Chapter Eight
Stoker found the doctor to be a competent man, practical and reasonable and in no way alarmed that a beautiful woman was tending to a half-dead man who she discovered in a morgue. Dr. Cornwell was more concerned with what he referred to as Stoker’s “escapades” of the day—possibly the first time the act of getting out of bed had been considered an escapade—but the older man did not scold or coddle. He unpacked his satchel and set to work, pulling away Stoker’s blood-soaked dressing gown and sending Sabine for whiskey and a piece of wood on which to bite. He did not say the words, but his message was clear: This would hurt.
Sabine returned quickly with the wood and whiskey, but Stoker wanted only the liquor. He took a long drink from the bottle, relishing the fire in his throat.
“Will you leave us?” he rasped, looking at Sabine.
She glanced at the doctor and back to the bed, and then nodded. It was clear that she had no wish to bear witness to whatever the doctor would inflict. In this, they were agreed. But still, she lingered. Stoker grimaced and turned his face away. His pride was at the breaking point.
He took another drink, purposefully ignoring her,willing herto go. Finally, thankfully, she stooped to pick up her dog and stepped from the room, closing the door behind her. Stoker let out an uneven breath.
“Am I meant to survive this?” Stoker asked the doctor when she was gone.
“You’ll survive,” said the doctor, rummaging through his tools with a foreboding clink and rattle.
“Can you make out what happened? And how long ago?” Stoker asked. The fire in Stoker’s side raged hotter, and he took another drink. He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing in and out.
“Stab wound,” said the doctor. “I’d say about two weeks ago. Infection has set in. It was very bad indeed when your wife rescued you from the so-called hospital ship, but you’ve made great progress since then. Until today, of course.” Dr. Cornwell prodded gently at Stoker’s side with a metal tool and he let out a howl of pain. The doctortskedand replaced the tool with shears.
“Can I be safely moved from Mrs. Stoker’s bedroom?” Stoker grunted, speaking around the pain. “Assuming you can repair the damage of today.” He paused, hissing out a breath. “I have a suite of rooms in Regent Street and can raise a full staff. I’ll be very cautious, and the most attentive servants can be hired to manage the move.”
Cornwell jabbed and tugged at his wound but gave no immediate answer. Stoker grimaced, bracing against the anticipation as much as the pain. It was madness, of course, to remain here. Sabine was unsettled and inconvenienced. He was in considerable pain, obviously, but her constant presence was an even greater challenge. He endured a terrible mix of desire and helplessness.
Say no,he thought, in spite of it all.Say I must remain.
“I wouldn’t,” Dr. Cornwell finally said, carefully snipping at his burning side. “Your body is fighting for life, Mr. Stoker. My advice would be to work in accord with the fight and not against it. Stillness, rest, nourishment, a clean room, and an attendant with a vested interest in your improvement. Staff is very handy except that they frequently couldn’t care less if you live or die. Nothing like the motivation of a loving wife. Unless you mean to move her to Regent Street too. Even so—why risk the health of this wound? Why inconvenience yourself when you already battle an infection? Stay put, that’s what I say.”
Stoker let out a breath and nodded. It was irrelevant to point out that Sabine was not a loving wife but a charitable acquaintance. It was unbelievable to say that his time here would be devoted to tracking her movements among London’s maritime criminal element, not to battling infection, although theoretically he could do both at the same time. Regardless, he’d been given permission to stay, at least a little while, and he would seize it.
“Ah, bloody hell, man, what have you done?” said the doctor, poking and prodding with what felt like searing blades.
“What indeed?” Stoker breathed, taking another swig of whiskey. The doctor reached for a swath of fabric, dipped it in boiling water, and applied it to the raw, damaged flesh of Stoker’s side. The new pain was immediate, overwhelming, cold and hot at the same time, high and low, deep and shallow. Consciousness flitted, spun, and finally, thankfully, dissolved to pink then red and then blessedly black.
