Illusions Of Change (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 6)
Page 26
That made his residence in America even more likely.
“We have no quarrel with her, so I trust your correspondent will not be moved to take action against her.”
“He would not, my lord. He was employed in a function very similar to mine and knows very well that one must never compromise one’s sources. He will simply keep a distant watch upon her, listening out for any contact that may be made – she might be sent a letter, for example. Any mail that arrives in the colony for her will be perused before it reaches her hands, I am sure.”
Tom thought that was rather nasty – it was spying rather than intelligence gathering.
Captain Hood had met with that attitude before, was able to restrain his sneer.
Tom and Frances travelled to London later that week, slightly more slowly in their own heavier and well-padded chaise than could have been achieved by post, but far more comfortably.
Their main purpose was to consult with Sir William Knighton on the progress of Tom’s arm. The stomach wound, at first the main cause of alarm, had transpired to be little more than a laceration of the surface flesh, the ball never penetrating to any depth, and had healed very quickly and cleanly. The broken arm had knitted only slowly and still caused some discomfort.
Knighton shook his head gravely – if only they had brought the case to his immediate attention! Now, a year and a half after the event, he was limited in all that he could do. He examined the arm, palpating the flesh as gently as was possible; he peered at the larger wound and traced a line across to the point of entry of the ball.
“An inch below the exit wound, my lord, I do not know if you can see, let me hold a mirror to your arm…”
A little manoeuvring and Tom could pick out a small, white, raised lump, at most a quarter of an inch across.
“I strongly suspect, my lord, that there is a splinter of bone just there. It is causing you pain and may therefore develop into an abscess.”
Frances had remained in the room, peered in her turn.
“There is a possibility that it may simply remain inert, my lord. There is a stronger chance that it will mortify. My opinion is that it should be removed at an early date, the sooner the better.”
“Then so be it, Sir William. Would you wish me to attend at a hospital?”
Knighton was horrified at the very prospect.
“Not in London, my lord! That would be little more than a sentence of death! The wards are full of fever cases. It is winter now and the incidence is not as great, but the risk of infection is unacceptable even so. Better far to attend to the matter here and now.”
Knighton pulled a cloth out of his bag, bloodstained from a previous patient, laid it across a side table to protect the varnish. He took a lancet and a pair of whalebone tweezers from an inside pocket, wetted his finger in his mouth and rubbed the instruments clean.
“A little brandy, if you would be so good, my lord. Not to drink, I would add, sir. A little trick I was shown by a Scottish man of my acquaintance some three years ago, one that seems to improve on the success of minor operations.”
Aitkens brought in the spirits and, at Knighton’s instructions, poured a trickle over Tom’s arm, resting on the table.
“It stings a mite, my lord, but it does something useful to the skin, or so it seems. Now, then, if you would just look away, my lord, holding perfectly still the while, just a small nick…”
Knighton swiftly cut a cross over the white lump and poked with the tweezers.
“Ha! Got him!”
He held his trophy in triumph, a splinter less than half an inch long, rather like a bloody fish bone.
He pushed down with his finger, probing inside the cut to see if there was another present.
“No! Quite clear. Provided all goes well with the healing of this incision then we may hope for an improvement in your condition, my lord.”
“Thank you, Sir William, I am obliged to you, sir! Aitkens, don’t go away quite yet!”
The butler, white in the face, having no love of bloodshed, poured a stiff brandy and handed it to his master. Tom was fairly sure he would help himself to a tot of the same as soon as he was out of sight; he did not blame him.
Frances escorted Knighton to the door – he was only a doctor, yet he was probably the best in his trade in London so one could not really afford to snub him.
“Thank you, Sir William. I am a little worried, doctor, about Lord Andrews’ general strength and constitution – he seems to have made a less than full return to his vigour.”
“Removing the splinter will have helped, ma’am, provided he survives the operation, of course; the wound may yet mortify and that would demand amputation, which is undesirable at his age, or indeed at any stage of life! That apart, a healthy diet will work wonders – less of red meat and more of fowl, fresh fruit when possible, green vegetables at every dinner, all will help. My lord shows none of the signs of a drinker, and that in itself will be to his advantage. Perhaps he might take tobacco? A cigar of an evening is often said to be of great use to an invalid.”
Frances did not like the smell of tobacco, decided she would not pass on that piece of advice.
Knighton returned next day, was delighted to discover Tom dressed and sat downstairs.
“A successful operation, my lord! You are, of course, aware that a doctor may claim his triumph if the patient has survived twenty-four hours after the first incision? No? Not to worry. May I look at the wound?”
The swelling had subsided and the whiteness of the flesh was much lessened. Another great success to be laid at the good doctor’s door – as he would take pains to make known in the fashionable world.
Knighton was also aware that living patients were far more likely to pay a bill – executors for the late lamented often displayed a reluctance to meet the doctor’s very reasonable fees, possibly feeling they had not received their money’s worth.
End of Excerpt
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