Then his eyes flicked downward, landing on the man.
Daisy clenched her jaw.
I can’t just leave him to die.
She didn’t have the luxury of compassion. And yet, she knew she couldn’t live with herself if she just walked away.
“This man is injured,” she murmured, keeping her voice low. “Help me get him into the garden.”
Gilbert’s brows shot up, but he didn’t argue. He moved swiftly, only wrinkling his nose when the stench hit him full force.
Between the two of them, it took several minutes—grunting, straining, nearly losing their grip more than once—before they finally dragged him through the gate.
Gilbert shoved the lock into place while Daisy saggedagainst the garden wall, her muscles trembling with exhaustion.
The man lay motionless on the ground between them, as if they hadn’t just spent the last several minutes wrestling his deadweight into safety.
“What do we do with him now?” Her little brother wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
It was a good question.
If one of those horrid bobbies were to return and discover their victim was missing, they would search the area. If they searched the area, they might find her garden—and if they found her garden, they would start asking questions she couldn’t afford to answer.
But leaving him to die?
That would make her no better than them. Under all that blood and filth was a human being.
Daisy sighed. She would do what she could to help him—and hope that he lived.
Apparently, she wasn’t as cynical as she’d imagined.
The bobbies who had left this man to die hadn’t done so to keep the peace. What they had done was evil, pure and simple.
And the shorter one—he had enjoyed it.
A cold trickle slid down her spine.
If those bobbies discovered their victim had survived, they would finish what they had started.
Daisy squared her shoulders. She had to try.
“I need… a sheet, maybe?” Dash it all, she was a soap maker, not a physician! “And something to clean… this?”
She rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to recall what Aunt Theodora had used on her father when he had been injured. Honey, vinegar, alcohol, and… onion juice? Was that right?
He would need willow bark tea for the pain, perhaps—laudanum? That thought made her hesitate.
Before she could spiral into uncertainty, Gilbert returned, arms full with not only the sheet she’d requested, but a few clean cloths, a bucket of water, a half-bar of soap.
“Perfect,” she said, flashing him a quick, reassuring smile.
Her eyes drifted back to their unexpected patient, drawn to the barely-there rise and fall of his chest. And her breath caught. Was it already too late?
She ignored the creeping doubt in her mind—the fear that their efforts might be futile. But she would try her best to save him.
Because it was the right thing to do.
Gilbert cleared his throat. “What should I do about your batch of soap?”
