Rogues, Rakes & Jewels

The young man coughed convulsively. Myriah, worried lest the bleeding begin again, tried to hush him, but he pulled at a chain at his waist and produced a large brass key. “No—no servants,” he managed to advise them in a hoarse voice.

She exclaimed impatiently as she took the key and worked it in its housing.

She pushed the heavy doors open. After they helped the young man inside, Tabby closed the doors at his back.

“Candles on the table …” the lad told Tabby, who went and lit one in its lantern-styled container.

The wounded man motioned the way to the second floor, and after some exertion they deposited him on his bed. He closed his eyes and lay back. Myriah winced, for she could read the pain in his face. She placed the candle lantern on his nightstand.

Tabby removed the young man’s torn and dirty coat and undid his waistcoat. The white linen shirt was already destroyed, and so he made short work of it as he tore it off.

Myriah gasped at the blood-soaked muslin she had wrapped around his wound. “Good God, sir … you may be pluck to the backbone or a simpleton—I don’t care which, for I shan’t let you go on without medical assistance any longer.”

“No doctor … please … get me Fletcher.”

“Fletcher? Faith! who is Fletcher?”

“My brother’s groom.”

“You don’t need a groom. You are not a horse. You need a doctor!”

“They fought together in Spain, and he has seen and attended a great many gunshot wounds … he’ll able to …”

“Very well then, where is he then?” asked Myriah, presently beside herself. This young man would die from loss of blood and infection if something wasn’t done soon.

“His room—above … our stables,” the lad said, looking as though he were about to pass out.

“Tabby,” Myriah said, turning round at once, “please if you would be so kind, find this Fletcher. Have him come up at once. And bring some clean water and whatever cloth you can drum up. Thank you, Tabby.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

Myriah sank down upon a nearby chair and allowed herself a moment to study the stranger, noting for the first time that he was quite young, in all probability not much older than herself.

His cheeks were ashen and his brow furrowed with the etchings of pain. His face was angular, his nose straight, his lips thin and well defined. He was, even with his mouth distorted by quiet suffering, very attractive. His hair was a bit longer than neck length and spread behind his head around the pillow. The candlelight displayed the streaks of gold in his hair that framed a face both youthful and good looking.

“Faith, Myriah,” she said ruefully to herself, “now you’ve gone and done it. Here it is no less than five in the morning, and where are you? At your grandpapa’s, safe and warm, cozily tucked into your bed? Oh, no! Not you, Myriah! Here you sit on a hard chair without the benefit of a fire, attending a man whose fame has bought him a bullet … and you don’t even know his name!”

Three

A FEW MOMENTS LATER Myriah was poking about at the fireplace grate in an attempt to kindle a blaze. At last she was rewarded with a spark of light, and as she put a weary hand over her head, she gave silent thanks. The hard, heavy strides of a man’s boots taking the stairs came to her ears, and she waited and stared at the open doorway.

An elderly man, of average height and substantial girth, dressed in disheveled woolens, appeared on the scene. He shook his head, and a long, straight lock of silky white hair fell across his eyes. He glanced darkly at Myriah, strode heavily into the room, and stopped beside the young man’s bed.

“Wisht, wisht, m’lad! Whet they doon ta yah, m’bonnie?” the newcomer asked, bending low over the wound and examining it carefully. “Ah, the divils! But ye would goa—ye wouldna listen to nobbut yeself! Ah, Maister William, we be in for it now.”

“Can you help him, sir?” asked Myriah hopefully.

He didn’t bother to glance at her but continued studying the bullet hole.

Tabson returned with an iron pot filled with water, and Myriah motioned for him to set it near the fire. She turned to find Fletcher pouring brandy over the open wound.

His master groaned and gripped his sheets.

“Aye, lad … ’tis gonna get worse, though thank the saints it ain’t too deep. ’Ere now, m’bonnie, drink up,” he said as he poured some of the brandy down his master’s throat.

Fletcher then sidled to the fire and began heating the sharp, thin blade and pinchers he had produced from his pocket. This done he returned to Master William and motioned for Tabson to hold him steady. Once again the fiery alcohol was poured over the wound, and then knife met with flesh.

Master William stiffened with pain, and Myriah silently prayed that he would pass out. However, it was not until the pinchers were inserted into the flesh that the lad was given a reprieve. The mind has a way of doing its own battle with the brave. The lad’s mind detached itself from the proceedings, as though enough was enough—and he was spared a few moments of torture.