The boy flinched at the hard, commanding voice, but he pushed himself up quickly, trembling, ignoring Madelaine’s protests. He slid off the sofa, knees buckling, put one hand out in an attempt to crawl, and promptly fainted again.
She gave a cry of distress, glaring up at Lord Cotereigh. “How could you!”
“You were getting nowhere.”
“And is this better?”
“At least he’s quiet.” But there was a flush on Lord Cotereigh’s cheeks, and he didn’t meet her eye as he knelt down and, once more, lay the boy on the sofa. He turned, picked up his discarded coat, and put it over the boy like a blanket. “Here’s tea at least,” he said as a maid came into the room with a silver tray. “Thank goodness.”
Failing not to stare, the maid walked quickly to a side table, nearly tripping because her eyes were fastened on the three of them by the sofa. Blushing, head ducked, she set the tray down with a rattle then scurried from the room.
Burton followed in her wake, setting down the jug of hot water and cloths at Lord Cotereigh’s direction.
Madelaine dipped a cloth in the water and knelt down again by the boy, gently bathing the blood from his forehead. She discovered bruises, but the cut itself, thankfully small, was just beyond the hairline.
Turning to get a clean cloth, she found one held out to her, already damp. “Here. Clean your hands. Drink some tea. You need it.”
She glanced up at him.
“You are pale,” he said, answering her silent protest. “Tired. And have only just stopped shaking. Drink some tea.”
As she wiped her hands getting to her feet, he went to the tea tray and poured her a cup. She took it wordlessly, and he picked up his own, moving away to sip it on the far side of the room, where he was neither assailed by the sight of her or the boy. The scrollwork on the fireplace’s mantel seemed more to his liking.
The silence was broken by a rap on the door. A man walked briskly through it, in late middle age, his figure slim but his cheeks florid. He gave Lord Cotereigh a swift bow, took one quick step towards the sofa, then halted. “It’s not your father, then? I assumed…” He glanced from the boy to Lord Cotereigh, then, seeing the direction of his quelling stare, turned andspotted her near the tea tray in the corner of the room. “Oh. Forgive me, madam!”
“Mrs Ardingly,” Lord Cotereigh introduced her. “Doctor Phillips.”
“Your son, madam?” But he gave the boy on the sofa another glance, rapidly altering his assessment. “No… But who is the boy?”
“A stranger,” said Lord Cotereigh. “Mrs Ardingly here rescued him from an attacker. He has been badly beaten.”
“I see, I see…” The doctor went to the sofa, confusion subsumed by professional curiosity. He hesitated only briefly before kneeling down and taking the boy’s grubby wrist to check his pulse, pocket watch in his other hand.
Madelaine put down her cup, moving closer to watch the examination. The doctor worked efficiently, taking scissors from his leather satchel to cut away the ragged garments. He felt the boy’s chest, where vicious red bruises were swelling, and listened to heart and lungs. When the boy stirred, whimpering fretfully, he prepared a dose of laudanum and slipped it between the boy’s lips.
Eventually he sat back, taking the wet cloth Lord Cotereigh handed him with a murmur of thanks and cleaning his hands as he spoke. “A fractured forearm. A minor break, but painful enough. I’ll get it splinted before he wakes. I don’t think any ribs are broken. Fortunate, given how hard he must have been struck. The rest is severe bruising, a few minor lacerations. Whether there’s been damage to his internal organs, only time will tell. We must see how he passes this night; that will let us know the worst. Other than that…” He frowned down at the sleeping child. “Thin, malnourished, as you can see.”
Yes. They’d all seen the skinny ribs, cast into stripes of white skin and dark valleys by the low lamp light.
“And this isn’t his first beating. He’s got scars all over him. Feels like he’s had another break to the ribs at some point. Mended badly—I can feel the roughness in the bone. A hard life. Very hard.”
He glanced up at them then got out the items necessary for splinting the boy’s broken arm. “I’ll leave another dose of laudanum for the pain. But don’t give it for at least six hours. And then broth, when he wakes. Barley water if you have it. Not too much of either. Keep him still and quiet.” He looked up from his work. “And…well…he’s got lice, my lord. Fleas too, I’d warrant. If you’re keeping him here, you want to get on top of that, or the whole household will end up infested. It’ll hurt him though, getting him into a bath in his current state, but it must be done.”
Lord Cotereigh merely inclined his head. “Thank you, doctor.”
“Shall I call again?” said the doctor when he had finished. “See how he is in the morning?”
“If he can be moved, doctor—” she began, but Lord Cotereigh cut her off.
“Yes. Come in the morning.”
The doctor glanced between them. “Very well, my lord.” With a few more words of nursing advice, he left the room.
“Lord Cotereigh—”
He stopped her again with the lift of a hand.
“Take my carriage, Mrs Ardingly. And retire to bed. It’s been a very long day.”
