“Yes, you. It is time you earned your wages for a change,” the woman hissed.
That was not fair. Matilda worked harder than any of the other maids. All they did was flirt with the footmen and lift their skirts for anyone who had enough coin.
Mrs. Young caught the banister, her fingers white on the rail, and swayed into it for support instead of moving upward. The usually self-sufficient old woman could barely stand. Matilda didn’t want her to fall on the stairs for the fuss she would make later on so she caught the eye of the nearest footman. “Assist Mrs. Young upstairs at once.”
She skirted the protesting housekeeper, and although she would most likely be reprimanded later, Matilda hiked up her skirts and ran up the entire flight of steps toward Captain Ford’s bedchamber and that horrible noise.
She sped along the halls and paused outside his dressing room, risking a peek first before entering. The Roberts brothers, twin footmen who should have returned downstairs to their posts by now, lingered at the bedchamber doorway, maids Jenny and Jane stood nearby, whispering to each other as was their habit. One had tears in her eyes, but most probably they were tears meant for themselves. With Captain Ford returned, their easy employment would certainly end.
Matilda shooed them away. “Back to your duties before Mrs. Young sees you.”
She ignored their protests and pushed her way between the towering footmen. The captain’s valet, Dawson, had returned with his master, and at the sound of her voice, he turned toward her. A sensible man she knew fairly well, Gregory Dawson had dark circles under his eyes, and his expression was bleak.
His appearance was unkempt too, his jaw covered with several days of stubble, his usually impeccable clothes wrinkled and stained in some places with what appeared to be dried blood. He looked about ready to fall down from exhaustion. She grasped his forearm, offering compassion and her strength. He was particularly attached to his employer for some reason, even going so far as to follow him to sea by his own choice.
“Miss Winslow,” he whispered with relief at seeing her.
“Mr. Dawson.” She shivered as another moan filled her ears. “What has happened?”
The man paled further. “He’s dying.”
Matilda swallowed hard at the idea of a world without Captain Ford and then noticed strangers in his room. “Who is in there?”
“Mr. Simmons and Mr. Fellows, physicians both. They came with us direct from the docks.” Dawson shuddered as Captain Ford moaned brokenly again. “They don’t mince words.”
Dawson shifted to lean against the wall, revealing the whole of the room to Matilda.
She shuddered at the sight of four men holding William Ford down. “Why was he not taken to the Naval Hospital for treatment?”
“He’s not expected to live very long,” Dawson whispered. “The hospital was said to be overflowing, so I brought him home to die because I knew he’d prefer to be here where it is quiet.”
Tears filled her eyes, but she dashed them away. She had wished injury on William Ford many times over the past year for his treatment of her, but this was beyond anything she’d ever imagined he’d deserve.
She bit her lip, unable to comprehend that nothing could be done to save the captain. “Surg
eons perform miracles every day. My late father treated many men and never gave up until the last moment of a patient’s life. He saved many when I had felt their recovery hopeless. Has word been sent to the duke, to any of the captain’s family?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Ford made landfall ahead of us and went ahead with the message.”
“Good. Mrs. Young should be on her way up.” As an afterthought, she added, “Make sure she has a chair as soon as possible. Keep an eye on her in case she faints.”
“How like you to care about everyone.” He smiled tightly and then scraped his fingers through his hair. It didn’t help him look more composed. “It is good to see you again, despite the circumstances.”
“It’s good to have you home.” She touched his arm again. “Get some rest, and I will see what I can do to help.”
Matilda entered the room and at once was assaulted with the odor of turpentine. The unpleasant scent brought reminders of all the times some poor broken soul had been carried into her father’s simple home to be mended over their kitchen table. She breathed through her mouth until her nausea passed, and tried to recall what her father might have done in a similar situation.
“Hold him still,” Mr. Simmons barked out while the captain twisted and moaned brokenly beneath clutching hands.
The captain should be calmer.
She eased closer, assessing the men in the room and the mood. Every face was grim. No one would meet her gaze. “What are you doing to him?”
The doctor grimaced as he peeled back a blood-soaked scrap of linen from the captain’s head. “What must be done.”
The captain bucked again, and the men struggled to keep him on the bed.
“Well, don’t stand about gawking, girl.”