A Scoundrel of Consequence. Helen Dickson

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СКАЧАТЬ Cassandra replied. ‘After awaiting your return from Spain for so long, no doubt the entire female population in London would go into a decline. Now come along. See if you can stand.’ She would have liked nothing more than to help him on to his horse and send him on his way, but that would be a cowardly thing to do simply because he had a poor reputation.

      Impressed by her efficiency and naturally authoritative tone, William tried to get up, but fell back as a fresh haziness swept over him.

      Without more ado, Clem took the wounded man’s arm over his broad shoulders and hoisted him unceremoniously into the carriage. After securing the Captain’s horse to the back, he set off towards Soho, where they drew up outside a grim-looking building among streets where poverty and disease ran side by side. A score or more of undernourished children dressed in rags, their legs bowed and eyes enormous in pinched faces, were hanging about. William was helped out of the carriage and Clem again took his arm. With Cassandra leading the way, Clem half-carried the wounded man inside and into a room, where he lowered him on to a narrow bed, obviously not made for a man as tall as the Captain.

      Taking deep breaths in an attempt to remain conscious, William was aware of dim forms moving about the room. Turning his head on the pillow, he saw a child lying in the bed next to him. Whimpering in his sleep and no more than seven years old, his stick-thin legs were poking out from beneath a blanket. Both his feet were bandaged. His face was an unhealthy grey, his skin ingrained with dirt, and his knees scraped raw.

      Dragging his gaze away from the pitiful sight of the child, he took stock of the room, which looked like a small infirmary. It was quite large with five bunks and sparse, stark furnishings. With small windows and a stone-flagged floor, it was scrubbed clean. There was a stone sink in which a trim, white-aproned young woman was washing utensils and a fire burned in the hearth. The air was tinged with the aroma of food cooking—not unappetising—plain, mutton stew, he guessed. Suddenly a cup was pressed to his lips.

      ‘Drink,’ Miss Greenwood commanded.

      Doing as he was told, William gulped the water down gratefully, letting his head fall back on the pillow when replete. ‘Where in damnation am I?’ he breathed, his curiosity aroused.

      ‘Please don’t swear,’ Cassandra chided, having discarded her outdoor clothes and fastened an apron about her slender waist. ‘I’ll have no obscene language spoken here. You are not in damnation, but a small infirmary in a house that is a place of refuge for destitute children.’

      William’s lips twitched with a suppressed smile. ‘I stand rebuked. I did not mean to be disrespectful.’

      ‘Yes—well, keep a close rein on your tongue, Captain Lampard, lest the children overhear—although sadly some of them use a few choice words themselves and might be able to teach even you a thing or two. Ah, here is Dr Brookes.’ She stood back to allow a good-looking man in his mid-forties enough room to make his examination.

      ‘Good day, Captain Lampard.’ Dr Brookes proceeded brusquely and cheerily as was his custom. ‘It’s not every day I get a distinguished patient to attend—especially one who’s been shot.’

      Cassandra brought a tray of salves and implements, placing them on a small table at the side of the bed.

      Dr Brookes wrinkled his nose as he glanced at the injury. ‘That looks to be a nasty wound. Right, we’d better get to work before you bleed to death. I don’t think the shot’s too far in so it shouldn’t be especially difficult getting it out. There’ll be a bit of digging around to do though. Can you stand it?’

      ‘Captain Lampard has recently returned from the war in the Peninsula, Dr Brookes,’ Cassandra provided. ‘I’m sure he’s had to endure worse.’

      ‘Spain, eh?’ Dr Brookes remarked, impressed. ‘Would have gone myself—had I been years younger.’

      ‘Miss Greenwood speaks the truth. I have seen and endured many things during the war, but this is the first time I’ve been shot—so get on with it, Dr Brookes.’ William looked at the young woman who had taken a stance beside him, a wicked twinkle in his bold, appraising eyes. ‘Are you to stay and hold my hand, Miss Greenwood?’

      ‘No,’ she replied primly. ‘I shall stay to assist Dr Brookes.’

      ‘Pity. Here is my last scrap of dignity. Enjoy it while you can, but I would advise you to step back, Miss Greenwood,’ he said, eyeing with trepidation the probe Dr Brookes was holding. ‘My temper is about to take a decided turn for the worse.’

      Cassandra spoke no word, but stood aside while Dr Brookes began his work.

      William gritted his teeth against the white shards of pain that were shooting through his shoulder as Dr Brookes probed the wound. Mercifully, within a matter of minutes the shot was located and removed.

      ‘There—all done,’ Dr Brookes said with a satisfied smile, showing his patient the round ball. ‘The wound’s clean so it should heal nicely—though you should keep it rested for a time.’

      ‘Thank you for all that you’ve done. You won’t go unrewarded, I shall see to that.’

      Dr Brookes nodded, and there was a gleam in his eye when he glanced at Cassandra. ‘A small donation to the institute wouldn’t go amiss, is that not so, Cassandra? Have your own physician keep an eye on the wound—and perhaps take some laudanum if the pain becomes severe. Now excuse me if I leave you in Miss Greenwood’s capable hands. I must fly—patients to see at the hospital.’ Hesitating by the young boy’s bed as he began to mumble and mutter, to twist and turn, he placed a hand to the child’s forehead. Shaking his head, he turned to go. ‘I’ll be in tomorrow to take another look the boy.’ He paused a moment longer before enquiring haltingly, ‘Will—your mother be at the institute?’

      Cassandra lowered her head to hide a knowing smile. She had long suspected that it was her mother, as well as his concern for the children, that drew Dr Brookes to the institute. ‘Yes, she should be—around midday, I think.’

      Looking pleased, Dr Brookes nodded and hurried out.

      Cassandra turned back to Captain Lampard to dress his wound, amazed that he had endured the whole procedure without a murmur.

      ‘What happened to the boy?’ William asked. ‘How did he come to be in that state?’

      ‘That’s Archie,’ she answered, her expression softening when her gaze rested on the child’s face. ‘His mother sold him to a sweep for a few shillings, poor mite.’

      ‘How old is he?’

      ‘Six years. Climbing boys don’t stand a chance, any of them. So many die of consumption and they are never washed except by the rain. No one knows the cruelty that they undergo. Bullied and beaten by their masters, they rub their poor elbows and knees raw climbing the dark flues. Their flesh must be hardened. This is done by rubbing it with the strongest brine. But often their skin—if they survive—doesn’t harden for years.’

      ‘And Archie’s feet?’

      ‘Burnt by the fires—which aren’t always completely out.’

      If William was disturbed by this, apart from a tightening of his features he made no comment. Though her voice was without expression, before Miss Greenwood turned her face away, he was startled to see tears in her eyes mingled with compassion for the child.

      ‘He СКАЧАТЬ