Chapter 7
Calming the Storm.
Izzy opened the attic door, glancing around once more to be certain no one was about.
Mrs Mabbs had sent her to bed at the same time as the children, which Izzy had done nothing to fight against. She could hear the nanny singing lullabies to Daisy and slipped through the door, careful not to clatter the pitcher and bowl together.
With her father away from home, and Mrs Adie and Polly gone home for the night, she had slipped into the kitchen and prepared everything whilst Mrs Mabbs gave the children their bath.
She made her way up the stairs and knew something was wrong before she reached the top step.
There was a stillness that made her heart leap, and she almost ran the last steps to get to him.
Setting the pitcher and bowl down, she stared at him, terrified lest he had died and there was nothing she could do.
He had kicked all the covers off and lay so very still, but as Izzy bent closer, she discovered his breathing was fast and shallow.
Relief lanced through her, though she knew he was dangerously ill.
A faintly metallic note rose from his fevered skin, a scent she remembered from childhood illnesses.
Dread coiled in her belly, the fear that his body was burning itself alive and she could do little to stop it too terrible to contemplate.
Yet she must. He had put his faith in her, foolish as that might be, and she would do everything she could to save him.
“Boreas?” Gently, Izzy placed her hand on his shoulder, terrified to discover how hot he was. She gave him a gentle shake. “It’s me, Izzy. Miss Honey.”
Boreas let out a harsh breath, startling her as he turned his head. He seemed agitated, and she reached up, pushing his sodden hair from his eyes. He made a low sound, like an animal in pain, and Izzy’s heart lurched.
“It’s all right. I’m here,” she told him, though she did not know if he could hear her. “I’m here. I won’t leave.”
He muttered something under his breath, but she did not understand it.
She took his hand, finding the skin blazing hot and dry.
“I’m here,” she said again, her voice breaking as she squeezed his fingers, gaining no response.
She nodded. “Well. You asked for my tender care, so you cannot complain now, I’m afraid. I must clean the wound again.”
With unsteady hands she undid the bandage and pushed it away, carefully removing the poultice.
The wound was red and angry, its edges raised and swollen, pulling at the stitches.
Here and there were spots of blood, though it was not bleeding.
Though his entire body seemed hot enough to burst into flame, she realised this was the eye of the storm.
Heat radiated from the place the bullet had torn through his skin, and it wept a cloudy liquid that seemed sticky, clinging to the stitches.
But it wasn’t yellow, nor green, she told herself firmly, and there was no stench of rot. It could be worse.
A little voice in the back of her mind told her there was time enough for worse to happen but she silenced it.
Reaching for the bowl and pitcher, she set the bowl aside with the poultice laid carefully inside it, and gently pushed a towel beneath his side.
Boreas moaned, tossing his head from side to side, his breathing increasingly erratic.
Izzy reached for his hand, trying to keep calm, to sound confident as she spoke to him, though she wanted to cry. “I m-must clean the wound now. I know it hurts, so you must be brave for me.”
She bit her lip, remembering how cross he had been when she had babied him. Well, if he didn’t like it, he could wake up and tell her so.
Carefully, she poured the chamomile liquid over the wound, flushing away the stickiness.
Removing the sodden towel, she replaced it with another and repeated the process.
So far, so good. Dipping a clean cloth into the jug, she carefully touched it to the stitches, trying to remove the last of the sticky mess that remained.
Her hands trembled as she tended him, the rapidly cooling water chilling in the drafty attic.
Each time she touched his skin, he flinched, his muscles tensing. A low groan reached her ears.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping away a tear as it slid down her cheek. There was no time for crying over him. If he was to live, she must be strong. Swallowing, she took a deep breath. “I must make sure it’s clean. It will hurt, but it will be over soon.”
With that, she returned to her job, cleaning with ruthless efficiency, ignoring his sounds of pain, though they tore at her heart.
Finally, it was done, and she put the fresh poultice on the wound, tying it firmly in place.
The fresh scent of yarrow was pleasant but could not overpower the sickroom smell of a body in distress, the sour tang of sweat and sickness overlaying everything.
Izzy sat back, aware that her whole body was shaking.
The lamp flickered, sending ghastly shapes dancing about the rafters, casting the harsh lines of his face and body into shadow.
It seemed impossible that this man, who had been so vibrant and alive, whose energy had seemed to crackle against her skin when they met, could be so still and so very close to death.
The idea of a world without him in it made her throat close with misery.
He was young, clever and bold, and with his life ahead of him, and selfishly she had so wanted to know him, to discover what kind of man he really was, and instead he might die here in this dingy attic with only her to tend to him.
What would she do if that happened? Her father would be kind, she knew, but what would they do with the body?
What would happen if Captain Underwood discovered what she’d done, could she be prosecuted for harbouring a criminal?
The weight of fear for him, and for herself, seemed to press down upon her, threatening to crush her to dust.
“Don’t you dare die.” The words seemed too loud, yet the darkness of the attic swallowed them up.
Around her, the old house creaked, a chill draft whistling in from somewhere, making her shiver.
She swallowed down her misery, determined not to weep, though the tears sliding down her cheeks would not stop.
“I won’t let you. Do you hear me? I forbid it.
” She leaned closer to him, whispering in his ear. “I forbid you to die.”
Her voice trembled, and she sat back, covering her mouth with her hand, determined he should not hear her sobbing.
Shaking her head, she wiped her wet cheeks and drew in a deep breath.
She could do this. She would do this. All she had to do was get him through the fever, and then he’d be fine. Good as new. He really would.
Izzy woke with a start, horrified to discover she had fallen asleep. Scrambling to her feet, she turned up the lamp and set it closer to Boreas. He mumbled and turned away from the light.
“Damn you. Damn you to hell.”
Izzy’s breath caught, an apology rising to her lips before she realised he was delirious.
“Shhh. There’s no one here, Boreas. It’s just me. Izzy. Miss Honey. Do you remember?”
He shook his head, his face taut with fury and pain. “He did this. He killed you. His fault, n-not mine.”
Izzy reached for a clean cloth and poured some of the chamomile liquid onto it, wiping his face and neck. “No one is dead. We’re safe. We’re both safe.”
His breath caught, and he clutched at the bedclothes, his hands fisting helplessly. His face crumpled, his chest heaving. He seemed so young suddenly, his voice softer. “I tried. I tried—”
Izzy watched him helplessly, not knowing how to soothe him. There was such misery in his voice, whatever memory he was reliving must be one that troubled him deeply. Perhaps with good reason, whispered that snide voice again. He might be a murderer for all you know. He shot Silas Mourney dead.
Izzy shook her head, refusing to heed it.
He snarled suddenly, one arm lashing out as Izzy scrambled out of the way. “You did this! I’ll kill you!”
His fury died as pain racked his body, his muscles seizing as he cried out. He lay still, breathing heavily until gut-wrenching sobs that seemed to rise from somewhere deep inside him replaced his anger. Izzy reached for him, holding his hands, stroking his face — anything to calm him.
“It’s all right. Everything will be all right. You’re sick and in pain, but soon you will be well again. Everything will be well. You’ll see. I promise. I promise it will.”
She kept talking, comforting him like she might comfort Caspar if he had a bad dream, promising him he’d be well again, promising she’d make everything right again, though she knew it was nonsense, but she feared she would have made a deal with the devil himself if she could have been certain he would live and be strong again.
Izzy stroked his hair, his face, all the while promising him all was well.
She wiped his blazing skin with the damp cloth until it was as hot as he was, before wetting it again and starting over.
Yet no matter how many times she dragged the cloth over his body, leaving the skin wet and glistening in the freezing attic, he never seemed to cool.
All the time she spoke to him, low words of reassurance, promises that he was safe, that he would be well again soon.
Whether he heard her words or comprehended them, she did not know, but he calmed enough that she could spoon some water into his mouth. He slept then, still restless as the fever ran its course, but whatever demons tormented him seemed to be gone for now.