Finding Gabriel

by Rachel L. Demeter

  Gradually the soldier’s struggles had quieted and their gazes merged together. He’d whispered the words, his voice a decadent rumble: “Thank … you …” Ariah had nodded and offered him another helping of water. Within that moment, a silent acceptance overcame the soldier’s entire spirit. And, for the remainder of the night, he’d surrendered to her caretaking while falling in and out of delirium. She eventually fell asleep on the edge of the mattress and woke to dawn’s first rays.

  Another knock resounded. Snapping out of her memory, Ariah wrenched open the door and greeted Doctor Mongeau. As usual, the tip of his nose glowed brightly, the wiry tufts of his hair sticking out in every direction. Laugh lines creased the corner of his eyes – a testament to his easy humor and quick wit. Round of stature and kind of heart, Doctor Mongeau had taken an instant liking to Emmaline months earlier – and, after discovering Jacques was away in the war, he’d agreed to make routine calls free of payment. He’d transformed into somewhat of a father figure during that brief time.

  Ariah’s fatigue melted away in the doctor’s presence. But today his skin was strangely ashen and devoid of its customary color. And when he strode forward, his back was set in a prominent, painful hunch. Concern knotted Ariah’s chest and weighed heavily on her heart.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Mongeau. I’m so relieved you’re here this morning.” Ariah signaled him across the threshold with an insistent wave.

  A leather medical bag was secured beneath his arm. Like the rest of him, it was well worn and brimming with character. Steadying his body, he latched onto the doorjamb and then straightened his posture. He was clearly short of breath – though he fought to conceal his weakness.

  After a full minute, Ariah took hold of his forearm and gently guided him forward. Rivulets of water slipped down the sleek material of his cloak and dripped onto the floorboards. A light coating of sleet dusted his shoulders and contrasted against the black fabric.

  “Merci, madame, merci. My, that thunderstorm’s going to be quite the beast.” Fat raindrops rolled off his cloak and dribbled from the hat’s brim. “Ah, look at me, making a god-awful mess on your floorboards.”

  Ariah waved off the last remark. An image of those same floorboards – stained with a stranger’s blood – jackknifed into her thoughts. “Surely you didn’t walk here?”

  “Oh, no, no. Not today.” He chuckled and peeled away his leather gloves. “Acquired a carriage, actually. The driver shall be waiting for me just outside.” Wired spectacles balanced on the bridge of his nose. Condensation fogged the slates of glass like dense puffs of smoke. Ariah wondered how he managed to see.

  As if reading her thoughts, Doctor Mongeau stripped the spectacles from his face, retrieved a handkerchief, and wiped away the mist. “Ah,” he murmured, simultaneously replacing the glasses. “That’s much better now.” He paused and examined Ariah’s face as if seeing her for the first time since his entrance. Clearing his throat, he shuffled forward as his forehead creased in concern. “Why, madame! You look paler than a ghost. Simply dreadful!”

  “Easy with the flattery, monsieur.” Ariah’s voice held a playful, teasing note. Arching a fine brow, she stepped aside and allowed Doctor Mongeau to pass.

  “My apologies. It’s just that I’ve never seen you so weary. So weary or so very anxious, for that matter.” He removed his cloak and wool hat as he spoke, folding the material over his forearm in ritualistic fashion. Sudden agony warped his features. “I take it Emmaline’s condition has worsened?”

  “It’s rather difficult to say. Her temperature comes and goes as it pleases. Just last night she was positively on fire, but this morning she appears to be doing quite well.” Ariah took both garments from his arm and flung them over the coat-rack. They hung haphazardly, though she didn’t bother to fix them as she normally would.

  “Ah, I believe I shall be the judge of that,” Doctor Mongeau said with a gap-toothed smile.

  Oliver chose to enter the drawing room at that moment. Doctor Mongeau turned to the creature with a slight bow. “Good day to you, Monsieur Oliver.”

  Miriam followed after the dog and tipped her chin in greeting. Then she claimed a seat by the hearth and absorbed its heat. Muttering a loud groan, Oliver plopped onto his rug and promptly fell asleep. Raspy snoring soon permeated the drawing room and brought a small grin to Doctor Mongeau’s lips.

  Ariah wandered over to Miriam and grazed her sister’s forearm. “Emmaline is doing well?”

  “It s-s-seems s-so. She still hasn’t seen the s-strange m-m-an.”

  Doctor Mongeau’s bushy brows perked at Miriam’s remark. “What is this, now?”

  Mon Dieu! What had she been thinking, taking in a strange man – and keeping him beneath the same roof as her daughter, nonetheless! Lost in thought, Ariah paced the cramped entryway and threaded fingertips through her hairline. He was a man whom she knew nothing about! He could be a thief, a killer, a rapist … or worse. Surely she was losing her sanity.

  But then she remembered his agony, the intensity of his eyes … the small amount of gratitude he’d shown when she’d given him water. Beneath his ruined exterior, she’d sensed an exquisite desperation and need.

  Steadying her with a gentle hand, Doctor Mongeau said, “Continue like this, and I fear you shall burn a hole straight through the floorboards.”

  Ariah stopped mid-step. Turning to him, she forced a smile and regained her composure. “Oh, forgive me. It’s been a rather exhausting night.”

  Miriam nodded in agreement and scratched beneath Oliver’s muzzle. “To say the very l-least.” The creature bellowed a low whine, demanding her undivided attention.

  Doctor Mongeau’s grin broadened. “Then let us see to Emmaline right away, oui?”

  Ariah froze in her tracks. She swallowed deeply, her hands twisting together in a nervous gesture. “Actually, I was hoping you might examine someone else this morning.”

  He cocked a brow at her words, curiosity flickering in his charcoal-gray eyes. “Someone else? What is this madness?”

  “I’ll bring you to him. Come with me, monsieur. And kindly take care to keep quiet. I don’t wish to wake Emmaline.”

  •

  The bedchamber was silent and still. Only the rain’s melodic pitter-patter breached the quiet. A brittle shaft of light burst through the window and illuminated the man’s reclined form. Dust motes fluttered midair, falling like delicate snowflakes in the transient sunshine. Situated on the end table, the whale lamp burned low from the previous evening. A delicate illumination danced across the soldier’s features and helped soften the angular lines of his bandaged face.

  He was much too large for the bed – easily over one hundred eighty-five centimeters. Both heels hung off the mattress’s edge, and the width of his shoulders nearly spanned the headboard. Regardless, at least for the time being, he appeared rather content. Even at peace. His body remained motionless, only the shallow rise and fall of his chest contending he still lived.

  Ariah eased inside the room and mutely signaled Doctor Mongeau to follow. Careful not to disturb the rest of the household, she closed the door behind them. “We must keep quiet. Emmaline doesn’t know of him yet, see,” she said, needing to break the tension-filled silence.

  The doctor nodded while his gaze widened in disbelief; his expression bordered between confusion and outright alarm. Not speaking a word, he tossed Ariah an inquisitive, sideways glance and inched toward the stranger.

  “I … I found him just last night. Some wretch shot him, discarded his body in the Seine, and left him for dead.”

  The doctor nodded once more and placed the medical bag atop the mattress. Wasting no time, he crouched beside the bed and examined the bandaging. The linen was wrapped lengthwise around the man’s head, blanketing the wound from jaw to hairline. Doctor Mongeau’s wrinkled fingertips ran over the material in a deft touch and felt for the opening. “Quite nice handiwork here. You disinfected the wound first, I suspect?”

  “Yes. Y
es, of course. Though all I had was water, alcohol, and iodine.”

  Doctor Mongeau slid his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, gave a sharp cough against his shoulder, and proceeded to unwind the linen. “Ah, that should do just fine. I’ll check for infection, anyhow.”

  He placed the linen on the end table. A firm ball of cloth was secured underneath the bandaging. It was positioned directly over the injury and soaked through with blood and saliva.

  “Pressurized the bleeding, I see. Very good.”

  Executing years of medical expertise, Doctor Mongeau carefully pried the cloth from the man’s face, his touch delicate and featherlight. Below the rag, the flesh appeared tender and inflamed. Jutting at awkward angles, fractured bone speared through the skin like so many knives.

  Ariah inhaled a strained breath as the doctor cocked his head and examined the wound closely. His nose drew centimeters away from the wound, both eyes sharpened, and his brows hooked together. “Bit tender – but I can’t see any true sign of infection.” He nodded and set the bloodied rag aside. Ariah watched with a torrent of relief as he continued the assessment.

  Then, swept with delirium, the soldier spasmed, tossed about, and rambled incoherently. The doctor pressed two fingertips against the man’s neck and felt for his pulse. He turned to Ariah with a satisfactory nod. “The bone should heal itself, I believe. That shall take sufficient time, of course – but it’s not the chief concern of mine.”

  “And what is, exactly?” Ariah knelt beside Doctor Mongeau, folding her skirts beneath her legs.

  “Well, infection. Infection and his fever. He’s been in and out of consciousness like he is now, I suspect?”

  “Yes. Rather delusional, too.”

  “Indeed. I would expect nothing less.”

  Murmuring to himself, he unclasped the leather medical bag and riffled through its disorderly contents. “Let me see now. I should have a salve somewhere in here – ah, yes – there we are.”

  He extracted a small tin. A pungent odor emerged as he unscrewed the lid. Ariah jumped to her feet and covered her nose with the edge of her shawl. Apparently immune, Doctor Mongeau offered no direct reaction to the musky smell. He merely grinned, shrugged his frail shoulders, and continued working. “Stinks like the devil, yet works like a charm. I’ll leave it in your care, along with a hearty dose of laudanum. With regular changing of the bandages, the salve should help ward off infection.” He shook his downcast face. “I’m afraid the left side of his mouth may be paralyzed from the trauma.”

  The doctor dipped an index finger into the milky concoction. He stirred it briefly, then smoothed the salve over the wound, filling the black crater with liquid. A cry wrenched from the soldier’s throat. Ariah’s heart banged against her rib cage while she and the soldier briefly locked gazes.

  Doctor Mongeau hesitated for a moment, his hand frozen midair. Salve dripped from his finger like water from an icicle. Then he continued applying the concoction with increased pressure. Once more, the soldier flinched at the contact, battling the ministrations and muttering jumbled words. Ariah clutched her shawl in horror, feeling the man’s agony as if it were her own.

  “He is in great pain?”

  “Why, most surely, yes. Very great pain indeed,” he answered with a light chuckle. “But not from my touch nor this salve.”

  Ariah crouched beside the bed as Doctor Mongeau retrieved a glass bottle from his bag. LAUDANUM was printed across the faded label in bold lettering. And directly beneath: POISON!

  “For the pain. Maximum dosage, already pre-mixed. Fifty parts opium tincture, five parts benzoic acid, five parts camphor, two parts anise oil, and 940 parts alcohol. An addict’s dream, to say the least. But it’s quite safe, I assure you – and only poisonous when taken in excess.”

  A sloshing noise permeated the air as he shook the bottle from side to side. Bubbles rose to the surface while the amber liquid swirled within the glass confines. He uncorked the bottle and placed a hand beneath the soldier’s scalp. Tipping the bottle against the man’s lips, he poured the liquid into his mouth. The soldier sputtered and jerked, causing excess medicine to trickle from his chin.

  “Once he’s conscious, no more than a tablespoon every few hours – though, I promise you, he shall beg for more. For now, two tablespoons shall suffice. However, such a high dosage will cause his delirium to worsen quite a bit.” Doctor Mongeau set the bottle on the end table, placing it beside a stack of linen and fresh water.

  “I’ll monitor it well.” She cautiously reached out and spread her hand across the soldier’s head. His dark strands were heavy with sweat, water, and grime and he shifted in response to her touch. Then spasms tremored through his body and vibrated against her fingertips. Ariah’s heart pounded and her nerves violently stirred in despair. “Who would do such a thing?”

  Doctor Mongeau turned to Ariah with a weak smile and troubled eyes. It was an intensely haunted gaze – one that harbored a dark past and even darker secrets. Ariah drew her hand away, met those jaded depths, and waited for him to continue with bated breath.

  He sighed deeply, as if preparing to unburden himself. “I was in the military before I found medicine. Did you know that, madame?” Her attention riveted, Ariah mutely shook her head. “Once upon a time, I was not so different than your beloved Jacques. One of Napoleon’s heroes, through and through. I have seen more bloodshed than you could ever imagine. Men do terrible, ungodly things …” Doctor Mongeau hesitated for a moment and absently traced the gun wound. “Things they often live to regret.”

  Pregnant silence pressed between them. Ariah cleared her throat and adjusted her posture. “You regret fighting for your country, you mean?”

  “Non, madame. Not at all.” A strange emotion crossed the doctor’s face. He continued to examine the gun injury … really examine it. “I mean to say, I’ve seen enough wounds, on and off the battlefield, to recognize this one for what it is.”

  Realization dawned. Ariah felt the remaining color drain from her cheeks. She swallowed, peered down at her golden wedding band, and read the engraved inscription with an aching heart: the only journey worth traveling starts from within.

  “The satchel that I spotted in the drawing room,” Doctor Mongeau said, jerking Ariah from her thoughts. “The man’s belongings, I reckon?”

  “Yes.” Her throat strangled the word.

  “So he was not robbed of his things …” He appeared to be speaking more to himself. Regardless, Ariah shook her head and nervously toyed with her ring. “If I were a betting man, I’d say he did this to himself.”

  “But there was no gun at the Seine. No weapon of any kind.”

  “Perhaps the gun met its watery grave at the bottom of the Seine.” Doctor Mongeau shrugged his thin shoulders. Then he inhaled and shook his head. “I know it shall distress you to hear – but I’m afraid the exit wound does not lie.”

  “The exit wound? Why? What does it tell you?” Doctor Mongeau hesitated and speared her with a pointed look. “Whatever you have to say, I assure you I can handle it. Now tell me, Doctor. Please. I’ve a right to know.”

  “Very well. See how the flesh is flayed outward?” He directed Ariah’s eye with an extended pointer finger. It shook midair as he traced a telling path along the wound. “The bullet tore through the wall of his cheek, causing the flesh to pucker like so. I’m afraid this indicates one thing and one alone: at the moment of impact, the barrel was positioned inside his mouth.”

  “I … I don’t understand.” Bile rose inside Ariah’s throat while tears stung the back of her eyes. Turning to Doctor Mongeau, she fought to harness them back. “I mean – how … how could he possibly survive such a thing?”

  “Flintlock pistols don’t play well with damp weather. Humidity and a few drops of water would easily subdue the blow.” Thoughtful silence deepened Doctor Mongeau’s brows. His gaze settled upon the soldier’s convulsing limbs for several moments. Then he exhaled a dejected sigh and smoothed a palm over his ba
ld patch. The whale lamp’s illumination reflected off the skin with blinding intensity. “Should he make it through the night, I believe he’ll live. But I fear it shall be a very long night.”

  •

  Ariah escorted Doctor Mongeau to the front door nearly an hour later. After tending to the soldier’s wounds, he’d inspected Emmaline and found that her fever was quite better, though the illness still present. This assessment brought a flush of color back to Ariah’s cheeks.

  She and Doctor Mongeau stood in tense silence for several minutes. Only the puttering rain and crackling fireplace alleviated the quiet. Ariah stared at the weathered floorboards below her heels, observing the cracked panels with a haunting intensity. Doctor Mongeau’s words echoed in her mind until she went dizzy from the refrain.

  “Should he make it through the night, I believe he’ll live. But I fear it shall be a very long night.”

  Her efforts would not be in vain. She would see the soldier through the night.

  Doctor Mongeau spoke first. “A bit of advice, if I may, madame?”

  Ariah’s eyes jerked from the floorboards and settled upon the doctor’s weary face. He was strangely expressionless – all emotion swept behind an apathetic mask. She gave a subtle nod, urging him to speak.

  “Forget him. Forget this stranger. You’ve done a noble thing indeed, bringing him into your home – but now you must consider yourself and little Emmaline.”

  “But if the fever breaks, he shall live through the night! You said so yourself. I – ”

  “Yes …” Doctor Mongeau hesitated. He draped a hand over Ariah’s shoulder and forced an unconvincing smile. “I care for your family greatly. Perhaps even more than my own. People will speak of it … of this strange man beneath your roof.”

  Burgeoning resentment formed inside Ariah’s chest. Chin raised, she returned Doctor Mongeau’s leveled stare. “Then let them speak.”