Page 21
His heart skipped. “Is it the wound? Is it worse than you initially thought?”
“Nay.” She shook her head once. “But there … will be a fever. It is imperative that I obtain a quality honey to apply as soon as possible. The vinegar should help abate it, but … there is still a risk, I am afraid.”
Dread laced its way into his limbs. Fever from a wound … He had not allowed himself to consider it, but now the notion rooted in his mind. The back of his neck prickled, and he flexed his fingers against the wood of the table’s edge, grounding himself.
“Will you need to do a bloodletting?”
Audrey drew in a sharp breath. “Bloodletting is for butchers! Pompous physicians pretend they know what they are doing, but their mortalities mount up! They have no respect for thousands of years of knowledge that flies in the face of their treatments while people pay for their arrogance with their lives! Nay, I will collect the honey and return to nurse you. It might be a bad night, but I will remain by your side to see you through it.”
Julius blinked at her, slightly overwhelmed. The scent of brandy still clung to his breath, mingling now with the acidic tang of vinegar and the faint trace of tallow from the cooking hearth. He dearly wanted to eat. The mention of a fever troubled him, and a murderer still pursued him because of his foolish misjudgments. Everything blurred. He reached for one fact—anything steady.
“What has the honey to do with it?”
“The Chinese have used it for thousands of years to treat open wounds. And the Romans used it on the battlefields. Papa experimented with it and found it noticeably reduced infection and healing time.”
Julius furrowed his brow. “You read Chinese?”
Audrey squinted at him, astonished. “Of course not. Papa had translated publications.”
Patrick cleared his throat. “I could collect some from the grocer. It’s two blocks away.”
She mulled this over, fingertips absently arranging the folded linen on the table. “Nay, I will collect it. I will bandage Lord Trafford so he can eat. Then you must help him up to a bedchamber. I shall collect the honey and return to treat the wound.”
Julius twisted his signet ring, the metal catching slightly against a damp spot on his palm. The gesture was unconscious, but his thoughts had cleared. Audrey had been meant to leave.
“Are you meant to be somewhere? Lord Stirling left this morning, and you had a trunk in the entry hall.”
She straightened her spine, lifting her chin. “Lady Astley is to collect me. She must have been delayed by the rain.”
He stared at her, and she stared back.
“You must return.”
“You need care.”
“Rose and Patrick will take care of me.”
Audrey shook her head, a lock of damp hair escaping her coiffure. “You will need someone who is trained.”
Julius twisted his signet ring more rapidly, the cool metal rasping lightly against the grime still clinging to his knuckles. The small repetitive motion seemed to echo in the still air of the kitchen. Two of his closest companions had been forced into marriage over the last fortnight. If Audrey did not return home …
“Julius?” Her voice pulled him back. He met her steady gaze.
“You will need proper care. It is the difference between life and death.”
He frowned, lips parting slightly.
“You lost a lot of blood, and there is a risk of fever. I am afraid it is going to be a bad night.”
Her soft-spoken warning pierced the sluggish clouding of his thoughts. Julius knew she was right. He felt hollowed out, lightheaded. His limbs were like lead, yet unsteady.
“It is the brandy,” he muttered. “I shall eat and feel better.”
Audrey stepped to his side. Her cool hand settled over his, stilling the frantic motion of his fingers. The gentle pressure was firm yet calming.
“The needs of the patient outweigh any other considerations. You and I must take this one step at a time, so I shall collect the honey while you eat and Patrick helps you upstairs. I will be back to take care of you.”
A sudden wave of dizziness swept through him. He lurched slightly and braced his palm on the solid oak table. The wood felt stable, its smooth surface worn by decades of use. The grain swirled beneath his fingertips, offering something tangible amidst the swirl of his thoughts.
