Chapter 4 #2
“No one will know I am here,” he said, more to reassure himself than the others. “I was attacked outside. It is imperative that my presence remain a secret.”
Julius clutched his side and moved toward the worktable with Patrick’s support. Rose hastily cleared away a set of bowls while Julius shrugged out of his overcoat. It fell damply to the bench with a splat, and with Patrick’s help, he pulled off his boots.
Sitting at the table’s edge, Julius swung his legs up to stretch out along the long wooden surface where many a roast had once been carved.
Rose handed him the towel that had been draped over her arm, and he reached up to dry his hair.
The familiar scent of hearth and bread and spice enveloped him.
His favorite beaver hat was a casualty of the storm, left behind in the road, but he doubted it would have survived its plunge through mud and rain.
“I need hot water to wash the wound,” Miss Gideon said, her tone crisp and assured. Julius let out a quiet breath. Thank the Lord for little Audrey. She had followed her physician father for years, had seen wounds and worse. She was a godsend.
Rose nodded vigorously, her gray hair escaping her mobcap, and bustled toward the hearth to hang a heavy iron kettle.
Miss Gideon’s calm presence was an anchor in the chaos. Julius closed his eyes, letting himself exhale into the stillness. “Rose, do you have something I might eat? I am ravenous.”
Perhaps food would dull the ache and restore some of the strength that had seeped out with his blood.
He could sense Miss Gideon stepping closer. The pressure on his side eased. She had released the makeshift bandage. The gentle rustle of fabric indicated she was adjusting his coat. Her fingers were steady as she unfastened his waistcoat, revealing the ruined linen beneath.
“If Lord Trafford has an appetite,” she said, her voice calm, “we must feed him to keep his strength up.”
The kitchen clanged to life with the sound of pots being drawn forward, and his stomach growled in anticipation.
Cool fingertips ghosted along the edge of his shirt as she tugged it gently from his buckskins, lifting it just enough to expose the wound. Her movements were professional, but still he felt her nearness, felt the fragility of his own state.
“Perhaps …” Julius opened his eyes to find her watching him, silver-gray gaze quietly attentive. “Perhaps under the circumstances, it will be easier to address me as Julius … Audrey?”
There was a glimmer of a smile on her full lips before she returned her attentions to the knife wound. “Very well, Julius.”
Despite his pain, Julius felt an unexpected sense of calm at the sound of his given name on her lips. There was something reassuring about her presence, something steadying. He let his eyes drift shut, grateful for her capable hands and quiet confidence.
Audrey pulled the bench closer to the table with a loud scrape of wood on stone.
She rifled through her valise, the clink of glass and metal instruments marking her preparation, then stepped away.
The sound of water splashing followed. She was washing her hands.
Moments later, she returned and sat beside him.
She picked up the damp towel he had used earlier and bundled it gently against his side, likely to prevent further mess on the worktable.
Rose arrived and deposited a bowl beside her. Audrey poured something into it, the sharp tang of vinegar catching Julius’s attention.
She turned to him, her teeth pressing into her lower lip. “This is going to sting.”
“What is it?”
“Warm water mixed with vinegar.”
Julius squinted at her in confusion. “Why?”
“My father had me study ancient texts—Roman techniques for treating battle wounds. They are surprisingly effective. In fact, far more reliable than many modern practices.”
Of course, she could read Latin. Julius gave a weak smile. Audrey Gideon was unlike any woman he had ever known.
“Once we are done, you will eat.”
She swabbed the wound with the vinegar mixture. Julius clenched his teeth so hard his jaw trembled. It hurt like the devil. He turned his face away, hoping to hide his grimace.
Eventually, the worst of it was over. He risked opening one eye, only to see Audrey threading a needle. His stomach dropped.
She caught his expression and paused. “Would you care for some brandy before I continue?”
He swallowed hard and nodded. His throat was too tight to speak.
Audrey arched a brow at Patrick, who had been hovering with visible distress.
“Ah’ll be back.”
Soon, Patrick returned with a tumbler and decanter. Julius pushed himself up on one elbow and took the drink in both hands, downing it in two swift gulps. The brandy burned all the way down, but it steadied him.
He sank back, catching the scent of something frying on the hearth. His thoughts drifted toward breakfast.
Audrey’s hands returned—gentle, careful, confident. She worked quickly. Her stitching was neat and precise, and though each prick of the needle made him wince, she moved with such economy that the pain was bearable.
“It is complete,” she said softly.
Julius opened his eyes, peering down at the neat row of sutures aligned along the left side of his midriff. The skin around them was blotched and taut with drying blood, the puckered edges pulled close by Audrey’s careful hand.
“Good grief! A couple of inches up and that dirty dish would have nicked my heart!”
“You were fortunate,” Audrey replied, her voice composed but brisk. She reached for a cloth with one hand while her eyes stayed focused on the wound. “Rose, I need honey for the wound before I bandage him. Then he can eat.”
Rose’s mouth parted in alarm. “Honey? We don’t ’ave any honey, Miss Gideon.”
Julius, who had been eyeing the plate of food Rose carried with increasing desperation, realized the kitchen had gone quiet. The only sound now was the steady hiss of water heating in the hearth kettle and the faint ticking of the longcase clock near the scullery door.
He turned his head toward Audrey. She was frowning, her brow drawn in a way that made him uneasy.
“I must apply honey to the wound,” she said again, quieter this time.
Clutching his side, Julius rose carefully to a seated position on the edge of the table, the linen beneath him rustling and catching where it had stuck slightly to his damp shirt.
“What is it?”
Audrey hesitated. Her hands hovered over the bandaging materials as though she were selecting her words.
His heart skipped. “Is it the wound? Is it worse than you initially thought?”
“Nay.” She shook her head once. “But there … will be a fever. It is imperative that I obtain a quality honey to apply as soon as possible. The vinegar should help abate it, but … there is still a risk, I am afraid.”
Dread laced its way into his limbs. Fever from a wound … He had not allowed himself to consider it, but now the notion rooted in his mind. The back of his neck prickled, and he flexed his fingers against the wood of the table’s edge, grounding himself.
“Will you need to do a bloodletting?”
Audrey drew in a sharp breath. “Bloodletting is for butchers! Pompous physicians pretend they know what they are doing, but their mortalities mount up! They have no respect for thousands of years of knowledge that flies in the face of their treatments while people pay for their arrogance with their lives! Nay, I will collect the honey and return to nurse you. It might be a bad night, but I will remain by your side to see you through it.”
Julius blinked at her, slightly overwhelmed.
The scent of brandy still clung to his breath, mingling now with the acidic tang of vinegar and the faint trace of tallow from the cooking hearth.
He dearly wanted to eat. The mention of a fever troubled him, and a murderer still pursued him because of his foolish misjudgments.
Everything blurred. He reached for one fact—anything steady.
“What has the honey to do with it?”
“The Chinese have used it for thousands of years to treat open wounds. And the Romans used it on the battlefields. Papa experimented with it and found it noticeably reduced infection and healing time.”
Julius furrowed his brow. “You read Chinese?”
Audrey squinted at him, astonished. “Of course not. Papa had translated publications.”
Patrick cleared his throat. “I could collect some from the grocer. It’s two blocks away.”
She mulled this over, fingertips absently arranging the folded linen on the table. “Nay, I will collect it. I will bandage Lord Trafford so he can eat. Then you must help him up to a bedchamber. I shall collect the honey and return to treat the wound.”
Julius twisted his signet ring, the metal catching slightly against a damp spot on his palm. The gesture was unconscious, but his thoughts had cleared. Audrey had been meant to leave.
“Are you meant to be somewhere? Lord Stirling left this morning, and you had a trunk in the entry hall.”
She straightened her spine, lifting her chin. “Lady Astley is to collect me. She must have been delayed by the rain.”
He stared at her, and she stared back.
“You must return.”
“You need care.”
“Rose and Patrick will take care of me.”
Audrey shook her head, a lock of damp hair escaping her coiffure. “You will need someone who is trained.”
Julius twisted his signet ring more rapidly, the cool metal rasping lightly against the grime still clinging to his knuckles.
The small repetitive motion seemed to echo in the still air of the kitchen.
Two of his closest companions had been forced into marriage over the last fortnight. If Audrey did not return home …
“Julius?” Her voice pulled him back. He met her steady gaze.
“You will need proper care. It is the difference between life and death.”
He frowned, lips parting slightly.
“You lost a lot of blood, and there is a risk of fever. I am afraid it is going to be a bad night.”