A few men lay on cots, and a gentleman, probably in his forties, with a full head of brown hair, sat next to a table on a stool.
He turned toward her. “Miss Fowles, thank you for coming.”
“Of course.”
He was wiping off a small metal instrument and began to give her instructions. “Since the fire, I’ve sent the few smallpox cases into the empty cellar next door.” He pointed across the corridor, and Ann could see two people with red sores on their faces. “Now we have three burned men.”
“How can I help? I have little experience nursing people, especially when it comes to burns, but I am eager to learn.”
“I’ll teach you as we go,” he replied.
Three occupied cots lay beyond him. He stood and stepped toward the right side of the room. “I’ve given all of them laudanum, and I am going to dress the wounds of the lesser two first. But the other is a bit more serious, and I am waiting for the medicine to fully set in.” He motioned to a man lying in a dark corner. “Could you speak with him and let me know when he’s calm?”
“Of course.” Ann peered deeper into the room to the space over the doctor’s shoulder and then moved to stand beside the man on the cot. Though his face was drawn in pain and his eyes clamped shut, her heart tightened.
So, this is where Mr. Boyd had ended up. She hadn’t noticed his wound, though now she remembered that she’d thought his shirt had caught fire.
Shehadalso noticed how brave, helpful, and capable Mr. Boyd had been, as always. He’d worked swiftly and boldly, as though it was his sole responsibility to extinguish the fire. But apparently the flames had fought back with more force than he’d let on.
Then she’d lost sight of him. Someone must have helped him down here.
He wasn’t moving, and she hoped that meant he was asleep. Wishing to check the potency of the drug, she reached out and brushed his thick brown hair off his clammy brow.
As soon as she touched him, he moaned and one eye pried open. “Miss Fowles?” One side of his mouth lifted. “What a pleasant dream.”
Though he clearly wasn’t in his right mind, the sentiment made her start. She didn’t expect him to say such a thing, even in delirium, after dismissing her so curtly the other day. Still, she realized the few words affected her more than all of Brother Wheatley’s combined.
She glanced down at his arm. His uniform had been completely burned off up to his elbow, and a fresh wound, nearly the length and width of two fingers, marred his forearm. The skin around it was red and blistered, but in the center, it seemed there was no blood left at all, just a blanched white hole. She fought the roiling in her stomach; she was here to help.
“Mr. Boyd,” she said quietly. “Do you still hurt?”
“No,” he said easily. He glanced at her once more. Then after a moment he winced. “Yes.” Then his eyes narrowed. “Was I given laudanum?”
Ann dipped her head.
Mr. Boyd’s eyes went wide and then pulled down with concern. “What is the problem? I feel shaky all over, but—” Clearly his clarity of mind was impaired.
“Your arm, it’s burned.” She glanced down at the strange wound. “The doctor will be here soon to help you.”
The doctor came up behind her and pulled up the only other chair in the room. He glanced at the destroyed flesh. “We’ll need to remove the fabric from around it and then dress the burn.”
Mr. Boyd studied them. “But no more laudanum, please.”
The doctor eyed him warily. “This will be very painful, Mr. Boyd. With wounds this deep, sometimes you stop feeling the injury at the direct location, but your body is in shock, and the surrounding area will be in utter pain. If I don’t attend to it properly, you could lose this arm from infection.”
Ann winced at the suggestion, fearing for him.
Mr. Boyd inhaled. “I understand, and I can stay strong. No more medicine, Doctor.”
“As you wish.” He withdrew a thin pair of scissors. “Miss Fowles, can you stabilize his arm while I cut his jacket sleeve off?”
Ann nodded and obediently grasped his unscared hand near his wrist, careful to hold it firmly but avoid the large blisters and raw skin. She felt the warmth of Mr. Boyd’s bare skin under her hand.
“Thank you,” Mr. Boyd whispered, his gaze a strange mixture of gratitude and delirium.
The doctor started to work quickly with his small knife, and though she tried to study all that he did for his patient, she couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that she was touching Mr. Boyd. It surprised her, too, that she was so affected by their contact despite all that had gone on between them. She couldn’t deny that, even with his poorly worded warning and often blunt delivery, she had feelings for him. There was no deliberation in her mind like there was with Brother Wheatley.
Her heart ached as Mr. Boyd’s drawn face flinched in pain over and over. “It’s going to be all right,” she whispered. “We’ll get it taken care of.”
