by Anita Mills
“Ahem.”
Startled, she looked up to catch Dr. Alstead’s frown. “I’m sorry,” she responded apologetically. “I’m afraid I was woolgathering.”
“I said I shall require some assistance. While his lordship’s coachmen hold him down, I would have you hand my instruments to me. He has refused any more laudanum, despite the fact I have told him ’twill be excruciatingly painful,” he explained irritably.
“You…you aren’t going to amputate the leg, are you?” she managed to ask. “I mean—”
“I’m going to have a go at saving it first, Miss Winslow,” he snapped. “However, I might point out that the longer the delay, the greater likelihood of infection where the bone is exposed. And gangrene, if it sets in, will take the choice from me, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, of course,” she agreed. Quickly shoving her pictures back into the folder, she rose. “I did try to clean him up a bit for you,” she added.
“So I was told. They said ’twas you as cut his breeches off,” he said stiffly. “But then I suppose I ought not to be surprised, Miss Winslow, for to my notion you are a very singular sort of female.”
As he spoke, he emphasized the word singular rather dampeningly, as though she’d committed some sin, when in fact all she’d done was live alone. She bit back a retort. It didn’t make any difference what he thought of her, she told herself as she followed him back into her bedchamber.
Rexford’s face was ashen, his jaw clenched tightly against the pain. Beggs looked up, then shook his head. “’E ain’t having no more o’ the medicine, missus. I told ’im—”
“Nonsense,” she cut in shortly. Reaching for the bottle that the doctor had set out on the table, she unstoppered it and started to measure some into an empty cup.
“No,” the earl gritted out.
“Don’t be foolish,” she chided him. “You will need it.”
“Don’t be wifely,” he shot back. Even as he said it, he winced visibly. “I don’t want anything.”
“’E’s a stubborn man, ’e is,” Tittle maintained stoutly.
“We have already been through this more times than I care to count,” Alstead muttered. “Man’s an obstreperous fool, if you’d have my opinion of him.”
“But why?” she persisted, her eyes on Rexford. “Without it, you will be in agony, sir.”
For a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, then reopened them as though his will could somehow master pain. “Because,” he rasped out, “I have seen too many dosed into oblivion who have wakened with one less limb.”
“You’ll be damned sorry, but who am I to tell a nob like yourself how you ought to go on.” Taking out a knife, the doctor shrugged, then nodded to the coachmen. “Hold him down like I told you, boys. If he screams, don’t let him go, particularly not if you are the one as is holding his leg.”
“I got ’im,” Beggs promised. “’E ain’t movin’ none.”
“See as he stays that way.” Alstead handed Charlotte his surgeon’s bag. “Keep it near and open, ’tis all I ask. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
He lifted the sheet off Rexford’s broken leg, studied it appraisingly for a moment, then exhaled heavily. After casting one last warning look at Beggs, he went to work, slitting the flesh next to the exposed bone. The earl gasped audibly, stiffened reflexively, and bit his lip, drawing blood. At first, Charlotte thought he’d fainted, but the determined clench of his jaw told her he hadn’t.
“Snapped like a stick,” Alstead muttered. “Bring the lamp closer, will you?”
“Aye, guv’nor,” Tittle responded promptly.
Charlotte kept her eyes on the break, watching as the elderly physician matched the sharp edges, joined them together, dug beneath to wrap some sort of cord around them, then finished by dusting the whole with basilicum powder. With each move he made, the muscles of Rexford’s calf jerked, but Alstead did not seem bothered by it. Finally, he turned around and ordered curtly, “The threaded needle.”
“Where?”
“In the pouch.”
She found it and gave it to him. Despite unsteady hands, he managed to take neat stitches, pulling the torn flesh together, closing the wound over his handiwork. It wasn’t until he straightened up that she breathed her relief.
“Gor blimey!” Billy said. “Where’d ye learn ter do that?”
“In the colonies.”
“Eh?”
Alstead looked across at him. “I served as surgeon under Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne ere you were breeched, boy.”
“You was in the army?” Thomas asked, awed.
“Aye. Counter to recent opinion, Napoleon did not invent war nor the means to man’s destruction,” the old man reminded him dryly. “In my time, it was the damned rebels in America.”
“What did you use to hold the bone, sir?” Charlotte wanted to know.
“Gut—boiled gut.” Wiping his hands on his surgeon’s apron, he returned his attention to Rexford. “Now let us look at that head. A few stitches there, and I am on my way.” He nodded significantly, prompting the two coachmen to ease the earl onto the unaffected side. His tension gone, he began to whistle “God Save the King” rather tunelessly as he sewed. “There,” he declared finally. “Gently put him down, boys.”
The earl’s eyes remained closed, his forehead wet with perspiration. “If the leg don’t fester, you’ll keep it. As for the head, the wound’s in the hair, so you’ll remain a handsome enough devil,” Alstead told him. “Miss Winslow ought to be able to tend the dressing. If naught’s amiss and I’m not called back ere then, I’ll come day after next to look at my work. I’ve told this fellow”—he pointed to Billy—“how to make a crutch. Ever use one before?”
“Yes.” Rexford’s voice was scarce above a whisper. “When I was wounded before.”
“Aye, I saw where the ball took part of the muscle. Guess bullets don’t know the difference between a nob and anybody else, eh?” When the earl didn’t answer, Alstead went on explaining, “If the leg is hot or if you are fevered, Miss Winslow is to send for me immediately.” He leaned over Rexford’s face. “No hill too high for a man as was shot at Salamanca, eh?”
“No.”
“Demned fortunate you didn’t bleed to death in Spain, you know. That ball couldn’t have missed the artery by more’n an inch.” Turning to take his bag, he added, “You’d best pay Miss Winslow to keep you, for it’ll be weeks ere you ought to travel. And I daresay the foolish creature hasn’t a feather to fly with, as the saying goes. Can’t be much to be made in drawing pictures, after all.”
She felt the heat rise to her face. “Oh, but I assure you—”
“Pride don’t fill stomachs, missy,” Alstead snapped. “And from all I’ve heard, he’s got gold to spare. Yes, well, that’s all I can think of just now.”
Rexford took a deep breath, then exhaled. “My thanks,” he managed tiredly.
The doctor looked to Charlotte. “He’ll take the laudanum I’m leaving for him now, no doubt about it. Eight drops in half a glass of water whenever he asks for it until tomorrow. Then no more than six and be sparing with it—four times to the day at most.”
“And the dressing? You mentioned I would be tending the dressing,” she reminded him.
“Oh, aye. Change it daily, and wrap clean linen loosely around it. Don’t cut off any circulation. Tie it so as two fingers can be got between the string and the dressing. When you take one off, wash the wound with good soap, and be sure to keep it dry with basilicum. All there is to it.” He glanced down at the earl again. “Keep him quiet—gruel today, food tomorrow. If you are wishful of it, I can send Mrs. Adams from the village for propriety.”
“I scarce think him in any condition to compromise anyone,” she responded dryly. “And I am not at all sure she would wish to come here.”
“Humph! For a look at an earl, she might.” Turning away, he rearranged the contents of his bag, then snapped it shut. “I am leaving another nightshirt on the chair. ’
Tis too wide and too short, but it’ll do for now. Well, you got these boys as can help you with him, I suppose, though where you are to put them, I don’t know.”
“There is a feather mattress on the truckle, or I might sleep in the other room on a chair.”
He started to leave. “Give you one thing, Miss Winslow,” he shot over his shoulder, “you never flinched so much as an inch.”
“I shall choose to take that as a compliment.”
“Meant it so.” Alstead hesitated. “You know, with the least encouragement, you could bring Raggett up to scratch…fellow’s not put off by your pictures.”
“Oh?”
“Told Mrs. Adams you are still a fine-looking female, Miss Winslow. Though what he’s to think of having Rexford here—”
“Mr. Raggett and I should not suit,” she interrupted him hastily. “Indeed, but we have scarce spoken.”
In the other room, she retrieved Alstead’s spattered greatcoat for him, then saw him to the door. As he was about to open it, Rexford’s coachmen emerged from the sickroom.
“’E says as we are ter see ye ’ome,” Beggs told the doctor. “’E don’t want ye fallin’ over the cliff yerself.”
“Young man—”
“If ye was ter let me ’ave the ’orn lantern so’s we can get back, I’d bring it ter ye tomorrow,” Thomas added.
“Tomorrow’s today,” the old man muttered, then he relented. “But as the night’s half gone already, you’d might as well finish it at the Red Bull. If you haven’t the blunt, I’ll have the bill put down to Rexford.”
“But ’is lor’ship—”
“After eight more drops of laudanum, he’ll be beyond knowing, I expect.” The doctor jammed his hat over his unfashionably long white locks, then bowed slightly. “Goodnight, Miss Winslow.”
“Wait. I don’t suppose you could see that Mr. Beggs is able to engage a horse, could you?” As Alstead seemed taken aback, she explained, “Lord Rexford’s mother awaits him at Durham, and I’d have her know what has befallen him. Well, she must be worried, I should think.”
“Me?” Billy Beggs eyed her askance. “Ye don’t know ’er, do ye? Nay, but it ought ter be Mr. Tittle as goes,” he protested.
“And I thought ye was me friend,” Thomas said mournfully. “I ain’t going alone ter beard th’ dowager, I tell ye.”
“Well, someone ought to tell her he’s going to be all right,” she said, exasperated.
“I’ll see they get word to Lady Rexford,” the doctor assured her. “Goodnight again, Miss Winslow.”
She waited until the doctor’s tilbury was safely on the road, then she closed and latched the door. Alone now, she rubbed her arms against the chill air before moving to lay another log upon the fire. Poking it until it settled, she stood there, her hands outstretched, drawing warmth from the popping coals.
She supposed she ought to have welcomed another woman’s assistance, but there simply wasn’t any place to put Mrs. Adams. Indeed, if Rexford’s coachmen hadn’t gone with the doctor, she’d have had to put them on the floor.
She was tired, nearly too tired to sleep, and her mother’s clock chimed once. One o’clock, and she still had to give the earl his pain-killing medicine. And in a morning certain to come too soon, she had to finish Mr. Burleigh’s poster. Squaring her own aching shoulders, she walked into the bedchamber for one last look at Rexford.
He appeared to be asleep. In the faint light from the smoking cruzie, he seemed younger, more vulnerable than before. The shadows played tricks before her, obscuring the silver sprinkled in his dark hair, the lines at the corners of his lips and eyes. Unable to resist the temptation, she reached to brush at the unruly hair with her fingertips. His eyes opened, startling her. Embarrassed, she stepped back.
“I…uh, that is, I was wishful of seeing if you slept…or if you had decided to take the laudanum now.”
He stared up at her, his eyes betraying how much the leg throbbed. “No to both,” he muttered.
“You are fortunate to still have your leg, you know.”
“I’ll be thankful tomorrow.”
“Yes, well, if you are quite determined, I shall take my blanket and withdraw to the fire, my lord. Tomorrow, no doubt, either Mr. Beggs or Mr. Tittle will apprise your mother of the accident.”
“I don’t want to see her.”
There was such bitterness in his voice that she was momentarily taken aback. “But you were going to see her, weren’t you? I thought Mr. Beggs said—”
He passed a hand over his face, then shook his head tiredly. “I want her out of my house and my life. And I want her to take Sedgely and his simpering daughter with him.”
“Oh.”
Again he sucked in his breath and held it until he could speak over the pain. “My mother has misled them into thinking I wish to step into the damned parson’s mousetrap again,” he said finally. “Once burned, twice warned, isn’t it?”
“Never having been burned at all, I cannot say.” Feeling very awkward, she retreated. “If you do not mind it, I shall collect what I need and bid you good night, my lord.”
“Wait—”
“Yes?”
“I’d take water…without the laudanum.”
“Yes, of course.” Turning back, she quickly dipped water from a pitcher into a cup. Leaning over to lift his head with one hand, she gave him his drink with the other.
He swallowed, then lay back. “My thanks.”
She longed to ask him of his wife—if Lady Helena had been the beauty Miss March had reported. Instead, she reached for the blanket.
“God,” he muttered, “what a sinner I must’ve been to deserve this.”
“At least the Almighty saw fit to spare you the fate of your horses.”
“Are you always so cheerful?” he gibed.
“No. Sometimes I am positively blue-deviled. Sometimes I wish for things I cannot have. And sometimes I worry that Mr. Burleigh or Madame Cecile will not like what I have done for them. But in the end, the Almighty always provides.”
“Does He?”
“Perhaps not precisely in the manner I have wished,” she admitted, “but I have never gone hungry, nor have I had to endure the importunities foisted upon females in service.”
Bustling about the small room setting things right, she opened her cabinet and found her heavy woolen nightgown. Moving to her storage chest, she took out her last blanket. When she finally turned her attention back to him, it appeared as though he had dozed off.
“Good night, my lord,” she said softly.
He didn’t respond until she reached the door. “Wait,” he said again.
She stopped. “Did you need something else?”
“I don’t know what I need.”
“Oh.” Then the obvious dawned on her. “Would you like for me to leave the chamberpot on the table so you can reach it?” Even as she asked, she could feel her face redden. Before he could say anything, she drew the folded blanket and nightgown to her chest like a shield. “I assure you I shall try not to be missish in such matters.” Not daring to look at him, she reached beneath a corner of her bed and drew out the pot. Setting it beside him, she turned to leave again.
“You appear to be one of the few sensible females,” he murmured, smiling faintly.
“Well, as there is no chambermaid—nor any other servant, for that matter—I expect I haven’t much choice.”
“Alstead called you Miss Winslow.”
She had her hand on the doorknob. “Yes.”
“And you mentioned Buckley Hall.”
She felt her breath catch painfully. “It was my home—a long time ago, I lived there. My father was William Winslow.” When he said nothing, she blurted out, “I am sure you will not remember me, Lord Rexford, but we were briefly acquainted. I was—that is, I am Miss Winslow—Miss Charlotte Winslow, to be precise.”
Had he not been in such agony, he would have pursued the matter. He would have asked how she came to be alone in such a god
forsaken, isolated place, but he didn’t. “I see.”
“You can be forgiven for not remembering, for I have not been to London since—well, I have not been there in the past fifteen years. And the acquaintance was the merest one, I am sure. But you were quite kind, I recall.” She was rattling on, making a fool of herself, no doubt. “Yes, well, if I am to finish Mr. Burleigh’s poster, I really must get to bed. I shall leave the door open lest you need to call for me. Good night, sir.”
He stared after her, thinking he would ask more on the morrow. “Good night, Miss Winslow,” he murmured.
But long after she left, long after he no longer heard her moving about in the other room, he lay awake, fighting the throbbing in his leg. A clock struck three, and he began to wish he’d not refused the drug. But he wouldn’t give in and wake her. He closed his eyes and tried to think of anything, everything but the pain.
Fixing his thoughts on Charlotte Winslow, he considered where he’d last seen her. It could have been at one of Sally Jersey’s parties. No, it wasn’t. With an effort, he tried to remember how she looked then. As her image came to mind, he recalled his disappointment when she’d suddenly gone into mourning. He’d written his condolences to her, but there’d been no reply, indicating he’d been mistaken in her.
Fifteen years, she said. Then it dawned on him. He’d last seen her when Meg Conniston had come out in one of the grandest balls of that season.
Unable to stand the pulsing ache in his leg any longer, he turned his head and saw the laudanum bottle. And as much as he hated giving over to the nightmares that were certain to come with it, he reached for it. There was still a little water in his cup. He unstoppered the bottle and poured liberally from it. Putting it back, he swirled the dose, mixing it, then he gulped every last bit down.
The raging storm had abated, replaced by a cold, steady rain. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair and pulled the worn blanket closer. It was without doubt one of the longest nights of her life. She slept fitfully, dreaming wild, fanciful dreams where she was young and Rexford was still coming to drive her about the park. And her mother was vowing to buy her all manner of dresses, even a ballgown from Madame Cecile’s, saying it was no extravagance at all. Sarah and Kate were still at home, waiting eagerly to follow in her footsteps. And Papa was proud of her, so very proud of her.
