three
ROYSTON WOULD PROBABLY spit ash and dust for the rest of his life, and his eyes would never stop burning.
Sitting on a bench at the Royal Waterloo Hospital, he wiped the tears that kept streaming down his stinging face. No matter how much water he drank or how many times he washed his skin, his eyes burned, his nostrils singed, and his throat seemed filled with scratching sand. He couldn’t complain, though. Aside from the ash and a minor cut on his hand, he was fine. The same thing couldn’t be said about those people who had died in the fire. Others, who had been transported to the hospital, wouldn’t likely survive their wounds. Too many people had been hurt if the frenetic activity in the hospital was an indication of the seriousness of the incident.
He'd lost sight of Lord Havisham after he’d been sent to the hospital. He’d lost sight of Miss Angeline Haywood as well, but she should be all right although that burn on her arm might get infected. Speaking of which, she walked over to him. Or at least, he thought it was her. His teary, swollen eyes offered only a blurred vision, but he recognised her pretty mauve dress and her petite frame. He remembered she smelled like wild roses,but right now, she could smell like horse dung and he wouldn’t notice it.
“Mr. Alexander?” She sat next to him. “It’s me, Miss Angeline Haywood.”
He recognised her sweet voice as well. When she’d accused him of being rude, it hadn’t been so sweet. Also, somehow she knew his family name.
“Miss,” he croaked out, coughing in the handkerchief that had once been white.
“How are you?”
“Alive. How’s your wound?”
She was a giant mauve blur, but he spotted a movement of her arm. “They applied a poultice to the burn, bandaged my arm, and gave me some laudanum for the pain.” Her voice was strained.
“I’m sorry.” He coughed.
“Thank you, but it’s nothing compared to what other people suffered.”
He coughed again. Bloody hell.
“Let me help you,” she said.
“You’re hurt.”
“As is everyone, and I’m not in extreme pain now.” She hooked her arm through his. “Come with me. The nurses have set up a room for those patients who need to wash and clean their eyes. Eye and throat problems seem to be common conditions.”
Since he didn’t have the energy to breathe, talking required too much effort. He let her guide him through the crowd of white-coated medics and nurses to a bright white room. He couldn’t make out anything else about the place, just a giant, blurred white thing and other blurred objects. Blinking didn’t help to clear his vision.
“There.” She helped him to a chair. Then the slosh of water came.
He wiped his eyes again but no luck.
“Let me.” She passed a wet cloth over his face several times, wringing it now and then.
A faint scent wafted from the cloth as she patiently removed the ash. Her gentle touch was soothing.
“It’s rose and chamomile water,” she said. “It’s good for the eyes. You might need to see a doctor anyway and make sure there isn’t any damage, but the water will help.”
He said nothing. With his eyes closed, he focused on breathing. The smell of burning wood would forever remain in his nostrils.
“I didn’t thank you,” she said. Her soft breath fanned on his cheek. “You saved my life and that of many others. You were so brave. Everyone is singing the praise of the earl of Havisham’s brave footman who dared the fire.”
Another coughing fit racked him. The cough was so strong that he felt as if red-hot claws were scratching his lungs. “No need to thank me,” he said in a raspy voice.
“I beg to differ. Especially since I called you a brute.”
“I don’t care about that.”
She washed his eyes many times until he smelled of something else other than smoke and his eyes burned less, but his sight was still blurred.
“Better?” she asked.
From what he could see, she was staring at him with an intensity he didn’t find pleasant.
