The Lazarus Curse (Dr. Thomas Silkstone Mystery) Page 24

  She nodded. “Then he is most welcome to stay here for as long as he chooses,” she replied. “We can find work for him when he is fully recovered. I shall inform Mr. Lupton.”

  “Mr. Lupton?” repeated Thomas.

  “The new estate manager.”

  The doctor could not hide his surprise and his brow arched involuntarily. In her letters she had not mentioned she had replaced Gabriel Lawson. His death in the summer had left the post vacant. Thomas had thought that Lydia might have consulted with him before she had appointed someone to the position. She had always valued his opinion before. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps their enforced separation meant that the distance between them was growing.

  He nodded, yet at the same time detected a certain awkwardness in her manner, as if she were holding something back from him.

  “I am glad you have found a new man,” he told her. “He is proving efficient in his post?”

  “Yes. Most. Mr. Lupton has many ideas,” she replied coolly. Her mouth worked itself into a smile. She was careful not to be too gushing in her praise.

  News of Thomas’s arrival spread as quickly as spilled buttermilk across the estate at Boughton. The young groom had told the shepherd, who had told his father, who had told the miller, who had told the dairy maid, and so it went on. Dr. Silkstone was back, and he had brought a blackamoor with him.

  Sitting by the fire at Plover’s House later that evening Nicholas Lupton was eager to find out more.

  “So, Mistress Fox,” he began, addressing his housekeeper, “there are visitors at the hall, I believe.” He was filling his pipe at the time.

  Mistress Fox, always keen to pass on scraps of gossip as if they were bones to dogs, set down her master’s rum toddy with a gleam in her eye. “Yes, sir,” she replied. “Dr. Silkstone has returned.”

  Lupton nodded. “The famous Dr. Silkstone, the American colonist once betrothed to Lady Lydia, if I am not mistaken.” There was a hint of sarcasm in his tone, as if he were standing at the village pump, dishing out scandal.

  It made Mistress Fox more wary of him. She straightened her neck. “Dr. Silkstone is a man of good standing, sir, with a reputation for being a fine surgeon.”

  Lupton sucked on his pipe and a curl of smoke rose into the air. “So I hear. I believe he will visit the late Lord Crick’s godfather.”

  Mistress Fox narrowed her eyes slightly. Her master seemed very well informed about her ladyship’s relationships for a man who had only been in his post for little over a month. “I believe so, sir,” she replied, bobbing a quick curtsy and making for the door.

  “Oh, and Mistress Fox,” Lupton called her back. “One more thing. Did Dr. Silkstone travel alone?” He had heard the rumor, but needed it confirmed.

  The housekeeper clamped her mouth shut, as if to staunch the flow of words, but she could not stop her natural inclinations for long. After a moment she replied, “I believe he was traveling with a Negro, sir.”

  “A Negro?” Lupton raised both brows.

  “Yes. You don’t see many of that sort ’round here, unless they be at fairs or shows,” she mused, her eyes suddenly bright. “Some say he’s a runaway slave.”

  “Do they indeed?” Lupton drew on his pipe once more, content to listen to the woman’s prattle.

  “Yes, sir, that he was beaten then rescued by Dr. Silkstone. ’Tis just the sort of thing the good doctor would do, him having a heart of gold,” she told him in a flurry of breathless excitement. “ ’Tis only a pity that that ogre will not let them marry.”

  “You speak of Sir Montagu Malthus?”

  Mistress Fox checked herself for speaking out of turn. “You know him, sir?” she asked awkwardly.

  “You may speak freely. He is of no consequence to me,” came Lupton’s reply.

  Reassured, the housekeeper glowered into the grate at the very thought of the lawyer who stood in the way of her mistress’s happiness. “As mean a man as you’ll ever find, sir, and that’s no lie.”

  “So it sounds,” said Lupton, with a nod. “This Dr. Silkstone is obviously a man of great reputation here at Boughton,” he said finally. “I hope I shall have the pleasure of making his acquaintance.”

  Thomas lay in his bedchamber at the hall, his body rigid with anticipation awaiting Lydia’s coming. Each footstep, each low whisper, each door shutting on the landing, caused his heart to leap. It was after midnight when his own door opened and she stood for a moment, holding her candle. Leaping up, he took it from her and in the darkness found her mouth. But she was quick to push him away.

  “My love,” she whispered, “not tonight. I need you to hold me.”

  In a second Thomas’s ardor fell away, as if someone had taken his breath from him. But in the half light he saw Lydia smile at him and he felt reassured.

  “Of course,” he said softly, taking her by the hand and leading her into his bed. She lay her head on his shoulder and he stroked her chestnut hair. It had been so long since he had felt its silkiness against his skin and smelled her scent of lemon.

  Neither of them spoke a word. Thomas longed to, but he recognized there was healing in the silence. In the candlelight, he studied her hand, palmed against his naked chest, her delicate fingers and her neat nails. For now this was all he could ask for and, for now, it was more than he could have hoped barely three months ago. He did not care that they had broken a court order; no one would ever know. No piece of parchment could tell them that they should forever be apart. He would not give up hope. He watched the candle as it guttered and fizzed and was suddenly gone, leaving the entire room in darkness. Now the only sound he could hear was Lydia’s breath as it gradually slowed and deepened and she fell fast asleep.

  Chapter 47

  Lydia insisted on accompanying Thomas on the journey to Draycott House. Normally it would take three hours, but the condition of the roads lengthened it, so frequently did the carriage become mired in the slushy ruts. They sat side by side, a fur throw covering their knees, with Eliza opposite them. They talked more as friends, not lovers. They spoke of Richard and of the estate and of Thomas’s cataloguing work in London, but on their enforced separation there was a tacit silence. Thomas knew that Lydia had engaged a lawyer to seek a review of their case by the Court of Chancery, but he could not talk of it in front of the maid. If there had been progress, he knew she would have mentioned it. There was so much he wanted to say and yet his tongue felt constrained by Lydia’s manner, as well as by Eliza’s presence. As soon as he saw that the maid had dozed off, he reached for Lydia under the throw; he plaited his fingers through hers and felt the warmth of her palms on his cool hand.

  “I have missed you more than I can say,” he said softly. But as soon as he had uttered the words, he realized they were lost amid the clatter of the horses’ hooves and the rattle of the carriage. He wondered if he should repeat them but when he glanced up at her and saw she was looking out of the window, he thought better of it. Instead he turned his thoughts to Sir Montagu and the prospect of performing a pioneering and dangerous operation on his old adversary.

  Arriving in the early afternoon, Lydia was immediately shown into Sir Montagu’s chamber. Thomas was asked to wait downstairs. The room was still in semidarkness and one of the physicians took her gently to one side as soon as she entered.

  “He has been asking for you, your ladyship,” said Dr. Brotherton, in reverent tones. “We have sedated him, but he cannot continue like this indefinitely.”

  Lydia nodded. “I am come with Dr. Silkstone, as I said I would,” she replied.

  The physician’s lips moved in a smile, but his eyes were full of resentment. It was evident he did not care for any outside intervention.

  “He has asked to speak with you, Dr. Brotherton,” she told him.

  She waited until the physician had left the room before walking over to where Sir Montagu lay. Pain seemed to have shrunk his body. He looked like a pale rag that had been wrung out and his breathing seemed labored. Sittin
g by his side, she took hold of his hand and he opened his eyes. She noted they seemed to have sunk further back into his head, like pools of cloudy water.

  As soon as he recognized her, he let out a shallow yelp.

  “My dear, I am so glad you are here,” he whispered, his breath rasping.

  She stroked his forehead. “Dr. Silkstone is come, too, sir,” she replied softly. “He will examine you and make you well again.”

  Sir Montagu grunted. She was not sure if he was deriding Thomas, or if he was thankful for his arrival.

  “I need to tell you something,” he said, squeezing Lydia’s hand as tightly as a sick man could. “Something important.”

  Lydia felt her heart jump. Perhaps the thought of his impending death had made him relent. Perhaps he would lift the court order that prevented her from marrying Thomas. She had not dared to dream of such a moment. Ever since, less than six months ago, he had shown her the huge scroll, covered in Latin script, and told her that Richard was a ward of court, her vision of the future had seemed without hope.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, leaning closer so that she could feel his breath on her cheek.

  “I am dying, Lydia,” he said, looking up at her with listless eyes.

  She gripped his hand tighter. “No, sir. Dr. Silkstone will save you. I know he will.”

  He closed his hooded lids for a moment, then opened them once more and fixed her with a strange look. His eyes were welling up, so that a tear spilled over and ran down his cheek. “I am dying,” he reiterated, suddenly finding more strength, “and I need to tell you something. Something I have kept hidden for many years.”

  Lydia suddenly felt her nerves tighten. His words sounded weighty and ominous. “I am listening,” she said softly. “I am listening.”

  Thomas donned his leather apron and laid out his personal set of knives on the bureau. If all went according to plan he would only need to use one. He left the bone saw in its case. There would be no need of it, he told himself.

  They had brought a table up from the kitchen and set it beside the window so there was a good supply of natural light. Dr. Felix Fairweather, familiar to Sir Montagu, had been summoned from Brandwick and had agreed to assist the other physicians should it be deemed necessary. While he had a previous association with the patient, he came more out of curiosity than respect for Thomas as a surgeon. Sir Montagu’s groom and footman had been tasked to hold their master firm.

  The patient’s senses had already been dulled by a shot of brandy mixed with laudanum, so that he offered no resistance as they carried him onto the table. A cloth gag was placed between his teeth to muffle his cries.

  Thomas did not allow himself to look into Sir Montagu’s face. All his feelings toward him must be put to one side. He dared not let his own emotions cloud his judgment. His focus was the left leg that lay dappled and distended in front of him. It was his alpha and his omega. In that moment, there was nothing else. He lifted the scalpel, saw the muscle tense, and leaned over to deliver the first cut.

  The incision, about five inches long, was made swiftly along the inner, lower part of the thigh. Sir Montagu let out a muted whine and flinched, but the men held him steady and, undeterred, Thomas exposed the bulbous section of the artery, the size of a pigeon’s egg, as it throbbed in the leg. Seizing it in his left hand, he separated it from the membrane and the vein, so that he held the swollen crimson tube in between his thumb and his forefinger.

  The footman’s face turned a shade of pale gray and he swayed a little. The groom saw him waver and nodded at the bed. The footman staggered away from the table and sat down, his head bowed.

  “Probe,” Thomas called to Dr. Fairweather, holding out his bloodied hand. The physician, whose attention had been drawn away by the fainting footman, looked blankly at Thomas.

  “Probe,” he repeated, this time louder.

  Fairweather seemed vexed. He dithered, his hand hovering over three or four instruments before he lifted the appropriate one and gave it to Thomas. Seconds had been lost, valuable seconds, but soon Thomas was passing a silver needle threaded with a thick ligature under the artery.

  Sir Montagu gave a sharp yelp each time the thread was tied, but the groom kept his body steady.

  “This will block it off,” Thomas explained, tying the catgut tightly at the lower end.

  The pulsation in the bulging mass stopped immediately but the blood was pumping with such force that there was still a danger the artery might burst. It spattered the nearby wall and sprayed the coverlet on the bed.

  “We will lose him,” blurted Fairweather. His hands began to shake and he sent the probe clattering to the floor.

  Ignoring the physician, Thomas worked as deftly as a lace maker, tying another thread two inches away from the first, finishing the knot less tightly. Above this second one he made a third, securing it more loosely, followed by a fourth. Sir Montagu expelled another longer moan, but the groom was now joined by the footman once more and together the men held their patient firm.

  Next Thomas pulled the threads to the outside and separated them, before securing the edges of the wound. It was only then that he became conscious of breathing again. He sucked in deeply and looked at Dr. Fairweather, his cheek spattered with blood. The whole procedure had been completed in less than five minutes and yet they had seemed among the longest five minutes of his life. Each second had seemed magnified, elongated, and held aloft, but at the end of it he felt exhilarated and triumphant.

  “Shall you dress the wound, Dr. Fairweather?” Thomas asked. He was eager to give the physician a chance to redeem himself. Such displays of nerves were usually confined to sophomores, who were new to surgery. He had not expected to see such edginess in a physician of many years’ standing, even though the operating theatre was not his usual domain.

  Taking a step back, Thomas let Fairweather inspect the wound. He still seemed aloof and strangely tense.

  “Leave the threads out. I shall remove those later,” Thomas instructed.

  Walking over to his case, he took out a jar of aloe vera gel. “Smear this along the wound, too, if you will. It contains healing properties,” he told the physician.

  Fairweather nodded and, taking the pot, began to coat the laceration in the greenish gel.

  Thomas walked up to the other end of the table and motioned to the men to stand aside. Leaning over, he saw that Sir Montagu’s eyes were half open and his features were more relaxed. Gently he removed the gag and smiled.

  “It is done, sir,” he said, a note of victory sounding in his voice.

  His patient licked his lips. “And I am alive,” he replied weakly.

  Wiping his bloody hands on a towel, Thomas felt his patient’s pulse. It was steady.

  “You are, indeed, alive, sir, and I believe the operation was a success.”

  Sir Montagu grunted and touched his surgeon’s hand. “Then I am much indebted to you, Dr. Silkstone,” he said.

  As soon as Lydia heard footsteps on the landing she rushed into the hallway. She had been pacing the floor in the drawing room, wringing her hands, mouthing prayers, while the operation had been in progress. She had dreaded hearing Sir Montagu’s cries, but feared the silence, too. He had obviously thought he would die on the operating table. He did not have the faith in Thomas that most men of medicine did. Why else would he have told her? Why else would he have divulged the secret that had been kept hidden for twenty-five years? She had not wanted to tell Thomas before the procedure. One slip of the scalpel, one artery severed in a split second. It would have made his burden even greater, almost intolerable.

  Now, as she saw Thomas descend the stairs, she looked for signs in his manner. He appeared calm. She tried to read the expression on his face as he lifted his gaze. It was inscrutable, but it did not take long before she allowed herself to smile.

  “All is well, m’lady,” he announced as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “Thank god!” she cried, hurrying toward him. Her in
clination was to bury her head in his shoulder and to tell him that she had never doubted him, but Dr. Fairweather was following close behind.

  “How fares Sir Montagu?” she asked anxiously, her eyes darting from one man to the other.

  Thomas nodded. “It was a difficult procedure, but the swelling has gone down and I believe he is out of imminent danger.”

  Lydia’s small frame heaved visibly with relief. “I am most grateful to you,” she said, looking at Thomas. “And to you, Dr. Fairweather,” she added.

  The older physician shrugged and shot a sheepish glance at Thomas. “I was only a bystander, your ladyship. Dr. Silkstone must take full credit,” he told her in a show of uncustomary modesty.

  “May I see Sir Montagu?” asked Lydia.

  The two men exchanged looks. “He is resting now,” Thomas told her.

  “And that is what I must do, too,” butted in Fairweather. “I have had quite enough for one day,” he murmured under his breath and, bowing graciously to Lydia, he left the room, so that she and Thomas were alone at last.

  Lydia walked forward and Thomas reached out for her hands. Drawing her close to him, he breathed in her perfume, trying to dispel the metallic reek that enveloped him. She felt so slight and delicate in his arms as she buried her head on his shoulder.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “ ’Tis too soon for thanks. The next few hours will be critical,” he told her.

  She pressed his chest with the palms of her hands so that she could look him in the eyes. “And we will spend those hours together?”

  He smiled and kissed her tenderly on her forehead. “If you will allow it.”

  “I would not have it any other way,” she replied. “But first I need to tell you something.” Her smile suddenly disappeared to be replaced by the look of one who has solemn news to impart. “We need to sit,” she told him.