“And then there was WIlliam McCrea of Balgownie, him who fought at Sheriffsmuir with my Arch. Got in the way of an English pike, and cleaved off half his jaw, and the best part of his nose! Arch said ye could see straight into his gullet and his brain-box both—but he lived. On parritch, mostly,” she added. “And whisky.”
“What a very good idea,” I said, putting down the nibbled muffin. “I believe I’ll go and get some.”
Carrying my cup, I escaped as quickly as I could down the hall to my surgery, followed by shouted reminiscences of Dominic Mulroney, an Irishman who’d walked face-first into a church door in Edinburgh and him sober as a sheep at the time.…
I shut the door of the surgery behind me, opened the window, and tossed the remains of the coffee out, then took down the bottle from the shelf and filled my cup to the brim.
I had intended to ask Mrs. Bug about Lionel Brown’s state of health, but … perhaps that could wait. I found that my hands were trembling again, and had to press them flat on the table for a moment to steady them before I could pick up the cup.
I took a deep breath, and a swallow of whisky. Another. Yes, that was better.
Small waves of pointless panic tended still to seize me unawares. I hadn’t had one this morning, and had rather hoped they’d gone away. Not quite yet, apparently.
I sipped whisky, dabbed cold sweat from my temples, and looked round for something useful to do. Malva and I had started some fresh penicillin the day before, and had made up fresh tinctures of boneset and troutlilly, and some fresh gentian salve, as well. I ended up thumbing slowly through my big black casebook, sipping whisky and dwelling on pages recounting various horrible complications of childbirth.
I realized what I was doing, but didn’t seem able to stop doing it. I was not pregnant. I was sure of it. And yet my womb felt tender, inflamed, and my whole being disturbed.
Oh, there was a jolly one; one of Daniel Rawlings’s entries, describing a slave woman of middle age, suffering from a recto-vaginal fistula that caused her to leak a constant small stream of fecal matter through the vagina.
Such fistulas were caused by battering during childbirth, and were more common in very young girls, where the strain of prolonged labor often caused such tears—or in older women, where the tissues had grown less elastic. Of course, in older women, the damage was quite likely to be accompanied by complete perineal collapse, allowing uterus, urethra—and possibly the anus for good measure—to sag through the pelvic floor.
“How extremely fortunate that I am not pregnant,” I said aloud, closing the book firmly. Perhaps I’d have another go at Don Quixote.
On the whole, it was a considerable relief when Malva Christie came and tapped on the door, just before noon.
She gave my face a quick glance, but as she had the day before, merely accepted my appearance without comment.
“How’s your father’s hand?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s fine, ma’am,” she replied quickly. “I looked just as ye said, but no red streaks, no pus, and just that tiny bit of redness near where the skin is cut. I made him wiggle his fingers like ye said,” she added, a dimple showing briefly in her cheek. “He didna want to, and carried on like I was poking thorns into him—but he did it.”
“Oh, well done!” I said, and patted her on the shoulder, which made her pinken with pleasure.
“I think that deserves a biscuit with honey,” I added, having noted the delectable aroma of baking that had been wafting down the hall from the kitchen for the last hour. “Come along.”
As we entered the hallway and turned toward the kitchen, though, I heard an odd sort of noise from behind us. A peculiar kind of thumping or dragging outside, as though some large animal was lumbering across the hollow boards of the front stoop.
“What’s that?” Malva said, looking over her shoulder in alarm.
A loud groan answered her, and a thud! that shook the front door as something fell against it.
“Mary, Joseph, and Bride!” Mrs. Bug had popped out of the kitchen, crossing herself. “What’s that?”
My heart had begun to race at the noises, and my mouth went dry. Something large and dark blocked the line of light beneath the door, and stertorous breathing was clearly audible, interspersed with groans.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s sick or injured,” I said. “Stand back.” I wiped my hands on my apron, swallowed, walked forward, and pulled open the door.
For a moment, I didn’t recognize him; he was no more than a heap of flesh, wild hair, and disheveled garments smeared with dirt. But then he struggled up onto one knee and raised his head, panting, showing me a dead-white face, marked with bruises and glossy with sweat.
“Mr. Brown?” I said, incredulous.
His eyes were glazed; I wasn’t sure that he saw me at all, but clearly he recognized my voice, for he lunged forward, nearly knocking me over. I stepped smartly back, but he caught me by the foot and held on, crying, “Mercy! Mistress, have mercy on me, I pray you!”
“What in the name of—let go. Let go, I say!” I shook my foot, trying to dislodge him, but he clung like a limpet, and went on shouting, “Mercy!” in a sort of hoarse, desperate chant.
“Oh, shut your noise, man,” Mrs. Bug said crossly. Recovered from the shock of his entrance, she appeared not at all discomposed by his appearance, though substantially annoyed by it.
Lionel Brown did not shut up, but went on imploring me for mercy, despite my attempts to placate him. These were interrupted by Mrs. Bug leaning past me, a large meat-mallet in her hand, and dotting Mr. Brown smartly on the head with it. His eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped on his face without another word.
“I’m that sorry, Mrs. Fraser,” Mrs. Bug said, apologetic. “I canna think how he got out, let alone came all this way!”
I didn’t know how he’d got out, either, but it was quite clear how he’d come—he’d crawled, dragging his broken leg. His hands and legs were scratched and bloody, his breeches in tatters, and the whole of him covered with smears of mud, stuck full of grass and leaves.
I leaned down and plucked an elm leaf from his hair, trying to think what on earth to do with him. The obvious, I supposed.
“Help me get him into the surgery,” I said, sighing as I bent to get him under the arms.
“Ye canna be doing that, Mrs. Fraser!” Mrs. Bug was scandalized. “Himself was verra fierce about it; ye mustna be troubled by this scoundrel, he said, nor even catch sight of the man!”
“Well, I’m afraid it’s a bit late not to catch sight of him,” I said, tugging at the inert body. “We can’t just let him lie on the porch, can we? Help me!”
Mrs. Bug appeared to see no good reason why Mr. Brown ought not to continue lying on the porch, but when Malva—who had been pressed flat against the wall, wide-eyed, during the uproar—came to help, Mrs. Bug gave in with a sigh, laying down her weapon and lending a hand.
He had recovered consciousness by the time we got him man-handled onto the surgery table, and was moaning, “Don’t let him kill me … please don’t let him kill me!”
“Would you be quiet?” I said, thoroughly irritated. “Let me look at your leg.”
No one had improved on my original rough splinting job, and his journey from the Bugs’ cabin hadn’t done it any good; blood was seeping through the bandages. I was frankly amazed that he had made it, considering his other injuries. His flesh was clammy and his breath shallow, but he wasn’t badly fevered.
“Will you bring me some hot water, please, Mrs. Bug?” I asked, gingerly prodding the fractured limb. “And perhaps a little whisky? He’ll need something for shock.”
“I will not,” Mrs. Bug said, giving the patient a look of intense dislike. “We should just be saving Mr. Fraser the trouble of dealing wi’ the gobshite, if he hasna got the courtesy to die by himself.” She was still holding her mallet, and raised it in a threatening manner, causing Mr. Brown to cower and cry out, as the movement hurt his broken wrist.
/> “I’ll fetch the water,” Malva said, and disappeared.
Ignoring my attempts to deal with his injuries, Mr. Brown seized my wrist with his one good hand, his grip surprisingly strong.
“Don’t let him kill me,” he said hoarsely, fixing me with bloodshot eyes. “Please, I beg you!”
I hesitated. I hadn’t exactly forgotten Mr. Brown’s existence, but I had more or less suppressed the knowledge of it over the last day or so. I had been only too glad not to think of him.
He saw my hesitation, and licked his lips, trying again.
“Save me, Mrs. Fraser—I implore you! You are the only one he will listen to!”
With some difficulty, I detached his hand from my wrist.
“Why, exactly, do you think anyone wants to kill you?” I asked carefully.
Brown didn’t laugh, but his mouth twisted bitterly at that.
“He says that he will. I don’t doubt him.” He seemed a little calmer now, and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Please, Mrs. Fraser,” he said more softly. “I beg you—save me.”
I glanced up at Mrs. Bug, and read the truth in her folded arms and tight lips. She knew.
At this point, Malva hurried in, a beaker of hot water in one hand, the whisky jug in the other.
“What shall I do?” she asked breathlessly.
“Er … in the cupboard,” I said, trying to focus my mind. “Do you know what comfrey looks like—boneset?” I had hold of Brown’s wrist, automatically checking his pulse. It was galloping.
“Aye, ma’am. Shall I put some to steep, then?” She had set down the jug and beaker and was already hunting through the cupboard.
I met Brown’s eyes, trying for dispassion.
“You would have killed me, if you could,” I said very quietly. My own pulse was going nearly as fast as his.
“No,” he said, but his eyes slid away from mine. Only a fraction, but away. “No, I never would!”
“You told H-Hodgepile to kill me.” My voice shook on the name and a flush of anger burgeoned suddenly inside me. “You know you did!”
His left wrist was likely broken, and no one had set it; the flesh was puffy, dark with bruising. Even so, he pressed his free hand over mine, urgent with the need to convince me. The smell of him was rank, hot, and feral, like—
I ripped my hand free, revulsion crawling over my skin like a swarm of centipedes. I rubbed my palm hard on my apron, trying not to throw up.
It hadn’t been him. I knew that much. Of all the men, it couldn’t have been him; he had broken his leg in the afternoon. There was no way in which he could have been that heavy, inexorable presence in the night, shoving, stinking. And yet I felt he was, and swallowed bile, my head going suddenly light.
“Mrs. Fraser? Mrs. Fraser!” Malva and Mrs. Bug both spoke together, and before I knew quite what was happening, Mrs. Bug had eased me onto a stool, holding me upright, and Malva was pressing a cup of whisky urgently against my mouth.
I drank, eyes closed, trying to lose myself momentarily in the clean, pungent scent and the searing taste of it.
I remembered Jamie’s fury, the night he had brought me home. Had Brown been in the room with us then, there was no doubt he would have killed the man. Would he do so now, in colder blood? I didn’t know. Brown clearly thought so.
I could hear Brown crying, a low, hopeless sound. I swallowed the last of the whisky, pushed the cup away, and sat up, opening my eyes. To my vague surprise, I was crying, too.
I stood up, and wiped my face on my apron. It smelled comfortingly of butter and cinnamon and fresh applesauce, and the scent of it calmed my nausea.
“The tea’s ready, Mrs. Fraser,” Malva whispered, touching my sleeve. Her eyes were fixed on Brown, huddled miserably on the table. “Will ye drink it?”
“No,” I said. “Give it to him. Then fetch me some bandages—and go home.”
I had no idea what Jamie meant to do; I had no idea what I might do, when I discovered his intent. I didn’t know what to think, or how to feel. The only thing I did know for certain was that I had an injured man before me. For the moment, that would have to be enough.
For a little while, I managed to forget who he was. Forbidding him to speak, I gritted my teeth and became absorbed in the tasks before me. He sniveled, but kept still. I cleaned, bandaged, tidied, administering impersonal comfort. But as the tasks ended, I was still left with the man, and was conscious of increasing distaste each time I touched him.
At last, I was finished, and went to wash, meticulously wiping my hands with a cloth soaked in turpentine and alcohol, cleaning under each fingernail despite the soreness. I was, I realized, behaving as though he harbored some vile contagion. But I couldn’t stop myself.
Lionel Brown watched me apprehensively.
“What d’ye mean to do?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” This was more or less true. It hadn’t been a process of conscious decision, though my course of action—or lack of it—had been determined. Jamie—damn him—had been right. I saw no reason to tell Lionel Brown that, though. Not yet.
He was opening his mouth, no doubt to plead with me further, but I stopped him with a sharp gesture.
“There was a man with you named Donner. What do you know about him?”
Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t that. His mouth hung open a little.
“Donner?” he repeated, looking uncertain.
“Don’t dare to tell me you don’t remember him,” I said, my agitation making me sound fierce.
“Oh, no, ma’am,” he assured me hastily. “I recall him fine—just fine! What”—his tongue touched the raw corner of his mouth—“what d’ye want to know about him?”
The main thing I wanted to know was whether he was dead or not, but Brown almost certainly didn’t know that.
“Let’s start with his full name,” I proposed, sitting down gingerly beside him, “and go from there.”
In the event, Brown knew little more for sure about Donner than his name—which, he said, was Wendigo.
“What?” I said incredulously, but Brown appeared to find nothing odd in it.
“That’s what he said it was,” he said, sounding hurt that I should doubt him. “Indian, in’t it?”
It was. It was, to be precise, the name of a monster from the mythology of some northern tribe—I couldn’t recall which. Brianna’s high-school class had once done a unit of Native American myths, with each child undertaking to explain and illustrate a particular story. Bree had done the Wendigo.
I recalled it only because of the accompanying picture she had drawn, which had stuck with me for some time. Done in a reverse technique, the basic drawing done in white crayon, showing through an overlay of charcoal. Trees, lashing to and fro in a swirl of snow and wind, leaf-stripped and needle-flying, the spaces between them part of the night. The picture had a sense of urgency about it, wildness and movement. It took several moments of looking at it before one glimpsed the face amid the branches. I had actually yelped and dropped the paper when I saw it—much to Bree’s gratification.
“I daresay,” I said, firmly suppressing the memory of the Wendigo’s face. “Where did he come from? Did he live in Brownsville?”
He had stayed in Brownsville, but only for a few weeks. Hodgepile had brought him from somewhere, along with his other men. Brown had taken no notice of him; he caused no trouble.
“He stayed with the widow Baudry,” Brown said, sounding suddenly hopeful. “Might be he told her something of himself. I could find out for you. When I go home.” He gave me a look of what I assumed he meant to be doglike trust, but which looked more like a dying newt.
“Hmm,” I said, giving him a look of extreme skepticism. “We’ll see about that.”
He licked his lips, trying to look pitiful.
“Could I maybe have some water, ma’am?”
I didn’t suppose I could let him die of thirst, but I had had quite enough of ministering to the man personally. I wanted him out of my sur
gery and out of my sight, as soon as possible. I nodded brusquely and stepped into the hall, calling for Mrs. Bug to bring some water.
The afternoon was warm, and I was feeling unpleasantly prickly after working on Lionel Brown. Without warning, a flush of heat rose suddenly upward through my chest and neck and flowed like hot wax over my face, so that sweat popped out behind my ears. Murmuring an excuse, I left the patient to Mrs. Bug, and hurried out into the welcome air.
There was a well outside; no more than a shallow pit, neatly edged with stones. A big gourd dipper was wedged between two of the stones; I pulled it out and, kneeling, scooped up enough water to drink and to splash over my steaming face.
Hot flushes in themselves were not really unpleasant—rather interesting, in fact, in the same way that pregnancy was; that odd feeling as one’s body did something quite unexpected, and not within one’s conscious control. I wondered briefly whether men felt that way about erections.
At the moment, a hot flush seemed quite welcome. Surely, I told myself, I couldn’t be experiencing hot flushes if I were pregnant. Or could I? I had the uneasy knowledge that the hormonal surges of early pregnancy were quite as capable of causing all kinds of peculiar thermal phenomena as were those of the menopause. I was certainly having the sorts of emotional conniptions that went with being pregnant—or menopausal—or from being raped—
“Don’t be ridiculous, Beauchamp,” I said out loud. “You know quite well you’re not pregnant.”
Hearing it gave me an odd feeling—nine parts relief, one part regret. Well, perhaps nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-nine parts relief, to one of regret—but it was still there.
The flood of sweat that sometimes followed in the wake of a hot flush, though, was something I could do without. The roots of my hair were soaked, and while the cool water on my face was lovely, waves of heat were still blooming over me, spreading like a clinging veil over chest and face and neck and scalp. Seized by impulse, I tipped half a dipperful of water down the inside of my bodice, exhaling in relief as the wetness soaked the cloth, trickling between my breasts and down over my belly, tickling cool between my legs and dripping to the ground.
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