by Jo Beverley
The two seconds were hunched over McArthur, but Norton came over to them. “Heart. Gone in moments. Damn good aim, especially under the circumstances. I would never have believed he’d stoop to murder.”
“Simon’s not dead!” Jancy snapped and then whirled back to make sure.
The doctor had Simon’s bloody shirt cut away, but Jancy couldn’t see the wound for his gory fingers. So much blood. Simon’s teeth and hands were clenched and he was white. But not dead and surely the wound was too low for the heart. It seemed to be in his side near the bottom of his ribs.
She knelt again and asked, “Can he live?”
“Possibly.” The doctor grabbed a pad of cloth out of his bag and pressed it on the long, bleeding wound. Though he seemed to do it gently, Simon choked back a cry.
“Ribs. Ball’s broken at least one, but at least that means it didn’t reach a vital organ.”
Thank you, God.
“Better pray it hasn’t splintered.”
“Why?”
The doctor threw her a look that said, Idiot. “Because a splintered rib can’t knit, and the bits will puncture a lung and kill him eventually.”
Jancy grasped one of Simon’s clenched fists. He relaxed his hand enough to take hers and even found a faint smile for her.
“This won’t kill me, love. Remember the cards.”
She leaned to press a kiss on his lips.
The doctor muttered something and she turned to see that he’d raised the pad and was grimacing at the wound. It looked shallow, and apparently the ribs had stopped the pistol ball. Her frantic panic began to subside.
He shoved a thick piece of leather between Simon’s teeth and then probed.
Simon choked deep in his throat and Jancy did the same. His hand was crushing her fingers.
“Idiot woman,” the doctor growled. “Beaumont, give him something useful to grip. I need to get the ball.”
Simon understood. He let Jancy go and Hal knelt to put his one hand in his friend’s. “You didn’t do her any damage, and I doubt you can even bruise me.”
Simon might have weakly laughed, but then he was in agony again as the doctor dug deeper. The wound must be painful enough, but beneath lay those broken ribs.
“Can’t you give him opium?” Jancy demanded.
“For this?” Playter scoffed, taking out a long metal implement and probing with that. Simon fainted.
“Oh, thank you, God,” Jancy said.
The doctor dug deeper, twisted, and with a smile of satisfaction produced a misshapen piece of lead. He inspected it carefully and then nodded. He wrapped it in a bit of cloth and then passed it to Jancy. “Knowing these young fools, he’ll treasure it as a souvenir.”
Jancy didn’t want the thing, but she hoped he was right. That would mean that Simon would be alive to care. She disliked the brusque military surgeon, but his casual manner soothed her. He must have seen many wounds and he showed no concern.
He took out another pad of cloth and poured what smelled like brandy over it and then pressed it to the newly bleeding wound. Simon stirred and groaned, but seemed only half-conscious.
The doctor tied a rough bandage around Simon’s chest and then rose. “Now to get him inside where I can sort him out properly. But I don’t want those ribs shifting. Need a litter. Delahaye, can I bother you to ride to the garrison for one? The rigid sort. My orderly will know.”
The shaken officer hurried away.
The doctor looked at Jancy. “Ma’am, go home and prepare a sickroom.”
Jancy hesitated, knowing he only wanted to get rid of her, but Hal pulled her to her feet. “Come on. I’ll escort you.”
She would have stayed if she could be of any use, but the sooner Simon was in a warm bed the better. They walked briskly into the town, where people were beginning to emerge to a new day. Jancy saw strange looks, which wasn’t surprising. Her hair was loose, and her clothes were probably muddy.
Hal would have come in the house with her, but she said, “Go back, please. I can deal with everything here.” She grabbed his arm. “Keep him alive!”
He freed himself and patted her. “Don’t worry. It’s not so bad a wound.”
Jancy watched him stride away, wishing she could wipe away all fear.
It wasn’t a fatal wound, but even though the ball was out, even if the rib was cleanly broken and didn’t puncture Simon’s lung, the wound could become infected. That was doubtless why Hal’s arm had been cut off. But one couldn’t amputate ribs.
Stop panicking and do something useful, she told herself and hurried to prepare for Simon’s arrival home. At least McArthur was dead. Dead and gone to hell, where he belonged.
He’d need warmth. She went to the log pile and filled a sling and then carried it upstairs. At the head of the stairs, she froze.
A figure was coming out of Simon’s room.
For a dreadful moment she thought it was Simon, that it must be his ghost, that he was dead. But then she realized the man was no one she knew.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What are you doing?”
The roughly dressed man in the wide-brimmed hat whirled to her in alarm. Even as she inhaled to scream, he hurtled toward her. By some instinct, she stepped aside instead of trying to stop him, and he stumbled down the stairs and out of the house.
For long seconds she leaned against the wall, clutching her sling of wood, staring after the intruder. Then everything fell into place. He’d been after Simon’s papers!
She hurried to the room. It was in disorder, but only as they’d left it. The bed was rumpled, and some of Simon’s clothes from last night’s hasty undressing were still strewn around. The scent of their lovemaking wove in the air, making her face heat with embarrassment and yearning.
She pulled herself together and looked around again, but it was no good. She had no idea where Simon kept his papers and wouldn’t know if they were missing. Had the intruder been carrying anything? No, and surely all Simon’s work wouldn’t fit in a pocket.
But it was sinking in that Lancelot McArthur had not only set out to murder Simon, he’d arranged to steal the papers, too. Presumably he’d expected her to be asleep in her own bed. She hoped the devil was toasting him, but now she had work to do. She put down her logs and dragged the coverings off the bed but then realized that the alcove it sat in was impossible for the care of an invalid.
Her room?
Too small.
Isaiah’s. Plenty of space there, and access to the bed all around. She picked up the sling and then realized her wits were scrambled. She didn’t have to do everything herself.
She dropped the wood and ran downstairs and out to the kitchen. Mrs. Gunn was tending the stove. Sal and Izzy looked up fearfully.
“Yes, Simon met McArthur again, and he’s wounded. Simon is. McArthur fired ahead of time. The foul scum cheated! But he’s dead. McArthur is, I mean.”
She was gasping and babbling like an idiot, and all three were staring at her. She tried to do better. “They’re bringing him back here. Soon. The fire must be made in Mr. Trewitt’s room. I took up wood. What else do we need?”
She said that looking at Mrs. Gunn, for she felt suddenly empty-headed and lost.
“Warming pans. Cloth for bandages. Hot water.” Mrs. Gunn was already turning to the big fireplace, but it was to take a teapot off a trivet and pour dark tea into a cup. She added milk and two lumps of sugar and put it in Jancy’s hands.
“Sit down and drink that, dearie. Mr. Simon’ll be fine, I’m sure. Off you go, Sal, and build the fire. Izzy, find sheets and help make the bed. Then come back here.”
Jancy was thankful to sit and drink the tea, but she couldn’t stop babbling—about McArthur cheating and Simon’s pain. About ribs and infection. She ran out of words at last and realized Simon could already be in the house. She leaped up and fled back through the walkway.
But the house was silent.
Silent as death.
Then low voices broke the
eeriness as the maids came downstairs.
Jancy gathered herself and went up to check everything was in readiness. Isaiah’s room was already warming from the new fire, and the bed was freshly made. As she fussed with the pillows, Izzy returned with a big jug of hot water that she put on the hearth.
Fire and water. Simon’s elements.
Turning to steam. Insubstantial steam.
Where were they? Had something gone wrong?
She wanted to run out to meet them, but that horrible doctor would only make some other scathing comment. She knew Simon had a high opinion of the army surgeon, but if things went badly, she’d call in Dr. Baldwin.
Went badly. Tears spilled and she pressed her hand over her mouth. So little time since she’d held Simon, whole and healthy, in her arms, and now he could die. People died of cuts and broken bones. Of bad teeth, even.
The cards. She seized on to the message of the cards. They’d predicted this wound, but they hadn’t predicted death. They hadn’t.
She repeated this to herself as she found one of the worn sheets set aside for charity. She took it to the window in her room and began to rip it up for bandages, imagining she was ripping the skin off Lancelot McArthur.
“You’re in hell now, where you belong,” she muttered. “I hope the devil is ripping you apart just like this. And this. And this.”
The front door.
She dropped the sheet and ran out. By the time she reached the head of the stairs, the men were in the hall. Simon was flat on a board carried by four uniformed soldiers. Hal was there, and the doctor. And someone else in uniform. Oh, Simon’s second. Captain Norton. Jancy took in all this as she skimmed downstairs to Simon’s side. His eyes were shut and he was gray. . . .
“He’s fine,” Hal said. “But movement is painful.”
She breathed again. “I’ve prepared Uncle Isaiah’s room. Upstairs,” she added to the men carrying him.
“Not yet,” barked Playter. “No point dragging him about until I’ve cleaned the wound and strapped him up. Dining room?”
So again the dining table was put to service. Jancy followed, but Playter turned on her. “Out! Go and make tea or something. You’ll be no use here.”
Jancy looked to Hal for help, but grim-faced, he pushed her through the door and shut it in her face. She was standing there helplessly when Mrs. Gunn came into the hall carrying a tray.
“You come into the parlor with me, love. We’ll have a nice cup of tea and a bit of som’at to eat as we wait.”
Jancy wanted to stand vigil, but she obeyed like a sleepwalker. When Mrs. Gunn closed the door behind them, she realized that the parlor lay at the back of the house, as far as possible from the dining room. If Simon screamed, she might not hear.
As far as Jancy knew, Mrs. Gunn had never taken tea in the house, but she had no objection. She had no will or strength at all and, shivering, allowed herself to be put in a chair and even to have Isaiah’s old lap rug tucked around her.
“There, there, dearie, it’ll be all right.”
More strong, sweet tea helped, but Jancy couldn’t touch food.
“I wish I knew what was happening.”
“Now, now, if anything had gone amiss, they’d not still be at it, would they?”
Jancy stared in the direction of the dining room. “But I wish I knew!”
“These things can’t be hurried,” Mrs. Gunn said, her thin, gnarled hands unusually idle in her aproned lap. “He’s a healthy young man, and that’s what matters. Not but what dueling ain’t a nasty business. Gunn, now, he loved a fistfight, but it was me as had to patch him up, and him cursing me for hurting him as he hadn’t cursed the ones whose knuckles had done the damage. I cursed him right back, I can tell you. . . .”
The old woman rambled on and it flowed over Jancy like balm so that when the door opened and Hal came in, she neither leaped at him nor fainted.
“It went well. They’re ready to move him to the bed.”
Jancy’s heart was racing again, and she didn’t know why. Everything was all right now. Or at least, good enough. “I’ll show you.”
She guided the men with the litter up the stairs and into the big room. Simon’s eyes were closed but she didn’t think he was unconscious or asleep. She suspected that he was simply enduring.
“Bolsters,” the doctor demanded. “He’ll be most comfortable sitting up, but the support must be firm.”
Jancy hastened to get the hard bolsters from her bed and Simon’s. Dr. Playter arranged them and then marshaled the transfer to the bed like a captain commanding the tricky docking of a ship. Simon’s clothes had been removed other than his drawers—which were horribly bloodstained at one side. His chest was half covered with bandages. For a shallow wound around the lower ribs?
Perhaps her puzzlement was obvious, for Hal said, “To discourage movement while his rib knits.”
“But won’t the dressing have to be changed?”
“Do and undo,” said the doctor. “Which is why they’re knotted at the left side. The ribs didn’t shatter, so they should knit. I believe I removed all the bits of cloth. That’s what kills most men, ma’am—bits of cloth driven into the wound carrying contagion. And for what?” He shook his head like an angry bull. “A fine, healthy young man one moment and now look at him.”
He glared at someone behind her, and Jancy turned to see Captain Norton was still present, looking almost as haggard as Simon.
“I’m sure there was nothing you could have done, sir,” she said and then turned back to Playter. “So with proper care he’ll live?”
“I’m a doctor, ma’am, not a fortune-teller! It’s in God’s hands. Do you have nursing experience?”
“Only with sickness, not with wounds.”
“He’ll be sick. He’ll run a fever as his body burns contagion. His greatest peril right now is movement. Don’t let him move!”
Perhaps she flinched at his bark, or the tears in her throat showed in her eyes, for he pulled a face and moderated his tone.
“I’ll return this evening to change the dressing and inspect the wound. Don’t fiddle with it. The body heals itself. He must have a lowering diet. Bland food. No meat or alcohol. Plenty of fluids. Barley water. Clear broth. Weak tea. Do you have an invalid cup?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good. He won’t want to even flex for a while.”
He began to march out, but Jancy said, “Why is his arm bandaged? Did you bleed him?”
“Not yet. The ball creased it en route. He probably moved it to block when he saw McArthur fire. Might have saved his life, for it took some of the ball’s power. It’s a flesh wound. His ribs are the danger. Keep him still.”
He left and Jancy turned to gently stroke damp, dark hair off Simon’s forehead. How easily his flesh could be cold rather than warm—perhaps but for a twitch of the arm.
He opened his eyes, and despite a crease of pain in his brows, she saw something that might be a smile. He moved—and gasped.
She pressed back on his shoulder. “Don’t do that!”
“Trust me, I won’t. Gads, but it hurts.” His eyes wandered the room. “Ever broken ribs, Norton?”
The captain came over to the bed. “No.”
“Don’t. The wound’s nothing, but the ribs . . .”
“That’s why you have to stay still,” Jancy said. “Very still.”
He frowned. “We’re leaving in four days.”
“We’ll leave when you’re fit to.”
“We’ll miss the Eweretta.”
She stroked his shoulder. “There’ll be other ships.”
“Not once the river freezes. Jancy, this is serious. Half our belongings are already in Montreal."
Chapter Thirteen
He’d called her Jancy. Part of her flinched, expecting some dire revelation, but most of her remembered their night. Which had made him unalterably hers. Hers to take care of.
“If our possessions reach England before we do,” she said
soothingly, “so be it. Put your mind to healing, love.” She gently kissed him.
He looked at her with a lazy smile that was unlike him—except that she remembered it from the night.
“Stop smiling at me like that.”
His smile deepened. “Why?”
“It makes me blush.”
“You’re delightful when you blush. Even your freckles blush.”
She put a hand over her face. “Stop it!”
“Lie beside me?”
Jancy looked around, but they were alone. The other men had tactfully left.
“Still shy?” he teased.
“Still wicked?”
“When I have to be.”
“Oh, but you’re terrible.” And the most wonderful man in the world.
She took off her shoes and climbed carefully up on his left side. He’d been put in the middle of the bed, so there wasn’t much space, and his mound of bolsters made things difficult. She hooked one leg over his and tucked her head on his bare shoulder, one arm carefully across his bandaged chest, her hand feeling the steady strong beat of his heart.
“Thank heaven you’re alive, Simon. I was so frightened.”
“Playter’s the best gunshot man in Upper Canada.”
“I don’t like him. But if he keeps you well, I’ll kiss his feet.”
“Not necessary. Now mine . . .”
His hand moved against her hip, sending tremors through her.
Her conscience still nibbled at her for keeping her secrets, but with ever weakening teeth. Simon was hers and she would not lose him, to death or to the law.
She’d never before realized the roaring power of love. To separate herself from him now would feel like cutting off her own arm.
His fingers still played lightly against her. “I think you’re my guardian angel.”
“I’ve brought you nothing but trouble.”
“Silly. This is none of your doing. I was a fool not to realize that McArthur always planned to fire early. Your interrupting us that first time probably saved my life. Today, something drew my eye from the handkerchief to you. That could have been fatal, but I must have seen him begin to fire so I twitched and took some of the ball with my arm. Guardian angel.”