“I’ll see to it that he gets it,” Mr. Andrews assured her.
“Why don’t you and Hawthorne help him,” Wilmington said to Fielding. “Make sure the authorities are made aware of what happened. I’ll accompany Mrs. Lowell.”
Hawthorne handed Viola up into the carriage. “We’ll keep you posted. He closed the door behind her and the carriage took off.
Henry’s body sprawled across the bench, blood pooling between Viola’s fingers even as she attempted to staunch it. When the carriage lurched, Wilmington leapt forward to stop him from tumbling onto the floor.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “For everything.”
Wilmington gave a crisp nod. “I don’t know him well, but the Earl of Yates is a mutual friend. From what I’ve heard, your husband is a very good man. I truly hope he survives this.”
So did Viola, but there was no telling what sort of damage the blade had done inside Henry’s body. His eyes were closed now, his lips slightly parted. Consumed by fear, she placed her palm above his mouth and prayed, not caring about the wet streaks dampening her cheeks when she felt air move across her skin. He was still breathing. Thank God.
When they arrived at the hospital moments later, Viola asked Wilmington to keep continued pressure on Henry’s wound while she got out and proceeded to order people about. Within seconds, a stretcher arrived, carried by a pair of strong orderlies. They got Henry out of the carriage and moved him swiftly up the front steps of the building. Viola followed behind while Wilmington paid the coachman.
“Get him to one of the operating rooms,” Viola commanded. “Where’s Florian?”
“Right here!”
She turned and saw him running toward her, and the relief of seeing the one man capable of saving Henry made Viola’s brief ability to stay strong crumble and fall. With a sob, she pointed in the direction the orderlies had gone while managing to say just one word. “Henry.”
Florian left her where she stood and sprinted away, disappearing round a corner. Viola hurried after him with every intention of seeing to Henry’s welfare. But when she entered the operating room and saw him lying on the table while Florian probed inside his chest, she wondered if she was up to it.
Florian heard her come in and glanced her way. “Are you sure you want to be here, Viola?”
She hesitated briefly, then nodded.
“I understand if this is too difficult for you.”
“I’ll be fine,” she promised, and took a step forward.
He studied her briefly, then gave a firm nod. “You can take over from Haines after washing your hands.”
Viola readied herself as she was accustomed to doing and relieved Haines of his duties. “How is he faring?” Viola asked while trying to think of Henry as just another patient. She had to detach herself as Florian had done if she was to be of use to him.
“His right lung has been punctured and blood is gathering in his pleural cavity.”
“In other words, he might not survive this,” Viola said with a voice that seemed to come from somewhere outside her own body.
“If we don’t drain it, but at least he’s unconscious for now. If he wakes up while we’re working on him, we’ll have to give him some morphine.” Florian withdrew his fingers from inside Henry’s chest and dropped the scalpel he was holding into a tray filled with gin. “I needed to increase the size of the wound, that’s all.”
That’s all. That’s all. Viola willed herself to focus, to not panic and do something stupid like start hitting Florian. He was the best physician there was. He knew what he was doing. She had to trust him.
“Attach the longest cannula you can find to the piston syringe and hand it to me.”
Viola gave her attention to the surgical tray where tools were spread out. The tube he requested was curved, thinner at one end than at the other. She did as he asked and then helped hold the wound open while Florian slipped the cannula inside. He started sucking out liquid and then detached the syringe so it could drain freely into a small container.
“How does it look?” Viola asked.
Florian bent over the fluid and sniffed. “The color is good and there’s no alarming smell to it, but our work would be easier if it were thinner. I need ginger extract and watered-down honey.”
Locating the glass bottles containing the items, Viola prepared the solution Florian required and handed it to him. He pulled the tube from Henry’s chest, rinsed it and the piston syringe with a hefty amount of gin, then filled the syringe with the solution and injected it into the wound. Henry groaned but remained completely still.
“Let’s try again,” Florian said after counting off a couple of minutes. He pulled back on the plunger, detached the syringe once more and allowed the wound to drain through the tube. “Much better. I’ll make a counter incision in his back afterward and repeat the process just to make sure we’ve evacuated all the extravasated blood.”
“And then?”
“Then we wait and see. Depending on how it heals, I may have to open the wounds back up and repeat the process.”
