“William,” said his wife, muffled in the pillow. “You can do what the doctress tells you.”
“Darlene,” he began, but she shushed him with a hiss of pain, which seemed to chasten him into retreating.
He left as a portion of the boiling water arrived, delivered by none other than the pox-seeking child Winston, who was gazing wide-eyed at the wound as he inched into the room, a hot bowl suspended between his hands, which were wrapped in rags.
“There,” said Mae, pointing to the basin. “Dip and thread the needles. Wash your hands first.”
“I’ll do it,” said Roland to the boy. “You, come here.”
Mae dipped a new cloth in the boiling water and put a hand on Darlene’s ribs. “This is going to hurt,” she said. “But it’ll prevent a fester later. I’m just going to clean it out and then stitch it up and you’ll be good as new, all right? Is it all right if the child helps me?”
The woman made a brave sound, gripping the pillow tightly to her face, and managed a nod.
“Why don’t I tell you a story while I work?” Mae suggested, dropping the hot cloth onto the wound and pressing down on it first to acquaint the leg with the temperature. “I find that can help with the pain. Then we’ll give you something to take the edge off.”
The patient nodded, her hay-colored hair bobbing against the clean linens.
Mae discarded the first blood-tinged rag and reached for another, finding Roland already holding it out toward her, two needles sitting on the basin table, ready to be threaded. She paused and met his eyes, still that startling, gorgeous shade of turquoise, and nodded in appreciation.
“I had a patient last week from the docks, a steward for the East India Company, if you can believe it,” Mae began as she beganthe finer work of scrubbing the debris from the cut. She made a mental note to buy some small brushes with the next batch of donations. This would be easier with a small brush. “He had only just started his new job after his former employer passed away suddenly, but the story of his passing was such a queer thing. You see, this steward once worked for a very powerful merchant, the type of man who could sell rocks to a cave mouth. Talented, wealthy, but coarse in his manner and birth. What he needed, the steward told me, was someone with the right connections to bring his business to the next level of success.”
Roland had threaded two needles now and had turned to kneel and inspect Winston’s freshly washed hands, turning them over in his own and looking under the fingernails with a nod. He led him around to stand next to Mae and let him watch as she cleaned the wound.
“As it happened, he found a bloke named Paul, who claimed to be the most well-connected man in all of England. In all of Britain. In fact, Paul said he knew everyone there was to know in all the known world. The merchant was skeptical but hired Paul on the spot, just in case he was telling the truth.”
She finished, tossing the gravel rag aside, and gave it one more pass as she prepared to stitch. She put Winston’s hand on the leg and showed him how to pinch the wound closed to help her as she sutured, and looked directly in his face to ensure he wasn’t going to faint or vomit before she let go.
The lad seemed rapt. He did not falter as Mae pushed the needle through the base of the injury, his big eyes following the progress of the black string as it began to tie her skin back together.
“So, obviously, the merchant wanted to test Paul. He asked for an introduction to the powers behind the most powerful bank in London. Paul assured him it was no problem and took him directly to the home of the head of the bank, where they were received with open arms and warm welcomes and treated to dinner. The merchant was impressed but not convinced.
“Next, he asked to meet a bishop, because the merchant wanted to trade with the Church. Paul told him it wasn’t a problem, and the next thing the merchant knew, he was having a picnic with the Archbishop of Canterbury!”
She paused, moving Winston’s little fingers a bit higher and turning to Roland for the bottle of witch hazel to rinse her work and keep the lines of the injury visible through the blood.
“This continued to progress in rapid fashion. Before he knew it, the merchant had been introduced to the most famous artists in the realm, the most powerful buyers in commerce, and any other person of interest he could think of. He decided that he would take Paul with him on his tour of Europe and perhaps stump him abroad, but instead he found himself meeting the crowned heads of the Continent as they worked their way through his trade route. At long last, they arrived in Rome on Easter Sunday.
“As they wound their way through the parade outside the Vatican, the merchant was struck with the most impossible introduction request of all, and turned to Paul, demanding to meet the pope himself. And would you believe it? Paul said it wasn’t a problem, and immediately vanished into the crowd, toward the Papal Palace itself!”
“Go on!” Darlene exclaimed, clearly effectively distracted from her wound.
Mae smiled to herself, looping the thread as she reached the top of the cut and prepared to knot it. “It’s true! Within moments, Paul appeared on the balcony, hand in hand with the pope, waving down to the masses with a big smile on his face. The only problem was that when he went down to retrieve the merchant, he found that the man had died of a sudden heart attack.”
“Oh, no!” Winston gasped, blinking.
Mae winked at him. “Yes. Apparently, when Paul appeared on the balcony with His Holiness, the shock was great. But what finally did the poor merchant in was a Roman man turning to him in abject confusion and asking, ‘Who the devil is that up there on the balcony with Paul?’”
There was a little huff of surprised laughter, a short burst, but not from the patient or the child.
Mae turned, slightly amazed as she caught Roland Reed wiping his fingers over his lips, as though to bat away a smile before it could emerge.
He met her there, pressing those lips of his together almost in apology.
“Winston,” she said, glancing down at the child. “Go out to the yard and fetch Mr. Beck, the big, tall gentleman, so he can carry Mrs. Darlene here to a cot, and ask Dr. Casper to send in the next patient.”
“Yes’m,” said the boy, who immediately turned to flee.
“Now,” said Mae, squeezing her hands into her apron and turning toward the cupboard. “Let’s find you something for the pain, shall we? I think I have some clove salve for numbing here …”
