“Good. Now ye will gently pull on the purse string so that it cinches closed.”
She did so.
“Tighter,” and then, “Tighter still,” and then, “Stop and now knot it off without losing the tightness of the cinch.” She did so. He came around her, bent over and was able to get the tweezers into his right hand to poke and prod at the stitch.
“Very good. It looks fast. The tissue here is healthy. It should hold.”
Arabella breathed a sigh of relief. He stepped behind her again.
“But this is when the new doctors and surgeons make their errors. When they think the hard part is done. Ye need to cut the tails of the knot. Ye must not cut anything else. Not flesh, not bowel, not the stitches ye have just made.”
She picked up the boning knife and using the utmost care, cut the tails of the gut free from the knot. She straightened up.
“Can we,” she cleared her throat, “can we send someone to Lady Rebecca Dalrymple and ask for a loan of her smallest embroidery scissors?”
“Aye.” She heard Alasdair dispatch one of the footmen. She started threading the needle with more gut. Alasdair poked at the stitch again and released the forceps.
“I think I will see if I can wash the pus from this area. Water and linen, please.” Arabella stepped away and Alasdair poured water into the cavity and then soaked it up with linen. He did this several times, using clean linen each time. Then he inspected her stitches again.
“’Tis a good ligature, Arabella.” He now looked up at Giles and she followed his gaze.
Giles was pale and his breathing was shallow.
“I cannae give him any more morphine. Ye men will have to continue to hold him fast as the wound is closed.”
Arabella stepped closer and under Alasdair’s direction, she used a running stitch to close the first layer of fascia. The footman was back then with Rebecca’s little gold scissors and Arabella felt much more at ease cutting the tails of the knot off with the scissors as opposed to the sharp boning knife.
Giles did not move, did not cry out.
She repeated with the next layer of fascia, her and Alasdair’s left hands working together to bring the fascia together as she stitched.
And then, finally, blessedly, the skin. Alasdair had moved away from her, trusting that she could tie the gut off and clip it. He was at the head of the bed feeling Giles’ pulse at his neck.
Arabella had a sinking feeling. Had all this been for nothing?
“He is warm. He still has a pulse. He still breathes,” Alasdair said.
A ragged cheer erupted from the men around the bed.
Arabella stepped away and quickly found a chair. She did not want to faint. And Alasdair was then at her side, kneeling, taking her pulse.
“I think I need some luncheon,” she said.
He put his relatively clean hands, cleaned by the water and the linen when he had washed Giles peritoneal cavity, in her bloody ones.
“Ye are very brave,” he said. “And ye have good hands. And a strong stomach.”
“Thank you for trusting me, Dr. Andrews. What now?” she said.
“A bath and luncheon for ye and rest.” He stood and released her hands.
“What now for Giles?”
“Now I watch and wait.”
Twenty-Nine
Alasdair did manage to leave the sick room one time in the next eighteen hours. The butler Andrews had had his trunk of clothes brought from the snowbound coach, and Alasdair had luxuriated in a quick, hot bath and then a fresh shirt and hose and trousers. He was also glad to get back into a waistcoat and a tailcoat and to note he no longer needed the sling, although he would continue to rest his right arm as much as possible. And then he returned to the sick room and snatched short naps while sitting up in a chair, as every physician learns to do.
