He couldn’t take laudanum. He simply . . .couldn’t.
His fear of the drug was too great. His loathing and dread too strong.
He had promised himself, over his brother’s lifeless body. . . Ian’s eyes staring sightlessly upward—
“Look, Alex,” his friend murmured quietly, “I heard enough about what happened with your brother.”
Alex tensed at Michael’s words, as if his friend were reading his mind. Though why Alex should be surprised, he didn’t know.
Everyone knew what had happened to Ian.
The story had landed in the broadsheets, for heaven’s sake. The Whitaker family’s worst nightmare and deepest pain prettily packaged for public consumption. Just remembering it rendered Alex light-headed and nauseous.
“So knowing that situation,” Michael continued, “I understand why you are reluctant to take laudanum. The choice is yours, obviously. But I must say two things. One, I do not think you will need to take laudanum for very long. Several days, maybe a week at most. Just long enough for the worst of the pain and swelling to subside, to ensure that your mild fever remains mild, for the bone to begin to knit. Not so long that it will become an uncontrollable habit. Second, without the laudanum, we both know that the pain will make it difficult for you to remain motionless during these first critical days. We both want that bone to set straight and true. There is also a risk that bits of bone have embedded in the leg tissue and that can lead to infection. But both problems can be mitigated if you remain perfectly still for at least the first week. Alex, I don’t want to amputate your leg any more than you wish it gone.”
Alex let Michael’s words wash over him, dripping through his thoughts like the tears running down his temples to the pillow below.
Air left his lungs in great gusting gasps.
The worst part?
Michael wasright.
Every word he spoke was absolutely correct.
Alex would recommend the same course of action for his own patient.
It was theonlyway.
The only guaranteed path to ensure the leg healed perfectly.
He closed his eyes and pushed thoughts of Ian back, back, back into the recesses of his mind.
He could do this.
He could.
He would.
And so, taking one last gasping breath, Alex wiped his tears away and took Shakespeare’s advice:
He screwed his courage to the sticking place and nodded.
7
Dr. Whitaker cannot be moved for at least two months while his leg heals. That is the opinion of Dr. Smithson.” Ferndown scowled from where he stood beside the drawing room mantel. “Therefore, he must remain here at Frome Abbey.”
Lottie pinched her lips and cuddled Freddie closer, ignoring the flip in her chest.
Of course, the doctor could not be moved. But how terrible for him to be gravely injured in enemy territory, so to speak. To be so far away from friends and family.
Evening had fallen long ago. The uproar in the house had settled, and Lord Nettlesby had (blessedly, thankfully) departed for London.
Ferndown had called the family together. Margaret and Frank sat side-by-side on the sofa, Margaret winding a handkerchief round and round her fingers and Frank sipping his third glass of brandy. Grandmère was in a wingback chair opposite them, embroidering steadily in the candlelight, reading glasses perched upon her nose, as if this were any other family evening.
For her part, Lottie sat in a chair in one corner cradling a sleeping Freddie, listening intently but knowing her opinion would not be called upon. She doubted Ferndown or Frank even realized she was in the room.
She was, as ever, visibly invisible. A pretty face to be admired but never a voice to be heard. She pressed a kiss to Freddie’s head, glad of the comforting weight of his small body.
