The Rogue's Return (14 page)

“I
nquest?”
she gasped.

Simon was eating a sandwich left-handed. “There has to be one, my love, if someone dies like that. I doubt it'll go to trial, not least because Gore wants as little attention paid to this whole matter as possible.”

“But you could be tried for
murder?
”

“Highly unlikely,” Hal said. “All correct forms were followed. Right, Norton?”

“Absolutely.” He sounded a little too hearty, but then he added to Jancy, “If they weren't, ma'am, the seconds would be liable for prosecution, too.”

“Will Simon have to testify? He can't be moved.”

“If so, they'll come here,” Hal said. “But I doubt it will be necessary. His being wounded will work in his favor, but it's the fact that McArthur fired before the signal was given that will clinch it.”

Norton left to take up his military duties. Jancy put on a cheerful face and busied herself with housekeeping, but the thought of the inquest beat in her head like a drum. She couldn't blank out the image of Simon struggling to stay on his feet and deliberately shooting to kill. He had apparently been entitled to do that, but what if a court saw it differently? He might
hang
.

The men didn't seem much concerned, so her terror must rise out of Haskett experiences. Hasketts had no faith in justice and the law.

When she returned to Simon, he suggested whist so she sat to play, with Treadwell making the fourth. Hal produced a frame in which he slotted his cards.

Later Hal and his servants left them alone and she read to Simon. Playter returned and reported that all was well, though he didn't unbandage the wound. “Don't meddle with nature” seemed to be his law.

As darkness fell she hoped Simon would fall asleep, for he looked exhausted, but when he did he moved and woke from pain. She read more to him, trying to soothe him, but in the end she had to leave him to Oglethorpe before she fell asleep where she was.

When she returned the next morning, Simon looked haggard, and she heard that he'd tried to get up to use a chamber pot instead of the invalid receptacle. She scolded him, but how was he to get well like this? When she heard the doctor downstairs, she intercepted. “Can't he be given something for the pain? He couldn't sleep.”

Playter dumped his gloves, hat, and cloak on a chair. “Does it hurt him to move?”

“Terribly.”

“Then he won't, will he?”

She followed him upstairs feeling a fool but still disliking the doctor intensely.

This time Playter unbandaged Simon's chest, raised the lint pad, and inspected the brown and yellow stains on it. Then he sniffed at it. All Jancy could smell was the brandy.

“Is it all right?” she asked. The swollen, crusting flesh looked horrible.

“Thus far.”

“Why brandy?”

He scowled at her, so she scowled back. “I need to know how to care for him, Doctor.”

He grunted but said, “A spiritous compress assists in the healing of gunshot wounds. You'll see that the bleeding has stopped, and there is excellent fungus.”

“What?” Jancy was horrified.

“The swelling flesh, Mrs. St. Bride. It's part of the healing process. The crusting”—he indicated it with his finger—“we call eschar. This only occurs with heated wounds such as burns or gunshot. It is healthful in the beginning, but care must be taken that it does not seal up the wound, for the wound must drain. Trapped fluids poison the body.”

“I am here, you know,” Simon said.

“And will stay still and let others take care of you.” Playter took a new pad of lint out of his bag. “Do you have brandy, ma'am? Don't see why I should use my own.”

Jancy brought it. He soaked the pad in it and covered the wound.

“I'd rather that brandy was inside me,” Simon said, tension showing that even these gentle ministrations were painful.

“And inflame your blood?” Playter tightened the chest bandages. Simon hissed.

“They must be tight to keep your ribs in place, sir,” Playter said, not, in Jancy's opinion, without some relish.

“How soon before I can travel?”

“Perhaps two weeks, and that assumes you continue to heal appropriately.”

“What happens if I travel in two days?”

“You'll probably kill yourself.”

Simon's lips tightened.

“If it's movement that's the problem,” Jancy said, “couldn't he travel on a stretcher, as he came here?”

Simon's objection to the very idea clashed with Playter's response. “Why take the risk?”

“Because we want to sail to England before the river freezes,” she said. “Travel by boat down to Montreal wouldn't be too strenuous, would it?”

“Young lady, Lake Ontario can storm like the Atlantic, and the Saint Lawrence is broken by rapids. He stays here until I say it's safe, or I wash my hands of him.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Simon said, “Jancy.”

She obeyed the silent request, but a new fear had occurred to her. How did they know Playter was telling the truth? If there were people who wanted to stop Simon taking his papers to London, the longer he was kept here, the better for them. She would send for Dr. Baldwin.

Playter took out new instruments.

“What are you doing?” She couldn't keep suspicion out of her voice.

“The wound has ceased to bleed, so it is necessary to release some blood to avoid mortification. If you're likely to faint, go away.”

Though Jancy hated to see Simon hurt even in such a minor way, she certainly would not faint and she wanted to be sure Playter did nothing suspicious. She'd often attended the doctor bleeding and cupping Aunt Martha, so she knew how it was done. All seemed to go as usual, however.

When Simon's left arm was bandaged, he said, “I must look a sorry specimen.”

“At least your arms match,” she teased, but added to the doctor, “Shouldn't you look at his arm wound?”

“A mere crease, ma'am. A child could attend to it.” But he unwrapped the bandage. “There, see. Good eschar, and when it sloughs, there'll be a healthy discharge. All's well.”

“So I should dress it? With brandy?”

“Leave it be, woman! I tell you, the body heals itself.”

When Hal took the doctor downstairs, Simon said, “Jancy, if I can't leave before the river freezes, you must.”

“No.”

“There might be danger. Remember that intruder.”

“All the more reason for me to stay.”

“Don't I have some authority as your husband?”

“If you do, you've no way to assert it.”

“Oglethorpe.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Would you beat my wife for me?”

“No, sir.”

“Traitor.”

Jancy laughed and kissed Simon's cheek. “Be good. The
Eweretta
won't be the last ship to leave. You said yourself that it always makes sure to sail from Montreal before there's any danger of being blocked. As soon as it's safe, we'll leave York, but your health is more important than anything.”

Thought of the inquest hung silent in the room. Jancy wished she'd asked Playter what he would tell the jury. Surely he'd have to tell the truth, but now that suspicion had germinated, she couldn't get rid of it. What if he lied? What if they all lied? If there was a conspiracy to have Simon hang?

Hal. Hal was her only hope.

When he left to give his evidence, she flung herself into cleaning. She should probably sit with Simon, who could be as fearful beneath his calm, but instead she wore herself out scrubbing the parlor. She even hung the parlor carpet in the yard and beat the dust out of it.

“Is it dead yet?”

She whirled to see Hal. “What happened?”

“All's well.” He took the wicker carpet beater from her and tossed it on the ground. “Come on.”

She dusted off her hands. “You must think me silly.”

“No. I had concerns.” He put his hand on her back to steer her toward the house. “The judge frowned on Simon taking his shot, but Norton, Delahaye, and I all agreed that McArthur fired before the handkerchief dropped and fired to kill. A couple of others testified to hearing McArthur say he was going to get rid of Simon. It was enough, especially when Simon was right. Gore apparently made it clear that he wanted the matter closed, not dragged on. It's over.”

In Simon's room, a celebratory party was taking place.

“I told you not to worry,” he said.

If she'd had the carpet beater she might have
thwacked him with it, and she did confiscate his glass of wine. “So we're free to leave as soon as you're able?”

“Yes.”

A tight knot inside her unraveled. “Isn't Gore worried about what you'll do in London? McArthur's crimes occurred during his administration.”

“He probably hopes it'll suit the government to bury the whole matter. There, McArthur's death is to his advantage.”

“But that would waste all your work.”

He shook his head. “No. My main aim all along has been to stop McArthur and get reparation for those he hurt. I'm not on a witch hunt.”

“Then I hope other people know that,” Hal said.

Simon gave him an exasperated look. “This house is as safe as a fortress now.”

“Remember Troy.”

“So admit no horses.”

Jancy decided to share her fears. “I'm wondering about Dr. Playter.”

“Gads, ma'am,” Norton said. “Very sound man. Remarkable reputation.”

“But he's so brusque.”

Hal said, “He's an army surgeon, Jane. They have to become calloused.”

So they can deal with the aftermath of battle,
she realized.
Cut off limbs until they pile up around them. Ignore the wounded who can't be saved.
Given that, Simon's wounds must seem nothing, and she a silly, fussy child. But she would send for Dr. Baldwin, just to be safe.

She took Simon's hand. “So all that remains is for you to behave yourself and let your ribs heal. What can we do to amuse you now, sir, who reclines on his divan like the Grand Panjandrum himself?”

Their eyes met in memory of that first, terrible night, when he'd been so kind.

“With the little round button a-top,” he said. “Can you recite it?”

The nonsense poem had supposedly been created to test an actor's ability to memorize, and thus was used to torment children in the schoolroom.

Jancy took a thespian stance. “ ‘So she went into the garden to cut a cabbage leaf to make an apple pie, and at the same time a great she-bear, coming down the street, pops its head into the shop. What, no soap? So he died, and she very imprudently married the barber. . . .” '

Simon picked up, “ ‘And there were present, the Picninnies, Joblillies, the Garyulies, and the Grand Panjandrum himself, with the little round button a-top.” '

Together, grinning, they completed, “ ‘And they all fell to playing the game of catch-as-catch-can, till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their boots.” '

Their audience applauded. Simon laughed—then swore under his breath, but tension had fled. Even so, Jancy sent to Dr. Baldwin and he came.

“Purely as a neighbor,” he insisted. He refused to inspect the wounds, saying that would intrude on another doctor's domain, but he considered Simon's general state and confirmed Playter's advice.

“If there was necessity, I'd say you could leave sooner, St. Bride, if you were willing to endure considerable pain, but you'll be a great deal more comfortable in a week or two.”

Jancy had to accept that. She put those fears out of the way and settled, with everyone, to waiting.

The next day Dr. Playter again announced himself satisfied with Simon's wound. He tweezed off a bit of his precious eschar, which clearly hurt, though Simon didn't complain. When he'd inspected the discharge that resulted, he said, “All's well,” and redressed the wound.

“He is fevered,” Jancy pointed out.

“Which is excellent.” Playter bled Simon again and left.

The other men had left during the doctor's examination, so Jancy indulged in a kiss, a real kiss, closing her
eyes to enjoy it. When she straightened, she caressed his hot face. “Be patient, love.”

“I'll atrophy from lying here.”

“You're probably grumpy from hunger. I'll go and get lunch.”

When she returned with the tray, she found Simon trying to get out of bed.

“Stop that!” she cried.

He'd already stopped, swearing and white with agony.