by Dorothy Mack
“But Miss, the other Miss, I mean, said the gen’lman was her betrothed!” blurted Sukey.
“He is that too,” agreed Vicky in equable tones that revealed nothing of her newborn impulse to box Drucilla’s ears for her loose tongue. “He was escorting us to my home when we were set upon by a highwayman. Both my coachman and Mr. Massingham were shot by the thief in the course of the robbery.”
A wide-eyed Sukey shuddered and exclaimed in sympathetic horror, but her mother remained unmoved by the afflicting tale. Her snapping black eyes narrowed to slits. “Did he take all your money and valuables?”
Miss Seymour blinked at the question that hissed out like steam escaping from a valve. “Why, yes, he —”
“Then how do you figure to pay the doctor? Dr. Jamison isn’t one to offer his services for nothing.” Mrs. Tolliver’s jaw took on a belligerent line, and Vicky saw it was her own charges the woman was concerned with. For an instant, her mind went blank; then a picture of the highwayman bending over his victim, about to search his pockets, flashed into her head. It would be she who would relieve Mr. Massingham of his purse tonight, in a good cause, she decided, and hoped devoutly that it wasn’t empty.
“The thief did not have time to rob Mr… my cousin before he rode off,” she explained with dignity. “We shall use his funds until a message can be gotten to my servants, who will dispatch whatever is necessary tomorrow.”
“Why did he lope off without he took everything?” persisted Mrs. Tolliver, whose suspicions had not been entirely laid to rest by this reassurance.
“I shot him.”
Vicky’s terse statement reflected both her impatience with the conversation and a desire for silence to confirm the noises her alert ears had picked up that could mean an imminent arrival. Let it be the doctor, she prayed silently, aware all at once of how tensely she had been waiting for some indication of this anticipated event. The landlady’s dropped jaw made no impression on her consciousness as she half-rose, her hands gripping the arms of the chair to hold herself suspended in place until the opening of the door into the taproom released her.
At first glance, the man who stalked into the room was not particularly prepossessing. The doctor, immediately identifiable as such by the shabby bag he dropped onto the floor with a thud, was an irascible-looking man of middle height and middle years. He removed his hat, revealing an untidy shock of greying red hair, and fixed the landlady with a pair of bulbous but piercing blue eyes. “What’s all this nonsense about a dying man in a ducal carriage to drag a man away from his own fire in the middle of the night?”
Having ascertained a few minutes earlier that it was not quite nine o’clock by the tiny watch on her dress that had escaped the highwayman’s notice, Vicky decided to ignore that complaint as she spoke up quickly. “My name is Victoria Seymour and it was I who sent for you, Dr. Jamison. I don’t understand the part about the ducal carriage and I earnestly trust that my cousin is not dying, but he has been shot by a highwayman in the left thigh, and I fear there is also a head injury. My coachman has been wounded too, but in his case the bullet went clean through his arm.”
The doctor had now divested himself of gloves and overcoat, which he tossed carelessly over the back of a chair, not even noticing when the gloves followed the law of gravity and slid promptly to the floor. He concentrated that disconcerting stare on Miss Seymour for an instant, then his eyes left hers to travel around the room. Correctly interpreting this rather odd behaviour, Sukey retrieved his medical bag and placed it in his hands. She also deposited the gloves in a pocket in his greatcoat.
“There’s a good girl,” he murmured absently before turning to head for the stairs, still without having addressed a single word to Miss Seymour. After a startled pause, she followed him, determined not to allow herself to be treated as though she were invisible or incompetent. It would have been beneath her dignity to race him up the stairs, which was the only way she could reach the door first, but she was hard on his heels as he walked into the correct room without the formality of knocking. She had been expecting an inquiry as to the location of the patients, and now stood stock-still, seething with indignation at the thought that he might just as easily have invaded the room housing Drucilla and Lily. Rousing herself almost immediately, she entered the sickroom behind him.
“What kept you?” remarked the doctor, but since he didn’t even favour her with a brief glance this time as he muttered a greeting to the landlord and Amos before advancing on the bed, she declined to answer the taunt, remaining quietly just inside the door, where she could not be considered in anyone’s way. This effacement didn’t last long, however. The doctor had scarcely bent over his patient before he demanded, “Bring those lights closer.”
Mr. Tolliver, who was positioned on the opposite side of the bed, removed the lamp from the bedside table and held it over Mr. Massingham. Miss Seymour’s eyes located the branch of candles on a stand near Amos’ cot and she brought it to the doctor’s side, going past him to the head of the bed.
“Don’t drip any of that tallow on him,” growled Dr. Jamison, not looking up. “Nasty-smelling stuff.”
Miss Seymour accepted this unnecessary stricture in silence, her eyes following every movement of the doctor’s hands as he checked the patient’s pupils, then unwound the makeshift bandage and felt the lump at the back of his head. The silence in the room lengthened as he next proceeded to count the pulse.
“When did all this carnage occur?” he inquired, indicating that he now wished the light to be moved lower while he examined the gunshot wound.
“About seven,” put in Amos from his dark corner.
The doctor grunted an acknowledgement and proceeded to pull back the bedcovers to expose the loosely covered thigh wound, with, obviously, no thought expended on the subject of propriety. He took his time about it, using those long strong fingers to probe the entire area, which was swollen rather badly by now.
“Missed the kneecap, at least, for one small blessing, but the bullet will have to come out tonight. I’ll want hot water, plenty of it, and some clean bowls. I’ll use that table for my instruments —” nodding toward the bedside table — “and I’ll want both of you to help.” The doctor paused in his search through his bag and again subjected Miss Seymour to that electric blue gaze.
“I’ll help you, sir.” This from Amos, who had dragged himself off his cot and was approaching the centre of the room.
“Not you, old man. Get back there. I’ll attend to you while Septimus here sees to the water and bowls.” The doctor’s eyes never left Miss Seymour’s and she met the challenge coolly, calling over to Amos that she would assist Dr. Jamison. She came up behind him with the candles when he made his examination of Amos’ wound. “You’ll do,” he asserted briskly, binding up the arm with a roll of bandage taken from his kit. “Keep it covered, keep it clean, and don’t use it for a few days. It’s going to ache like the devil for a time, so have the lady make you a sling tomorrow.”
Vicky smiled at Amos, then fixed him with a warning eye before turning to the doctor to ask, “What about my cousin, Dr. Jamison?”
“Can’t say yet. He’s concussed for certain, but he seems to have the constitution of an ox. He’ll need it, too. That bullet’s in deep.”
At that moment, Mr. Tolliver returned carrying a large kettle of steaming water. He was trailed by Sukey with an assortment of bowls, and the operation commenced with the doctor rattling off a spate of instructions to his staff. Mr. Tolliver set the table on the other side of the bed and poured water into the bowls provided before taking up his stance once again with the lamp. Miss Seymour brought the candle stand over to the bed to set the candlestick on, since the doctor wanted her hands free.
“What is that solution?” she inquired, watching him spill something into one of the bowls.
“Liquid soap,” he answered shortly, dumping a number of instruments into the same bowl. He paused in washing his hands and looked up at her again. “Do you h
ave a strong stomach? I’ll be too busy to pick you up off the floor.”
Miss Seymour handed him one of the linen towels from the towel stand by the dresser. “You needn’t worry about me, doctor,” she replied in level tones backed more by pride and ignorance than confidence.
The next half-hour tried that pride to the limit and banished ignorance forever. She was kept busy swabbing blood and handing over instruments to the surgeon, her movements impeded by the constant necessity to keep herself out of the field of light, inadequate as it was. For the most part, Dr. Jamison worked in silence, apart from snapped orders, but when the carefully uncovered bullet resisted his initial efforts to extract it, his muttered oaths, because more intelligible, proved almost as horrifying as the thief’s, even for a girl who had spent every allowable moment of her childhood in the vicinity of the stables. She recognised with reluctant charity that he was totally unaware of her existence as a female, so concentrated was his attention on the task at hand. He was perspiring freely, and she nipped in to wipe his forehead with a towel when he raised an arm to use his sleeve.
“Thank you.”
The short phrase of appreciation and a dawning sense that she was really proving of assistance in a vital and difficult task helped her to triumph over the persistent queasiness aroused by the sight of the open wound and the reluctance of the body to render up the foreign element that had invaded it. She had felt the tremor that had shaken Mr. Massingham’s form at the unsuccessful probe. Fear and sympathy for his possible suffering joined nausea. Her hand holding the swab shook so badly that the doctor snapped at her with a brutal callousness that shocked protests from Mr. Tolliver and Amos.
“It’s all right; I’m all right. Go ahead,” she said, steady once again, unaware that her teeth were gripping her lower lip with excessive force until she tasted the sickish sweetness of blood. Her concentration on the field of operation nearly equalled the doctor’s at that moment. He must get it out soon; already Mr. Massingham showed signs of thrashing about, and his breathing was harsher than ever.
“Hold that leg steady.”
She dropped the swab and did as commanded, using all her strength to prevent movement as Dr. Jamison tried for a better purchase on the bullet. Fortunately this effort proved successful, because Vicky had never felt more physically depleted in her life. She continued to follow the doctor’s orders while he cleaned and bandaged the wound, but her motions were slow and mechanical now.
“Here, miss, you sit down in this chair. I’ll do the cleaning up,” said Mr. Tolliver, setting down the lamp he had held so uncomplainingly during the entire operation. He brought the room’s solitary chair, an armless example of carved dark wood from an earlier period, over to the fireplace and half-led Miss Seymour to it. “You look plumb tuckered, and small wonder at it, the way you pitched in and helped the doctor as if you was born to it, and all the time the poor gen’lman here was your own cousin. I call that right spunky, I do.”
Miss Seymour scarcely made sense of the rambling discourse of the admiring landlord, but the doctor’s gruff admission that she “hadn’t proved entirely useless” was a magnificent concession indeed. She summoned up a weak smile for both as she half-collapsed onto the hard seat.
“What you want is some brandy, Miss Vicky. It’ll set you up again.” This from Amos.
“We could all benefit from that prescription,” agreed the doctor, who was drying his instruments on the towel.
“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d liefer down a glass of daffy.”
“I can’t guarantee the medicinal properties of gin,” replied the doctor with a faint smile in Amos’ direction, “but the narcotic effect should be equal.” He nodded to the landlord, who had looked a question, and Mr. Tolliver departed to fill their requests.
“No brandy for me, thank you.” Vicky concealed a yawn behind her hand. “I just want to sleep. It’s been a hideously long day; in fact, it’s been a hideous day without qualification. Ohh!” She turned toward the surgeon, who had gone back to his patient’s side. “I was forgetting poor Mr… my poor cousin! He’ll require someone to sit with him, of course. If Mrs. Tolliver would be so kind as to make me some coffee, I shall do very well.” She eased her stiff body out of the chair and approached the bed. “How is he?”
The doctor was frowning down at the still face of his patient, colourless beneath a summer tan. “The pulse rate has slowed down, he’s comfortable at the moment, but that leg is going to ache like hell presently.” He made no apology for his language, and Vicky expected none.
“Will he sleep through the night? Is he asleep at all, or is this state some kind of coma?” she asked anxiously.
“Time will tell.”
There was no opportunity to question the doctor further, for Mr. Tolliver returned at that moment with a tray containing clanking glasses. Amos had his gin and water while the others sipped brandy, Miss Seymour under the doctor’s compulsion.
Mr. Tolliver wouldn’t hear of her sitting up all night with the patient, but when she reminded him that he had duties to perform in the morning, they compromised, dividing the watch into two shifts of four hours. Having obtained a promise that he would wake her at three AM., Vicky ordered Amos to go directly to sleep, thanked the doctor for his services, paid him from a dismayingly small supply of coins in Mr. Massingham’s purse, and bade them all a relieved goodnight.
As the door closed behind her, Mr. Tolliver raised his half-empty glass in tribute. “There goes a real lady.”
“Aye, she’s a good ’un clean through, a spirited filly and tough to break to bridle at times, but she’s a thoroughbred.” Amos was unstinting in his praise of his mistress as he settled himself for the night.
The doctor conceded that the lady was less squeamish than the majority of her sex and went on to give instructions to the innkeeper regarding his patients.
In the other room, Vicky saw by the light of the candle Mr. Tolliver had given her that Lily had laid out her night things, but she did no more than remove her dress and the pins that anchored her heavy hair on top of her head to relieve the dull ache she had been conscious of for the past hour before crawling into the big bed beside Drucilla and falling instantly asleep.
CHAPTER 5
It seemed no more than a moment later that Miss Seymour became aware of someone speaking her name. The voice was unfamiliar, soft but insistent, and she struggled up from the depths to respond, focusing her eyes with difficulty on the dark figure outlined in the dim light coming from behind a half-opened door.
“Yes?” The word was no more than a mumbled sigh, and the figure shifted its weight from one foot to the other and said apologetically, “You asked me to call you in four hours, ma’am. It’s just gone three.”
“Oh, Mr. Tolliver! Thank you, I’ll be there in one moment.” Awareness swept over Miss Seymour like an incoming tide, and she was swinging her legs out of bed almost before the landlord withdrew from the doorway. Fortunately he had left the door ajar so that she was able to scramble into her discarded travelling dress without bothering to kindle a light. The dress buttoned down the front, which was a distinct advantage also, but luck deserted her when she attempted to locate the pins she had removed from her hair before going to bed. Her searching fingers running over the top of the chest of drawers swept the small pile to the floor. An impatient exclamation was bitten off in mid-utterance as Lily stirred in her cot. Miss Seymour, on her hands and knees in front of the chest, raised her head from an unsuccessful hunt in the shadows. No further movement ensued from either sleeping girl, but she got to her feet awkwardly, abandoning the search after recovering just two pins. She seized the hairbrush from the top of the chest and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her and blinking in the lamplight issuing from across the hall.
Mr. Tolliver was waiting for her beside the bed.
“How is he?” she whispered, noting with approval that the landlord had placed a screen so that the light would not shine directly on
the patient.
“He’s been asleep the whole time,” replied Mr. Tolliver after a brief hesitation, “but to my mind it’s not as deep as it was at first. He’s moving about restless-like, and I’m not sure but what he may be coming over feverish.”
Miss Seymour heard him with a dismay she attempted to conceal. “Is there anything for him to drink if he should waken?”
“Just water.” He nodded toward a cracked pitcher on the bedside table. “Perhaps I’d best stay here with him, miss. He might be more than you could deal with if he wakes up from all that thrashing about.”
“No, Mr. Tolliver. You must have your rest. I’ll manage nicely.” Vicky’s firm confident tones, assumed for the innkeeper’s benefit, had the desired effect, and he went off to his bed after extracting a promise that she would call him if she required assistance.
More than once during the next several hours Vicky was on the point of seeking aid. For a short initial period Mr. Massingham remained asleep, though not quietly so. Miss Seymour was able to check that Amos was quite comfortable, snoring gently away in his corner, and she took a couple of logs from the small woodpile to the mouth of the fireplace to simplify that chore when it should become necessary to build up the fire which Mr. Tolliver had replenished before leaving. There was time to brush her sleep-ruffled hair smooth, though with only two pins she could do no more than confine its heavy length insecurely behind each ear. This accomplished, her eyes travelled around the room, taking inventory of its contents — a simple room, austere in its furnishings, but clean and, thanks to Mr. Tolliver’s efforts, warm at present. There was only one window in the room, on the wall opposite the fireplace. She drifted over to it, moved aside the chintz curtain to peer out. The rain had stopped earlier and now the night sky was filled with stars, though a misty cloud, a mere veil of vapour, trailed across the moon. A sound from the room brought her attention sharply back to the man writhing about on the big bed. Hastily she dropped the curtain and went to him.