The Bargain

by Mary Jo Putney

  Kinlock’s eyes showed only a bare flicker of acknowledgment. “With that kind of injury, he’s a dead man. For miracles, try St. Bartholomew’s church across the street.”

  Sally caught his gaze with her own. “Didn’t you take an oath, Doctor? To help those who are suffering?”

  For a moment she feared that she’d gone too far and the surgeon would murder her on the spot. Then his anger dissolved. “I’ll make allowances for the fact that you’re concerned about your brother,” he said with great gentleness. “I should even be complimented by your touching faith that I might be able to help him. Unfortunately, the amount we know about the human body is so minuscule when compared to the amount we don’t know that it’s a wonder I can ever help anyone.”

  She saw the bleakness in his eyes and remembered the two patients who had just died. No wonder he was in a foul mood.

  Kinlock took another swig of whiskey, then continued in the same reasonable tone. “Waterloo was fought when? The eighteenth of June? So it’s been almost five weeks.” He shook his head, talking to himself. “How many bedamned operations did I do over there? And how many men did I lose?”

  “You care about your patients,” she said quietly. “That’s what I want for David—a surgeon who cares passionately.”

  Scowling, he gulped more whiskey. “With a spinal injury severe enough to cause paralysis, the surprise is that your brother is still alive. Half the bodily functions are destroyed, there are infections and ulceration from lying still too long. A man doesn’t survive long like that, and from what I’ve seen in such cases, it’s a mercy when they die. So take my advice: say good-bye to your brother and leave me alone.”

  He started to turn to his desk, but Sally reached out to touch his sleeve. “Dr. Kinlock, none of those things have happened to my brother. It’s just that he is in such pain and is wasting away. Couldn’t you just look at him? Please?”

  At her words, Kinlock’s dark, bushy brows drew together thoughtfully. “A great deal of pain? That’s odd, one would expect numbness . . .” He pondered a moment longer, then rattled off a series of medical questions, his gaze sharply analytical.

  Sally could answer most of the questions due to her badgering of the doctors at the York Hospital for information.

  After ascertaining what David’s condition and treatment had been, Kinlock asked, “How much laudanum is your brother taking?”

  Sally tried to estimate. “A bottle of Sydenham’s every two or three days, I think.”

  “Bloody hell, no wonder the man can’t move! Opium is a marvelous medication, but not without drawbacks.” He folded his arms across his chest as he thought. Finally, he said, “I’ll come by and examine him tomorrow afternoon.”

  Her heart leaped. “Could you make it tonight? He’s so weak . . .”

  “No, I could not. And if you’d want me to after I’ve put away this much whiskey, you’re a fool.”

  His hands looked steady enough, but she supposed he was right. “Then tomorrow morning, first thing? I’ll give you one hundred twenty-five pounds.” Reaching through the side slit in her dress to the pocket she wore slung around her waist, Sally pulled out the pouch of gold and handed it to him.

  Kinlock whistled softly at the weight of the bag. “You’re a determined little thing, aren’t you? However, I have patients to see tomorrow morning. Afternoon is the best I can do, and I won’t make any promises about the precise hour. Take it or leave it.” He tossed the bag back to her.

  Stung by the dismissive phrase “little thing,” Sally said tartly, “I’ve always heard surgeons are a crude, profane lot. So good to know that rumor spoke true in this case.”

  Instead of being insulted, Kinlock gave a crack of laughter, his expression lightening for the first time. “You forgot to mention abrasive, insensitive, and uncultured. That’s why surgeons are called mister instead of doctor—we’re a low lot, lass, and mind you remember that.” He corked his whiskey and set the bottle back on his desk. “By the way, what is your name?”

  “Sally Lancaster.”

  “Aye, ye look like a Sally.” His Scots accent was thickening rapidly, probably because of the whiskey. “Write down your brother’s direction, and I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon. Probably not early.”

  While Sally wrote the address, Kinlock crossed his arms on the desk, laid his head on them, and promptly fell asleep. She carefully tilted the slip of paper against his whiskey bottle, sure it would be found in that position.

  Before leaving, she studied the slumbering figure with bemusement. What the devil did a Sally look like? A mad Scot indeed, abrasive, insensitive, and all the rest. But for the first time in weeks, she felt a whisper of hope that David might have a future.

  Lady Jocelyn threw her quill across the desk in exasperation, leaving a scattering of ink blots on her account book. Isis raised a contemptuous nose at her lack of self-control. All afternoon she’d tried to attend to correspondence and monthly accounts, but she was unable to concentrate for thinking of the man lying upstairs in the blue room.

  She rested her chin on her palm and thought how ridiculous it was to be so shy about visiting him. After all, she was his hostess. Lord, his wife! His prickly sister had gone out and not returned and had reportedly turned down the offer of a bedchamber, for which Jocelyn was thankful. At least the wretched female wasn’t entirely lacking in sense. If they had to meet daily over the breakfast table, there would be murder done.

  “You’re quite right, Isis. Since I’m not getting any work done anyhow, I might as well check that the major is comfortable.” Or alive, for that matter. Jocelyn pushed herself away from the desk. “Do you think he’d like some flowers?” The cat yawned luxuriously. “So pleased you agree with me. I’ll go cut some in the garden.”

  After gathering and arranging an armful of cream and yellow roses, with some greens for contrast, Jocelyn took the vase of flowers up to the blue room. She knocked lightly on the door, entering when there was no response. The major appeared to be asleep, so she set the flowers on the table by the bed, then turned to study him.

  In repose, his face reminded her of a carved medieval knight resting on a marble tomb in the village church at Charlton. Gaunt, noble, remote. His pallor was intensified by a dark shadow of beard. Moved by some impulse of tenderness, she reached out to touch his cheek, feeling the rasp of bristles beneath her fingers.

  Disconcertingly, his eyes opened. “Good day, Lady Jocelyn.”

  Hastily she dropped her hand, her fingers tingling. “Good day. Have you been well taken care of?”

  “Very. It was kind of you to invite me here.”

  With that pleasure in his eyes, she could not have disabused him of the idea, even if Sally Lancaster hadn’t warned her. Still, innate honesty compelled her to say, “Most of the credit belongs to your sister. It was she who thought of asking your doctor if it was safe to move you.”

  “Doubtless Ramsey said that it really didn’t matter one way or the other.” His gaze circled the room with its high molded ceiling and silk-clad walls. “Your house is an infinitely pleasanter place to die than the hospital.”

  She pulled a chair up to his bedside and sat so that their faces were nearly level. “How can you be so calm, to speak of your death as if it were a change in the weather?”

  He gave the impression of shrugging, though he scarcely moved. “When you’ve spent enough time soldiering, death is like a change in the weather. I’ve been on borrowed time for years. I never really expected to make old bones.”

  “Your experience goes far beyond my understanding,” she said quietly.

  “We are all products of our experience. Mine just happens to be rather melodramatic,” he said absently, for most of his attention was on Lady Jocelyn. With the afternoon sun sculpting her perfect features, she was exquisite. Her eyes, a delicate golden brown with green flecks, entranced him, and he found he was a little less resigned to dying than before.

  With a pang, he realized that he would have
liked to meet and court this lady when he was well and whole. But even then, his circumstances would never have made him a suitable mate for a woman of her station.

  There was a glimmer of tears on her cheeks. He found that by concentrating all his strength, he could lift his hand and brush them away, his fingertips lingering on the rose-petal softness of her skin. “Don’t weep for me, my lady. If you remember me at all, I would rather you did with a smile.”

  “I will not forget you, David—I can promise that.” The tears didn’t entirely disappear, but she did smile, raising her hand to cover his. “It’s so strange to think that three days ago we had never met. Now, there is a . . . a unique connection between us. I had thought a marriage of convenience was just a matter of words spoken and papers signed, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

  “It has been for me.” Too tired to hold his arm up any longer, he let it rest on the bed. Her hand followed, fingers twining his. There was an intimacy in her clasp that warmed his heart. He wished he had had the strength to touch the shining hair, to see if it felt as silky as it looked. That would be high romance, given that no other part of his body was capable of responding. “I am only sorry to be disturbing your peace.”

  “Perhaps it’s time my peace was disturbed. Too much tranquillity can’t be good for the soul.” She stood, releasing his hand, to his regret.

  Her sweet musical voice took on a businesslike note. “Is Hugh Morgan acceptable to you as a servant? If not, I’ll find another.”

  “Perfectly acceptable. I don’t mean to be a demanding guest, or to overstay my welcome.”

  She bit her lip. “If there is anything you wish, you have only to ask. Do you object to my visiting you?”

  Amused that she could imagine such a thing, he asked, “Why should I object?”

  “The impropriety . . .”

  He laughed at the absurdity of that. After a startled moment, she joined in. “That was silly of me, wasn’t it? There can be no impropriety between husband and wife.”

  “Your reputation is quite safe. Even if we weren’t married, I’m in no condition to compromise you.” He grinned. “More’s the pity.”

  Jocelyn looked uncertain, then smiled and leaned forward to brush a gossamer kiss on his lips before she turned to leave the room. He admired the grace of her walk and the way the sun burnished her chestnut hair to a shade of red that was more provocative than respectable. Did that color hint of a temper concealed beneath her cool, flawless facade? A delightfully intriguing thought. She was not only a lady, but a woman. One he might have loved.

  It was ironic to think that if he hadn’t been dying, they never would have met.

  Jocelyn closed the door behind her, then leaned against it, feeling as drained as the major looked. Damn the man, why did she have to like him? Every time she saw him, it got worse. Strange, the feeling of intimacy between them, perhaps because there was no time for polite preliminaries.

  There was scarcely any time at all. . . .

  Chapter 7

  Grateful that Lady Jocelyn was out, Sally spent much of the next afternoon hovering within earshot of the front door as she waited for Ian Kinlock to appear, but the knocker stayed infernally quiet. The hour was well advanced when an impatient rap heralded a visitor. Sally reached the door at the same time the butler did.

  Sighing with relief, she saw that it was the surgeon, a black medical bag in one hand. To the butler, she said, “Dr. Kinlock is here to examine my brother, Dudley. I shall take him up.”

  Kinlock stepped inside. In the elegant town house, he looked as out of place as a dancing bear, and as powerful. As Sally led him upstairs, he said dryly, “Quite an establishment.” He scanned her drab garments doubtfully. “Do you live here also?”

  She considered explaining, but it was just too complicated. “No. My brother is a guest, and I’m a governess in another household. I spend as much time here as I can.”

  They entered David’s room. From her brother’s expression, he didn’t anticipate anything worthwhile coming from this visit. He was only enduring another painful examination for her sake. After the introductions, the surgeon said, “Out with you, lassie. I’ll examine your brother in private. I already know how you would answer the questions. I want to hear what he will say.”

  Offended, she opened her mouth to protest, then stopped when David, amused by the surgeon’s bluntness, said, “Go on, Sally. I’ll manage.”

  Routed, she spent an endless half-hour pacing around the gallery that circled the open foyer. Not a bad place to exercise in bad weather, she decided, though she rapidly tired of the marble busts of boring gentlemen wearing laurel wreaths. Perhaps she should have asked Richard to stay when he’d visited earlier, but she hadn’t even mentioned that Kinlock would be coming, from a superstitious fear that talk would take the magic of hope away.

  When Kinlock opened the door, she was on him in a flash. His expression seemed lighter than when he had arrived. Hoping that was a good sign, she said, “Well?”

  “Come in, Miss Lancaster. I want to discuss this with both of you.”

  David was white-lipped from the pain of the examination, but his eyes were alert. Sally crossed to his side, seizing his hand and holding it tightly.

  Kinlock began to pace around the room. Sally wondered if the man ever relaxed.

  “First, Major Lancaster, there is still a shrapnel fragment in your back, positioned lower than the ones removed after the battle. That is the source of most of the pain.” The surgeon scowled from under his bushy brows. “Based on your responses, I think you aren’t truly paralyzed. Swelling around the shrapnel would have produced that effect in the days after the injury, but the swelling has abated now.”

  Startled, David said, “Half my body won’t move. If I’m not really paralyzed, what the devil is wrong?”

  “I think you’re suffering from a combination of factors. The shrapnel certainly isn’t insignificant, but I believe that the worst of your problems results from too much laudanum,” Kinlock said bluntly. “You were given massive doses to dull the pain of the spinal injuries, which must have been excruciating. The opium helped that, and it also kept you from thrashing around and damaging yourself further, but I believe you’re suffering from opium poisoning, and you’ve probably become addicted as well. Overdosing on laudanum can have many possible side effects—including extreme muscular weakness, and the inability to eat properly.”

  And David had been living on broth and laudanum for weeks, because the doctors saw no reason for him to limit his intake of opium since he was dying anyhow. “My God. What a vicious circle. The worse my condition, the more they encouraged me to take laudanum to alleviate it, and the more I deteriorated.”

  “By the time the swelling around the fragment subsided to a point where it might have been possible to move, you were starving and so weakened by pain and opium that you seemed paralyzed. As Paracelsus said, ‘Dose alone makes a poison.’ ” The Scot shook his head dourly. “Or as I say, anything potent enough to heal can also harm.”

  Trying to grasp the magnitude of what Kinlock was saying, David asked, “If I stop taking the laudanum, will I recover?”

  Kinlock frowned. “It’s not quite that simple. Reducing the opium would restore your appetite and save you from starvation, but the pain might be unendurable. If you became strong enough to walk, there’s a risk the shrapnel would shift and cause genuine paralysis. Still, even if that happened, you could manage in a wheelchair, and your life would be in no immediate danger. That would be the safest course of treatment.”

  His last words fell into absolute stillness. Guessing what the surgeon wasn’t saying, David said, “You’re thinking of a more radical treatment, aren’t you?”

  “The alternative is an operation. Surgery is always dangerous, and removing the shrapnel might cause the kind of spinal damage it’s been assumed you already have. In addition, surgery increases the risk of infection, which could be life-threatening, especially weakened as yo
u are now.”

  “But if it works?”

  “If it works—it’s possible that you could be walking in a week.”

  Sally gasped, her hand tightening on his. David tried to imagine what it would be like to live. To have a future again. Enjoy the robust health he’d taken for granted his whole life. Taking a deep breath, he asked, “How soon could you operate?”

  Kinlock’s brows drew together as he considered his medical bag. “If you’re sure that’s what you want, I could do it right now. I have all the instruments I need, and the actual operation wouldn’t take long.”

  David and Sally exchanged glances, communicating wordlessly. The longer surgery was delayed, the weaker he would be. Terrified at the risk but knowing it was his last hope, she gave a stiff nod of agreement.

  He turned back to the surgeon. “Then do it. Now.”

  “Very well.” Kinlock hesitated. “For what it’s worth, in your situation and knowing the risks, I’d make the same choice.”

  That was some comfort, David supposed. His gaze went to the bottle on his bedside table as he thought about the strange dreams, the distorted colors and sounds, the haziness he’d lived with since regaining consciousness the day after his injury.

  If he’d been strong enough, he would have grabbed the bottle and hurled it across the room. Yet for weeks, he’d welcomed the drug as the one thing that made life bearable. “Ever since I started taking laudanum, I’ve felt like . . . like a stranger has taken over my mind. I thought that was because I was dying.” His mouth twisted. “Opium is a damnably treacherous friend.”

  “Aye, but you’ll need it for the operation,” Kinlock cautioned. “After, it might be best to cut back on the dosage gradually. If you stop all at once, you’ll have several wretched days of craving, shaking, sweating, and God knows what else.”