Jocelyn gazed down at the ring he'd placed on her finger, exerting himself to the limit of his strength to ensure that he didn't fumble.
Till death us do part
.
Given David's condition and Sally's vehement rejection of any further aid, it had never occurred to her to bring him to Cromarty House. But her unpleasant sister-in-law was right. No matter how disruptive and painful it would be to have him here, he was her husband. She owed him this. Moreover, she found that she wanted to do anything that would ease his final days.
She yanked the bell cord. Dudley appeared so quickly that he must have had his ear pressed to the keyhole. “My husband is in the carriage outside. He is very ill and will need to be carried in. Take him to the blue room.”
After the butler left, Sally said brokenly, “Thank you, Lady Jocelyn.”
“I'm not doing this for your sake, but for his.” Turning to her writing desk, she lifted a jingling leather bag and tossed it to Sally. “I was going to have this delivered, but since you're here, I'll give it to you in person. Your first quarter's income.”
Sally gasped at how heavy the bag was. As she tugged at the drawstring to look inside, Jocelyn said tartly, “You needn't count the money. It's all thereâone hundred twenty-five pounds in gold.”
Sally's head snapped up. “Not thirty pieces of silver?”
Jocelyn said softly, each word carved in ice, “Of course not. Silver is for selling people. Since I was buying, I paid in gold.”
As Sally teetered on the verge of explosion, Jocelyn continued, “You may come and go as you please. There is a small room adjoining your brother's. I shall have it made up for your use for . . . for as long as you need it. Does he have a personal servant?” When Sally shook her head, Jocelyn said, “I shall assign him one, plus any other nursing care he requires.”
Sally turned to go, then turned back to say hesitantly, “There is one other thing. He thought it was your idea to bring him here, and that pleased him very much. I hope you will not disabuse him of the notion.”
At the limits of her patience, Jocelyn snapped, “You shall just have to hope that my manners aren't so lacking that I will torment a dying man. Now will you remove yourself from my presence?”
Sally beat a hasty retreat, shaking in reaction. Any doubts she might have had that Lady Jocelyn was a brass-hearted virago had been laid to rest. But surely she would at least be courteous to David, who seemed to cherish the illusion that she was a good person. Discovering the witch's real character would distress him.
Chapter 6
I
t took only a quarter-hour to get the major and his few belongings settled in a sumptuous room with a diagonal view of Hyde Park. It appeared to be the best guest chamber, and Sally again conceded, with enormous reluctance, that Lady Jocelyn did not do things by half-measures. David was white-faced with pain from the move, and Sally was grateful that she had carried the bottle of laudanum over in her knitting bag. When the footman had left, she gave her brother another dose of opium.
Burying her own feelings about Lady Jocelyn, Sally said, “Though your wife was good enough to offer me a room here, I think it's best that I sleep at the Launcestons'. But I'll come every afternoon, as I did at the hospital, and Richard said he'll call tomorrow.” She straightened the covers over his thin frame. “Time for you to get some sleep. The trip must have been exhausting.”
David smiled faintly. “True, but I'm fine now, little hedgehog.”
“Now that you're settled, I'm going to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Dr. Ramsey said there's a very fine surgeon there, someone who might be able to help you.”
“Perhaps,” her brother said, unimpressed.
She noticed that his eyes kept drifting to the door. Was he expecting his so-called wife to visit him? Hoping that Lady Jocelyn was well-bred enough to do that much, Sally said, “I'll visit again later.” She bent to kiss his forehead, then left.
Hugh Morgan was approaching the blue room. “Her ladyship has assigned me to be the major's servant,” he said ingenuously. “It's a real honor.”
“I'm sure you will suit him very well.” As Sally left, she felt unwilling amusement at the perfect poetic justice Lady Jocelyn had visited on Morgan, the accidental instrument for bringing the major to these hallowed precincts. Caring for a gravely injured man would not be easy. Luckily, the footman seemed like a kind, conscientious young man. David would be in good hands.
Now to find the mad Scot at St. Bartholomew's.
It took Jocelyn a good half-hour to calm down. When her appalling sister-in-law arrived, she'd been admiring the flowers Candover had sent that morning. The note read only
Until September
, and was signed with a boldly scrawled C.
Holding the note and remembering that wordless but potent interchange between them, she'd been lost in dreams. Perhaps in the enigmatic duke she would find what she had always sought, and never dared believe she would find.
Then that unspeakable female had blundered in with her threats and her emotional blackmail. Except for Sally Lancaster's vivid green eyes, there was no resemblance to David, who was a gentleman to the core.
Jocelyn's mouth curved involuntarily as she remembered her remark about buying the major with gold. Aunt Laura would have gone into a spasm if she had heard her niece say anything so unforgivably vulgar, but Sally Lancaster had a genius for bringing out the worst in Jocelyn's nature.
Jocelyn sighed, her amusement gone, and absently scratched between Isis's ears. How could she have thought getting involved with someone's life and death would be simple? She would rather not think of the major's imminent death, and she certainly had not intended to witness it, but that could not be avoided now.
Whenever she thought of David Lancaster, she wanted to cry. It was like a candle going out, reducing the amount of light in the world.
She pulled her mind back to practical considerations. Fortunately Morgan had welcomed the opportunity to serve the major. The footman had a good heart and a steady hand, and Jocelyn had heard from Marie that he aspired to be a valet. Now he could get some real experience.
Summoning the butler again, she said, “Order two wagon loads of straw and have it spread on the street outside. Make sure that it's layered thicklyâI don't want Major Lancaster disturbed by the sound of traffic. Also, tell Cook to prepare food suitable for an invalid.” If the major could be induced to eat.
After Dudley left, she ordered herself to be more patient with Sally Lancaster, since it would be impossible to avoid her sister-in-law entirely. Sally's irritability was understandable given that she was devoted to her brother and had no one else to care about. With her looks and disposition, she probably never would again.
Jocelyn did not even bother feeling guilty for the uncharitable thought.
Sally had believed that the York had inured her to hospitals, but St. Bartholomew's seemed ten times as crowded and twenty times as noisy. It had been founded in the Middle Ages by monks and appeared not to have been cleaned since. Bart's treated many of London's indigent and a clamorous, odorous lot they were.
Nonetheless, the hospital trained some of the country's best surgeons. As she passed through endless crowded wards, she supposed that was because the surgeons had so many patients to practice on.
It took half an hour of walking and asking questions to locate anyone who knew anything about Ian Kinlock. At first she was told that he wasn't in the hospital because “this was âis day for the swells.” Another listener chimed in that he'd seen the doctor 'imself that very day.
Another half hour of searching brought her to the dingy little room where Kinlock was alleged to be found after he'd done his day's work in the cutting ward. She settled down to wait on an uncomfortable wooden chair. A jumble of books, papers, and anatomical sketches covered the top of the battered desk and bookcase, with more tottering in stacks on the floor. Brilliant Kinlock might be, but neat he definitely wasn't.
After an hour of increasing boredom, Sally's basic fondness for order asserted itself, and she began to straighten the books and papers. A small, grubby towel that had fallen behind the desk was pressed into service as a dust rag. Remembering how her scholarly father had felt about people who rearranged his books, she took great care not to shift anything to a new location. Nonetheless, simply squaring up the piles neatly and removing the dust did wonders for the appearance of the office.
After tidying the desk, she started on the bookcase, working from top to bottom. On a cluttered middle shelf, her fingers brushed what felt like a china mug. She pulled it out and found herself holding a hollow-eyed, grinning human skull. She gasped and hastily replaced the ghastly relic, rather proud that she hadn't dropped it from shock.
An impatient voice with a definite Scots burr growled from the doorway, “That skull belonged to the last person fool enough to meddle with my office. Are you trying to become a mate to it?”
Sally jumped and spun around, making a sound regrettably close to a squeak. The owner of the voice was a man of middle height with massive shoulders and a blood-splashed smock. His bushy dark brows provided a strong contrast to a thick shock of white hair and added impressively to a scowl that was already first class.
“I . . . I didn't actually move anything from its place,” she stammered. “You're Ian Kinlock, the surgeon?”
“Aye. Now get the hell out of my office.” He dropped into the desk chair, unlocked one of his drawers, and pulled out a bottle of what looked like whiskey. Ignoring his visitor, he uncorked the bottle, took a long, long draft, and slumped against the chair back with his eyes closed.
When Sally approached, she realized that he was younger than she had first thought, certainly under forty. The hair might be prematurely white, but the lines in his face were from exhaustion, not age, and the compact body had the lean fitness of a man in his prime. “Dr. Kinlock?”
His lids barely lifted to reveal weary blue eyes. “You're still here? Out. Now.” He took another pull of whiskey.
“Dr. Kinlock, I want you to examine my brother.”
He sighed, then said with an elaborate show of patience, “Miss Whatever-the-devil-your-name is, I have seen over fifty patients today, performed six operations, and just lost two patients in a row under the knife. If your brother was Prinny himself, I would not see him.
Especially
if he were Prinny. For the third and last time, get out, or I will throw you out.”
He ran a tired hand through his white hair, adding a smudge of blood to its disarray. Despite his profanity, there was a forceful intelligence about him, and Sally felt a breath of hope. Even more determined to get him to David as soon as possible, she said, “My brother was wounded at Waterloo. He's paralyzed from the waist down, in constant pain, and wasting away like a wraith.”
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 Davidâa 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 doctorâwe'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.