Though it took a surprising amount of willpower to stop Lady Charlotte’s snapping blue eyes and quick wit from popping into his mind every five minutes.
He blamed the lingering effects of laudanum.
A pair of footmen arrived to assist him in seeing to his bodily functions and to serve him tea. They also informed him that Galahad had not been seriously harmed in the accident and was healing nicely in his stall.
A maid retrieved his traveling writing desk and his pocket watch. For some reason, having the watch at hand soothed him. Here, at last, was a sense of normalcy.
Setting his watch open atop his desk—for no real reason other than he liked to know the time—he wrote letters to his solicitor in Edinburgh and to the Crown’s solicitor in London.
Next, he wrote to McNeal, explained the situation, and included revised care instructions for his patients. How McNeal was to manage it on his own, Alex couldn’t say.
Then, he penned a separate letter to his sister. Catriona would be livid that he had neglected to inform herself and McNeal sooner. She would hopefully have calmed down before he saw her next. Regardless, he did request that she send on some of his personal effects—more clothing and few of his favorite novels to read.
Then, he was a wee bit tired. So he watched the rain patter against the window pane, and then slept, and then watched the fire burn in the grate, and then ate a snack, and then as only four hours had passed, he took some time (as he hadplentyof it) to curse his fate once more.
Even his pocket watch had turned traitor.
For more years than he could count, Alex’s life had been ruled by the ticking of the clock. By a list of places to go and people to see and things to do. How long would it take to get from Prince’s Street to Castle Rock? How many minutes were required to meet with Mrs. So-and-So? How long would it take to write his medical notes and order supplies? He would rush through his day only to collapse into his bed and begin again the next dawn.
And now, everything had
Simply.
Stopped.
Days and weeks stretched before him with stark emptiness. His watch could tick out the time, but Alex would be doing nothing with it.
What was he to do? How was he to manage the sheer mental weight of his confinement?
At least his fever had fully abated. It meant his leg was healing well and infection had not set in. The specter of amputation receded. But even that bit of good news did not cast out boredom.
The arrival of the evening post helped dispel his gloom.
Letters had been sent to his solicitor who had instructions to forward all post to Frome Abbey, should Alex not return to Edinburgh in a timely fashion. It had seemed a bit of paranoia on his part to create such a plan, but it had clearly been clairvoyant.
If nothing else, it was a relief to hear from friends.
Andrew sent a thick letter. He began by writing at length about his wife, Jane, and their new daughter, Isolde. According to Andrew, Isolde was the bonniest, cleverest, sweetest wee bairn to ever grace Scotland.
Jane claims Isolde loves her best, but Isolde and I know differently. She may be four months old, but she only has to see me and she stops hergirnin’straight away and smiles. I cannot wait for you to meet her properly, Alex. Though if you do not think her to be the bonniest lass of your acquaintance, dinnae tell me. I shall only think less of ye for it.
As you know, Rafe, Ewan, and I are already in London. Parliament is in session early, as there is much to sort in Lords with King George’s ascension to the throne. We’re still planning on holding our annual meeting of the Brotherhood of the Black Tartan in March. But could we possibly entice you to come to London for our meeting this year? I recognize that leaving your practice for any period of time is difficult, but to be very honest, it would be nice to have you here in Town. Sometimes, I fear you will work yourself into an early grave.
Alex sighed, looking up from the letter. Of course, he would be happy to meet them in London. If he were very lucky, he might even be ambulatory by then.
Andrew continued on:
I am no closer to discovering who has been placing the advertisements in the newspaper. They crop up about every six months. The adverts would be expensive to post, so whoever is doing this has funds that exceed that of a common seaman or day laborer. But why post threatening notices without demanding something in return?
That said, the latest notice in theEdinburgh Advertiserriled up a procurator fiscal in Aberdeen. The man has asked the Judge Admiral to open a more formal investigation. I do not have to tell you how much this concerns me. As we have said from the very beginning, Kieran could be accused of mutiny, as he openly fought Captain Cuthie in his attempts to save Jamie. Of course, as long as Cuthie and Massey remain abroad, nothing should come of it. Mutiny cannot be prosecuted without witnesses. And we have always believed that Cuthie would be loath to provide evidence, as Cuthie himself is guilty of significant crimes that would come to light should this all go to a tribunal. Mutual silence keeps both men from gaol.
Alex let the foolscap fall with a frown.
The Judge Admiral and a procurator fiscal becoming involved in this was disconcerting. There were letters from Ewan and Rafe in the pile, expressing similar concerns.
Alex pinched the bridge of his nose.
Oh, Kieran.
