Secrets of the Heart (9 page)

The chill of the cold floor seeped through his thick stockings. Devlin wiggled his toes to warm them then breathed a sigh of relief; he would not be late today. Langford would just have to find someone else to criticize this morning.

Devlin lit the lamp, which cast a weak glow through the cold room, and traded his nightshirt for more suitable garments. He hurried to the small dining room where Mrs. Hogarth placed a platter of ham, poached eggs, and tomatoes on the table. His stomach rumbled.

“Good mornin’, Lord Ravensmoore.” Edna smiled, wiping her gnarled hands on the clean blue apron tied around her ample waist, and offered him a quick curtsy.

“Ah, heat. A wonderful commodity,” he said, sitting down at the place set for him in front of a burning fire. “Mmmm, what a delicious smell. I’m ravenous.”

“Ye say that every mornin’ ye have time to eat, sir.”

“I think it every morning, whether I have time to eat or not. And when I don’t have time to eat, I dream about your cooking on the way to the hospital.”

“Such a charmer ye are, sir. I’ll get yer coffee.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

Devlin devoured his food and washed it down with the coffee Mrs. Hogarth served him. “You’re too good to me. I should marry you,” he teased, “but I don’t think your husband would approve the match.” He enjoyed watching her round face flush with delight.

“Yer right about that, sir. Besides, I’m a bit too old for ye.” She grinned. “But I do appreciate a man with a sense of humor. Now run along, or ye’ll be late and that mean old doctor will be after ye again.”

“How did you know about that?” Devlin asked, both surprised and annoyed.

“Yer friend, a Mr. Melton, stopped by to cheer ye up. Said Dr. Langford had growled at ye for bein’ late.”

Devlin didn’t approve of Melton’s gossiping with the innkeeper’s wife. He concealed his irritation and laughed good-naturedly, then gulped the last of the coffee. “You’re right. I’d better go before Langford has reason to make an example of me again.”

He plucked his black wool cloak off the hook in the hallway and darted out into the rain. So Melton had dropped by to cheer him. Very kind of him.

The April sky finally unleashed its fury that had threatened for several days. The rain beat him, stinging like tiny daggers. He thought it the perfect day to stay abed. The doors to the small, candlelit, parish church stood open and inviting against the elements, a sharp contrast to the great, stone building looming before him. Guardian Gate Hospital.

A streak of lightning illuminated the heavens. Devlin hurried past the archway of the hospital as a deafening crack of thunder chased him through the door, followed by another that shook the windows. His soggy cloak dripped puddles on the tarnished floor inside the entrance.

Familiar sounds of the hospital greeted him, making his heart race with the thrill of possibilities, possibilities of saving a life. Attendants rushed to their assignments, and the apostolic clock in the entrance hall chimed six bells. The interior of the building, well lit by multiple sconces, held warmth, a welcome relief from the elements—the life of the building, a medicinal orchestra, preparing for its most important symphony.

“Lord Ravensmoore. We’re meeting in surgery in a few minutes,” called one of his colleagues.

“I’ll be there,” Devlin said, removing his cloak. He headed to get an apron in preparation for the morning’s events. The odors of herbal and mustard poultices mixed with the stench of disease and the fear of patients awaiting the unknown.

Devlin had attended Langford’s lectures two years earlier in London. The doctor emphasized the need of physicians to acquaint themselves with the intricacies of surgery as well as traditional medicine, the apothecary, and obstetrics. Langford strongly believed that surgical skill was not below the physician’s responsibility, as some of the medical community taught, but a necessary part of their training. One of the things that had convinced him to study with Langford was this unique opportunity to observe, learn, and practice surgical techniques.

Entering the preparatory room Devlin came face-to-face with Melton. “Ravensmoore. Glad you’re here… and on time too.” Melton grinned. “Langford’s got us scheduled to participate in the removal of a limb. Then we remove a bullet lodged deep in a patient’s backside. Great fun, wouldn’t you say?”

“If you’re not the patient. I imagine they see it far differently.” Devlin grabbed an apron, tying it quickly about his neck and waist. “I hear you tried to pay me a visit. Anything in particular on your mind?”

“I just wanted to see how you were getting on, that’s all. After Langford’s tongue lashing, I thought you might want to go to the Grey Fox Inn and relax a bit. The innkeeper’s wife said you weren’t available, so I went on without you. Another time, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Devlin said, making no commitment, but pleased that at least this colleague tried to make a genuine effort to include him.

They entered the surgery room where a boy, no older than ten, lay on a wooden table fighting against two leather straps that restricted his movement. His left hand was pierced through by a jagged piece of wood and dripped blood onto the sawdust-covered floor beneath him.

The poor child writhed in pain, his pasty skin color a tribute to it. “Help me,” cried the boy, his gaze jumping from one unfamiliar face to the next. His agony-laced, bloodshot eyes locked on Devlin. “Help me.”

Devlin’s heart shattered. He leaned close to Melton and whispered, “You didn’t tell me he was a boy.”

“I didn’t realize.” Melton turned a bit pale.

Devlin moved to the young patient’s side and gently stroked the boy’s hair.
Please, God, help me comfort him. Give me words to calm him.
“God is watching over you, child. It will be all right. We’re going to take care of you. Soon you will feel better.” Devlin hoped he could keep that promise.

The child’s breathing quickened. “Don’t cut off my hand!”

“We’ll try to get the wood out.” He ached for this small, helpless victim of the surgery.

“I’m glad to see someone has a decent bedside manner.” Langford stepped forward and put a hand on the boy’s sweaty brow. “What’s wrong with the rest of you?” He peered from one student to the next. “Is Ravensmoore the only one who knows how to comfort a wee patient? What if that was your brother or your son lying there in pain? Next time, treat him as though he were. Bring the laudanum.”

Devlin supported the boy’s head and shoulders and lifted a small glass of amber liquid to his mouth. The child sputtered and coughed.

“What is your name, son?”

“Jamie, sir.”

“Jamie, listen to me. You
will
be all right. I know this is hard to keep down, but you must drink as much as possible so you won’t have more pain. Do you believe God can help you?”

The child nodded.

“I do too.”

Jamie seemed to gather courage and sipped the liquid as best he could. Eventually his thin body quit its struggle, and he lost consciousness. Devlin breathed a sigh of relief.
Thank You, Lord.

“Good work, Ravensmoore,” Langford said. “Let’s get this over with quickly and see if we can stop the bleeding.” He picked up the amputation saw from the table of instruments.

“Wait!” Devlin stepped in front of Langford. “Is there no other way to save this boy’s hand?”

Langford backed up a step. “Do you think I would cut off his hand if I thought we could save the limb? Look at the injury. Even if we remove the wood, we risk the chance of gangrene setting in, and then he might lose not only his hand but his life.” Langford’s bushy brows knitted together over his glasses. “Do you want to take that risk?”

Devlin glanced at the boy again and cast another prayer heavenward. “I think we should try.”

“Then
we
shall,” Langford said and laid the saw next to the other surgical necessities. “I’ll guide you through this operation, Ravensmoore. The first thing you’ll have to do is apply the tourniquet.”

Devlin grabbed a strip of cloth and tied it around the boy’s forearm. “Done.”

“Now pull the wood out, understanding that it may splinter.”

The other students crowded around them.

Devlin never grew tired of the intricacies of the human body. He quickly prayed and placed his hand over the boy’s wrist and thumb and pulled. Nothing.

“You can’t afford to be timid, Ravensmoore. If he wakes up, it will only be more difficult to achieve the outcome we want over the top of his screams and thrashing.”

Devlin nodded. “Understood.” He could feel the sweat forming on his brow. He suddenly remembered the wood he’d extracted from Lord Richfield’s thigh and the heavy bleeding that followed. Devlin took a deep breath, placed his hand around the wood using the other hand as leverage, and pulled steadily and straight. The wood erupted from the child’s hand.

“I want you to put your finger in the wound and feel for any shards of wood. The tourniquet will help staunch the flow of blood, but we don’t want to waste any time in order to avoid other complications.”

Devlin followed Langford’s directions. The skin around the puncture gave way, and he searched for splinters. He felt them, and one stuck in his own finger. Removing each piece, Devlin slowly exhaled and turned to his instructor. The bleeding subsided, indicating that an artery had not been damaged.

“Good. Now the sutures.”

Devlin stitched the hole in Jamie’s hand shut, wrapped the wound, and then removed the tourniquet.

“Now, if infection doesn’t set in, the child might have a chance of survival.” Langford wiped his hands on his stained apron. “This, gentlemen, is one reason a physician should know how to care for such injuries. Physicians need to know how to be the best of surgeons, or patients will die. We never know what God may place in our path. We need to prepare for any eventuality. The writing of a receipt for pain or a poultice for infection would not suffice.”

An attendant came to take the child. Devlin patted his patient’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, “God speed, Jamie. God speed.”

“We’ll visit other patients while our next surgical patient is readied,” Langford announced. As his entourage checked on the progress of those afflicted with gout, malaise, and pregnancy concerns, Devlin forced himself to concentrate, though he continued to think and pray for the healing of young Jamie.

Madeline awoke to the clatter of china and silverware. “Who is it?” she asked, her eyes shut tight against the morning sun.

“It’s just me, which you could surely see if you’d come out from your hiding place,” Daisy grumbled, a hint of a smile in her voice.

A bolt of pain shot through Madeline’s head. She moaned and rolled on her stomach, pulling the pillow over her head as if to block out the hideous picture of her mother kissing Lord Vale and appearing very much like she enjoyed his attentions. Vale had backed away quickly when he saw her, murmuring apologies, but her mother just stood beside him when Madeline ran weeping up the steps to her room.

“Your mama asked me to bring you some tea. I’ll be thinkin’ you were a bit too upset last night, mistress. I ain’t seen you like that since your papa died.”

The events of the evening came crashing in on Madeline
. Mother is possessed by the weakness of her own heart.
“Oh no. I so hoped I’d had a nightmare.”

“Be no wonder if you did. Cried yerself to sleep, you did.” Daisy poured the tea, setting the tray on Madeline’s lap. “The tea’s hot, so don’t go spillin’ it all over you now. Eat the scone too; it’ll help yer poor head.”

Madeline ignored her bossy manner. “How is Mother this morning?”

“Your mama is whistlin’.”

“Whistling?” Madeline carefully threw her legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the pain in her head and arm. “Where is she?”

“In the breakfast room. You’ll be needin’ yer robe, Lady Madeline,” Daisy commanded. Madeline grabbed the robe and bolted from the room. The ideas darting through Madeline’s mind made her ashamed, but she could not help it. Her mother had not whistled for a long time. Her father had always teased his wife that it wasn’t ladylike to whistle, but that was Grace, and he didn’t fault her for it. Madeline thought he rather enjoyed it.

She stopped before she got to the breakfast room when she heard her mother’s jaunty tune drifting down the hall. “She
is
whistling,” Madeline muttered irritably under her breath. Steeling herself for the worst, she entered the room.