“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
