“First time in bed together,” he smiled up at her. “How civilized of us.”
“Yes. I’m sure we’ll soon be known everywhere as a shining example of propriety.”
Mrs. Bercine strode back into the room holding a full bottle of whiskey.
“God bless you,” Trem pronounced at the sight of the bottle.
“You should not drink it all,” Mrs. Bercine scoffed. “You should wash out the wound. That was what we did with your friend Montaigne. And he still lives…at least from what I understand.”
“Still alive and well, unfortunately.” Trem winced, thinking of how Montaigne would laugh if he had known he had been shot by old Percy the coachman. At least Montaigne had been wounded in a duel, although his injury had not been without its indignities. He had been challenged by a lady who had blamed Montaigne for her husband spending three thousand pounds on a high-end lightskirt. Montaigne had refused to shoot at the woman himself, allowing her one shot as a matter of honor and he had been certain that the lady would shoot to miss. To his friend’s shock, the woman had been very serious indeed and had nearly killed him.
“If you like, I can administer the whiskey,” Mrs. Bercine offered.
“I’ll do it,” Henrietta said, quickly, taking the bottle from her. Even through the haze of pain, Trem could sense that Henrietta had not taken to Mrs. Bercine. Simple jealousy seemed ludicrous as he had never slept with Mrs. Bercine or even viewed her in such a manner but contemplating the intricacies of his fiancée’s resentments would have to wait until his vision stopped spontaneously dimming.
“I am very experienced in treating such wounds,” Mrs. Bercine protested.
But Henrietta ignored the woman and moved to untie the jacket. “If you could send a messenger to the nearest doctor,” Henrietta replied, “we would be much obliged. We’d be willing to pay any doctor and yourself quite handsomely.”
The innkeeper nodded and departed but not before casting a quizzical look at Trem and Henrietta. Trem would wager that Mrs. Bercine wouldn’t believe he was engaged to be married. She must take Henrietta for an overly possessive courtesan. The thought would have made him laugh if his arm didn’t feel like it had been lit on fire.
“You have to flood the wound with the whiskey,” Trem told her, knowing that she certainly had no idea what she was doing, despite her pride. “It’ll hurt like the devil. I’ll need something to bite on.”
“Like what?” Henrietta asked, looking panicked.
“Find something. It needs to have enough give to take the bite but enough firmness to offer resistance. But first give me the bottle. It will help to be deuced drunk when this happens.”
As Henrietta searched for a proper object for him to bite into, he raised the bottle to his lips with his good hand and swallowed mouthfuls of whiskey. It wasn’t particularly good quality, but it would serve its purpose just fine.
From the first mouthful, he felt the pleasant lightness of the spirits suffuse his body. He drank nearly half the bottle, sure that after years of over-imbibing his stomach could handle it. Soon, he would be blissfully drunk. Most probably unconscious.
Henrietta returned to his bedside.
“This was all I could find,” she said, holding out a small corset. “The boning,” she added, by way of explanation.
“It’ll work,” he said. “Now, place it in my mouth, where I can bite down on the boning, and then open the wound. You don’t need to do more than pour whiskey on it. But you want it to get inside the wound—you might have to clean it.”
“Very well.” She looked very pale to his eye but resolute. He trusted her. Largely.
The pain had grown unbearable. His shoulder felt that it was burning. Sweat had broken out over his entire body, cooling and heating him at intervals. He wanted the cleaning over and the whiskey to take effect so that he was no longer conscious.
Henrietta knelt over him and placed the bodice in his mouth. He bit down to test it and found it unexpectedly perfect. He grunted at her in approval.
She knelt down beside the bed and began to remove the jacket tied around his arm. Even the tender brush of the soft fabric made his eyes fill with tears of pain.
“I know, it hurts,” Henrietta said, her voice soothing, as if she were talking to a sick child. Usually, he wouldn’t have allowed anyone to use such a tone with him. He couldn’t remember when he had last been tended to when ill or injured. Trem could remember being sick with scarlet fever as a child. His housekeeper Mrs. Robson had nursed him. He could remember other members of the staff talking above him in worried tones and her soft hands on his forehead.
The gentleness of Henrietta’s touch had his eyes pricking with tears again. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him with such care. He felt suddenly and astonishingly vulnerable. He bit down on the bodice, not from pain exactly, but from the force of the sentiment flooding him.
“Poor Trem,” Henrietta said, as she examined the wound. “You were just trying to make sure that I was safe.”
He didn’t acknowledge her words but closed his eyes. Embarrassingly, between the pain and the emotion, his eyes threatened to overflow. As if she knew, she laid a soft kiss on his cheek. The action carried such tenderness that his throat caught.
If she continued with this treatment, he would begin to bawl, and he didn’t particularly want to humiliate himself in front of his fiancée any more than he already had.
He let out a grunt that he hoped communicated that he wanted her to make haste.
“I know,” she said, turning back to the wound. “There is quite a bit of blood here. I’m going to have to clean it off before I can see the wound.” With his eyes still closed, he listened as she wetted the cloth that Mrs. Bercine had brought with the whiskey. Slowly, and with a softness that he had not thought possible, she brought the wet cloth to the wound.
