Amy Lake (2 page)

A movement above caught her eye, and she glanced upwards. A horse paced on the clifftop, with an empty saddle, no doubt belonging to the gentleman below. A faint nicker drifted down.
We’ll do our best
, she thought, seeing the animal stomp and throw its head back, the glossy mane shining in the afternoon’s low sun. But a broken leg was serious business.

“The child . . . “

Fiona had continued her examination of the man’s face, and the whisper was so faint that she would not otherwise have known he spoke. But the eyes opened—a deep, almost indigo blue, she saw—and his lips moved slowly.

“There was a child . . . “

What was he talking about? Then Fiona realized—Maddie. He saw Madelaine.

“She’s gone to get help,” she told the man. “Don’t move.” But his eyes again closed, and he made no response.

  * * * *

The sky darkened as the September afternoon turned to dusk. Fiona was not afraid of the night, as with a full moon the cliff path was more than passable, but she did worry about the temperature. The wind had picked up, the evening would be much colder, and she had an idea that injuries made one susceptible to taking chill.

Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries punctuating the ongoing roar of the surf below. Commonplace sounds she had heard her entire life, but not, in this moment, reassuring. She began to shiver, as she was sitting on bare rock without a coat and only a muslin gown to ward off the wind and the spray. But there was no help for it. Hobbs would have gone first for more men, she knew, and she could not expect them quite yet.

  * * * *

She saw the torch lights bobbing in and out of the rocks before she heard the voices.

“Mrs. Marwick!”

“Here!” she called, and was grateful when Hobbs and young Jeremy appeared, the one carrying a heavy coat—thank goodness—and two other men following Jeremy, holding the poles of a makeshift stretcher.

 “Bah,” said one of the men, in the tones of a funeral. “Broken.”

“Eh, it may be, but let’s get the lad above and nice like, afore he dies.”

Fiona retrieved her own cloak, inhaling for a moment the stranger’s warm and masculine scent. The men carefully supported the leg as they placed him on the stretcher—the man groaned, but did not wake—and covered him with the coat, a rough garment that smelled none too good. Hobbs mucks out the cow’s stall in that coat, thought Fiona, and wondered what the fine stranger would say if he knew.

“Where’s Maddie?” she asked suddenly.

“Gone to fetch the doctor.”

That was welcome news, because it was only now occurring to Fiona that the obvious place to put someone with a broken leg was in one of her own beds, and she would certainly appreciate Dee’s presence as the man recovered or—’twas also possible—as he died.

Chapter 3: Infection and Fever

Fiona walked slowly back to the kitchen and stood at the table, forgetting for a moment why she was there. Tea, she decided, and put the kettle on the fire. Sighing, she rubbed her eyes in weariness.

It had been a difficult week, with the days running one into the next until it become difficult to remember when she had not lived with a gravely injured man in her home. That first evening—had it been only a sennight ago?—the men had managed to carry the stranger safely back to the cottage where, to Fiona’s relief, Dee was waiting with Madelaine. Dee was Deandros Fischer, the local doctor, and he took charge at that point. They laid the man in Fiona’s best spare bedroom, boots and all, on a bed that looked hardly long enough to accommodate him.

“Maddie,” said Dee. “Go to the stables and stay there with Jeremy.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue,” said Fiona, and Madelaine left.

“I’m going to cut off his boots, first.”

“Gad,” said Hobbs. “He won’t thank you for it.”

“If he lives, he will.”

“Be worth half a fortune, them boots.”

“I’m guessing this man can buy another pair. Are you ready for this?” the doctor added, glancing at Fiona.

She nodded, refusing to admit that she’d be happier joining Maddie in the stables.

“Hold him, then.”

Fiona and Hobbs held the man’s shoulders to the bed as Dee cut through the leather of the boots and removed them as gently as possible. He started on the fabric of the right trouser leg. The break—in the lower leg—did not look as bad as she expected, and there was no sign of bone showing through the skin, which is what Fiona had feared the most.

But the doctor shook his head.

“The skin is broken,” he said, pointing to a long gash above the knee that was still oozing blood. “We’ll set it anyway, but his chances of infection—”

He looked up at Hobbs and Fiona. “No point in wasting time.”

Fiona took a breath. Dee felt carefully along the front and back of the leg; then he braced himself and began to pull.

“
No
!” The sound was not a scream so much as a roar. The man half woke and fought to sit up.

“
Hold
him!” yelled the doctor.

They tried, Fiona unable to block her ears against the horrible sounds of a leg being set. Even injured the stranger was powerful, and he battled them every inch of the way, obviously not in his right mind. It was over quickly. Afterwards Dee splinted the leg and cleaned the wound while Fiona, shaking, went to make up a poultice of white willow bark. When she returned she found the men in serious discussion.

“I’ll stay here tonight,” Dr. Fischer was saying.

“Eh.” Hobbs looked doubtful. “There be no need for it. I’ll be right out in the stables.”

“That’s not enough. Do you want her here alone if he wakes up?”

Despite the unpleasantness of what had just occurred, Fiona smiled to herself. Hobbs’ concern was, apparently, over the look of the thing. A young widow and a single man in a house together for the length of an entire night? Horrors! The single man in question was Dr. Fischer, of course, as an unconscious and half-dead stranger did not count for much even in Hobbs’ mind. No matter that most of the village had been attempting to marry off Dee and Fiona for years— The rest thought that the doctor would be better suited to Stephie, Mrs. Cadogan’s niece, or one of the Everett girls, but neither group had any truck with an overnight stay.

Still, she made the attempt. “It’s fine, Hobbs,” said Fiona. “Dr. Fischer has a patient, who just happens to be residing here.”

“Eh,” said Hobbs, unconvinced.

Deandros Fischer had grown up in the village of Barley Mow, as had Fiona, and they’d known each other their entire lives. He had left to take medical studies at St. Andrews and afterwards everyone had expected him to make his home in London, but Dee had returned to the village, where he had become a fixture, and nearly indispensable. There were babies to birth, of course, and the work of the community—fishing, the fields, and more lately the collieries—took a heavy toll on its men.

She’d once considered marriage to the doctor. He was the closest thing Madelaine had to a father, and the girl loved him dearly. But it was clear to both Fiona and Dee, if to no-one else, that the seeds of romantic involvement had never taken root between them. Deandros Fischer was, in fact, Fiona’s best friend, something they did not admit to anyone else in the village. Men and women were not friends.

Fiona could hardly bear the thought of a night spent with such a badly injured person if Dee were not there. But she said nothing, waiting for the men to decide. She could insist that the doctor stay, of course. Hobbs could not stop her, but he would be scandalized and hurt, and she hated to upset the old man. He lived in the croft above the stables—a small building, large enough for a cow or two, and a horse if it came to it—and helped out with every task that needed doing, asking for nothing more than his meals.

“I’ll send for Mrs. Groundsell,” said Hobbs, finally.

Fiona sighed inwardly. Agnes Groundsell was an officious busybody who would no doubt find any number of things to criticize about Fiona’s dress, her housekeeping, or her daughter’s behavior. She was also well-known in Barley Mow as a person who would always prefer that someone else do the paying if there was a cup of tea to be bought, not that she didn’t have as much or as little to spend as any of the other villagers.

Dee didn’t look much happier, but Hobbs had a stubborn look that they both recognized. Fiona sighed again, and left to make up the last spare bedroom.

  * * * *

Neither Fiona, Dr. Fischer, or Hobbs had gotten much sleep during the following days, although Mrs. Groundsell seemed to manage well enough. Even when the injured man slept he was restless, and Dee insisted that the leg be stable, the splints checked for chaffing, and the gash kept clean and open to the air. The doctor had correctly predicted infection, which began early on the third day.

“He has a fever,” said Dee that morning, with a frown.

The wound had turned an angry red, and the man’s temperature rose steadily, despite the cool compresses that Fiona replenished, as it seemed, every few minutes. By evening he was delirious and so agitated that Dee spoke of tying him to the bed. And there was worse.

“Cut it off,” said Hobbs, flatly.

“I may have to,” the doctor said.

The thought made Fiona ill. She said nothing to Dee, and went back to the kitchen to make up another willow poultice. She added a bit of goose grass, something that old Mrs. Cadogan said was nearly as beneficial for fever as the willow. Perhaps the two together would be more effective.

In the meantime— Maddie was sent to stay with Mrs. Everett, over the girl’s protests, and Dee’s face began to take on a pinched look that Mrs. Marwick recognized, the look that said one of his patients might very well die.

  * * * *

Fiona finished steeping her tea, and sat down with the cup and a wheatmeal biscuit, which she would probably be unable to eat. They were still fighting the fever. The doctor continued to postpone amputation, saying that the man would probably not live through it anyway, so he might as well take his chances at surviving the infection. Despite Mrs. Marwick’s efforts, despite the piles of soft compresses and cloths that she washed daily, in water hot enough to scald her hands if she was not careful, the sickroom took on the odor of illness and sweat. They could not risk moving him to change the sheets, and Dee was exhausted, spending every night sitting at the stranger’s bedside.

Hobbs suggested bleeding the man, a procedure that Fiona had seen on only one occasion, although ’twas considered common for a fever, but Dee refused.

“Gods, no. He’s weak enough as it is.”

In the meantime, all of Barley Mow became involved in attempting to discover his identity. People began knocking at the door of Tern’s Rest, wanting ‘just a look at the fine gentleman’ until Fiona, supported by the doctor, put her foot down. The man was not an exhibit.

Still, it would be nice to know. Perhaps his family could be notified before it was too late.

That he
was
a gentleman no-one had any doubt. The clothes alone placed him in that category, as did his horse. The stallion had been captured after considerably difficulty, and tied up, but the animal had played merry havoc with anyone who tried to get near until Jeremy had the idea of wearing the injured man’s coat. After that the animal was gentle and calm, and they were able to retrieve the saddle and a leather knapsack. The latter, however, vouchsafed no information as to its owner’s identity, containing only a single change of clothing and a shaving kit.

“Not from a long ways off, then,” guessed Jeremy, but no-one who had seen the man’s face recognized him. Fiona had been hesitant to search through his pockets, but Dr. Fischer less so. A small wallet was discovered, with bills totaling over one hundred pounds—a small fortune when most workers were paid no more than twenty pence per day. There was a single initial inscribed in the leather—‘C’—but no other clues, not even a calling card.

“One hundred pounds!” said Fiona. “Where could one spend half such an amount?”

“London, I suppose,” said the doctor, because the money included several ten and twenty pound notes, which were nearly useless in Barley Mow, where no-one could use such a thing, or make change for it.

“Why would a man with one hundred pounds be climbing down a cliff?”

“I’ve no idea. Perhaps he fell.”

“Well, of course he— Oh, you mean from the very top?”

Dee nodded.

“That would suggest that he’s uncommonly clumsy.”

“True.”

“He doesn’t look uncommonly clumsy, somehow,” said Fiona, thoughtfully. “And Maddie said he might have been shouting at her.”

The doctor frowned. “Shouting at her?”

“She wasn’t sure.”

The one supposed gentleman of the neighborhood—Sir Irwin Ampthill—was not currently in residence, but he might return at any time. Fiona and Dee, for whom Sir Irwin was no favorite, reluctantly agreed that he might be asked if the patient looked familiar. Until then they could do no more.

Chapter 4: Tern’s Rest Cottage

That evening, after nearly a week of exhausting work, caring for someone they did not know, Dee called Fiona from the sick room and told her that the man would probably not survive the night. The fever was spiking higher, and although the stranger had clearly been of a strong and healthy disposition prior to his injury, they had been unable to get him to swallow more than a little water. He taken no food at all for days, not even a spoonful of soup.

“No!” she said, angry and surprising them both. “He can’t!”

“Fiona—”

“I’ll make more soup. Perhaps a simple broth—”

“He is near to choking on the water as it is. I’m sorry, but—”

“I know.” Fiona swallowed and fought back tears. “But it’s just not fair! We haven’t even found out his name.”

The doctor was well aware of the dangers of becoming attached to a patient in a world where injury and infection meant death more often than not. He put an arm around Fiona’s shoulder and hugged her for a moment.

“We did everything we could.”

“His family will never know what became of him.”