Jade Star (Star Quartet 4)

Saint frowned at that, but bided his time, hearing Jules’s skirt swish against a chair as she left the room. Strange, he thought, he’d never noticed that sound before.

“How much pain, Saint?” Sam asked immediately.

“Enough. A bit of laudanum in the tea, Sam?”

“Yes. I didn’t want to worry your wife. She’s being a big help, Saint. Does she assist you with your patients?”

“No,” Saint said slowly. “At least she hasn’t in the past. We haven’t been married all that long.”

“I see. Do you agree that the bandage should stay in place for three days?”

“Sounds reasonable. Then we’ll see, won’t we?” Saint sighed, grinning crookedly at his words. “At least I hope I’ll see.”

“If not then,” Sam said, “we’ll keep your eyes bandaged another four or five days.”

They were talking about canes when Jules came into the surgery, balancing a tray on her arms.

“Just a bit, Saint,” Sam said, pouring laudanum into the teacup.

Jules watched him silently. She knew Michael would never tell her if he were in pain. He was a man, and for some reason unknown and not understood by her, men thought it weak to admit to anything less than perfection. She desperately wanted to talk to Dr. Pickett about his eyes, and she suspected that they’d had a frank discussion while she, weak woman, had been in the kitchen.

She would ask Michael.

“Now, Mrs. Morris,” Sam said to her with a kindly smile, “why don’t you help me get this giant upstairs to his bed. He needs a lot of rest, and after working with you, ma’am, I think you can handle him quite well.”

Saint frowned at that, but said nothing. The moment he began walking, the pain seared his eyes. He knew they were red and puffy.

Sam helped Jules undress him. He was nearly asleep by the time he was on his back in bed. “Thanks, Sam,” he said.

“See you in the morning, Saint,” Sam said, nodded to Jules, and took his leave.

Even with his senses dulled, Saint heard Jules undressing. He wanted to tell her that he would be all right, but the words faded from his mind. He was asleep when she leaned over him and gently kissed him.

Jules sighed at the sound of knocking on the front door, and trotted down the stairs. The stream of visitors, all of them worried about her husband, had been steady, giving her little time to brood, which was probably just as well. Lydia was baking in the kitchen, for each guest must be offered food and drink.

Jules opened the door.

“Hello. I’m Jane Branigan. I heard about Saint. You are Mrs. Morris?”

She’s lovely, Jules thought. Jane Branigan, tall, voluptuous, glossy black hair. “Yes,” she said. “Please call me Jules. Come in, ma’am. Saint is awake. A lot of friends have been here.”

Jane had managed to quash the jealousy in her worry about Saint. But now, faced by this vibrant girl, she felt herself grow cold. She told herself yet again that it was over, had been over for quite some time. She was now a friend, no more, no less.

“If I could see him for just a few minutes,” she said.

“Certainly,” Jules said, stepping back.

She wanted to dog Mrs. Branigan’s heels, but held herself back. No, the woman wanted to see her husband alone. So be it.

Saint felt a cool, soft hand on his forehead.

“Jules?”

“No, Saint, me, Jane Branigan. Your . . . wife is downstairs. The boys send their love, of course. I just wanted to assure myself that you would be all right.”

Because it was Jane, because he’d forced himself to provide optimism to all his friends during the day, because he was scared and angry and trusted her, he said bluntly, “I don’t know, Jane. My poor wife just might find herself saddled with a damned cripple. God, I could become some sort of institution. People could say, ‘Yes, there’s poor old Saint, blind as a bat, you know, but tells great stories. Give him a few pennies and he’ll talk as long as you want.’ Shit!”

Jane understood, but she refused to pity him, at least not now. She said, her voice laced with humor, “Don’t forget that those people could also demand medical advice. I can just hear old Limpin’ Willie saying, ‘Saint, bless him! Told me to lance the boil on my leg, and I did, and my leg rotted off!’ ”