“Isabelle Howard, yes. My other daughter is married to Mr. Dormer, Mrs. Randall’s brother.”
For a long moment, the string of names meant nothing to him. The pain blotted out everything else, and Hew struggled to focus on something—anything—but the needle poking through him. “Ah. I see now,” he said. “I wasn’t certain of the connection before.”
“Rather a distant connection, I know,” Howard said, “but under the circumstances the best Mr. Randall could do, I think.”
Hew tried to reply, but he couldn’t do anything other than grip the mattress and force air into his lungs.
“Almost done,” Howard said.
Thank God for small mercies. After what seemed months of agony, Howard snipped the thread and moved away. Hew peered down at the wound and nodded. The stitches were not neat, but they would do the job. “More sherry?” Howard asked.
“God, yes,” Hew said. He sat gingerly, fighting through the wave of pain the action caused him, and downed another glass of the weak stuff.
“Should I put sherry on the wound?” Howard asked. “I’ve seen doctors do it, but I don’t know if sherry cleans as well as what they use.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Hew said. He’d been wrong about that. The sherry burned like the devil’s pitchfork. He spat an expletive or two before he managed to restrain himself again. “I beg your pardon,” he said a moment later. He was panting and sweat streaked down his temples.
“No need,” Howard said. He nodded at his daughter. “Fortunately, she is still unaware, though I venture to guess she has heard it all. I had better brew some tea and attempt to revive her.”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Howard,” Hew said. “I will just lie here and try not to weep.”
Howard smiled. “You are a stronger man than I.” He took the needle and thread and—to Hew’s disappointment—the bottle of sherry. Hew could hear him rattling something in another room, but the pain was coming in waves, and he couldn’t really focus on anything but breathing through the next rise of agony.
Perhaps bleeding to death would not have been such a bad way to go. It would have hurt less than the remedy, that was certain.
After what seemed hours but was probably only a few minutes, Mr. Howard returned, carrying a tea tray. Hew desperately needed something stronger than tea. Something as strong as, say, gin. Hew wasn’t usually a gin drinker, but at that moment, he would have drunk it down. He desperately wanted something strong that burned his throat and gave him a few moments of pain-free oblivion. Of course, there was always the laudanum, but that was a last resort. Hew did not like losing control of his dreams or his ability to wake. He’d rather the pain than the feeling of drowning in sleep. It was unnerving to know one was asleep but to feel as though one was submerged in a deep pond and unable to swim to the top and take a breath.
Howard set down the tea tray and knelt beside Miss Howard. Hew almost hated to see him wake her. She looked so peaceful lying there. Through a pain-filled haze, Hew watched as Howard lifted the teapot and poured a half cup of tea. Then he moved the cup near her face and wafted the scent of the tea under her nose.
“Smelling salts would have been more effective,” Hew rasped.
“Belle has a very delicate nose,” Mr. Howard said, not looking up from his task. “This will do the trick.”
Hew doubted it, but he was in no condition to argue. Earlier he’d felt as though he were burning up. Now it was as though someone had packed him in snow. He shivered and his teeth chattered, and he rubbed his arms to keep from shaking. If he hadn’t been in so much pain, he would have pulled the covers over his shivering body, but any movement sent waves of pain through him.
The teacup had been under her nose for no more than fifteen seconds, when Miss Howard opened her eyes. “Black Currant,” she said.
Her father nodded. “I knew it would wake you.”
“I could have smelled it a block away.”
Hew inhaled experimentally, but he was only a few feet away and could barely smell the tea.
She put a hand out to her father.
“Now, Belle, take your time. You fainted.” He helped her to sit, and he lowered her head onto her knees.
“I never faint,” she muttered. “It was the blood.” Then, as though remembering him, she raised her head and met his gaze. Her eyes were dark brown now and a bit hazy. “You’re awake,” she said.
“I closed the wound and replaced the bandage,” her father said.
Hew could see the shudder travel through her slim body. “Thank you.” She took the teacup from him and sipped. “No doctor yet?”
“It’s still raining and still early.”
“Not so early. I should go down and ready the shop to open.”
Hew thought it strange that her voice sounded as though it were fading. She looked to be fading as well, as though she were falling down a tunnel and disappearing from view.
