Chapter 3 #2
Suddenly, the man reached out and clasped the fabric of my dress at my hip.
Nora screeched and all my breath left me. But my response was not in fear, but in surprise. Indeed, my heart ached to aid him. As quickly as he had latched on to me, his hand went limp and fell to the ground.
Had he fallen unconscious? I absently straightened my gloves. Though, this time, I caught myself in the motion. I stared at them, pristine white—a timeless symbol of perfection—and my prison.
And that is when I did something Mother would not approve of.
I removed my gloves and tucked them into my wool reticule.
If I was going to be rash, it wouldn’t be with the reminder of Mother’s chidings.
Reaching over with all my strength, I attempted to lift the wounded man in front of me.
I thought to put him on his back, merely to assist him into a sitting position, and to possibly garner a stronger vocabulary beyond the word help.
But with my slight build and my cumbersome skirt perpetually getting in the way, I was a fool to think I had the strength for such a task.
“Please, miss,” Nora cried. “Ye mustn’t touch ‘im. ‘E might be diseased.”
Despite that current events were too crass a topic for a well-bred woman, I had heard about the recent outbreak of cholera. And I was still frightened of the Irish fever, typhus, that a newly hired servant had brought to our house.
It had killed both of my parents.
I hurriedly shook my head, tampering down my fear, and refusing to withdraw from my purpose. “He’s not diseased, he’s been beaten.” I heaved his bare shoulders again, his skin cold to the touch. If only his feet were under him and not flayed about. “Couldn’t you . . . try . . . to sit,” I begged.
I used to daydream about what it would be like to touch a man’s ungloved hand. Suddenly such a goal seemed so trivial after what I had just done. I blinked away the nonsensical thought. My naivety was leaving me with every day I spent in London.
With another pull, I managed to roll him onto his side. It was all I could manage, and I leaned back to catch my breath.
Dear me . . . his face.
I could see it better from this angle, and his eyes were swollen shut, the skin around them tight and purple. His nose was discolored but appeared straight enough. His lips, enlarged on one side, were smeared with the same streaks of dirt and blood that coated his face.
I was going to need a miracle if I was to help this man.
He deserved a fighting chance at life. We all did.
I had been raised in the Anglican church, but I was no stranger to the Catholic one—thanks to my mother’s family.
I had also read about the differences in the Presbyterian church.
I did not know which one this man worshipped, but they shared a commonality—God.
“Pray, Nora.”
“Pray, miss?”
I gave a succinct nod. “Hard.”
My own prayer formed in my mind. He could have been a nice man, Holy Father. Or maybe he was an awful rogue but deep inside wanted to be good. Regardless, does he not deserve a second chance? Please spare him this once and I will . . .
I thought desperately about what I was willing to give up for this stranger’s life. Unless I returned home, there was not much I had left.
I will give him all I have.
It was not much, but it was something. I ended my prayer and waited.
And waited.
For what, I could not say. Did I expect a cart to suddenly materialize to carry the man to the deadhouse or for the heavens to part the darkening sky to reveal my answer?
Regardless, after all that had gone wrong in my life, I deserved for one thing to go right.
At any rate, Nora was falling apart beside me.
For simply putting up with me, she deserved something to go right in her life too.
Nora pressed a handkerchief to her face and blotted at each eye. “Yer brother would be ‘orrified to find ye out at night, in an alley no less, and yer mother would see me banished from yer side forever.”
“We cannot leave yet,” I said, though I knew not when I would be able to. Night began to crawl across the alley, and a fall chill seeped beneath my waist-long mantelet. If I was cold, this man must be far worse.
I unclasped my short cloak and spread it over him. It was a pitiful blanket for his large stature, but I hoped it would provide him some comfort. He was not calling for help any longer, but the slow fall and rise of his chest told me he still lived.
Would I be with him in his last hour? Dear me. Was that my true purpose for fleeing to London? I shook my head. This stranger would never remember me, even if I stayed by his side. As for my purpose in London, I feared I would never know the answer.
I heard the carriage wheels before I saw them.
Someone was coming. My heart pounded. The dead cart .
. .? They would take him away and that would be the end of him for certain.
My life had been cataloged by the number of books I had read, languages I had mastered, and pillows I had embroidered.
What did it amount to if I could not do one worthy deed?
Let them come. I had not managed to find my own husband or secure work, but I would not fail this time.
I would not let them take him.