Jade Star

by Catherine Coulter

  “Not Thomas,” Samuel said. “He accompanied some of the wounded men to the hospital after I assured him you were all right. The black man, is that Thackery?”

  “Yes, it is. We’re not going to lose anybody, are we, Samuel?”

  “Perhaps the one man you did your damnedest to save. I’m not certain yet. Maybe old Bunker will escape with a clear conscience after all, but the foundry’s gone. Now, Saint, let’s get you home.”

  “Michael,” Jules said, her voice high and taut. “Yes, we must go. You’re going to catch a chill.”

  He turned at the sound of her voice and said very quietly, “Hush, sweetheart. Everything will be fine.”

  He paused a moment, squeezed his wife’s hand, heard her gulp down a sob.

  Dr. Samuel Pickett said quietly, “I’ve got my buggy. Mrs. Morris, stay with him until I bring it around.”

  24

  Jules was squeezing his hand so hard it hurt. If Saint had been able, he would have tried to reassure her. He said nothing. He was scared. The searing pain was lessening in his eyes, but he knew as well as Sam Pickett that even those pale flashes of white he’d seen briefly could fade forever, leaving him completely and forever blind. Dear God, a blind doctor would be good for absolutely nothing.

  The buggy lurched into a muddy rut, and he groaned, unable to keep it inside. He felt Jules lightly stroke her fingertips over his forehead and gently ease him a bit so that his head was firmly pillowed in her lap. He heard her say gently, “Everything will be fine, love, I promise.”

  He would have smiled, but it required all his concentration to control the damnable pain. She was sounding like him. Soothing and in control.

  The buggy finally came to a halt, and Sam’s voice said, “Mrs. Morris and I are going to help you down now, Saint. Just hang on a bit longer.”

  He said nothing, allowed them to assist him into the house. It seemed odd in the extreme to be stretched out on his own examining table.

  “Now, my boy, I’m going to take off the bandages. It’s likely that you’ve still got some fragments in your eyes, and I’ve got to get them out. Then . . .” Sam paused.

  “Then,” Saint finished, “we’ll bandage me back up and pray.”

  “Yes,” said Sam.

  Saint listened to Sam give Jules instructions, and forced himself to lie quietly. When Sam unwound the handkerchief about his eyes, he blinked and opened them.

  “Anything, Saint?”

  “Same as before. Pale white, like hoary ghosts from my boyhood, and that’s it.”

  “That’s as much as we can expect and you know it. You’ve got to hold very still now, as I’m certain you well know. Mrs. Morris, please hold his head very steady for me, and move that light closer.”

  Saint didn’t move, didn’t utter a sound when Sam, with a light touch he appreciated, removed more fragments from his eyes. “It looks to me like the cornea is cut, but of course that’s to be expected. As for retina damage, impossible to tell. Now, Saint, I’m going to wash out your eyes again.”

  “You didn’t tell me one damned story to keep my mind occupied,” Saint said when his eyes were firmly bandaged again.

  “I should have, I’m sorry,” Jules said, her voice stricken.

  “Don’t be a fool, Jules,” Saint said, turning toward the sound of her voice. “It was Sam’s duty, not yours.”

  “Mrs. Morris,” Sam Pickett said, “would you please fetch your husband some tea?”

  Saint frowned at that, but bided his time, hearing Jules’s skirt swish against a chair as she left the room. Strange, he thought, he’d never noticed that sound before.

  “How much pain, Saint?” Sam asked immediately.

  “Enough. A bit of laudanum in the tea, Sam?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to worry your wife. She’s being a big help, Saint. Does she assist you with your patients?”

  “No,” Saint said slowly. “At least she hasn’t in the past. We haven’t been married all that long.”

  “I see. Do you agree that the bandage should stay in place for three days?”

  “Sounds reasonable. Then we’ll see, won’t we?” Saint sighed, grinning crookedly at his words. “At least I hope I’ll see.”

  “If not then,” Sam said, “we’ll keep your eyes bandaged another four or five days.”

  They were talking about canes when Jules came into the surgery, balancing a tray on her arms.

  “Just a bit, Saint,” Sam said, pouring laudanum into the teacup.

  Jules watched him silently. She knew Michael would never tell her if he were in pain. He was a man, and for some reason unknown and not understood by her, men thought it weak to admit to anything less than perfection. She desperately wanted to talk to Dr. Pickett about his eyes, and she suspected that they’d had a frank discussion while she, weak woman, had been in the kitchen.

  She would ask Michael.

  “Now, Mrs. Morris,” Sam said to her with a kindly smile, “why don’t you help me get this giant upstairs to his bed. He needs a lot of rest, and after working with you, ma’am, I think you can handle him quite well.”

  Saint frowned at that, but said nothing. The moment he began walking, the pain seared his eyes. He knew they were red and puffy.

  Sam helped Jules undress him. He was nearly asleep by the time he was on his back in bed. “Thanks, Sam,” he said.

  “See you in the morning, Saint,” Sam said, nodded to Jules, and took his leave.

  Even with his senses dulled, Saint heard Jules undressing. He wanted to tell her that he would be all right, but the words faded from his mind. He was asleep when she leaned over him and gently kissed him.

  Jules sighed at the sound of knocking on the front door, and trotted down the stairs. The stream of visitors, all of them worried about her husband, had been steady, giving her little time to brood, which was probably just as well. Lydia was baking in the kitchen, for each guest must be offered food and drink.

  Jules opened the door.

  “Hello. I’m Jane Branigan. I heard about Saint. You are Mrs. Morris?”

  She’s lovely, Jules thought. Jane Branigan, tall, voluptuous, glossy black hair. “Yes,” she said. “Please call me Jules. Come in, ma’am. Saint is awake. A lot of friends have been here.”

  Jane had managed to quash the jealousy in her worry about Saint. But now, faced by this vibrant girl, she felt herself grow cold. She told herself yet again that it was over, had been over for quite some time. She was now a friend, no more, no less.

  “If I could see him for just a few minutes,” she said.

  “Certainly,” Jules said, stepping back.

  She wanted to dog Mrs. Branigan’s heels, but held herself back. No, the woman wanted to see her husband alone. So be it.

  Saint felt a cool, soft hand on his forehead.

  “Jules?”

  “No, Saint, me, Jane Branigan. Your . . . wife is downstairs. The boys send their love, of course. I just wanted to assure myself that you would be all right.”

  Because it was Jane, because he’d forced himself to provide optimism to all his friends during the day, because he was scared and angry and trusted her, he said bluntly, “I don’t know, Jane. My poor wife just might find herself saddled with a damned cripple. God, I could become some sort of institution. People could say, ‘Yes, there’s poor old Saint, blind as a bat, you know, but tells great stories. Give him a few pennies and he’ll talk as long as you want.’ Shit!”

  Jane understood, but she refused to pity him, at least not now. She said, her voice laced with humor, “Don’t forget that those people could also demand medical advice. I can just hear old Limpin’ Willie saying, ‘Saint, bless him! Told me to lance the boil on my leg, and I did, and my leg rotted off!’ ”

  “Damn you, Jane!”

  Jane felt tears sting her eyes, and leaned over without thought and hugged him close. “You’ll be all right, my dear, you’ll see. I mean that literally.”

  Jules stood in the doorway, a surge of evi
l jealousy washing through her. Slowly she backed up, and returned downstairs to the kitchen.

  Saint hugged Jane, a reluctant laugh emerging from his throat. “As I said, damn you, Jane. You don’t let a fellow bitch at all, do you?”

  “You complain all you like, but you know very well that pity is the last thing you need.”

  “Jane, be kind to Jules. I think she’s very afraid, but of course she’s a chattering, optimistic little bird around me.”

  Jane was silent for a long moment. In truth, though, it was a brief war. She said, “I suggest you give her a bit more credit, Saint. She is your wife. Now I must go. I will come back, tomorrow perhaps.”

  “Jane?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks.”

  Jane was relieved that he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes. She met Jules in the downstairs entranceway. “Thank you, my dear,” she said. “I’ll leave you now. You must be exhausted.”

  “Yes,” Jules said in a rush, unable to hate this woman, “it has been mad all day, and Michael needs to rest. I don’t know what to do!”

  “You give the orders, that’s what you do,” said Jane. “Let him complain and snap, but you do know what’s best for him. Good luck.”

  And she was gone, leaving Jules to stare thoughtfully at the closed front door. She’s right, Jules thought, perfectly right!

  “Lydia!” she called, her shoulders back, her chin up.

  Saint heard her light footfall on the stairs. “Jules,” he said. “Wasn’t that the front door? Who’s here?”

  “Who was here. It was Horace and Agatha Newton. They’ll return tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “I told them you needed rest. They understood and send their love.”

  “I’m the doctor,” he said, stiffening. “I think I’m well able to decide when I need rest and when I don’t!”

  “I brought you some tea and fresh sponge cake Lydia just baked,” Jules said, her voice calm, soothing.

  He wanted to strike out. “Dammit, Jules! Don’t you dare treat me like a mewling child!”

  “Here, love. Drink this.”

  He did, with ill grace. Jules sat on the side of the bed, studying his face. “I’ll shave you, if you like,” she said, gently stroking her fingers over the stubble on his cheeks.

  He grunted.

  She leaned down and kissed him. “I love you, Michael. After you’ve rested, I’ll give you a bath. That you should like,” she added, her voice as wicked as she could manage.

  “You want to beautify me so you can have your way with me,” he grumbled.

  “Yes,” she said. “And I can do whatever I wish to you, and you’ll not gainsay me.”

  “Dear God, a blind man dying from overexertion. Wife takes revenge on blind husband. I think I’ll give Tony Dawson some headlines for the Alta for when I expire.”

  Jules smiled down at him, noticing the slurring of his words as the laudanum took effect. He would sleep a good four hours, Sam had assured her. And he needed the rest. The best thing for him, she knew. His eyes would heal. She would make them heal.

  * * *

  Jules held his hand as Sam unwound the bandages. “Keep your eyes closed, Saint, until I tell you otherwise.”

  “Doctors,” Saint said in disgust.

  “Now, very slowly, open your eyes.”

  He did. He was praying, hard. Nothing but the same shadowy pale white light. He wanted to curse and cry. He swallowed, knowing Jules and Sam both were holding their breath.

  “Just the lights,” he said. “I guess I need more time to heal. Another week, Sam?”

  Sam was bitterly disappointed, but not overly surprised. He’d seen quite a bit of damage in the cornea. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Jules, as he now called her. She was a strong girl, and he knew she was silent because she would refuse to cry.

  “Yes,” he said calmly, “let’s give it another seven days. Is the light any clearer?”

  “No, just pale and hazy.”

  “Hold very still. I want to take another look to make sure all the fragments are out.”

  Jules was fighting the lump in her throat. He doesn’t need you to burst into tears like a silly ninny, she told herself firmly. Don’t you dare!

  “Looks good to me,” Sam said. “Any pain?”

  “No.”

  “Back on with the bandage.” Sam looked at Jules. He stretched out his hand and took hers, squeezing it hard. “Why don’t you put it on, Jules? You’ve a light, sure touch.”

  It gave her mind direction, focus. She smiled at Sam, looking up for his approval as she fastened the bandage. He nodded.

  “We’ve seen little of Thomas,” Saint said, then laughed roughly at his choice of verbs.

  “I’ve got the boy working hard, as you can well imagine. He’ll be a fine doctor someday, Saint, a fine doctor.” He added a moment later, after sending an assessing look toward Jules, “He’s got grit, just like your wife here. Yes, indeed. Seems to me, Saint, that not all your patients need to come to me. Lord knows I’m old and tired! Perhaps Jules here could examine some of them, and you could tell her what to do. What do you think, Jules?”

  “I think that’s a fine idea.”

  “Good, I’ll spread the word.”

  When Jules returned to the surgery, she stopped cold in the doorway. Saint had gotten off the examining table and was feeling his way toward her. He bumped his leg against a chair and cursed.

  “To your right, about a foot away,” she said in a calm, clear voice, “is your drug cabinet. If you walk straight, you’ll come right to me.”

  He wanted to yell at her that she was a stupid twit and that every goddamned thing in the world was nothing but black, impenetrable black. He said instead, “Keep talking. Balance is still difficult.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” Jules said. “You’re doing fine, Michael.” She swallowed convulsively, and forced some wickedness into her voice. “As you come straight at me, stretch our your hands. But not too far apart, mind!”

  That did make him smile, a bit.

  “Now, lower your arms, Michael.”

  He did, and encountered her breasts. He stood quietly a moment, concentrating on the shape of her. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and Jules moved quickly into his arms.

  He felt her cheek nuzzling his shoulder, felt her slender arms tighten about his back.

  “I’m glad you’re my wife, Jules, but dammit, it’s not fair to you and—”

  She clasped her hands behind his back and squeezed as hard as she could. “If you finish that thought, you will make me very angry. Now, do you promise?”

  “Promise what?” he asked, resting his chin on the top of her head.

  “Are you truly glad I’m your wife?”

  Her voice was muffled, and he wished more than anything that he could see her face at that moment. Her expressions were so open, at least to him. Now, he thought, he had to rely on the nuances in her speech. “Yes,” he said.

  “And can we work together with patients?”

  Pleading, he thought. It was important to her, and, he realized, it wasn’t such a bad idea for him. It would certainly keep his mind occupied.

  “We’ll try,” he said.

  But it wasn’t Dr. Pickett who sent them their first patient, it was Limpin’ Willie.

  “Me name’s Ryan,” the huge, shaggy man said, standing in the doorway, his black felt hat in his hands.

  “Do come in, Mr. Ryan,” Jules said. “Come into the surgery. I’ll fetch my husband.

  “Limpin’ Willie told me he’d rather come to you, no matter you can’t see nothing.”

  Saint smiled. “Tell me what’s wrong, Ryan.”

  “I got meself pounded on the back of the head a couple of hours ago.”

  Saint wasn’t about to ask how the pounding had come about. Ryan sounded every bit as much of a villain as any other Sydney Duck. He asked instead, “Any dizziness?”

  “Yep, a bit. When I walk.”

/>   “Any blurred vision?”

  Ryan thought about this for a while, then nodded.

  “Yes, Michael,” Jules said for him.

  “All right. Sit still now, Ryan. Mrs. Morris is going to hold up a finger. First follow it to the right, then to the left . . .”

  Jules was scared to death that she wasn’t following Michael’s instructions exactly right. After each test, Jules told him the result.

  Saint said finally, “Sounds to me like you got yourself a concussion, Ryan. Now, here’s what you’re to do. I don’t want you to be alone for another twenty-four hours. When you sleep, have someone with you, have them wake you every four hours and ask you who you are and where you are. That’s just to make sure that your brains aren’t addled. Then . . .”

  After the grateful Ryan had taken his leave, pressing money into Jules’s hand, she returned to the surgery, a wide smile on her face. The smile dropped away when she realized Saint couldn’t see it.

  “This,” she announced, “is the first money I’ve ever earned in my entire life. Fifty dollars, Michael!”

  He heard the excitement in her voice and said, “Come here so I can congratulate you.”

  He drew her down onto his lap. “Well done, sweetheart.”

  “We’re a good team, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” he said slowly, “I think we are.”

  “Michael?”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know if I can stitch somebody. I think I’d throw up all over them, and that wouldn’t be very reassuring for the patient, would it?”

  “We’ll see,” he said. “And now, wife, I think what I would like to do is spend the next hours upstairs studying your body with my hands.”

  “Oh,” Jules said.

  “Do you know,” Saint said a few minutes later in their bedroom, “I can hear you take off each item. You’re only in your chemise now, aren’t you?”

  He heard a whisper of a sound, and grinned. “Lord, now my imagination is becoming overworked. Come here, Jules.”

  He was still completely dressed, but Jules didn’t hesitate. She felt an odd kind of excitement as he lightly began to touch her.