Passion Favors the Bold

by Theresa Romain

  And . . . it looked like a foot with no toes on it. Instead of toes, a neat line of sutures traced the end of the foot.

  All right. She could manage that.

  Georgette stood, clasping her hands behind her back. “What does he need now?”

  “Honey, please.”

  She blinked. “Did you call me—” That was foolish. No. It wasn’t a term of endearment. He wanted the pot of honey she’d just spotted in the leather bag.

  Handing it over, she watched as he dabbed it along the line of sutures. “This will help prevent infection,” said Hugo.

  “Only if we keep the dog away from me foot, like,” Lowe said to his son. Compared to the previous day, when pain and fear had wracked him, he was hale and bluff. Such was the blessing of relief.

  “You seem in good spirits,” Georgette said as Hugo checked his work and covered the wound with a dressing. “How have you been occupying yourself? Spillikins? Bilbo catch? Hounding your wife to the edge of sanity?”

  Lowe laughed. “Bairns’ games, all of them, especially the one about the missus. Nae. I’ve played me smallpipes.”

  “Is that a euphemism?” Hugo asked. Georgette kicked him in the foot.

  “It’s the finest instrument in the world.” The blacksmith puffed up. “Matthew, go get me pipes.”

  Hugo looked up sharply, his shoulders rising. “Your boy’s name is Matthew?”

  “It is a good name,” Georgette said. “A very good one.” When Hugo looked her way, she smiled at him. The tense line of his shoulders relaxed.

  The youth, Matthew, returned in a moment with what looked like a leather bag stuffed full of thin wooden flutes, all dangling from a leather belt.

  “Nice thing about the pipes”—Lowe slung and buckled the wide belt about his midsection—“is you can play them while you sit.”

  “Please don’t,” said Hugo.

  “Please do, Mr. Lowe,” said Georgette. “I’ve never heard this instrument before.”

  “There now, that’s a canny lass you have.” Lowe patted the bed, and Georgette joined the line of people sitting there. “Nothing to blow into with a smallpipes. Not like that windbag the Scottish like to play. See? You work this bellows with your right arm as you play.” He demonstrated, his elbow pumping the leather bag full of air. “S’pose that’s why I took to it. Bellows are me life’s work, like.”

  Georgette pointed at the flute-looking things. “So which one of these makes the music?”

  “All of them,” said Lowe.

  “None of them,” muttered Hugo, closing the jar of honey and handing it to Matthew. “Keep that away from the dog, yes? And away from the younger children.”

  “I will, Doctor.”

  “All of them,” repeated Lowe, ignoring this interruption. “See this one? This is the chanter, for playing the melody. These holes and keys let a man play anything he wishes. Then the drones give us the harmony. Tune them or shut them off as you wish.”

  “Shut them all off,” said Hugo, rummaging in the bag of medical supplies. “That’s not why we’re here.”

  Georgette folded her arms, ignoring his groan. “That’s not why you’re here, maybe. My purpose this afternoon, as in much of life, is unspecified. Besides which, I thought you wanted to learn everything.”

  “It’ll take my mind off me foot,” said the blacksmith.

  Hugo waved, a gesture of surrender, and pulled a roll of bandage from the bag. “Not too loud. I have to wrap this about the dressing, and bagpipes always send me into a froth of rage.”

  “Smallpipes,” said Lowe. “Totally different, like.” He hoisted the leather bag under his left arm. An octopus of pipes connected the two and was clutched in the blacksmith’s left hand. The little flutes he had called drones then stuck up on their own, the chanter hanging downward to be played by both hands.

  And so he began, his elbow working the bellows, fingertips dancing over keys and stops. The sound of the pipes was bright and buzzing, a light staccato piping. Quick as the ear could follow, the notes were strung together like beads in a necklace, all bright, all entirely separate.

  The music curled and coiled about them in the small room, making it larger in every direction. Calling to the people in the other room, bringing Mrs. Lowe to lift the partition, her arms full of squirming toddlers, her smile bright and her fatigue lifted, for a moment.

  When the tune ended with a flourish, Georgette sprang to her feet, and she and Mrs. Lowe applauded. “There, now.” Lowe beamed. “Almost makes a man forget he hasn’t any toes.”

  “Here now,” said Hugo. “You still have five.”

  “Right, wasn’t I? The smallpipes make the bagpipes sound like an angry cat.” Lowe unbuckled the wide leather belt supporting the instrument.

  “Bagpipes always sound like an angry cat,” said Hugo. “No comparison needed. But yes, your tune was pleasant.” He tied off the end of the dressing. “If the pain gets too bad, take laudanum. Start with twenty drops every four hours. Go up to thirty if you must.”

  Remembering the worried mother of the day before, Georgette asked, “Can you buy laudanum from the apothecary in Bamburgh?” This was not quite asking them whether the treatment was within their means, but it would give the same answer.

  “Eee, for sure.” Mrs. Lowe set down the wriggling toddlers with a gentle swat on the bottom of each. “We might have part of a bottle already, like. I’ll go through me stores and check.” She followed the smaller children out of that part of the house.

  Hugo looked gratitude at Georgette. Right. Thanks for checking on that. To Lowe, he added, “For the next week, walk if you can, a little every day.”

  Lowe handed off the pipes into Matthew’s careful grasp. “Try to stop me.”

  “No, I won’t,” Hugo replied. “That’s why I ordered that. And when you’re sitting, keep the foot elevated”—Georgette stuffed a bolster beneath Lowe’s injured foot—“and keep the bandages dry. Change them as often as need be to keep them clean.”

  “Because of nasty oozing?” Matthew sounded hopeful.

  “No,” said Hugo. “That’s a problem, if something nasty oozes. It means we didn’t catch the infection soon enough. My hope is that the only thing dirtying the bandage will be the walking about your father does.”

  “What about all that fancy sewing you did?” Lowe winked. “Pretty as a picture, like.”

  “The sutures,” said Hugo, “must stay in as long as possible. Ten days, say. Two weeks would be better. A surgeon can remove them for you, if I am not at hand.”

  Georgette scoffed. “Who would be less at hand than a surgeon a dozen miles off?”

  Hugo’s look was speaking. Or rather, silencing.

  Did that mean he didn’t think they’d be here in two weeks? Or he didn’t think he would. She counted off the days in her head. This was the eighth of June. In two weeks, they might still be searching for gold, might they not?

  Well . . . they might not. She could no more imagine what lay two weeks in the future than she could guess at her life in two decades. For once, her imagination was failing her. She must remember: it was not safe to rely on anyone else in the world. Especially not a scholar who lived for his perfect, perfect plans.

  Right. She’d have that inked on her arm, maybe, to help her remember.

  “Could you show me how to remove the sutures?” Matthew asked Hugo. “In case of need?”

  For the next few minutes, Hugo stitched and snipped into a wad of gauze by way of demonstration. Son and father watched carefully, the boy asking questions and the man shooting curious glances at his bandaged foot.

  It was pleasant, watching a son want to help his father. A father trust his son. When people stayed together, when they cared about each other, this was how they treated each other—she supposed.

  Hugo promised to return as soon as he could, to check on the wound again. “And if you see any signs of infection,” he added, “pour some spirits over the incision. The strongest spirits you have.” />
  “Waste of spirits,” said Lowe. “Are you sure?”

  “If once I admit doubt, Mr. Lowe, it will not depart. I am surer than sure.” Hugo looked at his bag. “Ah, you’ve packed it up already, Geo—madam?”

  “The strange things you do call me,” she murmured. “Yes, I made myself useful.”

  “About your payment, Doctor,” Lowe began.

  Hugo put up a hand. “Your son was my apprentice. That’s all I could ask.”

  Georgette cleared her throat. “What of my help, Doctor?”

  The look Hugo shot at her was veiled, but his mouth made a sensuous curve. “Yes, Nurse. I shall see to your recompense later.”

  Oh. Well. Yes, that was exactly what she’d hoped for.

  As Hugo gave some final instructions to Lowe and his son, Georgette wandered into the front room. Mrs. Lowe was stirring her stew, and the little boy was clinging to her skirts and wailing for a bite.

  “May I?” At the older woman’s nod, Georgette scooped up the boy. She held him steady, one arm beneath his rear and one behind his back, then twirled with him as quickly as she could until he was laughing.

  “Me next!” His sister, not much older, tugged at Georgette’s skirts for a turn, and she was given the same treatment. By the time Georgette set her down, both were dizzy and giggling.

  “You’ve a canny hand with little ones,” said Mrs. Lowe.

  “I lived with my cousin and her husband and four young children for some time,” said Georgette. “I helped care for them when needs must.”

  The reminder caught her by surprise. She’d been used to thinking of herself as extra, unneeded, once Cousin Mary and her husband bought Frost’s Bookshop. Georgette was but another body to find space for, another mouth to feed. But when she played with little Eliza, just learning to talk, or soothed fractious Johnny with his never-ending eruption of milk teeth, then for that moment there was a place for her in the family.

  The memory of it was warm.

  “I like your cottage,” she told Mrs. Lowe. “I have often dreamed of living in such a place.”

  The older woman’s expression was thoughtful as she stirred the bubbling stew, then set aside the spoon. “A cottage is a roof and walls, like. But it isn’t very nice unless there’s someone nice in it, Mrs. Crowe.”

  The false name made Georgette glance over her shoulder, quick and doubtful.

  “Aye,” said the blacksmith’s wife. “A good man is what I mean. Lowe looks out for us. Lost his toes, but kept everything else, and that’s what matters.”

  Georgette hesitated, on the verge of asking how he’d met with the accident to his toes. Or how he looked out for the family. Or how Georgette might get a cottage that was more than roof and walls.

  There were too many questions crowding for notice at once, and before she spoke any of them, Hugo emerged from behind the partition with his bag and the furled umbrella. Together, he and Georgette bade farewell to each member of the family in that front room, even to the suspicious cat that hid behind Mrs. Lowe when the visitors walked to the door.

  As soon as the cottage door closed behind them, a figure whipped around the corner of the building. Toward Hugo? Out of reflex, Georgette’s fist shot out. “No!”

  The figure resolved itself into the familiar form of Jenks—now bent over, wheezing. “Right in the gut? Must you?” He sucked in a deep breath, straightening slowly.

  “You startled me.” She ought to apologize, but she didn’t feel like it. Not after the warmth of the family circle she’d just left; not after realizing that Hugo had put a period to their stay in Northumberland.

  “Forgive the wife.” Hugo popped open the umbrella to shield her, though the earlier rain had dwindled to drizzle. “She has the heart of a horrid street rascal and the soul of—well, the same.”

  That wasn’t the sort of heart she had at all. But she painted on a smile nonetheless. “I hope you’re not injured, Mr. Jenks.”

  The Runner looked insulted. “No. I am not.” He hitched his furled umbrella under one arm, adding, “Found some interesting things in the forge.”

  What had she thought her heart made of, for that brief instant? Now it was a stone, plummeting. “By ‘interesting,’ do you mean relevant to your investigation?” No, it could not be. Not that nice Mr. Lowe. Not his wife, his children, his dog, and grumpy cat.

  “I do.” Jenks looked at her as suspiciously as the ginger cat had. “Little drops of gold, fine as the mist in the air right now. A scatter of them. Our friend blacksmith has been working more than iron.”

  Hugo offered the umbrella to Georgette, taking the handle of his bag in both hands. “What will you do now?”

  “Find where the gold came from.”

  Georgette’s hands clasped the wooden handle of the umbrella tightly. Of course they wanted to find the gold. Of course they did. But . . . not yet? “If we find the sovereigns,” she said, “we get the reward from the Royal Mint. What happens if you find them, Mr. Jenks?”

  He looked back at the forge, then turned toward her again. “Then I’ve done justice.”

  Before she could answer, there issued a distant crack, like something heavy hitting something hard. In a wild gesture, Hugo dropped his bag and flung his arms around Georgette. She yelped, startled, and let the umbrella fall—and there came another crack.

  Then was silence, so loud it echoed in her ears. The shock of it consumed her for a moment, so she did not at once notice that Hugo had slumped against her.

  By the time she did notice, he was staggering upright again. The shoulder of his coat was torn, a dark stain spreading across the fabric.

  She caught his hand, his elbow. Whatever she could grab hold of. “Hugo?”

  “I think,” he said, “that I have been shot.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Hugo had dissected cadavers time upon time. He had performed surgeries. He had encountered the blood of wounded and dying and ill people, some of whom he could help and some he could not.

  He had never realized that the smell of blood was so much stronger when it was one’s own. It filled his nose and lungs, coppery and heavy.

  His shoulder burned, seared by a bullet and heated by spilled blood. Leaning heavily on Georgette, he turned toward the door of the Lowes’ cottage. “I need to get inside,” he ground out. “With my bag. I can look at the wound there. Jenks, a hand?”

  “Jenks”—Georgette spat the name out like a curse—“ran off as soon as he heard the gun fired. Likely searching for clues, but my God, you’ve been shot. Priorities!”

  “We’ll be fine. His behavior is . . . good sense.” He tried to lift his right arm, to rap at the door, but he couldn’t move it. The attempt made his shoulder scream. “He can . . . triangulate. Two shots—did they come from different angles?”

  Georgette slid an arm around his waist, then hammered at the door with her free hand. “If anyone else had said that, I’d think he was out of his head,” she said crisply. “But since it’s you, I’d say you’re not as bad off as I thought.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “One more lie like that and your hair will catch fire. It happens all the time in storybooks. You really ought to read them.”

  “You made that up.” Speaking each word was like carving a shape from stone.

  “Anything to distract you while I . . . aha. Mrs. Lowe, might we impose on you again?” The blacksmith’s wife had finally opened the door, her progress evidently slowed by a child clutching each of her legs. When she saw Hugo, her eyes went wide, and she stood back at once to allow Georgette to usher him back into the house.

  Bleary and chilled despite his burning shoulder, Hugo faded from the present moment. He was dimly aware of quick speech, the cry of a toddler, a great sweep of crockery—and then he was pressed and shoved and heaved, gently but firmly, until he was laid out on the long trestle table with a cloth beneath him.

  “I’ve got the doctor’s bag,” called Matthew. The wrong Matthew. It was good to think o
n the name, though.

  “Best take off the coat so I can see the wound.” Hugo spoke the words from far away.

  “How do you sound so calm?” Georgette tugged at his coat on the uninjured side, easing the fabric over his hand and down his arm.

  Because it happened to someone else. Someone who had left a blacksmith’s cottage satisfied with a job well done, dissatisfied with the lonely cold he stepped into afterward. “Would it improve the situation if I frothed and raved?”

  “It would be much less disconcerting than this eerie sort of composure.”

  “Maybe I’ll scream in distress while you remove my coat.” More hands were helping now, lifting Hugo at the side to help him free of the garment.

  “Maybe I will scream too,” she said. “To share the burden of panic with you. By the bye, you have the most terrible luck with coats.”

  “I do, when you are around.” Though he was lowered prone again gently, the jar to his injury made him grit his teeth. It had the effect of snapping him into the present moment, concentrating the shock of the bullet wound to his shoulder. No, not quite the shoulder itself. The trapezius muscle. If the bullet had ripped muscle instead of injuring bone and tendon, he was a lucky fellow. Luckier still that it had missed the subclavian vessels; if it had not, he could have easily bled to death by now. “I think the wound is not dire. Georgette and Matthew, this shall be a test for you.”

  Mr. Lowe stumped from the rear room and came to stand beside the table. “What’s all this?” He peered up and down the length of the table, his expression turning from surprise to worry. “What happened to Mr. Crowe?”

  “Good, you are getting in a piece of walking,” Hugo said. “A little every day.”

  Georgette bent to speak in his ear. “Now I know you’ll be all right, Doctor. You can’t help but see to the patient’s care, even now.” There was a tremble in her voice.

  “Is that—was Mr. Crowe shot? Who did this?” the blacksmith asked.

  “We didn’t see.” Georgette brushed her hand against Hugo’s knuckles. “But—he protected me. After the first shot, he protected me.”