Whenever she thought of David Lancaster, she wanted to cry. It was like a candle going out, reducing the amount of light in the world.
She pulled her mind back to practical considerations. Fortunately Morgan had welcomed the opportunity to serve the major. The footman had a good heart and a steady hand, and Jocelyn had heard from Marie that he aspired to be a valet. Now he could get some real experience.
Summoning the butler again, she said, “Order two wagon loads of straw and have it spread on the street outside. Make sure that it’s layered thickly—I don’t want Major Lancaster disturbed by the sound of traffic. Also, tell Cook to prepare food suitable for an invalid.” If the major could be induced to eat.
After Dudley left, she ordered herself to be more patient with Sally Lancaster, since it would be impossible to avoid her sister-in-law entirely. Sally’s irritability was understandable given that she was devoted to her brother and had no one else to care about. With her looks and disposition, she probably never would again.
Jocelyn did not even bother feeling guilty for the uncharitable thought.
Sally had believed that the York had inured her to hospitals, but St. Bartholomew’s seemed ten times as crowded and twenty times as noisy. It had been founded in the Middle Ages by monks and appeared not to have been cleaned since. Bart’s treated many of London’s indigent and a clamorous, odorous lot they were.
Nonetheless, the hospital trained some of the country’s best surgeons. As she passed through endless crowded wards, she supposed that was because the surgeons had so many patients to practice on.
It took half an hour of walking and asking questions to locate anyone who knew anything about Ian Kinlock. At first she was told that he wasn’t in the hospital because “this was ’is day for the swells.” Another listener chimed in that he’d seen the doctor ’imself that very day.
Another half hour of searching brought her to the dingy little room where Kinlock was alleged to be found after he’d done his day’s work in the cutting ward. She settled down to wait on an uncomfortable wooden chair. A jumble of books, papers, and anatomical sketches covered the top of the battered desk and bookcase, with more tottering in stacks on the floor. Brilliant Kinlock might be, but neat he definitely wasn’t.
After an hour of increasing boredom, Sally’s basic fondness for order asserted itself, and she began to straighten the books and papers. A small, grubby towel that had fallen behind the desk was pressed into service as a dust rag. Remembering how her scholarly father had felt about people who rearranged his books, she took great care not to shift anything to a new location. Nonetheless, simply squaring up the piles neatly and removing the dust did wonders for the appearance of the office.
After tidying the desk, she started on the bookcase, working from top to bottom. On a cluttered middle shelf, her fingers brushed what felt like a china mug. She pulled it out and found herself holding a hollow-eyed, grinning human skull. She gasped and hastily replaced the ghastly relic, rather proud that she hadn’t dropped it from shock.
An impatient voice with a definite Scots burr growled from the doorway, “That skull belonged to the last person fool enough to meddle with my office. Are you trying to become a mate to it?”
Sally jumped and spun around, making a sound regrettably close to a squeak. The owner of the voice was a man of middle height with massive shoulders and a blood-splashed smock. His bushy dark brows provided a strong contrast to a thick shock of white hair and added impressively to a scowl that was already first class.
“I … I didn’t actually move anything from its place,” she stammered. “You’re Ian Kinlock, the surgeon?”
“Aye. Now get the hell out of my office.” He dropped into the desk chair, unlocked one of his drawers, and pulled out a bottle of what looked like whiskey. Ignoring his visitor, he uncorked the bottle, took a long, long draft, and slumped against the chair back with his eyes closed.
When Sally approached, she realized that he was younger than she had first thought, certainly under forty. The hair might be prematurely white, but the lines in his face were from exhaustion, not age, and the compact body had the lean fitness of a man in his prime. “Dr. Kinlock?”
His lids barely lifted to reveal weary blue eyes. “You’re still here? Out. Now.” He took another pull of whiskey.
“Dr. Kinlock, I want you to examine my brother.”
He sighed, then said with an elaborate show of patience, “Miss Whatever-the-devil-your-name is, I have seen over fifty patients today, performed six operations, and just lost two patients in a row under the knife. If your brother was Prinny himself, I would not see him. Especially if he were Prinny. For the third and last time, get out, or I will throw you out.”
He ran a tired hand through his white hair, adding a smudge of blood to its disarray. Despite his profanity, there was a forceful intelligence about him, and Sally felt a breath of hope. Even more determined to get him to David as soon as possible, she said, “My brother was wounded at Waterloo. He’s paralyzed from the waist down, in constant pain, and wasting away like a wraith.”
Kinlock’s eyes showed only a bare flicker of acknowledgment. “With that kind of injury, he’s a dead man. For miracles, try St. Bartholomew’s church across the street.”
Sally caught his gaze with her own. “Didn’t you take an oath, Doctor? To help those who are suffering?”
For a moment she feared that she’d gone too far and the surgeon would murder her on the spot. Then his anger dissolved. “I’ll make allowances for the fact that you’re concerned about your brother,” he said with great gentleness. “I should even be complimented by your touching faith that I might be able to help him. Unfortunately, the amount we know about the human body is so minuscule when compared to the amount we don’t know that it’s a wonder I can ever help anyone.”
She saw the bleakness in his eyes and remembered the two patients who had just died. No wonder he was in a foul mood.
Kinlock took another swig of whiskey, then continued in the same reasonable tone. “Waterloo was fought when? The eighteenth of June? So it’s been almost five weeks.” He shook his head, talking to himself. “How many bedamned operations did I do over there? And how many men did I lose?”
“You care about your patients,” she said quietly. “That’s what I want for David—a surgeon who cares passionately.”
Scowling, he gulped more whiskey. “With a spinal injury severe enough to cause paralysis, the surprise is that your brother is still alive. Half the bodily functions are destroyed, there are infections and ulceration from lying still too long. A man doesn’t survive long like that, and from what I’ve seen in such cases, it’s a mercy when they die. So take my advice: say good-bye to your brother and leave me alone.”
He started to turn to his desk, but Sally reached out to touch his sleeve. “Dr. Kinlock, none of those things have happened to my brother. It’s just that he is in such pain and is wasting away. Couldn’t you just look at him? Please?”
At her words, Kinlock’s dark, bushy brows drew together thoughtfully. “A great deal of pain? That’s odd, one would expect numbness …” He pondered a moment longer, then rattled off a series of medical questions, his gaze sharply analytical.
Sally could answer most of the questions due to her badgering of the doctors at the York Hospital for information.
After ascertaining what David’s condition and treatment had been, Kinlock asked, “How much laudanum is your brother taking?”
Sally tried to estimate. “A bottle of Sydenham’s every two or three days, I think.”
“Bloody hell, no wonder the man can’t move! Opium is a marvelous medication, but not without drawbacks.” He folded his arms across his chest as he thought. Finally, he said, “I’ll come by and examine him tomorrow afternoon.”
Her