The Bargain

by Mary J. Putney

  “Have you had enough experience of opium addicts to know if cutting down slowly makes it easier to stop?”

  The surgeon looked troubled. “I honestly don’t know, Major. ‘Tis a hard habit to break. I knew an addict who tried the gradual approach and failed miserably. Perhaps he would have failed anyhow, or perhaps your method will work better. I really can’t say. But you don’t have to decide right away. Take a large dose now and continue taking it for the next few days. It would be too much strain on your body to withdraw the drug at the same time as surgery. When you’re feeling better will be the time to stop.”

  Though David nodded, he’d already made up his mind to stop taking the medicine as soon as possible. He swallowed the large dose Sally gave him so that he could endure the surgery. But after Kinlock was done with his cutting, he’d never touch a drop of the wicked stuff again.

  Kinlock beckoned Sally into the hall, out of David’s hearing. “I’ll need two men to hold him down, plus someone to hand me the instruments. I also need towels, sheets, and plenty of hot water and soap for washing up.” Seeing her surprise, he explained, “I don’t know why, but cleanliness seems to reduce infection.”

  That made sense to Sally. After all, cleanliness was next to godliness, so it ought to help with surgery. “I’ll get everything you need right away.”

  The surgeon grasped the doorknob to return, but paused. “You said your brother is a guest here. Who owns the house—some kinsman?”

  “It belongs to David’s wife.”

  “Wife! Why isn’t she here?” Kinlock asked.

  “The marriage took place only a couple of days ago and was basically one of convenience. They scarcely know each other. Lady Jocelyn doesn’t even know you are here.” As she explained, Sally thought for the first time of how the witch would react if David made a miraculous recovery. She felt a surge of unholy glee, despite the horrid possibility that Lady Jocelyn might be permanently connected to the Lancasters.

  With a snort for the idiocies of the upper classes, Kinlock reentered the bedroom. Putting away the thought of Lady Jocelyn’s reaction, Sally hastened to collect supplies. Her regal ladyship had said to ask for anything required, and by heaven, she would.

  Sally was grateful that surgical preparations included covering most of David’s body with sheets, except for the small, newly scarred area of his back where the actual incision would be made. Looking at a square of skin made it a little easier to forget that the person she loved most in the world was about to be sliced open. . . .

  She cut off the thought and took position by the bed. “I’ll assist you with the instruments myself.”

  “Are you sure, lass? It might be better to have someone not related to the patient. It wouldn’t do if you faint or have the vapors.”

  Her chin came up. “I do not have vapors. Don’t worry, I shall manage.”

  He smiled a little. “Very well.” Swiftly he named the instruments and the order they would be used in. The scalpels, probes, and more mysterious tools glittered with cleanliness, and razor-sharp edges.

  The two servants who were assisting moved into position, Hugh Morgan at the head of the bed, and the wiry, taciturn coachman at the foot. Queasy but determined, they took hold of David, and the operation began.

  Sally was amazed at how swiftly Kinlock worked, deftly cutting and blotting blood. Feeling a little faint, she concentrated on the instruments he asked for, not looking at the surgery again until her head steadied.

  After a hideously long interval of meticulous probing of the open wound, he made a small sound of satisfaction. With a delicacy that seemed incongruous for such large, powerful hands, he extracted a small fragment of metal. After dropping it in the basin Sally held out, he muttered, “Now we look around a bit more, just in case.”

  When he was satisfied, he closed the incision. The servants’ assistance was barely needed, for David had hardly moved during the operation, except for a gasp and a convulsive shudder at the initial cut.

  With the wound closed, Kinlock said. “Give me that jar, lass.”

  Sally obeyed, opening the jar for his use. The contents were a disgusting gray-green mass that smelled wretched. To her horror, he smeared some of the oozing material over the wound. How could a man devoted to cleanliness use such nasty-looking stuff? She clamped her jaw shut on her protest. It was too late not to trust him now.

  With the operation over, the release of tension was so great that Sally was barely aware of Kinlock putting on a dressing and giving low-voiced instructions to Morgan, who would stay with David. Feeling faint again now that her part was played, Sally went outside and slumped bonelessly onto a sofa set against the gallery wall. Kinlock had been right to warn her that surgery was upsetting. Yet it had been fascinating, too.

  When the Scot finally emerged from the sickroom, she glanced up fearfully. “Do . . . do you think that went well?”

  He dropped onto the opposite end of the sofa, as weary as the first time she had seen him. She was frightened when he buried his head in his hands, until he looked up with a reassuring smile. “Aye, it went very well. The fragment came out cleanly, and from the tests I just performed, he has normal sensation in his legs. There is still a chance of infection, but God willing, I think he will survive, and probably be as good as new.”

  Sally hadn’t cried when they had told her that David would die, but after hearing that he would live, she dissolved into racking sobs that seemed like they would never end. “Thank God,” she said brokenly. “Thank God.”

  Kinlock put an arm around her shoulders as she continued to weep. “There, there, now. You’re a braw lassie, and your brother is lucky to have you.”

  She turned into him, burying her face against his chest. He felt so strong, so solid. A faint scent of fragrant pipe tobacco clung to the wool of his coat, taking her back twenty years to when her father had held her close, safe from the problems of an eight-year-old’s world.

  The thought made her cry even harder. She had lost her father, then her mother, and almost David, too. But now, by the grace of God and this warmhearted curmudgeon of a Scot, she would not be alone.

  Running out of tears, she finally pulled away from Kinlock and fished a handkerchief from her pocket. “I’m sorry to be such a watering pot. It’s just that what you did seems so much like a miracle. I . . . I can’t quite believe it.”

  Kinlock gave a tired smile that made him look surprisingly boyish. “Well, you wanted a miracle. Did you stop at St. Bart’s church the other day?”

  “No, but I certainly will tomorrow!”

  “Be sure you do. Even God likes to be thanked when he’s done well.”

  Sally stood. “Time for me to go back to David. Are there any special instructions about what to do for him during the night?”

  “My only instructions are for you to get a good dinner and a solid night’s sleep,” he said sternly. “Doctor’s orders. If you don’t start taking better care of yourself, you’ll be a patient in no time. You needn’t worry about Major Lancaster. Morgan will stay with him, and I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, then had second thoughts. With the tension ended, she was weary to the bone. There was nothing she could do for David that couldn’t be done as well by someone else. “Very well.”

  Kinlock got to his feet and rolled his shoulders, loosening taut muscles. “Would this grand establishment run to whiskey?”

  If he wanted to bathe in a tub of the best port, Sally would make sure that his wish was granted. “Shall we go downstairs and find out?”

  Kinlock collected his medical bag, and they descended to the drawing room salon. Lady Jocelyn’s well-trained butler responded to Sally’s tug on the bell cord, speedily producing decanters of whiskey and brandy. She had to give the staff credit. Not once had anyone indicated contempt for her lowly self by so much as the flicker of an eye, though no doubt they had plenty to say in the servants’ hall.

  Noticing that Ian Kinlock’s hands w
ere shaking as he poured himself a whiskey, she asked, “Are you always so strained after surgery?”

  He looked a little shamefaced. “Aye. My hands are steady as a rock during an operation, but after I have trouble believing I was foolhardy enough to do it. It’s uncommonly difficult to cut into a human body, knowing how hard it is on the patient, but sometimes surgery is the only cure. Like today.” He tossed back half his whiskey, then replenished it and settled on a sofa, drinking at a more moderate pace.

  Sally sipped her brandy. Very fine, as she’d expected. “What was the awful-smelling dressing that you used?”

  Kinlock grinned. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Moldy bread and water.”

  “Good heavens! After making such a point of clean instruments, you put that filthy stuff on David?” Sally exclaimed, genuinely horrified.

  “I know it seems strange, but all over the world there are folk traditions of using moldy materials for dressings,” the surgeon explained. “In China, they use moldy soy curd. In eastern and southern Europe, I’m told the peasants keep a loaf in the rafters. If someone is injured, they take down the bread, cut off the mold and make a paste with water, then apply it to the wound.”

  “How remarkable.” Sally had always been insatiably curious, a good trait for a teacher. “Do you keep a moldy loaf in your attic?”

  He shook his head reminiscently. “This particular specimen was given to me by a Russian sailor who swore that it was the best he’d ever used. I gave it a try and found I lost fewer patients to infection and mortification. I’ve been feeding the mixture bread and water for the last eight years.”

  “What made you decide to try something so unorthodox in the first place?”

  “I’ve traveled widely, which gave me an interest in folk medicine. My more traditional colleagues sneer, but sometimes it works. One of my aims in life is to test such practices and discover which are valid.” He smiled. “For example, I’ve seen no evidence that putting a knife under a childbed cuts the pain in half, but willow bark is indeed good for aches and fevers. When I find something that works, I use it.”

  Now that David had been treated, Sally found herself curious about Kinlock the man rather than Kinlock the surgeon. “What are your other aims in life?”

  “To save as many people from the Reaper as I can, for as long as I can. In the end, death always wins. But not without a struggle, by God.” His expression was bleak.

  Wanting to erase the sorrow from his eyes, she raised her glass. “A toast for today’s victory over the Reaper!”

  Expression lightening, he clinked his glass against hers, and they drank. Sally poured more for each of them, and they drifted into general conversation, both enjoying the post-surgery euphoria. Sally spoke of her governess job, Kinlock about his training in Edinburgh and London. After training as both physician and surgeon, he’d become a ship’s doctor, which had taken him to many strange parts of the world. Later, he’d been an army surgeon, refining his skills in the bloody crucible of battle.

  Sally could hear his passion for his calling in every word he said. Mad Scot indeed! She blessed Dr. Ramsey for sending her to this man, who was surely the only surgeon in England who could have saved her brother.

  Chapter 8

  Tired from a long day away from home, Jocelyn almost walked past the salon when she finally returned, but paused when she heard a woman’s voice. Could Aunt Laura have recovered from her anger and returned to London?

  Hoping that was the case, she opened the drawing room door. To her disgust, she found not her aunt, but her uncouth sister-in-law in the process of getting drunk with some rumpled looking fellow Jocelyn had never seen before. Her face stiffened at such liberties being taken in her home. However, remembering her resolution to be more patient, she quietly started to withdraw. Sally might be in her cups, but she probably wouldn’t steal the silver, which wasn’t in the drawing room anyhow.

  Before she could escape, Sally glanced up and saw her. “I’ve bad news for you, Lady Jocelyn.”

  “Oh, no. He . . . he has died?” Jocelyn froze, chilled to her marrow as sadness and loss swept over her. So David was gone, his wasted body growing cold upstairs, the green eyes closed forever. She had not even been at home. That brief visit yesterday had been good-bye. No wonder Sally had called for the brandy decanter.

  “On the contrary,” Sally continued in her strong schoolteacher’s voice. “Dr. Kinlock here performed a rather splendid bit of surgery, and it seems likely that David will not only survive, but recover completely.”

  He was going to live? The words were an even greater shock than his death would have been. Dizzy from trying to assimilate such contradictory news, Jocelyn moved forward and grasped the back of a chair to steady herself. How wonderful if what Sally had said was true. David deserved life and happiness.

  But in the midst of her gladness one powerful thought resonated: A live husband was not what she had bargained for!

  “I know you wanted him dead.” Sally rose and approached Jocelyn, her eyes glittering. “Perhaps I’d better stay here to guard him until he can be removed from your home. Since he isn’t about to die on his own, you may wish to remedy the situation.”

  Jocelyn felt the blood drain from her face. “What a despicable thing to say! While my intention was to become a widow, I didn’t want to see David dead. If you are capable of appreciating the distinction.” Blindly she fumbled around the chair and dropped into it, torn between faintness and a desire to claw Sally’s eyes out.

  She felt something cool in her hand and looked up to see the doctor pressing a glass of brandy on her, his eyes watching with professional concern. “Drink that, Lady Jocelyn. It will help with the shock.”

  Obediently she sipped from the glass, choking a little as the brandy burned its way down. But the surgeon was right, for her mind began to work again. She stared down into her glass and tried to sort out her feelings.

  Nothing could make her sorry that David Lancaster was going to live. But what would this mean to her plans for Candover? Even if the duke fell in love with her, she couldn’t marry him. The knowledge made her want to weep.

  Realizing that she was on the verge of drowning in confused emotions, she forced her attention elsewhere. To the surgeon, for example, who improved on closer examination. Rumpled he might be, but his gaze was intelligent and kind as he briefly described why the major had been so ill and what had been done to cure him.

  By the time he finished, she was able to manage a genuine smile. “My thanks, Dr. Kinlock. You’ve done a good day’s work. I haven’t known Major Lancaster long, but I do know that the world is a better place for his survival.”

  Before Sally’s disgusted eyes, Kinlock almost started to purr under the hundred-candlepower charm of Lady Jocelyn’s smile. Even the most intelligent of men seemed unable to recognize a highbred tart for what she was.

  As soon as the thought formed in her mind, she was ashamed of herself. The brandy must be working on her empty stomach. Her accusation that Lady Jocelyn might harm David had come from the same source. As soon as she’d said the words, she wanted to bite her tongue, and not only because Kinlock had glanced at her with disapproval. Lady Jocelyn herself had looked startlingly vulnerable, like a kicked child, when Sally had made her unthinking charge. Who would have thought the witch had feelings? Probably she was just upset at the insult to her dignity.

  Nonetheless, Sally had been very rude to her hostess. Though apologies were not one of her specialties, she said stiffly, “I’m sorry for what I said, Lady Jocelyn. I’m sure David will be well cared for here until I can move him. I’ll start looking for another place immediately so you won’t be unnecessarily inconvenienced.”

  “There’s no need to hurry. The house is large enough to house a regiment, or at least a company.” Wrapping herself in her habitual coolness, Lady Jocelyn rose to her feet. “Dr. Kinlock, you will send me a bill for your services? I trust you w
ill make it consonant with the results.”

  He glanced at Sally. “Miss Lancaster engaged me, and I believe that she intends to take care of the bill.”

  “Nonsense, the responsibility is mine.” She gave the surgeon another wondrous smile. Sally had to admit that if a smile like that ever came her way, even she might be willing to overlook Lady Jocelyn’s numerous defects of character.

  Her ladyship glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s getting late. Pray let my carriage take you to your homes. Unless you wish to stay overnight, Miss Lancaster?”

  Guilt at her earlier rudeness made Sally refuse. “No need. Dr. Kinlock says David will sleep all night, and Morgan is here to watch him. I’ll walk to my employers. It’s not far, and it’s still light.”

  She hadn’t thought of her job in several hours, but it suddenly struck her that she would have to make sure that the Launcestons continued to be happy with her. Lady Jocelyn was bound to disavow the financial settlement, since she wasn’t going to receive the quick widowhood she’d bargained for. No matter. David’s life was worth everything Sally owned, and a life of leisure wouldn’t have suited her.

  After a swift glance at Sally, Kinlock overruled her. “We’ll be happy to accept your kind offer, Lady Jocelyn. I shall make sure Miss Lancaster reaches home safely. If you will call the carriage, we will be on our way.”

  “This isn’t necessary,” Sally muttered as Lady Jocelyn summoned her carriage.

  The surgeon chuckled. “In my professional opinion, it is. How often do you drink brandy?”

  “Almost never,” she admitted. “But I am not in the least bit foxed.” Her dignified statement was undercut by a hiccup.

  Eyes twinkling, Kinlock took a firm hold of her arm and guided her outside to the carriage. Sally climbed in and sank gratefully back into the soft velvet squabs. She was unaccountably a little dizzy and inclined to giggle. How odd.