An Honest Heart (10 page)

With his bag in his free hand, he let Caddy lead him through the workroom and upstairs to the kitchen. By the time he helped her into one of the ladder-back wooden chairs, he could feel her trembling from the exertion.

“Let’s try to get that bleeding stopped.” He pulled a soft muslin pad from his bag and pressed it gently to her temple. “Apply pressure.”

Her fingers brushed his as she placed her petite hand where his larger one had been.

After stoking the fire, he pumped water into the largest pot he could find and put it on the stove to start boiling. “This may take a while. Shall I rouse Mary?”

Miss Bainbridge’s drooping head snapped up. “No.” She winced. “Please do not waken anyone. Mother is a light sleeper, and Mary sleeps in a room adjoining hers with the door open. If Mother hears any commotion, she will worry herself ill again.”

Was she not concerned about her reputation? What would people think when word got out that he’d been here with her alone? “What about your maid?”

“Agnes already gets little enough sleep as it is. I’ll be fine. I have always been stronger than I look.” Her eyelids drooped and she started to slump forward.

“Very well.” He sighed. “Then you are responsible for keeping yourself awake while I gather all the supplies I need.” He checked his kit. “I do not have enough bandages with me. Do you have clean muslin I can use? Towels to wipe up the blood? And additional candles or lamps?”

He followed her directions around the kitchen and the shallow alcove in the hall beyond. While the water heated, he handed Miss Bainbridge the muslin and a pair of shears he’d found in a drawer and set her to cutting strips for bandages.

When a bit of steam came off the water, he scooped some into a bowl, set it on the table, and soaked one of the towels. In the now well-lit kitchen, he had a better idea of just how much blood she’d lost.

“I’m going to pull this away now.” He took the padding, soaked through with bright red blood, and eased it away from her head. The cut underneath still seeped, but the pressure had slowed the flow of blood. He washed away the sticky, drying blood from her neck, chin, and cheek before dumping the water, getting fresh, and starting on the injury with a clean cloth.

She drew in her breath through gritted teeth, but she made no other noise and did not move other than an occasional wince.

“The edges look smooth, which will be helpful in stitching it closed.”

She sighed. “So I will need stitches?”

“I am afraid so. I will use as few as I can and make them as small as possible.”

The iron pot rattled with the strength of the boiling water. Neal washed his hands and instruments with soap, setting each on one of the clean cloths from his kit.

“Can you do it with me sitting here, or should I lie on the table?”

Neal considered for a moment. “It will be easier if you lie on the table.” He stepped back, giving her room to maneuver. She stood, turned, and sat on the edge of the table. Placing her feet in the chair she’d just vacated, she eased herself back into a prone position, still holding the muslin pad in place.

He lifted her head and placed a folded towel beneath it, then set the four lamps he’d found around her, creating a halo-like effect. He smiled at the fanciful notion.

“What?” The light made her lashes cast long, dark shadows under her eyes.

“Just admiring the living icon of Saint Cadence Bainbridge.”

She frowned. Then a slight smile relaxed her features. “My mother would be the first to tell you that I am anything but saintly.”

Neal cocked a brow as he moved his instruments into easy reach and into the order in which he would need them. “I find that hard to believe.”

“When I was a child, I provided the fodder for many of my father’s sermons—honoring one’s parents, obedience, discipline, diligence . . . all lessons that he taught on Sundays after I’d shown him the opposite throughout the week.”

Neal took a moment to gaze down at the woman on the makeshift operating table. He had a hard time picturing Cadence Bainbridge as a disobedient child. She was so self-possessed, so confident. “It seems your father’s words took root.”

“Only because my parents spent many hours each day on their knees praying over me.” Caddy’s eyes fluttered closed. “I will never deserve it.”

“I think your mother would disagree.” He understood now why she took such good care of her mother—a sense of obligation born out of love. “I am ready to begin if you are.”

“Are you going to put me to sleep?”

“No. With a head injury, that would be dangerous. I am sorry, but you will feel every bit of what I do.

Eyes still closed, she gave a brief nod. “We should start, then.”

“This is going to sting.” He opened the bottle of alcohol, pulled the muslin pad away from the still-bleeding injury, and poured the liquid over the cut.

Caddy’s back arched, and she breathed through clenched teeth. The liquid fire set the throbbing injury ablaze, increasing her pain tenfold.

“I am so sorry. But it is the only way to clean the wound and guard against infection.” Neal’s deep voice cut through the pain and darkness. Soft fingertips touched her cheek, and she realized he was wiping away the tears that slid from her eyes.

He pressed more cloth to her temple and she fought the urge to knock his hand away, to scream, to sob—anything to get the pain to go away.

“Take a deep breath.” Neal pulled one cloth away and used another to wipe up the excess alcohol—and the tears that still traced down her cheeks.

Air stuttered into her lungs.

“And another one.”

The next breath came a little more easily.

“Now, close your eyes and try to think of something else.”

“What?” Caddy flinched when Neal moved her head—then realized he needed to angle it so he could have a clear view of the cut. Her right cheek rested against the towel.

He pushed back the strands of damp hair that had stuck to her face, then wiped it one more time. “What do you do when you are not sewing clothes for others?”

“I . . . teach the women in the poorhouse the skill of dressmaking.” She trembled in anticipation of the first bite of the needle, which she knew must be coming soon.

“Saint Cadence indeed.” The smile in his voice made Caddy’s shivers increase—though this time not from more pain.

“My father believed that teaching someone a skill went much further in feeding his or her family than giving alms.” When would he start? What was he waiting for?

“I think I would have liked your father very much.”

Caddy opened her mouth to ask Dr. Stradbroke when he planned to get on with stitching her wound together when she felt the first sting of the needle.

Pain gathered in the back of her throat, but she would not release it as sound. Taking shallow breaths, she tried to think about the days spent at the poorhouse surrounded by women and girls of all ages, experiencing their joy as they finished an apron or a bonnet.

“M-my apprentices . . . come from the p-p-poorhouse.” Hot tears streaked down her nose and across her cheek onto the towel below, even though she tried to force them to stop. “Three now work as seamstresses for one of the finest couturiers in London.”

“How long do they apprentice with you?” He leaned so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck.

“Three to five years, depending on how quickly they learn the necessary skills.”

“Have you seen the machines that sew?”

Caddy winced and released a small gasp at a fourth bite of the needle.

“You’re doing well, Miss Bainbridge. Just one more after this one.”

Trying to keep her focus off the ever-increasing pain, Caddy went back to his last question. “I have seen illustrations in books and magazines, but I have not seen one in person.” She worked to regulate her breathing so she didn’t sound like she’d just run down the street. “I read there will be demonstrations of these sewing machines at the Great Exhibition. I hope to see at least one.”

Neal made no response.

“Do you plan to attend the Exhibition?”

“I . . . I am not certain I will.” He stilled her head with a large hand on her chin. “Last one.”

Caddy held her breath as the needle once again pierced her forehead, her stomach rebelling against the pain.

She heard the clip of his scissors. “There. Now you can breathe again.”

The skin of her neck cooled, indicating he’d moved away. Opening her eyes, she watched him fold a strip of muslin into a pad, which he pressed to the cut. He lifted her head and wound a long strip around her head to hold the pad in place.

“You will need to change this daily. Keep the wound dry and clean. I will take the stitches out in a couple of weeks.”

Caddy allowed him to help her sit up. “A couple of weeks?” The servants’ ball at Chawley Abbey was but a week from now.

“Yes. But after a week, you can stop wearing the bandage, so long as the bleeding has stopped. You should be able to hide the scar with your hair or a hat, and the bruising should have faded by then. No powders or cosmetics, though, as those could cause infection.” He pulled the chair from under her feet and assisted her up, resting his hands on her waist until she’d found secure footing.

“Fret not—I am not so vain as to use cosmetics.” The warmth of his hands almost made her forget the pain in her head. “Might I go to sleep now?”

He released her and watched her closely. “You seem steady. I do not think you are in danger of falling into insensibility. But if you begin to feel feverish, or if the cut does not seem to be healing—if you see red streaks or any discharge—I want you to send Mary or one of the girls for me immediately.” He held up his hand when she started to argue. “I am serious. Head injuries are not to be trifled with.”

As he stood over her giving directions and warnings, he gave the appearance of a towering guardian angel. A warm glow that had nothing to do with infection or illness stole through her.

But she could not stand here with him all night. Exhaustion weighed on her, and she craved the comfort of her bed. “How much do I owe you, Doctor?”

He paused in packing his tools back into his kit. Caddy was certain he would name a price that would make her choke.

“As before, I would like to take payment in trade. I have a larger pile of mending than I originally thought.”

Caddy released a relieved breath. “I would be pleased to do that for you.”

He finished packing his instruments and lifted the bag as if it weighed nothing. “Then I shall call later this week—to bring the mending and to check your injury.”

She moved to follow him to the door, but he stopped her, laying one of his large, soft hands on her shoulder. “No need to see me out. Go get some rest. This afternoon, I shall send the constable so you can give him your statement and he can begin looking for the culprit who did this to you.”

Ah, yes. In all the focus on her injuries, she had forgotten what caused them in the first place.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

B
efore taking the stairs up to his flat, Neal peered into the makeshift henhouse in the back garden. Matilda and Sheila slept, heads tucked against their chests, in the nests he’d made for them atop two empty crates he’d begged off Mr. Howell.

Weary to the bone, he trudged up the stairs and unlocked his door. In the country, no one thought of locking doors. But with the supply of drugs he kept, not to mention the expensive surgical equipment he couldn’t carry with him, he left nothing to chance. And, as he’d just experienced firsthand, living this close to the area known as Jericho made North Parade a target for the less savory types. The Eagle Ironworks and the traffic on the canal seemed to draw riffraff into the area who preyed on the good, hardworking people who made their homes here. Neal had chosen North Parade because of its proximity to Jericho after hearing of the need for a doctor to minister to the needs of the working-class suburb of Oxford.

After dropping his kit on the kitchen table, he crossed to the front room and pulled the curtain back. Across the street, a light flickered in the shop windows of Bainbridge’s. He crossed his arms, frowning. He should have known she wouldn’t have gone to bed to get the rest she desperately needed.

Of course, she now had a front door with panes broken out of the window.

Neal returned to the kitchen and took up the pouch of nails and hammer he’d purchased to build the chicken coop, then jogged back downstairs. He found the few extra planks of wood he hadn’t used yet, tucked them under his arm, and made his way back across the street.

Caddy gasped and raised her broom over her head when he entered.

Neal backed up against the door. “Miss Bainbridge, ’tis I, Neal Stradbroke.”

The broom wavered, then lowered. “Doctor? What—?”

“I came to patch up the hole in your window. If you would lend me your lamp . . .”

Caddy put the broom down and carried the oil lamp over, holding it so it cast a glow on the door.

After several attempts to hold the board in place and nail it at the same time, Neal pulled the extra nails out of his mouth. “Miss Bainbridge, if you would be so kind—”