by Farr, Diane
Natalie hopped off the mount with what dignity she could muster, nodded to the vicar’s wife, and sailed past the throng into the inn. She could hear the avid whispers follow her: “... nearest neighbor, after all ... been very kind to the little girl, from what I hear ... they do say as he fancies her ... poor thing, did you see her face? ...”
She closed the door and shut the whispers out, then paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. No one had met her, and no one came to usher her in. Indeed, the entire ground floor appeared to be deserted. Overhead, however, she could hear footsteps and low, urgent voices. She climbed the stairs, afraid to call out for fear she would disturb Sarah, and fearing what she would find when she reached the upper chambers.
At the top of the stairs she saw that one of the chamber doors was open. From within, she heard Nurse’s authoritative voice. “Whatever you do, don’t jostle her. That rag will have warmed by now, my lord. Dip it again. Wring it out, but not too much. Tsk! I’ll do it. Hold her hand, sir—gently, now. No movement. That’s right.”
Natalie tiptoed to the open door. Sarah lay on a narrow bed by the window. Malcolm huddled on a stool between the window and the bed, his tall form folded nearly in half to accommodate the lowness of his perch. All his attention was fixed on his child, stretched motionless before him. His face was nearly as white as Sarah’s, his expression grim. He held her little hand as gently as if it were made of eggshell. Nurse was briskly wringing out a cloth she had just dipped in a basin of cold water. The innkeeper’s wife hovered nearby, looking helpless.
As Nurse laid the cloth gently on Sarah’s head, Natalie heard a thin whimper. Sarah must be conscious. Thank you, Lord.
“May I help?” she asked quietly.
Malcolm’s eyes lifted to hers immediately, filled with a relief and gratitude that pierced her all the way across the room. Even in her anxiety for Sarah, she felt a rush of gladness. She was right to have come.
Nurse glanced at her only long enough to give her a brisk nod. “Come you in, Natalie child. I’ll be grateful for another pair of hands.” In an access of tact, she turned to the innkeeper’s wife. “I’m sure you’ve other matters to tend, Mrs. Hubble, but we’d be grateful if you’d brew the mite a posset.”
Mrs. Hubble brightened. “That I will.” She bustled past Natalie and quitted the room with every indication of profound relief.
Nurse lowered her voice. “I hope you don’t mind, my lord. There’s some as can help in a sickroom, and some as can’t. Mrs. Hubble does wonders in a kitchen, but it worrits me to have her underfoot up here. Miss Whittaker has more talent for nursing.”
Malcolm gave her a strained smile. “I doubt if Sarah will be in any shape to consume a posset, but I’ll drink it myself if it keeps Mrs. Hubble at bay. I confess, I had rather have Miss Whittaker’s help than the landlady’s.”
Natalie shot him a grateful look, then approached the bed. She studied Sarah’s small, still figure with concern. Sarah’s eyes were closed, but she was plainly awake. Lines of pain and fear were etched on her pale countenance. Beneath the cold cloths on her head, a lump as large as a hen’s egg had formed.
Natalie opened her mouth to ask if the head injury was the worst of it, when her eyes fell on Sarah’s left arm. Her stomach rolled at the sight; it lay in a most unnatural position. Natalie had tended many an illness, but she had never seen a broken bone before. She hoped she never saw one again. She looked hastily away, and took a deep breath to banish the queasy sensation.
“Has anything been given her for the pain?” It seemed safer to speak of Sarah in the third person, rather than address her directly and put her to the trouble of answering.
“A little brandy,” said Malcolm. His voice was tight with strain. “Mrs. Bigalow was afraid she couldn’t keep it down, did we give her more.”
“She kept it down like a champion,” said Nurse bracingly. “Sarah, dear. Did it help you? Will you drink a bit more?”
Sarah neither moved nor opened her eyes, but her eyebrows knitted. “Nasty,” she whispered, in the thread of a voice.
“Perhaps the Hubbles have laudanum drops,” suggested Natalie.
“I asked,” said Malcolm curtly. “They haven’t.”
“I daresay the surgeon will bring some, sir.” Nurse dipped another cloth in the cold water and wrung it vigorously. “I’ll be glad to have his advice, too, before dosing a child her age. Not certain whether we should, so soon after she’s been unconscious. But Mr. Carter will know.”
“Where the devil is he?” muttered Malcolm, casting a fierce glance at his pain-wracked daughter. But a minor commotion in the hall belowstairs indicated that the long-awaited Mr. Carter had, that moment, arrived.
“I’ll go,” said Nurse gruffly. She handed the wet cloth to Natalie and was out the door in a twinkling.
Natalie bent over Sarah, glad to be doing something. As she gently lifted the warm cloth from Sarah’s head, replacing it with the cold one, she could hear low voices in the passage outside the door. The words could not be deciphered, but Natalie knew that Nurse was explaining to the surgeon, in her concise, no-nonsense way, exactly how the accident had occurred and what she deemed Sarah’s injuries to be. Soon Mr. Carter entered the room, rubbing his hands together in a cheerful way.
The surgeon’s professional demeanor of genial optimism was so reassuring that one scarcely noticed the ominous black bag he carried, and, when he set it on the bedside table, the terrifying clink of the instruments and vials it contained. Natalie swallowed hard and gave Mr. Carter a rather weak smile. He was an estimable man, and she had every confidence in his expertise, but despite her innate nursing talents she had an unshakable horror of all things medical.
After being introduced to Lord Malcolm, Mr. Carter glanced at her with a sympathetic twinkle in his eye. “I believe Miss Whittaker would rather be anywhere but here while I examine your daughter, my lord. Shall I send her to fetch Mrs. Bigalow back to us?”
Relief swamped her. “I would be glad to do that,” she said gratefully.
For the first time, Sarah’s eyes opened. Her pupils were huge with pain. “No,” she said, in a surprisingly strong voice. “Miss Whittaker?”
Natalie bent over her, gently touching her shoulder. “I’m here, sweetheart,” she said soothingly.
“Don’t leave me.” The desperation in the little girl’s whisper twisted Natalie’s heart into knots. “Don’t go away.”
Natalie had been eager to get as far from the scene of the medical examination as her feet could carry her. Now, she felt, wild horses could not drag her from the room. “I won’t go, darling,” she promised. “If you want me to stay, I will stay.”
A measure of relief lightened Sarah’s drawn face. She did not move her head, but her eyes traveled to where Malcolm sat, still holding her uninjured hand. “You, too, Papa.”
Malcolm’s deep voice rumbled with emotion. “I will never leave you, precious girl.”
Sarah’s features relaxed a little more. She almost smiled. But then the examination began.
The first thing Mr. Carter did was to pull back the curtains and unshutter the window. The splash of light made Sarah wince. Mr. Carter clucked sympathetically. “Makes your headache worse, does it? Miss Whittaker, pray sit at the head of the bed and shade Sarah’s eyes. Mind you don’t cast a shadow on the rest of her, if you can help it.”
Natalie gladly did as she was bid. Malcolm remained beside the bed, on Sarah’s uninjured side. Mr. Carter kept up a soothing babble of comments and observations as his hands and eyes moved deftly, gently, over Sarah’s battered body. He did not touch her broken arm. Natalie supposed he was checking for less-obvious injuries, to ensure that nothing was missed. His examination of the swelling on her head was particularly close and thorough. He checked to make sure she could lift and turn her head of her own volition, and although she complained fretfully, vowing that her head ached too much to do so, she obeyed the surgeon’s commands. When Sarah demonstrated her
ability to touch her chin to her chest and place either cheek upon her pillow, Natalie and Malcolm sighed with relief.
Mr. Carter eventually nodded his satisfaction. “That’s it, then,” he said briskly. “A few bruises and scrapes, some nastier than others, and a knot on the head. Oh, and one broken arm.” His eyes glinted with humor. “Frankly, I was more worried by the head injury. Bones heal quickly at your age, young lady. If you plan to break an arm once in your life, do it as early in childhood as possible. That’s what I always say.”
The surgeon’s gentle flow of chatter was distracting, but not distracting enough. Natalie bit her lip as Mr. Carter, still talking in his falsely comfortable way, rummaged in his black bag. Sarah needs you, she reminded herself sternly. Whatever horrors were in store, Natalie must stand by and witness them for Sarah’s sake. But the first thing he pulled out was not too alarming: a glass bottle containing an ugly-looking fluid. He filled an eyedropper with this, encouraged Sarah to open her mouth for a moment, and, quick as winking, shot the fluid down her throat. Sarah’s face immediately screwed up into an expression of revulsion and outrage.
“Peppermint drop?” Mr. Carter offered. “I think you deserve it, you’ve been such a brave girl.”
The peppermint drop seemed to pacify the child, at least a little. Leaving her in peace to suck on her sweet, Mr. Carter drew Lord Malcolm and Natalie aside. “You’ve probably guessed, but I just gave her a sedative. We’ll wait until she’s drowsy before I set the bone.”
Set the bone! The surgeon went on talking to Malcolm, and Malcolm, seemingly unperturbed, questioned him about what he had found and what must be done. Natalie heard none of it. She was almost as distressed as if it were she, not Sarah, who must face the ordeal. It was terrible indeed to watch a much-loved child suffer. This was a new kind of pain to Natalie.
It was not possible, of course, to send Sarah back into oblivion for the operation. Mr. Carter explained, regretfully, that sufficient opiate to render one unconscious might accidentally result in death. A surgeon’s knowledge of physic was limited, but he assured them that not even a physician of the Royal College would know how to accomplish that trick safely. The most that could be done was to put Sarah into a dreamy, almost drunken state, and hope that however much she suffered while her arm was manipulated, she would remember little of it later on.
They returned to take their places. Malcolm’s grim expression mirrored Natalie’s emotions. Her heart pounded with anxiety while she forced herself to remain outwardly calm. Malcolm’s assigned task was, she thought with a pang of sympathy, more difficult than hers—she was only to soothe Sarah as best she could, while Malcolm must prevent his little girl from moving during Mr. Carter’s ministrations.
Sarah seemed unaware that she was being tied to the bed. By the time this necessary task was completed, her face was slack, her speech slurred. She said something, but Natalie could not make it out. She bent over her, gently stroking Sarah’s cheek. “What did you say, darling?”
“Hurt me?”
Natalie glanced at Mr. Carter. He had not yet touched Sarah’s arm, but was studying it carefully, tapping his chin as if thinking out the best way to proceed. “Yes, I may hurt you for just a moment, sweetheart,” he said, with that same ghastly cheerfulness. “But it will soon be over, and then you can get well. You’ll like that, eh? We’ll be as quick as ever we can, and soon you’ll feel much better.”
Natalie’s gaze immediately went to Malcolm, fearing that he would object to Mr. Carter’s honesty—many people thought children should be lied to, in cases such as this—but Malcolm, although frowning, was looking at the surgeon with dour approval. Sarah’s eyes did not open. For a moment Natalie thought she had not comprehended what the surgeon had said, but then she murmured, faint but clear, “I will be brave.”
Natalie’s heart swelled with love. “That’s my good girl,” she whispered.
The actual setting of the bone must have taken less than a minute, but it seemed to last for hours. Malcolm held Sarah’s legs down with one strong arm, while with the other he pressed her uninjured shoulder to prevent her struggling against the ties. His face was white with strain, an agony of pity written on his features. Natalie held Sarah’s head—gently, gently—and sang.
She knew not where the impulse came from. It seemed an instinct borne in her blood, as if generations of mothers, singing lullaby to crying children through the centuries, had unexpectedly bequeathed it to her. Sarah cried out, and Natalie sang. The response of song to tears seemed as natural as breath. She sang softly, and Sarah’s cries dropped in volume, the better to hear her. The little girl seemed to cling to Natalie’s voice like a lifeline, her eyes wide and staring, her gaze glued to Natalie’s face. She panted and gasped, trying not to scream. It was only afterward, as Sarah sank into an exhausted slumber, that Natalie realized what the child had been doing: trying to bring her massive powers of concentration to bear on the pain, willing herself into that private world of hers, where pain could not follow. The attempt had obviously been unsuccessful, but the very act of making the attempt, using Natalie’s lullaby as an anchor, had helped Sarah to bear what must be borne.
She really was a remarkable little girl.
Mr. Carter recommended that Sarah be left where she was, if possible, until the next day. He left instructions with Natalie and Mrs. Bigalow on the use of laudanum to keep the child comfortable, but warned them that someone must watch over her at all times. “We walk a fine line, here,” he cautioned. “She’s very young, and she’s suffered a concussion. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t recommend a sedative, but if you will carefully watch her I think we can try it. It will certainly relieve her pain.”
“Then we will try it,” said Nurse, folding her arms like a sentinel.
Mr. Carter nodded. “Very well. Do not leave her alone, even for a moment. The drug will give her strong dreams and she may thrash about or try to rise. She must be prevented from reinjuring that arm or dislodging the splint. And you should also be conscious of her breathing. If it becomes labored, open the window and wake her. Dash cold water on her face if you must, but wake her.”
“Between the three of us, I am sure we can manage,” said Natalie staunchly.
Nurse looked sharply at her. “Two of us. You may go home, Natalie. Lord Malcolm and I will stay with the child.”
Mr. Carter coughed. “Forgive me, Mrs. Bigalow, but if Miss Whittaker is willing to stay, I recommend that you allow her to do so. Her presence seemed to calm the patient earlier, and Sarah specifically asked for her to remain during the worst moments.”
“Hmpf.” Nurse looked skeptical. “There’s already been talk, and I mislike giving the village cause for more. I’m Sarah’s nurse, and Lord Malcolm is her father. No one will wonder at it if we stay with her.”
Natalie lifted her chin. “I refuse to consider such piffle at a moment like this. I am staying, Nurse. Three pairs of hands will be better than two. And no one will make mischief if you and Mrs. Hubble are here to guard my reputation.”
“She’s right, Mrs. Bigalow.” Mr. Carter’s eyes twinkled. “And you ought not to overrule me when I make a medical recommendation.”
Nurse grumbled a bit, but Malcolm smiled—and Natalie stayed.
It was a long night. Malcolm refused to leave Sarah’s side except to heed nature’s call, but the two women took it in turns to rest. Sarah slept for the most part, breathing heavily, but she did suffer spells of disquiet as the surgeon had warned them she would. Natalie, after resting for several hours, came to relieve Nurse at three in the morning. There were lines of exhaustion in the older woman’s face. She met Natalie at the sickroom door.
“How is she?” asked Natalie in a low tone.
Nurse shook her head. “I’ll be glad to see the sun rise,” she said tiredly. “Seems that any sort of pain or illness is at its worst, this time of night.” She filled Natalie in on the dosing schedule and Natalie, giving Nurse’s arm a sympathetic squeeze, sent he
r off to her well-deserved nap.
Natalie approached the bed as noiselessly as she could and took Nurse’s place on the opposite side of the cot from Malcolm. A lamp burned low at the head of the bed, shaded so the light would not fall on Sarah’s face. She looked tiny and pitiful with her splinted arm lying stiffly against the coverlet.
Natalie could detect no weariness in Malcolm. His body was taut, his frown of concentration as fierce as when she had left the room at midnight. He did glance up, smiling slightly, as she sank down onto the chair.
“You needn’t be so careful,” he said quietly. “She sleeps deeply.” His frown intensified. “Too deeply, I think.”
Natalie studied the small, slack face on the pillow. “Her breathing seems regular,” she whispered.
“Yes, but she dreams.” The dim lamplight cast shadows on his face, but caught the glitter of despair in his eyes. There was a bleakness in his expression that Sarah’s condition could not account for. Natalie, her intuition sharpened by the intimacy of the moment, felt a dark horror emanating, almost palpably, from the depths of Malcolm’s spirit. “The laudanum is supposed to lessen her misery, not multiply it,” he said hoarsely. “I know Sarah. She would rather lie awake and feel the pain than dream such dreams.”
“Are all her dreams nightmares?”
“I don’t know. I fear so. She moans and mutters, but I can’t make out the words. Once she cried out, ‘Bird!’ and tried to rise. I suppose she meant to fly.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “That was a bad moment.”
“But such behavior is not uncommon,” she said quickly, trying to comfort him. “Mr. Carter specifically warned us that she might try to rise. Perhaps the drug has so freed her from the pain that she is no longer aware of her injuries. Please, sir, do not distress yourself over trifles.”
He looked sharply at her. “Trifles? You do not know—” He broke off in mid-sentence, seeming to struggle with dark emotions. His gaze dropped back to Sarah’s wan face. Eventually he finished with, “You do not know her as I do.”