Sins of Omission (27 page)

I was just finishing getting dressed after feeding the baby when I heard the stomping of feet and screams coming from downstairs.  This wasn’t the usual commotion that was the result of Frances getting into a spat with Jem, or the maids seeing a mouse out of the corner of their eye.  I yanked on my laces and raced from the room, hoping that Valentine wouldn’t be awakened by the ruckus.  She had just fallen asleep, and I had been hoping for a peaceful breakfast before all hell broke loose.

I nearly fell as I slipped on the slick floor of the foyer as I raced toward the salon where the wailing was coming from.  I thought it was water, but was stunned to see blood on the hem of my skirt.  A sob tore from my chest as I threw open the door and burst into the room.  Marthe was kneeling by Hugo, keening with her face in her apron.  Hugo was lying unconscious on the settee.  His shirt was soaked with blood, and Elodie was wiping his face with a damp cloth.  She wasn’t crying, but she was white to the roots of her hair as she fought for control of her emotions.  Jem was crouched behind the settee, crying silently, his face contorted in agony, his hands over his ears to block out Marthe’s screams.  Frances came running in after me, her eyes huge with shock. 

“What happened?” I cried.  “Please, someone tell me what happened.”  My heart was thumping painfully against my ribs, and my hands shook badly as I approached my husband.  My mind managed to register that Hugo was breathing, which was a relief, but the breaths were shallow and labored.

“Someone shot
milord
by the river,” Elodie whimpered.  “Jem managed to get help and bring him home.  Archie’s gone for the doctor.”

I kneeled by the settee and took Hugo’s limp wrist.  I could feel his pulse, but it was weak and erratic.  His skin was ashen.  Hugo’s eyes twitched beneath his eyelids as if he were having a nightmare, but he wasn’t lucid.  I felt a wave of hysteria wash over me, but forced myself to breathe evenly and concentrate.  I was Hugo’s only chance of survival.  A seventeenth-century doctor could do more harm than good, so I had to retain my wits and try to remember everything I knew of wounds, which wasn’t much.  Hugo had been shot on the left side, but if the shot penetrated the heart, he’d be dead before Jem could even call for help.  There was hope; there had to be. 

“Marthe, stop wailing and bring me a cup of spirits,” I ordered.

“Now is not the time to get drunk,” she grumbled.

“It’s not for drinking.”

I carefully slid my hand beneath Hugo’s back and pulled it back out.  There was no blood, which meant that there was no exit wound.  The bullet was lodged in Hugo’s chest.  I was fairly certain from watching medical programs on television that an exit wound would have been preferable, but I wasn’t sure exactly why.  Perhaps because the wound would heal cleaner. Or maybe because it couldn’t begin to heal until the bullet was removed.  If the bullet was close to the surface, it might not be too difficult, but it could be lodged deep inside, making the extraction very dangerous and painful.

I carefully pulled the shirt away from Hugo’s chest, revealing the ragged hole just above his chest.  It wasn’t large, and the bleeding seemed to be minimal since Hugo was lying on his back.  But what if Hugo were bleeding internally? I fretted as I tried to remember all I could.  What then?  I grabbed the cup of brandy from Marthe and began to disinfect the area, allowing a few drops of alcohol to slide into the wound.  Hugo moaned with pain, but I continued to do my work.  Focusing on something practical kept me from going completely mad with worry and fear, although my hands were shaking badly.

“Jem,” I called, “please come out and stay with me.  I need you.”

Jem crawled out from behind the settee.  His face was white as a sheet, his eyes black holes in his frightened face.  “Will he die?” he whispered.  “I did my best.  I screamed for help until the men came and lifted his lordship into the wagon.  They were kind, and one of them gave me a sip of brandy.  They told me not to cry,” he mumbled apologetically, as if crying was cowardly.  He looked so small and frightened standing there that even Frances was moved.  She wrapped her arms around the boy and kissed the top of his head in a motherly gesture of comfort. 

“Jemmy, you saved Hugo’s life.  If not for you, he’d be dead by now, lying on the riverbank until the life bled out of him.  You were very brave.  Very brave,” I repeated as tears spilled down my cold cheeks.  Hugo could still die, could still bleed to death if the doctor didn’t come soon.  And even if he did, his abilities and resources were minimal compared to what a modern-day hospital could do.  Even if he managed to extract the bullet, the risk of infection was very high with nothing to kill the bacteria.  Hugo would need antibiotics, and possibly morphine for the pain. 

“Hugo, love, can you hear me?” I pleaded.  “Please open your eyes.  Please, Hugo, hold on.  The doctor is on his way.  He will help you.”  But what if there was nothing the doctor could do? my mind screamed hysterically.

I sank to the floor with Jem pressed against my side.  We just sat like that, drawing comfort from each other until Archie finally ushered the doctor into the room.  He was a small man in his sixties with a kindly face and a brisk manner.  My eyes flew to his hands, which were, thankfully, clean.  His clothes were fastidious, his wig carefully coifed.  I prayed that this man understood the benefits of cleanliness in healing, but couldn’t be sure until I saw his instruments.

“Please, move aside, my dear lady,” the doctor said as he set down his bag and tried to approach Hugo.  “My name is Fabrice LeGrand,” he added as he took Hugo’s pulse and pulled up his eyelids.

“Will he live?” I moaned as I moved out of the way, but still hovered over the doctor’s shoulder. 

“Please, clear the room,
milady
,” the doctor replied as he set down his case and pulled out a wooden tube which was the present-day equivalent of a stethoscope.  I ushered everyone out of the parlor except for Archie, who refused to leave.  He was too nervous to sit down, so he leaned against the wall and forced himself to be still so as not to distract the doctor, who removed his coat and tossed it carelessly across a nearby chair.  I sank into a chair feeling that my legs wouldn’t hold me up for much longer.  The doctor paid me no mind as he examined the wound, then checked Hugo’s back for an exit wound and listened to his heart.  I could hear garbled noises coming from the foyer.  Everyone was milling around outside, waiting for news.

“Please, Doctor LeGrand,” I pleaded.  “Tell me if he will live.”

The doctor finally set aside his tube and turned to face me.  He didn’t take a seat, but stood over me like a specter of doom, his curly wig nearly blocking out the light from the window.  I focused on his eyes, which were kindly and soft.  He didn’t look like a person who was about to deliver terrible news.  The doctor sighed and took my hand as a gesture of comfort, which was meant to disguise the checking of my pulse.  He seemed satisfied that I wasn’t about to keel over before finally answering me.

“Lady Everly, your husband was gravely wounded, but he was very, very lucky.  The bullet entered a few centimeters above his heart.  A little lower and he would have been dead.  Your boy saved his life when he threw himself at the assassin.  Your man here told me what happened,” he added by way of explanation.

“Now, the bad news is that the bullet is still lodged in his chest, and we need to extract it before healing can begin. 
Milord
is healthy and strong, so I have every confidence that he will recover, but we must act quickly.  I will require a flat surface, such as a table, to work on.  I cannot operate on the settee.  I will also need clean towels, hot water, and a quantity of linen bandages.  And why does he smell of brandy?  It seems to be coming from the wound.”

“Alcohol is a disinfectant,
monsieur
.  I cleaned the wound to keep it from festering,” I replied, knowing that the man would think me mad. 

“I see,” was all he said, gazing at me with sudden interest.  “Shall we begin?”

I ran for the door, ready to command my troops.  Within ten minutes, the dining room table had been covered with a sheet and several jugs of hot water waited on the massive sidebar.  A stack of towels was next to the jugs, and Frances and I were ripping a sheet into strips to use as bandages.  Doctor LeGrand rolled up his sleeves in preparation for surgery and washed his hands, per my request.  He looked skeptical, but didn’t object, which was surprising for a seventeenth-century physician.  At least he wasn’t a barber-surgeon like the ones I’d seen in Blackfriars, pulling teeth, amputating limbs with rusty saws, and cutting out ill humors with filthy knives.  I was amazed that anyone ever survived after seeing one of those for their complaints. 

“May I?” I asked the doctor.  He opened his mouth to reply, but just gave me a brief nod.  I dipped a towel in brandy and wiped all blades and forceps, thanking the Lord that the doctor didn’t throw me out of the room for my impertinence. 

“Do you have some medical knowledge,
milady
?” he asked as he chose a pair of forceps that looked like pliers.

“No, but I believe that unsanitary conditions aid the spread of infection,” I replied carefully.

“An interesting notion,” the doctor replied, clearly intrigued.  “I happen to agree with you, although many medical men would ridicule me for this opinion.”

I hoped that Hugo would stay insensible for the procedure, but he chose this moment to come around.  His lips were dry and his eyes mere slits, but he was lucid.  “What happened?” he whispered.

“Young man, you have a bullet in your chest.  I’m going to extract it.  It’s going to be painful, but if you remain immobile, it will go faster.  Can you do that for me?”

“I’ll try.  Can I have something to drink?” Hugo murmured.  He was pale and clammy, but his grip on my hand was strong, which was a good sign.

I lifted Hugo’s head and held a cup of brandy to his lips.  He drained it and tilted his head back as the doctor gave him a leather strip to bite down on.  I shuddered at the imprint of tooth marks on the leather, but kept my mouth shut.  Hugo bit down obediently and closed his eyes.  He knew what was coming, but managed to lie still, his face fairly relaxed for a person who was about to be tortured. 

The doctor came around the table until he was facing the window rather than standing with his back to it.  He had the benefit of daylight, which was much brighter than candlelight and would make it easier for him to see what he was doing.  I held Hugo’s hand firmly and sucked in my breath as Doctor LeGrand inserted the instrument into the wound.  Hugo went as rigid as a board, but remained quiet as the doctor rooted around for the bullet.  After a few moments, Hugo was panting with pain; sweat was running down his face as the doctor went deeper, searching for the bullet.  Crimson blood leaked out of the wound, making it more difficult for the doctor to grab the slippery ball.

Hugo turned an alarming shade of white and then went limp like a rag doll.  “Is he in shock?” I cried, alarmed.

“Yes, but I got it.” The doctor held up the little ball triumphantly and dropped it into a waiting bowl.  The skin around the opening was puckered and red, and blood still oozed slowly, but not as much as before.  The doctor asked me to hold a towel to the wound while he withdrew a metal stick with a small square attached to the end from his satchel.  I had never seen one of these instruments before, but I had a pretty good idea what it was for.  He was going to cauterize the wound.  I prayed that Hugo would remain unconscious, but he seemed to be coming around again, his eyelids fluttering as he regained consciousness.

“Did you get it?” his voice was hoarse.

“Yes, I did.  I have to close the wound to stop bleeding and prevent festering.  It’s going to be painful, but it must be done.  Would you like more brandy,
milord
?”

“Yes.”

I poured Hugo nearly a half-cup of brandy, hoping it would dull the pain.  I couldn’t begin to imagine the agony of having a red-hot iron pressed to my skin and held down until the flesh began to sizzle, but as far as I knew, cauterization worked, and was still used in some instances in the twenty-first century.  I averted my eyes as the doctor withdrew the heated instrument from the fire.

“Hold his hand, but turn away, madam,” the doctor advised.  “It’s best if you don’t watch.” 

I felt a wave of nausea as Doctor LeGrand held the iron to Hugo’s chest.  Hugo let out a roar of pain as he crushed my hand in his.  The stench of burning meat filled the kitchen, making me gag as bile rose in my throat, threatening to choke me.  Hugo’s hand was the only thing that kept me from fainting.  I held on to it for dear life, giving him my support, and receiving his in return.  He was no longer screaming, but his eyes were closed again, and his breath was ragged.    

“We need to move him to a bed after I bandage the wound,” the doctor said as he packed away his instruments.  “I will give him a tincture of laudanum for the pain.  If the wound doesn’t fester, he should begin feeling better in a few days.  Call me immediately if there’s any sign of fever, putrefaction, or excessive bleeding.  Someone should stay with him at all times.  He’s not out of danger.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” I mumbled as I let out my breath. 

“You need to calm down, especially before you nurse your baby,” he said.  “Your milk might sour.”