‘Enfin.’
Mary stared at the bloody musket ball he held between the jaws of the forceps. It was such a tiny object, yet it could fell a man. She shifted her gaze back to Randall.
‘He lives still,’ murmured the doctor, as if reading her mind. ‘We will clean the wound with spirits and then cover it again. No salves, just clean bandages. And then we wait. If there is no fever, no infection, then he may survive.’
* * *
It was another hour before they had finished and by that time the light was fading. While Bertrand cleaned and packed away his surgical tools Mary looked doubtfully at the figure in the bed.
‘He has not regained consciousness at all,’ she said, biting her lip and trying not to sound a
nxious.
‘But his pulse is steady.’
‘Perhaps you should bleed him again.’
‘Mais non, it is your English doctors who like to drain the life blood out of a man. We will let him rest for another day at least. Now, I must go. I am needed at the hospital.’
‘You are working tonight?’
‘Mais oui. There are many more wounded that need my attention. When he wakes or if you become anxious, send for me.’ He gripped her shoulder. ‘I have done all I can, Mary.’
‘I know. And I am very grateful, especially when you have so many injured men to attend.’
‘Ah, but this one, he is special to you, Mary.’
Chapter Fourteen
Another night-time vigil at Randall’s bedside left Mary exhausted. She slept away the morning and spent her waking hours catching up on correspondence, including replying to another enquiry by Lady Sarah with a curt note, in which she did not minimise Randall’s critical condition.
She felt a surge of irritation. It should be Randall’s family who were here, nursing him. The thought occurred only to be instantly dismissed. Lady Sarah had been brought up to a life of ease and privilege; she would know nothing of nursing a sick man. And Randall’s only other female relative in the country was Lady Blanchards, whose delicate condition would preclude her from attending the sickroom.
No, the Latymors could not help her and agonising as it was to spend hour upon hour sitting at Randall’s bedside, Mary knew it was where she wanted to be, as if her loving him might make a difference to his recovery.
* * *
Bertrand called the following day, took one look at Mary and ordered her out of the house to get some fresh air.
‘You are too pale,’ he told her. ‘It does you no good to be in the sickroom all the time.’
‘I am not here all the time. I share the nursing with Robbins.’
‘And when do you ever leave the building?’
She spread her hands. ‘I want to be here with him, just in case.’
‘Nothing is going to happen to Lord Randall while I am here, Mary. Maintenant, you will go out, if you please. The sun is shining, you might walk in the park. The sight of the flowers will lift your spirits.’
She shook her head. ‘I would rather not. The proud English ladies will look down their noses at me. But there is something I could do; there is a notebook here that Major Flint left behind on his last visit.’ The visit that had enraged Randall so much that he had tried to get out of bed. The visit that had almost killed him. She knew she was being unfair, but misery and a lack of sleep had stretched her nerves to breaking point. ‘I will return the major’s book to him. That will get me out of your way for a while.’
She put on her bonnet and set off, but even the sunshine could not dispel the anxiety that constantly pervaded her thoughts. While Randall was ill, while there was some doubt whether he would recover, she could stay and nurse him. She could coax the tiny amounts of honeyed water between his lips, lovingly smooth his hair from his brow. But when he recovered—or otherwise—she would have to leave and the future stretched out before her bleak and empty. Yet there was no question of staying with Randall. She could not forget the look in his eyes when he had accused her of stealing his lucky sword. She could not forgive his lack of trust. It would always be there, ready to be recalled, to come between them whenever they had a disagreement.
* * *
When she arrived at the major’s lodgings the door was opened to her by a young woman with striking red-gold hair and hazel eyes. She was slightly taller than Mary and dressed simply, like a servant, but there was something about her that made Mary think she was—or had been—a lady.
Mary held out the small, leather-bound book.