Lady Elizabeth's Comet

by Sheila Simonson

  "That'll be it. Brass more like." He sounded absurdly cheerful. "We reckoned something of the sort'd 'appen soon. Pain's been bad this fortnight. Got so's 'e couldn't ride at all. Nor sit still for that matter."

  No wonder the poor man was stiff. I felt my face flame with chagrin, which was part shame and part resentment. He might have warned us. "Then Lord Clanross was invalided from the army some time ago?"

  "Same time Boney was sent off to Elba, me lady. Much good that did." Sims fell silent, then went on, still cheerful, "Well, Sims,' 'e says, 'I got me Chelsea ticket after all. D'ye stick by me or do I inflict you on Lord Bevis?' That was a joke we 'ad, like."

  "Bevis?" I echoed, feeling as if I'd been tossed in a blanket. My beau Bevis?

  "D'ye know 'is lordship? Dentical fine fellow. Any road, I told the major I was suited with 'im, and we set up in a cottage near Rye."

  I made an encouraging noise, and he continued, huffing slightly from the brisk pace, "When Lord Bevis come 'ome on leave, 'e asked the major to look after 'is place in Lancashire for 'im, and the major agreed. 'E was that bored. 'Sims,' 'e says, 'I know damn-all'--begging your pardon, me lady--'I don't know nothink about coal mines or timber or leases, but if I stay 'ere another fortnight I'll be chewing the carpet.' Not but wot we 'ad a carpet, but I seen 'is point. So off we go to Lancashire, and there we'd still be if the major 'adn't come into the title sudden-like."

  "I see," I murmured. I was trying hard to recall what marvellous satires on Clanross's manner and appearance I had written in my witty letter to Bevis. No wonder he hadn't replied. My ears burned.

  We strode along some distance in silence. Jean had been listening, too. She piped, rather shrill, "Will he die, Mr. Sims?"

  "I dunno, me lady. It's been a bad session, this time. No doubt of it."

  "Mr. Wharton will know what to do," I interposed soothingly.

  "Surgeon?" Sims made a noncommittal noise that indicated his opinion of surgeons.

  "Mr. Wharton studied at London and Edinburgh," I said firmly. "He is an excellent man."

  "Good luck to 'im. Begging your pardon, me lady, but the major was cut about in France and cut about at Chelsea 'ospital, see, and there ain't nothink more can be done. Oh, I dessay your man'll nip out the bit of brass that caused the bleeding, but there's a whacking great chunk lodged alongside 'is backbone and no surgeon'll touch that. It'll kill 'im or cripple 'im sooner nor later. A matter of time, see."

  That silenced me. Jean began to cry. Sims cleared his throat. "Now, Lady Jean, don't take on. 'E's 'ad a good run for 'is money. 'Ere! I dessay 'e'll pull through this time, too."

  That only made Jean cry harder and I wasn't feeling cheerful myself, what with guilt and pity and chagrin and exasperation and various other less well-defined emotions. I pulled Jean to me and walked along hugging her.

  When we reached Brecon at last, Sims once more displayed the sangfroid of long experience and began directing Smollet to fetch linen, lint, and basins of hot water quite as if she were an orderly.

  She obeyed, whitefaced. The two footmen were sent to rig a table and bring lamps for the surgeon to the antechamber of the estate office, a small room well lit by tall windows. Smollet summoned the butler, and between them they made a proper fire.

  Sims regarded their effort with benign approval. "That's the ticket. Now we're set for the bloody sawbones right and proper. I'll go to 'is lordship." He vanished into the estate office.

  Mrs. Smollet and Jenkins looked at me apprehensively and Jean shrank closer. What did they expect of me?

  I explained to the servants what was amiss as briefly as possible. They were suitably shocked and Jean began crying again. It occurred to me--at last--that I ought to send her away.

  "Will you go home, Jean? We've both missed our nuncheon and Alice will be wondering what's happening."

  "No!"

  "You've been very useful, darling. In fact, you're quite the heroine, but there's nothing you can do at the moment."

  "You're staying."

  "I intend to assist Mr. Wharton," I said, rather grim, for I did not look forward to the task.

  That brought a shriek of horrified protest from Mrs. Smollet and admonitory squawks from the butler. Jean stared at me wide-eyed.

  "I have done so before--when he set Jem's leg and when Harris was kicked by Lightning." I returned Mrs. Smollet's stare, challenging her. "Do you care to do so, ma'am?"

  "Oh, no, my lady. All that blood! But it's men's work."

  "Indeed. Which great clumsy oaf do you suggest? Or perhaps Jenkins is your nominee?" That was cruel. The butler would never see seventy again and he was frail.

  He turned white. "Mr. Sims will do well enough, my lady."

  "Did I 'ear me name?" Sims popped out the door. "Begging your pardon, ladies, does one of you 'ave smelling salts? 'E don't seem to want to come round." Mrs. Smollet sped off.

  "Sims, I shall assist Mr. Wharton," I announced.

  "Cor, me lady, if 'e don't come round quick like, you'll 'ave to give me an 'and and that's the plain truth. I don't bloody like the look of 'im. Begging your pardon, I'm sure."

  I swallowed. "Very well. What do you need?"

  "A light and them two clodpoles to 'old 'im down," he nodded at the chastened grooms, "if 'e comes to, which it don't look like 'e will. And linen to bind 'im up. I'll use me own knife." He brandished a villainous-looking dagger.

  Jean made a gargling noise and sat down on a chair.

  "Home!" I said firmly. "Now! Scoot!"

  She fled.

  Fortunately, the gig drew up at that moment, disgorging Wharton, so Sims was forestalled. I had no opinion at all of Sims's surgical skill. His hands were like hams. He seemed relieved, too, though his face was no more expressive than his master's.

  The surgeon, Charles Wharton, and I had grown up together. The son of a small landowner whose fields marched with the home farm, he had taken to surgery against everyone's will, including both our fathers'.

  Three years before, his father had died and left him an estate too small to be overseen by an agent and too long associated with his family to be sold, though Papa would have paid handsomely for it. Charles had come back from London, grumbling at every stage of the way, and taken up farming. His mother and sister kept house for him, and he spent more time patching up injured millworkers and farm-hands than tending to his turnips, with the result that he was perpetually hard-up and usually fairly happy.

  When he first returned he had tried to persuade my father to endow an infirmary and surgery for workers from the Chacton mill, but Papa, though he thought the idea had merit, would not interfere with Mr. Chacton's employees, and Chacton was dead set against the idea. I was very sorry, for Charles wanted scope at home. He was a talented man.

  He greeted me without ceremony. "Hullo, Liz, where's the body this time?"

  I showed him into the makeshift bedchamber and he wasted no time. He tested Clanross's pulse and colour, nodded to Sims, and said, "Very well, move him out. I see you've cut off his shirt."

  "Right, sir. The bandage is Lady Elizabeth's 'andiwork."

  "Good God, what is it, Liz?"

  "My petticoat," I said shortly. "Stop wasting time."

  "Heave ho," Charles boomed.

  The grooms leapt to obey.

  "Don't maul him there. Easy does it, chawbacons! Now, Sims, I want the whole story."

  Sims, who had shrunk several sizes as the mantle of authority passed, began retailing the gruesome details of the original injury. Clanross was borne gingerly into the antechamber. The room had emptied as if by magic of footmen, housemaids, butler, and Mrs. Smollet.

  I had time to be glad Jean was gone, too. Charles made no attempt to send me away. He took it for granted that I would assist him. I was not sure I was glad of that, now that I had taken another look at Clanross's mangled back. His left arm was scarred horribly, too. I hadn't seen that because I hadn't bothered to remove the left sleeve of his coat.

  Mrs. Smollet and a g
runting footman returned with quantities of soap and hot water. Charles sloshed about in it absentmindedly and even gave his knives a quick scrub. Most surgeons prefer to keep their scalpels seasoned, so to speak, but Charles treats his like table flatware. He likes them shiny and sharp.

  He swabbed off the bloodstains and removed my bandage, whistling through his teeth. "Yes, I see. Half a dozen exit wounds. Must've been messy."

  "'Twas indeed," Sims agreed fervently. " 'Ere, sir, ain't you going to bring 'im to?"

  "Why? He'd just wriggle. Which reminds me, you..." He jerked his head at the grooms. "Hold his legs and arms so he doesn't jump off the table if he wakes. Liz, bring that tray of knives and set it here." He pointed to a small marble-topped table. "I want you to swab away the blood, Liz, and Sims will have to hold the lamp steady. Have I a forceps? By Jove, yes. Now, Sims, this troublesome lump by his spine, where is it exactly?"

  Sims looked stunned. "No, sir, you ain't going to muck about with that. You could kill 'im."

  "From what you say he's half-dead with the pain already," Charles said reasonably. "I won't remove it if it touches the spine." He reached for the forceps. "Hold the lamp higher, Sims. There, that's our immediate culprit." He flicked a gory fragment, quite small, onto the tray, took a bit of catgut, and began doing something mysterious to the wound. "Not very formidable, but he was hemorrhaging inside. Ah! All tied off. Now, let's do a bit of exploring. Lamp, Sims."

  Sims controlled himself and held the lamp closer. I don't think either of us breathed and I, for one, averted my eyes. It was not like setting Jem Thatcher's leg.

  Charles grunted, feeling his way. "My God, I can see why the ham-fisted clunches at Chelsea didn't want to touch it; it's lodged in muscle, Sims. I think I can remove it."

  Sims made an inarticulate noise of protest and so, I think, did I, but Charles was past listening and there was now nothing slapdash in his motions. He spoke no more and his hands flew, withal with such delicacy that in my fascination I forgot to be dizzy. He seemed to know exactly where to cut and how far, and he directed me curtly to swab away the blood as he went.

  Years passed--or perhaps time stopped. He muttered something under his breath and began, very gently, to detach a much larger fragment of metal from the new, surgical wound. It was as if he were unwrapping a hideous flower, petal by petal.

  Finally he began tying and cutting so fast I couldn't follow his hands and was left to obey his muttered orders by guess. I was covered with unladylike sweat and exhausted--exhilarated, too. But I would not have repeated the experience for any consideration.

  Charles sewed the incision shut with odd, finicking stitches, dusted the area with basilicum powder, and with the aid of Sims and myself, tied an elegant bandage that covered Clanross from shoulder blades to waist.

  "Thank you, Sims," Charles said finally. "I've done my best for him, you know. He couldn't have borne that much longer." He flicked a finger at the obscene fragment he had removed. Sims said nothing. Abruptly he turned and rushed from the room, and we could hear him being thoroughly sick in the hall.

  Charles smiled at me. "I see you're made of sterner stuff, Lizzie. Liz, what is it?"

  I heard him dimly. I did not faint precisely, but Mrs. Smollet's spirits of ammonia came into play. Stupid of me. After all, the worst was over--or so I fondly assumed.

  When I had regained my wits, Charles had already scrubbed his gory hands and was pottering about, tidying his patient. He seemed ill at ease, which was not like him.

  "What's the matter, Charles?" I croaked.

  "I don't like the look of the man. He's not so much as twitched. That was a wild chance I took, Liz."

  "You did what you had to."

  "I daresay," he agreed glumly. "A pity he's an earl and not just an ordinary nobody. I can do without the ill-fame if he sticks his spoon in the wall."

  Sims returned looking wooden.

  Charles took a breath. "Now, Sims, I want to be sure that his lordship is properly cared for. I take it you've seen him through these bouts in the past."

  "Yessir."

  "Then you know what's needed. Above all, don't let him turn on his back or twist so that the stitches rip. He's bled enough for the moment. When he wakes try to spoon some broth or barley water down him. I'll see that there's plenty of laudanum for the pain."

  "'E won't use it."

  "What!"

  "Gives 'im purple and green nightmares, 'e says. 'E'd rather put up with the pain."

  "He will have no choice. Dose him. I want him quiet."

  "'E'll keep quiet, sir. Allus does."

  "Oh? What if he's out of his senses, eh? Does he keep quiet then?"

  Sims looked mulish.

  Charles turned to me. "You'll have to see to it, Elizabeth. Do you have maidenly scruples?"

  I did have scruples, whether maidenly or not I couldn't say. I had summoned Charles, and I knew he would rely on me, but it was no business of mine to be nursing sick men. I said carefully, "I am sure Sims will obey you, Charles."

  "Are you indeed?" He looked from me to Sims and back. "This man is very near death. I have performed a dangerous operation on him, and he was not in robust health to begin with. If he is not nursed--and nursed devotedly--until I say the danger has passed, he is surely going to die. Do you understand me, Sims?"

  Sims met his eyes and nodded.

  Charles turned to me. "Sims cannot deal with him alone. It will be a matter of some days. You and Mrs. Smollet will have to relieve him. There is no one else I can trust, Liz, and I won't have my patient die because you've gone ladylike all of a sudden."

  That was blunt indeed. I was being bullied and, no longer a worshipful ten year old, I resented it.

  "You pulled me into this," Charles added unforgivably. "Are you going to see it through?"

  "Yes. I hope your dog bites you."

  His mouth relaxed. "Thank you, my lady. You relieve my mind."

  I was not mollified. "I'm going home."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I don't intend to spend the next week in this filthy gown. I'll return in an hour or so with a portmanteau and several improving books. Sims can instruct me in what is required. Have Smollet see to it that a chamber is readied for me to retire to when I am not at my duties."

  Both men stared.

  "Well?"

  Charles sighed. "I don't trust you out of my sight, Liz, but I daresay you'll do as you please."

  Clanross stirred and moaned, and we were all three beside him without thinking. He mumbled something.

  Sims knelt by him. "Wot is it, major? Water?"

  He frowned, licking his lips, and mumbled something else.

  "'E wants to know where Lady Jean is."

  I knelt, too. "I sent her home directly, Clanross."

  I thought he approved, for his hand, which was clenched on one of Mrs. Smollet's best linen sheets, relaxed and he lapsed again into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 5

  I half-ran down the long carriageway to the Dower House. Jean met me at the front entry.

  "Is he dead?"

  "He's not in prime twig, Jeanie, but he asked after you." Her woebegone face brightened.

  "No, darling, you are not going up there now." I drew her into the house with me and, perceiving Alice on the stair, resigned myself to be interrogated.

  I luxuriated in a hot bath while Dobbins packed for me and Jean bounced on the bed and asked a thousand questions.

  "Do come out, my lady, you'll be all over crinkles." Dobbins left off packing and swathed me in a warm, scented towel. "What shall I do with the blue gown? Bloodstains never come out."

  "Burn it," I said airily. She brightened, and I knew very well she would remove the stains and wind up peacocking it in church of a Sunday. Let her. I felt magnanimous.

  Presently, buttoned into a serviceable brown stuff gown with black braid at the hem, quite hideous, I ventured down to the breakfast room and ate a huge meal. I was cheered on by Jean and Alice.
r />   "How's Maggie?" I asked at last, crumbling a bit of bread.

  "Her fever's gone but she still sniffs."

  "She beat Mrs. Finch five times at draughts." Jean began to munch an apple.

  "How do you feel, miss?" Usually the twins succumbed in sequence to whatever ailment was going about. It was Jean's turn next.

  "I'm fine, Lizzie. May I walk up to Brecon with you?"

  I considered. "You may drive me in the pony trap."

  "By myself?"

  "So long as you promise not to overturn me showing off." Jean bounced from the room to order up the trap.

  Alice made one last-ditch attempt to dissuade me. "Have you considered what gossip will say?"

  I shrugged. "Half the tabbies think I'm mad as it is, and the other half will fancy I'm out to snare Clanross."

  "And you don't care?"

  I repeated in pious tones more or less the argument Charles had used to bully me. Rising to go, I added the clincher, "If none of us mentions this matter, no one will know of it."

  * * * *

  I marched into the sickroom only an hour and a half late. Charles was still there, and he and Sims were speaking in low tones by the old desk as I entered.

  "Oh, there you are," Charles said absently. "Now remember, Sims, send for me at the first sign of fever. And if you fail me in the use of laudanum I'll hail you before the beak."

  Sims sketched a salute and returned to his master's bedside. Clanross was sleeping or unconscious still. The bed was one of those narrow affairs with brass rails on one side. At least it was long enough. He was a tall man. I conceived I should have an interesting time preventing him from falling off the bed onto the floor if he were very restless.

  I said so to Charles when he pulled me out into the antechamber, from which all sign of our sanguinary activities had been removed.

  "Keep a footman on duty," he replied crisply. "Or strap him to the bed."

  "That's inhuman."

  "Not as inhuman as bleeding to death."

  "You're very cool."

  "Yes, and I trust you will be, too. We had a lively session an hour ago, but he's doped with laudanum now and tired enough to sleep some hours in any case. The worst is yet to come."