Page 11 of Dark Embrace
For a long moment, no one spoke, then Mr. Simon offered a curt nod ofagreement.
Mr. Thayne turned to him. “We both know that your proposed intervention will not succeed.” He glanced at Mr. Franks. “And yours is more likely to kill than to cure. The patient has said he has no wish for your further surgical involvement, and I am of the opinion that his decision is wise.” He paused. “Can you tell me that you have even a marginal hope of saving his life with your knivesandsaws?”
Mr. Simon swallowed, glanced at the patient, and said, “There is always hope,” though his tone and expression suggested heharborednone.
“Is there?’ Mr. Thayneasked.
Yes,Sarah wanted to say. There is always hope. Without hope, we are nothing.But perhaps hope took different forms and when the hope for survival was gone, one could hope for a gentle passing from this life to the next. Had her father known a gentle passing beneath the dark and oily surface of theThames?
When Mr. Simon made no reply, Mr. Thayne continued. “If you were the one lying in this bed, what would you choose?” There was a silky threat inhistone.
Mr. Simon glanced at Mr. Franks, opened his mouth, and then closed it without utteringaword.
Sarah’s gaze slid back and forth between the two, then Mr. Thayne made a smooth gesture of dismissal and turned to the matron who stood in the doorway. “Offer him as much gin as he can swallow. Laudanum, if you have it. Dull the pain as best you can, and let him make this journey in whatever peace hecanfind.”
With that, he returned his attention to the man on the bed, leaning low to say something near his ear. Sarah could hear none of it, and from the expressions on the faces of the group of apprentices and surgeons, they could hear nothing of the exchange either. It irked them. That much wasobvious.
Whatever quiet words Mr. Thayne offered, they had an immediate further calming effect on the patient, a lessening of visible agitation. Mr. Scully’s eyes slid shut and the tension in his bodyeased.
Surprised, Sarah wondered if Mr. Thayne were amesmerist.
Before his death, her father had taken her to see a public demonstration put on by the mesmerist John Elliotson. He had laid his hands upon a woman and sent her into catalepsy from which loud noises and even needles poked into her skin had not roused her. Now, Sarah could not help but note the similarities between Elliotson’s display and the way that Mr. Scully eased so completely from distress intorelaxation.
Regardless of the reason, she was glad that Mr. Thayne’s presence offered some relief for the patient’s suffering, and she was glad, too, that he was here to speak against the futile amputation of the remainder of the limb. The interventions of mortals could not change the outcome for Mr. Scully. If he was destined to live, it would be a heavenly intervention that madeitso.
Again, Mr. Thayne’s gaze slid to hers, and he made a small nod, as though he knew and understood her thoughts. As though they shared some sort ofcollusion.
Awareness shivered through her, an instant ofconnection.
Mr. Simon and Mr. Franks walked on, followed by theirentourage.
Moving to Mr. Scully’s side, Sarah wet the corner of a cloth and dabbed moisture along his cracked lips. He opened his eyes, and murmured, “Sit with me for a bit, Martha. Sit with me for a bit and sing to me the way you sang to our babes when they were small.” He caught her wrist, his grasp weak as he frowned up at her as though he was trying to remember who she was. At length, he said, “He made the arrangements as I asked. He’s bought you passage to Edinburgh, to your sister. You needn’t stay here alone. He’s a good one, Martha. A good one. I had not the coin to pay your way, but he said it was of noconcern.”
Sarah frowned, trying to make sense of his words. Martha—Mr. Scully’s wife—was dead… She glanced at Mr. Thayne then returned her gaze to Mr. Scully. “Whom do you send to Edinburgh?” sheasked.
He frowned and then his expression cleared. “My sister. I send my sister to Martha’s sister so neither needs bealone.”
Of course. His sister, Mary. She sold posies during the day, but Sarah had seen her here beside his bed in the evenings; they’d spokenbriefly.
He shifted restlessly and scratched vigorously first at his neck, then at his arm. “Itchy,” he muttered, then made a watery laugh. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” He closed his eyes again and, after a moment, fell into fitfulslumber.
She raised her gaze to Mr. Thayne and found himwatchingher.
“The fever makes his skin itch,” she murmured, compelled to fill the silence. “Or thebedbugs.”
He studied her face in silence, and his straight, dark gold brows drew together, as though he puzzled through some particular matter. She felt undone by that look, felt that with it he reached beyond her skin and looked deep inside her heartandsoul.
“Your thoughts?” heasked.
So, she had been right. Hedidwant to hear her opinion. After making certain there was no one close enough to overhear, she rested her fingers on the side of Mr. Scully’s throat, counting his pulse, watching the rise and fall of his chest. “Fever. Rapid breathing. Rapid pulse.” She looked up. “He is confused and disoriented. I saw earlier that the putrefaction and rot have spread past the hip. There are red and purple streaks all the way to his waist. I do not think there is much we can do but make him as comfortable aspossible.”
Mr. Thayne nodded. “If you had been responsible for his care from the moment he arrived, what would youhavedone?”
Sarah wet her lips. “I would have amputated. But I would have first boiled the linens for his bed and the cloth used for dressing the wound. I would have made my cut a little higher, above the infection. My father taught me that it is essential to remove as much damaged tissue as possible. I would have changed the dressing more frequently. And—” She hesitated to say the next bit. He would thinkhermad.
“Go on,” he said, acommand.
“And directly after the amputation I would have applied molding bread before the dressing.” There. She had said it. She waited for him to dismiss herwords.