The wretched woman seemed determined to block the doorway, but Ambrose stood his ground. “Nevertheless, if ye’ll permit me to enter, since I’m here, I’ll see how he fares.”
She grimaced, clearly enraged that her bairns apparently were not following her orders. She flew at them like an avenging angel, spewing a stream of Gaelic. The frantic dog strained at his chain.
“I’m off to see if Dr. Raincourt needs me,” the driver shouted.
Eala held her breath when Ambrose waved him away, took her elbow and guided her inside.
* * *
Given the ramshackle state of the croft’s exterior, Ambrose didn’t expect much from the inside. His spirits fell when he surveyed the one room hovel. It was much worse than he anticipated—filth, disarray, broken furniture and blackened pots, wailing, malnourished bairns in rags and at least three fat, black cats. Clearly, there was no shortage of food for the felines who eyed the newcomers with suspicion.
The most alarming aspect, however, was a sickly smell that was even more pervasive than the stench of unwashed bodies. He instantly recognized the odor of putrefaction.
He hastened to the bed where his fears were confirmed. Puss had seeped into his patient’s bandages. He didn’t need to remove the wrappings to know Evan Bruce’s arm had to be amputated if he was to save the man’s life.
A wee bit more complicated than a carbuncle, he thought to himself.
He lay the back of his hand on Evan’s forehead. Too hot.
When the wounded man opened his glazed eyes, Ambrose wasn’t sure if he saw him or not. “I’m Dr. Ambrose Pendray,” he explained. “Dr. Raincourt’s colleague.”
Hearing no reply, he turned to Eala, surprised to see her still lingering just inside the door. Her pallor alarmed him. Obviously, the sight of the man she loved suffering so terribly was too overwhelming. But Ambrose was going to need her help.
* * *
The deep lines of worry on Ambrose’s face only worsened Eala’s nightmare. Evan’s condition had deteriorated, that much was clear. If she approached the bed, the surgeon might sense her confused emotions. Her betrothed was a hothead, but he shouldn’t be denied a rich and fulfilling life—with a woman who loved him. But, if he died…
She dithered, unable to look away as the bandages were slowly and carefully removed from Evan’s arm. She covered her ears when he wailed in pain.
Startled when Ambrose strode to her side, she leaned back and dug her fingernails into the wood of the jamb, dreading what he was about to say.
“Amputating the arm is his only hope, Eala,” he whispered, his eyes full of pity.
“Nay,” she groaned. It was the worst news. The walls closed in. The reek of decay became too overwhelming. Bile rose in her throat. She couldn’t breathe.
He reached for her elbow and steadied her. “I ken ’tis a lot to ask, but I’ll need yer help.”
My help?
“What about Mrs. Molloy?”
He shook his head. “She’ll have to take the bairns out while we do this. ’Tisna something for them to see. Besides, the woman doesna care for him like ye do.”
Eala’s brain stopped working.
I’ll faint.
A one-armed husband?
Evan would prefer death.
I would rather…
“Ye’ll be helping to save his life,” Ambrose said.
Ashamed of her cowardice, she inhaled deeply and braced herself. “Of course. Tell me what to do.”
Surgery