The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Florian but he chose not to respond. Instead, he left Viola to bandage Mr. Peterson’s arm and made his way back to his office. The room was a mess, full of books and medical supplies he never had time to put away. There were even a few empty teacups and plates distributed on various surfaces. Lady Juliette hadn’t seemed to mind, but that didn’t stop him from wishing she hadn’t witnessed the cluttered disorder. The impression it gave...
Blinking, he shook his head. Why did he care?
Unwilling to answer that question, he slumped down into his chair and pulled a blank piece of paper out of a drawer. Dipping his quill in a nearby inkwell, he proceeded to list all the ways in which Lady Juliette’s donation could help.
He was just jotting downimproved nourishment for patientsright afterability to afford more staff, when a knock at the door brought one of the nurses into the room.
“Sorry to disturb you, Florian, but there is a man who needs your help.” Her crisp tone conveyed the urgency even as she said, “He has a knife protruding from his back.”
Florian dropped his quill and stood.
“He’s been taken to operating room number three,” she added as Florian followed her out into the hallway and fell into step beside her. Grateful for the chance to escape the rest of the world and all its complications, he quickened his pace.
Chapter 6
As it turned out, the surgery was not as simple as Florian thought it would be. The blade that had penetrated the man’s back had pierced his lung, which required the evacuation of blood. For this purpose, Florian applied a flexible tube attached to a piston syringe and made a counter-incision on the man’s back for additional drainage.
The procedure took a couple of hours, including the stitching of the wound, so by the time Florian was done and had finished detailing the surgery in his notes and checking up on the situation in St. Giles, he was exhausted.
He still had a house call to make, though, before he was able to return home.
Alighting from the hackney he’d used to reach Cowley Street, he paid the driver and climbed the front steps of the red brick mansion in front of him. The butler opened the door as soon as he knocked.
“Good evening, Irving.” Florian stepped inside the impressive foyer and handed his hat over to the butler. “How is my uncle faring this evening?” He began removing his gloves.
“His melancholy is unchanged.” Irving held the hat so Florian could drop his gloves into it. “But that is hardly surprising, all things considered.”
“And my aunt?” Florian asked, hoping to get some additional insight from the aging servant.
Irving hesitated briefly, then quietly answered, “She suffers the knowledge that each passing second brings her closer to losing her husband.”
Florian blew out a breath. Dealing with those who lay dying had become second nature to him since the day he’d decided to become a physician. Over the years he’d grown accustomed to removing himself from emotion since feelings of helplessness, despair and sadness were a hindrance to his profession. If there was one absolute certainty in the world, it was that everyone died eventually. And yet, the thought of losing his uncle before the man had reached his sixtieth year made Florian’s heart ache in a way it had not done for as long as he could remember.
“I will show myself up,” he told Irving, saving the butler from having to climb the steep staircase that led to the bedrooms.
“Very well. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ring the bellpull.”
Thanking the man, Florian picked up the bag of medical supplies he’d brought with him and climbed the stairs. When he reached the landing he turned left and strode toward the door at the end of the hallway. Hesitating briefly, he took a moment to compose himself before knocking. Entrance was immediately granted and he stepped swiftly into the dimly lit room with the pretense that this was just another regular visit.
“Good evening to you both.” He cast a glance toward the dishes still waiting to be cleared from a nearby table. “I trust the salmon was as good as always.”
From her position next to the bed, Aunt Abigail rose weakly to her feet and came to greet him. Florian closed the distance and bent to kiss her cheek.
“It is good to see you again,” Abigail whispered so only he could hear. “The pain he suffers is unbearable. I hope you can ease it a little.”
Finding her hand, Florian gave it a gentle squeeze. “I shall do my best.” It was all he could promise, though God knew it wasn’t enough. It would not save his aunt from suffering the death of her husband in the weeks to come. Noting the dark circles under her eyes, he suggested she go and lie down for a while. “I will let you know when I leave, but an hour or two of sleep will do you good.”
Reluctantly, she agreed and left the room after placing a kiss on her husband’s brow.
“She worries too much,” the duke said as soon as she was gone. “The whole ordeal is chafing her nerves.”
Florian raised an eyebrow and approached the bed. “I would say she has good reason to be concerned, Uncle George. She loves you and fears your demise.”
“It is not healthy, though. She ought to get out and socialize more.”
“Her time with you is limited, Uncle. I doubt either of us can convince her to stay away. And you know I am right because you would do the same for her if the roles were reversed, would you not?”
Instead of answering, George winced, his face contorting for at least three seconds before he released a shuddering breath. Florian quickly opened his bag and retrieved the new bottle of morphine he’d come to deliver. He poured a measure into a thimble-sized glass and helped his uncle drink.
