Sins of Omission (29 page)

The hours went by slowly.  I was terribly listless, unable to settle to anything as I kept my vigil.  Hugo was still asleep, but his face was drawn in hard lines since subconsciously he still felt the pain in his chest. I tried reading but couldn’t concentrate, and abandoned my sewing after pricking myself repeatedly and drawing blood.  Archie came by with Jem, who wanted to wish Hugo a good night.  In his innocence, he believed that Hugo would be cured by now, but seeing him so still and white made Jem cry. 

“Why isn’t he better?” Jem kept asking.  He was so overcome with emotion that his voice was unusually shrill.

“It takes time.  Go to bed, Jemmy.  Things always look brighter in the morning,” I said, hoping he’d take my advice.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because we associate darkness with evil and sunlight with good.  So, when the sun comes out, good things happen.”

“I never thought of it that way,” he replied as he got up to leave. 

“Neither did I, until now.” 

I noticed that Jem reached for Archie’s hand as he left the room.  Normally, Jem wanted to be treated like a big boy, but tonight he needed to be a child, and feel the reassurance only an adult could give.  I heard Archie offering to read to him as their footsteps echoed down the empty corridor.

I changed into my shift and unpinned my hair.  There would be no more visitors tonight.  It was true what I’d told Jem; I feared the night, this night.  If Hugo were feeling better by morning, everything would be all right, I told myself, but we had to make it through the night.  I checked on the baby and curled up next to Hugo, conscious of his even breathing.  I clasped my hands together and prayed: for him, for us, for Max, and for our child.  I didn’t pray often, but it felt right.  Perhaps something the cook said resonated with me.

I eventually drifted off to sleep, my body succumbing to the strain of the day’s events.  I was exhausted, emotionally and physically, and couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer.  I was dreaming that I was on a tropical beach, lying on warm sand, the sun shining brightly in the cloudless sky.  Hugo was lying next to me, his body glistening in the sunlight and beads of seawater sliding off into the sand.  His hair was wet and tousled.  He was breathing hard, probably because he’d been surfing.  A bright-red surfboard was propped up against a palm tree, the surface still wet.  As the sun climbed higher toward its zenith, I got hotter.  Now would be a good time for a swim.  I tried to stand up, but couldn’t.  Something was holding me back.   

I woke up with a start.  I was thirsty and hot, but the heat wasn’t coming from me.  Hugo was burning up.  His breathing was labored as his body tried to fight off the infection that must have set in, despite the cauterization and sterilization.  I hopped out of bed, lit a candle, and wet a towel in a basin of water.  I wiped Hugo’s face and gave him a drink before carefully pulling aside the bandage.  The flesh around the wound was swollen and hot to the touch, and thick yellow pus oozed through the scab, but his skin felt dry, so he wasn’t sweating off the fever.  I put my hand to his head.  I had no thermometer, but even without it, I knew that the fever was very high.  My first thought was to go for the doctor, but my scant knowledge of seventeenth-century medicine warned me that he might try to bleed Hugo.  What else could he do for an infection?  He had no antibiotics or fever-reducing medicines.  What I wouldn’t give for an aspirin.

I threw on my shawl and raced to Archie’s room.  Archie jumped up like a tin soldier, his eyes wide open as he bolted from bed.  “What is it?”

“Archie, I need your help.”

“Should I fetch the doctor?”  He was already pulling on his breeches and reaching for his boots.

“No.  I want you to fill the tub with water and get a block of ice from the cellar.”

Thankfully, Archie didn’t ask any questions.  He sprinted down the stairs and disappeared into the darkness of the sleeping house, bound for the cellar where we kept the ice.  I ran back to Hugo.  He was muttering in his delirium.  I couldn’t make out all of what he was saying, but I thought he was talking to Jane, asking her to repent, and not condemn her soul to Hell.  He also mumbled something about Jem.  Hugo’s eyes seemed to move rapidly beneath closed lids as he grew more agitated.

“Hugo, can you hear me?” I pleaded.  “Please, wake up.  I need you to help me fight this fever.  Hugo?”

But he couldn’t be roused.  He was thrashing on the bed, muttering, and fighting unseen demons.  Archie finally returned, carrying two buckets of cold water that he upended into the tub.  It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do.  I was afraid to wait much longer. 

“Help me get him into the tub,” I said as I pulled off Hugo’s shirt. 

“Are you sure about this?” Archie asked as he picked up Hugo carefully beneath the arms.  “The cold water might be too much of a shock.”

“We’ve got to get his fever down.”

Archie lowered Hugo into the water, which covered him only to his waist.  Hugo shivered as the cold water met with his overheated body.  His teeth were chattering, and he was shaking like a leaf, but there was no choice.  I used the pitcher to pour water over his chest and shoulders, carefully avoiding the bandages.  Hugo was shaking so hard I thought he might bite his tongue, but Archie took his face in his hands and held it firmly as I continued to pour water over Hugo.  The water that had been cold only a few minutes ago was already a few degrees warmer from his heat. 

“Archie, bring the ice,” I commanded.

Archie disappeared, and came back a few minutes later with a small block of ice, which I placed by Hugo’s feet.  His body convulsed with the shock, so I moved the ice away from his skin and let it cool the water instead while continuing to pour water over Hugo’s burning body.  Archie put his hand to Hugo’s forehead. 

“He’s cooler,” he said, amazed.  “This is working.”

“We can’t keep him in there too long,” I said.  “Let’s wait a few more minutes, then dry him off and get him back to bed.  We’ll do this again if the temperature starts to rise,” I told Archie as I moved the ice against Hugo’s feet again.  His reaction wasn’t as volatile this time, but he tried to move away from its cold grip.  Hugo’s skin felt almost cool now, so it was time to stop.  I was terrified that the shock to his system might do something to his heart, but his heartbeat was surprisingly steady.

We moved Hugo back to the bed and sat by his side.  I applied cold compresses to his head while Archie wrapped the ice in a towel and held it to his feet to draw out the fever.  Hugo’s breathing eased, and his color went from a mottled red to a healthier pink. 

“I’m cold,” Hugo muttered.  “So cold.”

I covered him with a sheet, but left the goose-down blanket off.  I didn’t want the fever to take hold again.  Archie removed the ice which was melting now and soaking the sheets. 

“What now?” he asked.

“Now we prepare some willow-bark tea, and we wait.”

“Go to sleep,” Archie said as he took in my disheveled appearance.  “I’ll sit with him.  There’s no need for both of us to stay up.  You look done in.”

“I am, but I can’t sleep.”

“Just close your eyes,” Archie suggested, and I took his advice.  I was past the edge of reason and fatigue.  Soon the baby would be up, ready for her feeding.  I just didn’t think I could manage it in my present state.  I sank into a fitful sleep, fragments of dreams colliding and shattering, as my mind tried to process the events of the day and make some sense of the attempt on Hugo’s life.  I dreamed of twenty-first century London with cars whizzing by and buses rumbling past me as I stood on the curb.  People were shouting to me, but I couldn’t hear them over the sounds of the traffic.  Somewhere a bell was tolling, and then it was as if every bell in London was ringing at once.  Someone was pushing me, pushing me hard into oncoming traffic.  I woke up with a start just before a city bus came too close.  Archie was shaking me awake.

“What is it?” I exclaimed as I saw Archie’s face looming over mine.

“You were screaming, so I thought I’d better wake you.”

“It was just a bad dream.  How is he?”

“Better, I think.  He’s still warm, but not hot.  I gave him some tea, like you said.  He’s been asking for you.”

I looked over at Hugo.  I couldn’t tell if he was awake or asleep, but his hand closed over mine in a silent confirmation that he was with me.  “I’m hungry,” he suddenly said. 

“Now, that’s a good sign,” Archie exclaimed.  “Shall I go down and get him some bread soaked in milk?”

“No.  He needs strength to fight this infection, and he won’t get it from mushy bread.  Just stay here for a few minutes; I’ll be right back.”

I grabbed the guttering candle and made my way to the kitchen.  It was quiet and dark, everything in its place except for the small pot in which Archie had brewed the willow-bark.  I wasn’t sure how he heated the water, since the fire was out, but it wasn’t important.  Cook would be reclaiming her domain soon, but for now, I was on my own.  I set my candle on the table and looked around.  I hardly ever came down here, so I wasn’t sure where anything was.  I finally found a bowl with eggs, and cracked three into a cup.  I added two spoons of sugar, then went into the parlor and poured in a measure of brandy.  I mixed this concoction and took it upstairs.

“What in the world is that?” Archie asked as he saw the slimy, yellow drink sloshing around in the cup.

I held the cup to Hugo’s lips.  He nearly gagged, but forced himself to drink the mixture.  “What is that?” he gasped. 

“It’s raw eggs with brandy and sugar.”

Both Hugo and Archie just gaped at me, but I wouldn’t be made to feel guilty.  Hugo needed protein and sugar to jumpstart his system.  He hadn’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, and he needed fuel to fight off the infection.  The brandy was just to make it a little more palatable and give him some pain relief.  He wasn’t complaining, but having seen the wound, I was sure that he was in excruciating pain, both from the bullet extraction and the cauterization.

I looked out the window, surprised to see the peachy haze of the spring morning.  The sun was just rising over the rooftops, its blaze reflected in the glazed windows, which lit up the skyline like a raging fire.  I almost expected to see the filigreed silhouette of the Eiffel Tower, but, of course, it wasn’t even built yet.  There was nothing on the horizon but rooftops and chimney pots.  Paris was slowly waking up; the rumble of a wagon audible in the distance, and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves as a carriage rolled by, bringing some nobleman home from a night’s entertainment.

“Archie, will you please go for the doctor now.  I just want to be sure that Hugo is on the mend.”

I waited for Archie to leave the room before allowing tears to course down my cheeks.  I needed to relieve the pressure which had been building inside me for the past few hours, desperate to regain some sense of control.  I turned away from the bed so Hugo wouldn’t see me crying, but he knew.

“Come here, love,” he asked as he patted the space next to him.  I crawled into bed and snuggled next to him, feeling marginally better.

“I’m going to be all right,” he promised.  “I’m not that easy to kill.”

“Oh, Hugo,” I mumbled, “no one is indestructible, not even you.  I could have lost you last night.”

“Neve, I want you to promise me something,” Hugo asked as he turned to face me. 

“No, I am not promising you anything,” I retorted stubbornly, knowing that he was about to ask me to do something that I didn’t want to do.

“Neve, please.  I need to know that if anything happens to me, you and Val will be safe.  Promise me that you will go back to your own time if I die.”

“You are not going to die, so I don’t have to promise anything,” I insisted.  I was being selfish; I knew that.  He needed peace of mind, and I was denying him a small promise, but I refused to entertain the notion of him dying.  Truth be told, if anything happened to Hugo, I would go back.  There was nothing for me in the seventeenth century without him.  Archie would look after Frances, and between them, they’d parent Jem.  Sadly, I had no one to return to, but at least I would be able to give our child a better future. 

I shook my head as if a pesky mosquito was buzzing in my ear.  I would not think along these lines.  Hugo would get better.  He would not die.

“You did what?!” the doctor exclaimed, his face slack with shock.  “You submerged him in cold water and pressed a block of ice to his feet?  Are you mad, woman?  You could have killed him.  His heart could have given out, don’t you realize that?” 

Doctor LeGrand was fussing with the clasp of his satchel, but his hand shook with agitation, and he finally gave up and faced me full on.  His expression was hostile, and I drew back, suddenly aware of the risk I’d taken to save Hugo.  I was desperate and scared, and did the only thing I could think of to bring the fever down fast. 

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.  Cool compresses yes, perhaps a lukewarm bath, but ice?!” he raged as he finally managed to open the bag and extract the stethoscope. 

“And then she made him drink raw eggs with sugar and brandy,” Archie added helpfully from his stance by the doorway.  His eyes twinkled with mischief, mostly because Hugo was reclining in bed, propped up by several pillows, and looking like someone who’d been snatched from the jaws of death.  His color was good, his breathing even, and his eyes alert as he followed the exchange with interest.

“What? Why?  You should have given him some broth if he was hungry, or milk.  Where are you getting these extraordinary ideas, madam?”

“I feel much better,” Hugo chimed in as he noted the rising color in my cheeks.  Perhaps what I’d done was wrong, but I couldn’t stand to be berated. 

“And it’s a miracle that you do,” Doctor LeGrand retorted hotly.  “She could have killed you.”

“But I didn’t, did I?” I asked triumphantly.  “And the fever has broken.  What would you have done in my place?  Bleed him?”

“Well, yes, for a start.”

“And it would only have weakened him further,” I protested.  “He was burning up; a cool compress would only have done so much.  I had to act fast, and I did.  As you can see, my method worked.” 

The doctor ignored me for a moment and began to examine Hugo in earnest.  He listened to his heart, took his pulse, and peeled away the bandage to see how the wound was healing.  I turned away, loath to see the angry burned flesh beneath the linen.  I had applied some honey to the wound, which left the doctor speechless with shock.

“What in the name of God…?” he cried as he bent down to sniff the wound, which smelled of honey, blood, and pus; not a pleasant combination.  My stomach heaved in protest, but I swallowed down the bile and faced the doctor like a general getting ready to do battle.  I was ready to defend my methods.  Since I didn’t have any type of antibiotic ointment, honey was the next best thing, and anything was better than doing nothing.

“Honey has antibacterial properties,” I explained patiently, watching the doctor’s pupils dilate with amazement.  He opened his mouth to berate me again, but clearly thought better of it, took a deep breath, and asked politely, “Pardon me?”

“It prevents festering,” I amended.  The good doctor would not know what bacteria was.

“And how have you come by that knowledge, madam?”

“From a healer I knew,” replied, trying to sound as vague as possible. 

“I see.” 

He didn’t, but decided that he had no chance of winning this particular argument.  Archie had left the room a moment ago, so the doctor and I were quite alone.  He looked away for a moment, then turned to me, having come to some kind of decision.

“
Milady
, I believe in science and God.  Where science ends, God begins.  But sometimes there are other forces which fit into neither category, such as witchery.  Be very careful what you say to me.”

“Are you threatening me, Doctor?” I asked, my voice trembling with shock.  I had allowed by twenty-first century arrogance to cloud my judgement, forgetting that I was putting myself in danger.  This man had the power to denounce me if he wished; he didn’t seem like a malicious person, but I had driven him to the brink, and the gleam in his eyes made me take a step back and shut my mouth before I infuriated him further.

“No, I am warning you,” he replied, gentling his tone in the face of my fear.  “There are those who would see your methods as being guided by magic.  You have helped your husband, but now you must help yourself.  Don’t say another word, especially in front of the servants.  They are an ignorant lot, and you wouldn’t want to find yourself under -– shall we say -– unnecessary scrutiny.”

The doctor took my hand and patted it in a paternal manner.  “I don’t mean you any harm, but others might.”

“You mean like someone trying to shoot my husband?” I asked bitterly.

“Yes, like that, and more.”

Hugo had remained silent during this exchange, but I saw the look in his eyes.  It was telling me to be quiet, very quiet, and I lowered my eyes obediently and thanked the doctor for his advice.  Frequently, I still forgot about the danger lurking all around us, in places I’d never expect.  I hadn’t developed close relationships with the servants, but didn’t think that any of them would denounce me to a priest, but perhaps the doctor was right, and I needed to be more cautious.  Marthe, in particular, had a nasty streak, and although Elodie was quiet as a mouse, still waters ran deep, or so my mother had always told me.  I’d done what I needed to do, and now I had to step back and let Doctor LeGrand do the rest.

“There is something I must tell you both,” the doctor suddenly said, facing Hugo with a determination born out of making a sudden decision.  “I have examined the bullet with which you’d been shot,
milord
,” the doctor began.  I saw him waver for a moment, but he shook his head, as if chasing away his doubts, and continued.  “I suspected as much when I extracted the ball, but needed to be certain before saying anything.”

“Doctor, what are you trying to tell us?” Hugo asked, his eyes narrowed in apprehension.

“What I am trying to tell you is that the bullet had been smeared with excrement.”

“What? Why?” I cried.  What the doctor was saying was shocking, incomprehensible.  Why would anyone do such a foul thing?

“Because someone wanted to make sure I die one way or another,” Hugo replied calmly.  “It’s not unheard of for soldiers to smear bullets with shit to make sure that even if the enemy isn’t killed outright, the infection caused by the dirty bullet finishes the job. Isn’t that so, Doctor?”

“I am afraid you’re quite right.  Someone wanted to make sure that you die, and if I were a betting man, I’d say that your assailant believes that his job is done.  As soon as word gets out that you survived, you will be in danger once again.”