Jade Star (25 page)

“It's not quite the same thing,” he said. “Now, my beautiful, greedy, wife, it's my turn.”

“Oh dear,” she gasped. “Thomas—”

“I'll put my hand over your mouth,” said Saint. “Just promise not to bite me inadvertently, all right?”

 

The first explosion rocked the house and the bed. Saint, instantly alert, leapt out of bed and rushed to the window. He could see nothing.

“What was that?” Jules asked, sitting up.

“God only knows. Whatever and wherever it was, I'll be needed, Thomas too.”

He began to pull on his clothes.

“I'll come too,” said Jules.

He started to tell her no, but saw that she would argue tooth and nail with him. And there wasn't time. “All right. Hurry.”

When Saint opened the bedroom door, he saw Thomas in the hallway struggling into his shirt.

“I don't know,” Saint answered the unasked question. “Jules, wear a cloak! It'll be chilly.”

They found Thackery downstairs, dressed, and leading two horses. “It's the Stevensons' foundry, Dr. Saint,” he said. “Gawd, you can see the flames from here!” Thackery was right. To the south, the sky was streaked with bright crimson and orange.

Damn Bunker, Saint was thinking. Normally at this time of night there shouldn't be anyone around. But Bunker liked to have night shifts at the foundry. He prayed there were no fatalities.

He lifted Jules in front of him, and Thomas mounted the other horse.

“I'll follow as soon as I can,” Thackery called.

When they arrived at the foundry, or what remained of it, there were already a good thirty men there, passing buckets of water with incredible speed.

“Anyone hurt?” Saint asked Morley Crocker, the foreman.

“Thank God, Saint! Yeah, we've still two men unaccounted for, and a half-dozen wounded over there.”

Jules ran to keep pace with her husband and Thomas. Flames leapt into the air, and cinders flew about them. Her cloak felt suddenly stifling in
the intense heat. She heard men yelling, saw the devastation.

“Your foundry,” she said blankly to Thomas.

“I think my decision has just been rendered much simpler,” he said.

Saint was bandaging a burned arm when Dr. Samuel Pickett came. “No fatalities, thank God,” Saint said. “The burns aren't all that serious, but we've got one man unconscious, shock probably. My wife is watching him and keeping him warm.”

Jules stared down at the man's still face. His clothes were tattered with burn holes and there were black smudges on his face and hands. She took off her own cloak and covered him. She heard Saint telling Thomas what to do, and saw Dr. Pickett hovering over a man who was moaning pitifully. It started to rain, and Jules lifted her face to the cooling water. The drops thickened and soon it was a deluge. Thank God, Jules thought. That should put out the bloody fire. Thackery appeared beside her.

“What happened? Do you know?” she asked.

Thackery shook his head. Suddenly he straightened and yelled, “Dr. Saint, no!”

Jules whirled about to see Michael running toward the still-flaming ruins. She could barely make out the form of a man stumbling out, clutching his stomach.

She felt her heart plummet to her toes. She rose jerkily to her feet and ran toward her husband.

Saint had almost reached the man when there was another loud explosion. Gashes of fire rent the sky, and debris hurled outward. My God, Saint thought blankly, it's hell and I've arrived! He felt his body hurled into the air from the force of the explosion and thrown backward. Then he felt no more.

Jules knelt beside her husband, her hand pressed against his chest. His heartbeat was strong, steady. She swallowed, swearing at herself that she wouldn't succumb to the awful tears and sobs she felt building inside her. No, she thought, I won't be a fool, not now. She eased down beside him and held his head in her lap. In the next moment Dr. Pickett was on his knees beside Saint.

“His heartbeat is steady,” Jules said, blinking away the rain so she could see him clearly.

Dr. Pickett looked at her briefly. “You're Mrs. Morris?”

“Yes.”

“You're doing just fine, ma'am. You just stay as you are and let me examine him . . . Nothing appears to be broken,” he said after some minutes had passed.

“He's very pale,” Jules said, watching the rain wash away the black streaks from his face.

“No wonder. He probably struck his head. You won't faint on me, will you, ma'am?”

“Of course not,” Jules said, her voice suddenly stronger and more forceful.

“Stay with him, ma'am. I'll be back shortly.”

Saint moaned.

“Hush, love,” Jules said. “It's all right now.”

He opened his eyes, felt a deep, searing pain, and closed them.

“Jules?”

“Yes. Do you hurt anywhere, Michael?” She leaned over him, protecting his face from the driving rain.

“Jules,” he said very calmly, “cup the rain in your hands and wash out my eyes. Quickly.”

She froze, but just for an instant. She lifted her
hands, cupping them as he'd said, and soon they were filled with water. Very gently she splashed the rain into his open eyes. He winced, and she saw him biting his lower lip.

“Michael—”

“Again, Jules. Keep doing it.”

She continued, becoming more adept each time. Finally he said, “That's fine, Jules. Now, there's a clean handkerchief in my pocket. Fold it and tie it around my head over my eyes.”

“Saint, you're back to the world again, dear boy?”

“Samuel?”

“Yes, what's this, ma'am?” He wondered briefly if the young woman had finally cracked as he watched her tie the handkerchief around Saint's head. She smoothed it firmly over his eyes, then sat back on her heels.

“Thank you, Jules,” Saint said. “You did fine, just fine.”

Suddenly Samuel Pickett closed his own eyes, feeling sickness rise in his stomach.

“Michael,” Jules whispered.

“Help me up,” Saint said. “Now, Jules, I know you're looking at me as if I'm on the brink of dying. But I'm not, I'm all right. Come.”

Both Jules and Dr. Pickett helped him to his feet. He swayed a moment, then stood firmly.

Slowly he raised his hands and pressed the handkerchief more firmly against his eyes. “I think, Sam, that my usefulness here is over.”

“Is there much pain, my boy?” Sam Pickett asked quietly.

“It's lessening . . . a bit. Jules probably got most of the fragments, but . . .”

Jules stared at him, hugging his side. “You're soaking wet,” she said, her mind refusing to accept what she knew to be true. “We'll go home, Michael, and you can have a hot bath and—”

Saint knew she was trying to keep a firm hold on herself, and he admired her vastly at that moment. “Jules,” he interrupted her quietly, “get Thackery and Thomas—”

“Not Thomas,” Samuel said. “He accompanied some of the wounded men to the hospital after I assured him you were all right. The black man, is that Thackery?”

“Yes, it is. We're not going to lose anybody, are we, Samuel?”

“Perhaps the one man you did your damnedest to save. I'm not certain yet. Maybe old Bunker will escape with a clear conscience after all, but the foundry's gone. Now, Saint, let's get you home.”

“Michael,” Jules said, her voice high and taut. “Yes, we must go. You're going to catch a chill.”

He turned at the sound of her voice and said very quietly, “Hush, sweetheart. Everything will be fine.”

He paused a moment, squeezed his wife's hand, heard her gulp down a sob.

Dr. Samuel Pickett said quietly, “I've got my buggy. Mrs. Morris, stay with him until I bring it around.”

Jules was squeezing his hand so hard it hurt. If Saint had been able, he would have tried to reassure her. He said nothing. He was scared. The searing pain was lessening in his eyes, but he knew as well as Sam Pickett that even those pale flashes of white he'd seen briefly could fade forever, leaving him completely and forever blind. Dear God, a blind doctor would be good for absolutely nothing.

The buggy lurched into a muddy rut, and he groaned, unable to keep it inside. He felt Jules lightly stroke her fingertips over his forehead and gently ease him a bit so that his head was firmly pillowed in her lap. He heard her say gently, “Everything will be fine, love, I promise.”

He would have smiled, but it required all his concentration to control the damnable pain. She was sounding like him. Soothing and in control.

The buggy finally came to a halt, and Sam's voice said, “Mrs. Morris and I are going to help you down now, Saint. Just hang on a bit longer.”

He said nothing, allowed them to assist him into the house. It seemed odd in the extreme to be stretched out on his own examining table.

“Now, my boy, I'm going to take off the bandages.
It's likely that you've still got some fragments in your eyes, and I've got to get them out. Then . . .” Sam paused.

“Then,” Saint finished, “we'll bandage me back up and pray.”

“Yes,” said Sam.

Saint listened to Sam give Jules instructions, and forced himself to lie quietly. When Sam unwound the handkerchief about his eyes, he blinked and opened them.

“Anything, Saint?”

“Same as before. Pale white, like hoary ghosts from my boyhood, and that's it.”

“That's as much as we can expect and you know it. You've got to hold very still now, as I'm certain you well know. Mrs. Morris, please hold his head very steady for me, and move that light closer.”

Saint didn't move, didn't utter a sound when Sam, with a light touch he appreciated, removed more fragments from his eyes. “It looks to me like the cornea is cut, but of course that's to be expected. As for retina damage, impossible to tell. Now, Saint, I'm going to wash out your eyes again.”

“You didn't tell me one damned story to keep my mind occupied,” Saint said when his eyes were firmly bandaged again.

“I should have, I'm sorry,” Jules said, her voice stricken.

“Don't be a fool, Jules,” Saint said, turning toward the sound of her voice. “It was Sam's duty, not yours.”

“Mrs. Morris,” Sam Pickett said, “would you please fetch your husband some tea?”

Saint frowned at that, but bided his time, hearing Jules's skirt swish against a chair as she left the room.
Strange, he thought, he'd never noticed that sound before.

“How much pain, Saint?” Sam asked immediately.

“Enough. A bit of laudanum in the tea, Sam?”

“Yes. I didn't want to worry your wife. She's being a big help, Saint. Does she assist you with your patients?”

“No,” Saint said slowly. “At least she hasn't in the past. We haven't been married all that long.”

“I see. Do you agree that the bandage should stay in place for three days?”

“Sounds reasonable. Then we'll see, won't we?” Saint sighed, grinning crookedly at his words. “At least I hope I'll see.”

“If not then,” Sam said, “we'll keep your eyes bandaged another four or five days.”

They were talking about canes when Jules came into the surgery, balancing a tray on her arms.

“Just a bit, Saint,” Sam said, pouring laudanum into the teacup.

Jules watched him silently. She knew Michael would never tell her if he were in pain. He was a man, and for some reason unknown and not understood by her, men thought it weak to admit to anything less than perfection. She desperately wanted to talk to Dr. Pickett about his eyes, and she suspected that they'd had a frank discussion while she, weak woman, had been in the kitchen.

She would ask Michael.

“Now, Mrs. Morris,” Sam said to her with a kindly smile, “why don't you help me get this giant upstairs to his bed. He needs a lot of rest, and after working with you, ma'am, I think you can handle him quite well.”

Saint frowned at that, but said nothing. The moment he began walking, the pain seared his eyes. He knew they were red and puffy.

Sam helped Jules undress him. He was nearly asleep by the time he was on his back in bed. “Thanks, Sam,” he said.

“See you in the morning, Saint,” Sam said, nodded to Jules, and took his leave.

Even with his senses dulled, Saint heard Jules undressing. He wanted to tell her that he would be all right, but the words faded from his mind. He was asleep when she leaned over him and gently kissed him.

 

Jules sighed at the sound of knocking on the front door, and trotted down the stairs. The stream of visitors, all of them worried about her husband, had been steady, giving her little time to brood, which was probably just as well. Lydia was baking in the kitchen, for each guest must be offered food and drink.

Jules opened the door.

“Hello. I'm Jane Branigan. I heard about Saint. You are Mrs. Morris?”

She's lovely, Jules thought. Jane Branigan, tall, voluptuous, glossy black hair. “Yes,” she said. “Please call me Jules. Come in, ma'am. Saint is awake. A lot of friends have been here.”

Jane had managed to quash the jealousy in her worry about Saint. But now, faced by this vibrant girl, she felt herself grow cold. She told herself yet again that it was over, had been over for quite some time. She was now a friend, no more, no less.

“If I could see him for just a few minutes,” she said.

“Certainly,” Jules said, stepping back.

She wanted to dog Mrs. Branigan's heels, but held herself back. No, the woman wanted to see her husband alone. So be it.

Saint felt a cool, soft hand on his forehead.

“Jules?”

“No, Saint, me, Jane Branigan. Your . . . wife is downstairs. The boys send their love, of course. I just wanted to assure myself that you would be all right.”

Because it was Jane, because he'd forced himself to provide optimism to all his friends during the day, because he was scared and angry and trusted her, he said bluntly, “I don't know, Jane. My poor wife just might find herself saddled with a damned cripple. God, I could become some sort of institution. People could say, ‘Yes, there's poor old Saint, blind as a bat, you know, but tells great stories. Give him a few pennies and he'll talk as long as you want.' Shit!”

Jane understood, but she refused to pity him, at least not now. She said, her voice laced with humor, “Don't forget that those people could also demand medical advice. I can just hear old Limpin' Willie saying, ‘Saint, bless him! Told me to lance the boil on my leg, and I did, and my leg rotted off!' ”

“Damn you, Jane!”

Jane felt tears sting her eyes, and leaned over without thought and hugged him close. “You'll be all right, my dear, you'll see. I mean that literally.”

Jules stood in the doorway, a surge of evil jealousy washing through her. Slowly she backed up, and returned downstairs to the kitchen.

Saint hugged Jane, a reluctant laugh emerging from his throat. “As I said, damn you, Jane. You don't let a fellow bitch at all, do you?”

“You complain all you like, but you know very well that pity is the last thing you need.”

“Jane, be kind to Jules. I think she's very afraid, but of course she's a chattering, optimistic little bird around me.”

Jane was silent for a long moment. In truth, though, it was a brief war. She said, “I suggest you give her a bit more credit, Saint. She is your wife. Now I must go. I will come back, tomorrow perhaps.”

“Jane?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

Jane was relieved that he couldn't see the tears in her eyes. She met Jules in the downstairs entranceway. “Thank you, my dear,” she said. “I'll leave you now. You must be exhausted.”

“Yes,” Jules said in a rush, unable to hate this woman, “it has been mad all day, and Michael needs to rest. I don't know what to do!”

“You give the orders, that's what you do,” said Jane. “Let him complain and snap, but you do know what's best for him. Good luck.”

And she was gone, leaving Jules to stare thoughtfully at the closed front door. She's right, Jules thought, perfectly right!

“Lydia!” she called, her shoulders back, her chin up.

Saint heard her light footfall on the stairs. “Jules,” he said. “Wasn't that the front door? Who's here?”

“Who
was
here. It was Horace and Agatha Newton. They'll return tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“I told them you needed rest. They understood and send their love.”

“I'm the doctor,” he said, stiffening. “I think I'm well able to decide when I need rest and when I don't!”

“I brought you some tea and fresh sponge cake Lydia just baked,” Jules said, her voice calm, soothing.

He wanted to strike out. “Dammit, Jules! Don't you dare treat me like a mewling child!”

“Here, love. Drink this.”

He did, with ill grace. Jules sat on the side of the bed, studying his face. “I'll shave you, if you like,” she said, gently stroking her fingers over the stubble on his cheeks.

He grunted.

She leaned down and kissed him. “I love you, Michael. After you've rested, I'll give you a bath. That you should like,” she added, her voice as wicked as she could manage.

“You want to beautify me so you can have your way with me,” he grumbled.

“Yes,” she said. “And I can do whatever I wish to you, and you'll not gainsay me.”

“Dear God, a blind man dying from overexertion. Wife takes revenge on blind husband. I think I'll give Tony Dawson some headlines for the
Alta
for when I expire.”

Jules smiled down at him, noticing the slurring of his words as the laudanum took effect. He would sleep a good four hours, Sam had assured her. And he needed the rest. The best thing for him, she knew. His eyes would heal. She would make them heal.

* * *

Jules held his hand as Sam unwound the bandages. “Keep your eyes closed, Saint, until I tell you otherwise.”

“Doctors,” Saint said in disgust.

“Now, very slowly, open your eyes.”

He did. He was praying, hard. Nothing but the same shadowy pale white light. He wanted to curse and cry. He swallowed, knowing Jules and Sam both were holding their breath.

“Just the lights,” he said. “I guess I need more time to heal. Another week, Sam?”

Sam was bitterly disappointed, but not overly surprised. He'd seen quite a bit of damage in the cornea. He couldn't bring himself to look at Jules, as he now called her. She was a strong girl, and he knew she was silent because she would refuse to cry.

“Yes,” he said calmly, “let's give it another seven days. Is the light any clearer?”

“No, just pale and hazy.”

“Hold very still. I want to take another look to make sure all the fragments are out.”

Jules was fighting the lump in her throat. He doesn't need you to burst into tears like a silly ninny, she told herself firmly. Don't you dare!

“Looks good to me,” Sam said. “Any pain?”

“No.”

“Back on with the bandage.” Sam looked at Jules. He stretched out his hand and took hers, squeezing it hard. “Why don't you put it on, Jules? You've a light, sure touch.”

It gave her mind direction, focus. She smiled at Sam, looking up for his approval as she fastened the bandage. He nodded.

“We've seen little of Thomas,” Saint said, then laughed roughly at his choice of verbs.

“I've got the boy working hard, as you can well imagine. He'll be a fine doctor someday, Saint, a fine doctor.” He added a moment later, after sending an assessing look toward Jules, “He's got grit, just like your wife here. Yes, indeed. Seems to me, Saint, that not all your patients need to come to me. Lord knows I'm old and tired! Perhaps Jules here could examine some of them, and you could tell her what to do. What do you think, Jules?”

“I think that's a fine idea.”

“Good, I'll spread the word.”

When Jules returned to the surgery, she stopped cold in the doorway. Saint had gotten off the examining table and was feeling his way toward her. He bumped his leg against a chair and cursed.

“To your right, about a foot away,” she said in a calm, clear voice, “is your drug cabinet. If you walk straight, you'll come right to me.”

He wanted to yell at her that she was a stupid twit and that every goddamned thing in the world was nothing but black, impenetrable black. He said instead, “Keep talking. Balance is still difficult.”