Chapter Eleven #2
“You never know when you need to pick a lock,” he said with a crooked grin. “Or in this case, remove some debris from a wound. It’s mostly sentimental now. The friend who gave it to me died in the war with Napoleon. He was my best friend at Eton.”
“I see,” she said softly. She chose the longest pick and carefully rinsed it with water.
This unexpected side of him had caught her off guard, but her practical mindset was grateful for it.
And she held on to hope that the pick would work.
“Ideally, it would be better if I had some spirits to clean the pick properly and the wound more thoroughly,” she added.
“Wait. I know where Mr. Grimes keeps his bottle of scotch. I’ll replace it.”
Gabriel was gone for a few minutes but returned with an almost full bottle of whiskey. “Mr. Grimes was happy to help the cause,” he said, smiling.
“Billy, this will sting, but you have a piece of debris in that wound that will continue to fester, and it will end up hurting a lot worse if we don’t remove it now. Here, bite on this stick when I start cleaning the wound,” Ashlyn said, passing him the stick.
The boy nodded.
Carefully, Ashlyn splashed the whiskey over her hands, the pick, and the wound, gently cleaning both until she felt her father would agree they were ready.
The boy hissed through his teeth.
“I think that should do it.” She looked at Billy. “I’m sorry it hurt. It’s going to hurt again when I fish out that bit of debris.”
“Don’t worry, none, miss. You done what you had to. And for that I’m grateful. Besides, I don’t know what my pa’s talking about. That whiskey’s painful. I’m still smartin’,” Billy said, his voice shaky.
Gabriel roared with laughter and withdrew a short stick from his waistcoat.
“Whiskey can be the devil if you’re not used to it, even if you drink it in proper amounts.
Here you go, young man. This should help with the pain.
It’s oak, and if you bite down on it, it diverts your attention to the stick. ”
“I hope it works. Thank you, my lord,” Billy said warily, accepting it.
Using the dull tip of the small probe, Ashlyn quickly located the tiny piece of gravel and, leveraging the tip of the pick, carefully removed it from the wound.
“My goodness,” she said, holding the small, jagged piece of gravel in her hand.
“Incredible! Miss Vickers, you did it.” Gabriel looked at her with such admiration that Ashlyn felt a wave of guilt at her perfidy about who she truly was.
That it was her dear father, a gifted and caring doctor, who had taught her so much.
That she was truly Ashlyn March, daughter of a highly respected Connecticut physician, and not Elizabeth Vickers, daughter of one of the richest men in the world.
“We can show it to Dr. Baker when he arrives. I’ll be sure to speak with him about it. He’ll be most impressed, I’m certain,” Gabriel said. “Well done, Miss Vickers, well done.”
She felt herself blush at his praise. “Thank you, my lord. Please, if you could explain to Dr. Baker that I didn’t see any other debris, and I looked carefully,” she said.
“Do you think the doctor would mind if I sewed up the wound? We don’t know when he might return, and leaving the wound open makes it vulnerable to infection by dust or dirt. It will also help the wound to clot.”
Gabriel gave a quick nod. “I agree, Miss Vickers, with your assessment. Let us proceed.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“You learned a great deal from your uncle,” he mused.
“I did. I enjoyed spending time with them. And Ashlyn was forever rescuing wounded birds, cats, and dogs. He would help her save them. She had a menagerie in his stables.”
“And it won’t get me a fever if I let you sew me up?” Billy whined.
“I’m afraid I can’t guarantee that,” she said gently, patting his hand, “but it could stave off a potentially worse infection. You can wait and have Dr. Baker do it when he returns. Or I can do it now. I’d feel better knowing it was taken care of.”
She knew what her father would tell her.
He’d want to see that wound sewn up, although she wasn’t entirely sure the skin at the edges wasn’t already starting to decompose.
Her father believed in cleaning everything.
This type of injury was commonplace at her father’s medical office in Connecticut.
She’d do as she’d seen him do. She had to try to—if Billy would let her.
“I had a fever on the night I arrived. But I got through it,” he said, his tone immodest.
“You did well with her extracting that stone, Billy. I think you should let Miss Vickers stitch up that wound if she’s confident she can,” Gabriel said.
Gabriel believes in me. She knew she was doing the right thing. “Could you go ask Alice for a needle and thread? And I’ll need scissors.”
Gabriel winked at her and smiled at her before he left. Very soon, he returned with everything she needed. She washed the wound out once more and stitched it closed, making a small knot after the last stitch.
“Billy, everything is done. You can spit that out,” she said, taking the stick that he’d nearly bitten in half. She gently bathed his forehead and face and held a cup of fresh water to his lips so he could drink a few sips.
His wound had been unprotected for too long, and she had noticed signs of infection beginning.
Her father had once explained that many doctors believed thick white pus helped the healing, but he was convinced it carried infection and worsened things.
That was why he always did his best to keep the site clean to avoid infection.
But there was no need to share that information.
After Gabriel’s earlier musing on what she had absorbed from her “uncle,” Ashlyn did not want to spark his curiosity even more as to the extent of her knowledge.
But the other reason was that she could not help but feel a bubble of happiness at the admiration in Gabriel’s eyes.
She could not bear seeing that fade or be replaced by anger, or worse—distrust or hate.
And so, she kept her secret and would continue to lie.