the love filled with tears.
"D-don't b-bring her clo-closer to me. She'll c-catch wha-what I have."
She nodded and stepped back.
He took a deep breath and made himself calm down.
"Anne," he started, "I will always-always love you. Don't forget how much Papa wishes he didn't have to do this. I love you Anne."
He nodded at Martha to leave; and she walked out with Anne still latched to her breast.
On her way out of the front door she heard his cry of anguish.
"It's not like Anne will remember he said that to her. What have I gotten myself into?" She muttered.
Yes, it was sad that Walter and Bertha would die. If she admitted it, though, they were annoying, with their perfect marriage and their ugly baby that was, in their eyes flawless. Still, she wouldn't have wanted them to go this way.
Grabbing the cow she walked home, stopping in at the doctor's practice.
"Doctor, it's Walter Shirley, he's caught scarlet fever."
The doctor sighed, "I'll hate to see him go. Such a good man." With that he raced out the door up to the little white bungalow.
That night Peter came home drunk. He stomped around the house, scaring the three older ones.
"We're in charge of that red headed Shirley now?!" He yelled.
"Yes, we are. There was no way around it. You should've seen how sappy Walter was to her."
"I can only imagine," he muttered.
"Maybe the redhead can be like a maid when she's older, to earn her keep. I ain't taking care of no little 'un that ain't mine for free."
Martha liked that idea.
"She can start when she's four."
"I guess a three-year-old can't do much," he sighed.
"Come to bed with me now, Martha. I want to have some fun."
Placing Anne in the tattered crib she followed her husband into their bedroom.
The three older children knew that if they didn't go outside that they would hear strange sounds coming from their parent's bedroom. Hurriedly they scurried out of the house like mice.
Four days later they buried Walter Shirley.
The doctor was in the next room when he heard the final breath. He said that all Walter talked about, up until his last breath, was Anne.