The Surgeon's Lady. Carla Kelly

off his right shoulder. Gently now.”

      Puzzled, she did as he asked, then noticed the bullet wound there, where blood was also oozing. She looked at Lt. Brittle, a question in her eyes.

      “It’s the exit wound,” he said, his own voice more normal now. “Davey Dabney isn’t part of the Tireless crew. He was wounded in the battle off Basque Roads. Shot by a French sniper in the rigging of one of their ships.”

      “That was April, wasn’t it?” she asked.

      “Aye.” He sprinkled more styptic on another gauze pad and handed it to her. “Put it against the exit wound and press. That’s right. You have a good touch, Lady T.” He wiped his hand on his apron. “You saved his life.”

      She couldn’t help her tears. “I thought I did everything wrong.”

      “No. You did everything right.”

      Unbelieving, she gazed at the bloody bed, the patient pale almost to transparency now, and her own arms, red to the elbows. There was blood on the floor, too.

      “Physicking is an untidy business, Lady Taunton,” he said, which sounded to Laura like the vastest understatement ever uttered. He gestured toward the box, bloody with his fingerprints and hers. “This is Davey’s third round of what we call secondary hemorrhage. I’ve been using persulphate of iron, which I think is better than iron perchloride. A little less caustic.”

      She just stared at him dumbly, until he reached for her wrist with one hand and felt her pulse, while maintaining his other hand on the neck wound.

      “I don’t want you to faint, Lady T, because I don’t have enough hands.”

      She managed a laugh that sounded more like a shudder, to her ears. “If I feel faint, I promise to put my head down.”

      He turned his full attention to his patient, who was breathing regularly now. He continued to talk to her, though, and maybe to the others in the room, the newcomers from the Tireless, who were silent and staring.

      “David here was shot in the neck. The bullet tore through his trapezius muscle—this one here—and then broke his clavicle before it left. I think it nicked his carotid artery, and that’s our problem. It’s sloughing.”

      How can this man possibly survive? she wanted to ask, but not then, not while the patient was listening. She sat where she was on the stool, mainly because she knew if she stood up, she would fall down. She leaned closer, so only the surgeon could hear.

      “Did I do Matthew an injury by sending him to find you?”

      “No. He’s young and healthy. I think he’s a hero.” He looked over his shoulder at the others in the room. “Maybe when we all feel more like it, we can give Matthew three cheers. You, too.”

      The men chuckled, and the whole room seemed to relax. The patients tried to settle back again, except for the man in the next bed, the one with the remains of his leg in a basket. He looked at Laura and shrugged his shoulders, and she could see he had gotten trapped by his own blankets when he leaned out of bed to help the bleeding man.

      Laura stood up slowly, swayed a little and took several deep breaths before she tried to move. Careful not to slip on the blood, she went to his bed. “What direction should I pull your leg to get you back under the blanket?” she asked. “That way? Put your arm around my neck and I’ll tug you up a little. Good.”

      She started to turn back, but he tugged her skirt.

      “Please miss, I need a piss pot.” His face was red with embarrassment.

      “I think we all do,” she said, which made the patients laugh. “Where is it?”

      “T’ledge, mum. There by the table.”

      Laura picked up an earthenware urinal, avoiding everyone’s eyes as much as they were all avoiding hers, and brought it back to the amputee’s bed. Without comment, she lifted the blanket and slid it toward his hand. “Can you manage now?” she asked quietly.

      “I’ll try, mum.” He tried, then leaned back in frustration.

      “I can help.”

      And she did, holding him in there until he finished. “My late husband was ill for three years, so don’t you mind this,” she said, keeping her tone light. “I don’t think any of you gentlemen can surprise me.”

      Again there was the murmur of laughter from men too weak or hurt to do more. She removed the urinal and smoothed the blankets around the amputee.

      “Well done, Lady T,” Lt. Brittle said. He nodded toward the door. “There’s a sluice hole in the washroom next door. While you’re in there, wash your hands and face.”

      He spoke to the amputee in the next bed. “Tommy, what happened?”

      The man thought a moment. “I was dozing, sir. I heard Davey start to gargle, like he did that time before. As soon as he started to spout, t’old bitch leaped up like a flea on a hot griddle and did a runner.”

      “She better just keep running,” someone else said, the others murmuring their agreement.

      Laura let her breath out slowly, and left the room. In the hall, she backed out of the way as two men in uniform ran up the stairs. They stopped in their tracks at the sight of her, so bloody. One of them tried to take her by the arm, but she shook her head.

      “There is nothing wrong with me. It’s the patient in B Ward. Lt. Brittle is with him now.”

      “Someone yelled ‘Fire,’“ he said.

      “We were trying to get your attention. Excuse me now.”

      She went into the washroom, relieved to be alone for a moment. She found the sluice hole and poured out the urinal’s contents, then poured water into it from the bucket nearby, swished it around and poured that out, too.

      She turned to the row of basins and pitchers and rolled up her sleeves. She wouldn’t have noticed the crouching woman, if she hadn’t heard her try to smother a sob sound in her apron. Laura whirled around, her heart in her throat.

      It was the woman who had sat at the desk, who stared at her with terrified eyes. Laura balled her slimy hands into fists, wanting to smack her. Instead, she turned back to the washbasin, where she took her time washing her hands and face, trying to decide what to do.

      She dried her hands and face. She couldn’t leave the woman there, not after what she had done. At least there was no one in the other room with the strength to tear her apart and Lt. Brittle was too busy. Suddenly, she felt more sympathy than disgust.

      “Do you have any children?”

      Wary, the woman nodded, tucking herself into a tighter ball.

      “Where’s your man?”

      “Dead these three months at Basque Roads,” the woman whispered.

      “If you lose your job, you will all starve,” Laura said. “Or end up in a workhouse, at the very least. I’m not certain that would be a blessing.”

      The woman nodded, tears in her eyes again. She leaned her forehead into her knees and sobbed.

      I’m a curious contradiction, Laura thought, as she went to the woman and tugged her to her feet. A few minutes ago I wanted to stuff her head down the sluice hole. Now I don’t. She grasped her by the back of her dress and gave her a shake, then pushed her into the hall and the ward next door, as the woman shrieked and tried to dig her heels into the floor.

      Lt. Brittle was on his feet. “Good God, Laura!” he exclaimed, then was silent, disgust on his face, as he saw who it was making the noise. A low sound like a growl from several of the men made Laura’s blood run in chunks, and terrified the woman, who tried to make herself small under Laura’s armpit.

      At a nod from the surgeon, one of the orderlies grabbed her. She stood there, head bowed,