The Sapphire Brooch Katherine Logan (best beach reads TXT) 📖

on his forehead was still oozing blood, but it was a bruise on the side of his head which made her recheck her pocket for the brooch. The impact was close to the site of his previous head trauma, which she suspected to be the cause of his frequent headaches. She opened each eyelid and brought a candle close. The pupils reacted. Good.

“How is he?” Jack’s voice was jittery with worry and concern.

“He’s stable. Heart and lungs seem okay. He’s lost a fair amount of blood, but not enough to be life-threatening. I can’t tell yet how much damage has been done to his shoulder, and he could well have a concussion.”

“What can I do?” Jack asked.

“I need light, then hold him down. I’m going to examine his shoulder wound for deep bleeders, and then sew up the shoulder and facial lacerations. If he wakes up, he’s not going to like the pain I’ll be causing him.”

While Charlotte organized her surgery table, Edward set an armload of logs onto the brass dolphin andirons and stirred the glowing embers until the fire roared to life, bringing light and heat to the room. He hurriedly lit every candle he could find to supplement the light from the gaslit chandelier.

Charlotte sterilized the instruments and a small tray in a pot of water a house servant set on the fire.

“I need a bottle of whisky,” she said.

Jack grabbed a bottle and handed it to her. “Can’t you wait until you fix him before you start drinking?”

“Remind me to laugh later. Now pour some over my hands and the wounds. I don’t want to touch the bottle.” She checked her instruments, which were cooling on the tray, needle and thread, the position of the lights, and Braham’s blood pressure. “Hold the candle close.”

Jack moved to the head of the table, holding the light.

Her examination of the shoulder injury revealed a three-centimeter puncture wound. “There’re a couple of little vessels I need to tie off. There may be some functional damage, but I can’t evaluate it right now. If he’s lucky, his shoulder will heal with reasonable function. As soon as I close this, I’ll work on his forehead.”

Braham woke briefly in an agitated state. Charlotte hit a tender area, and he flung out his free arm then passed out again. She talked to him to determine his level of cerebral function, but he only responded to pain.

“Do you need anything else, Miss Charlotte? Will the major recover?” Edward asked.

“Grab some pillows and blankets and put on a pot of coffee. And, yes, he’ll recover. The major’s like a cat, and he still has a few more lives left in him.”

Edward left the room and returned shortly with a stack of linens. Following on his heels was one of the kitchen servants carrying in a tray of food and a carafe of steaming coffee. She set the tray on the sideboard with cups, plates, and silverware.

“A buffet in the operating room. A luxury I could get used to,” Charlotte said.

An hour later, she had cleaned and tied off all the little bleeders she could find and closed his wounds. The head wound had been more tedious to repair. It was a clean cut, but long and down to the bone. She had closed it in layers. Because the repair would be forever visible, she had taken care with each stitch.

Braham had barely stirred while she worked on his head, and it concerned her. To see if he would respond to pain, but with some reluctance, she pushed on his shoulder wound. He moaned and opened his eyes for a second.

“How’d this happen? Do you know?” she asked.

“No.” Jack shook his head, looking sober. “I found him on the steps up to the Petersens’ house with his saber in his hand, as if he was guarding the door. He was barely conscious.”

“I saw him earlier this evening. He was on his way to the War Department and then to Seward’s house. I bet he was knifed trying to protect the secretary.” She cut the last thread and set aside the needle.

“Nice job,” Jack said. “You worked the old scar into the new one.”

“I guess the assailant skimmed the knife across his forehead, then straight down into his shoulder.” She had read the report of what happened at the secretary’s house in the history books. It had been a bloodbath. Had Braham’s appearance changed the outcome? He shouldn’t have been there, because he should have died at Chimborazo. Maybe the secretary’s injuries weren’t as bad as they would have been.

“Let’s try to get him to sit up and open his eyes. See if he can swallow a sip of water. If he can, I need you to get the mortar and pestle from my bag and crush two Keflex and two Aleve. We’ll have him swallow the drugs mixed with a bit of water.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Jack asked.

“He’s been on an antibiotic since Richmond, so he shouldn’t get an infection. If his brain recovers, yes, he’ll be okay.”

“Does this mean you plan to stay for a while?”

“Only until I’m sure he’s on the mend. I have to get back. I have a medical practice which might disappear if I stay away much longer. Let’s see how he is in a couple of days.”

With Jack’s help, they brought him to a sitting position. Braham grimaced, and his eyelids fluttered. She brought a glass to his mouth and tipped in some water. “Braham, swallow.” He did, and the action warmed the chill in the pit of her stomach, but only by a degree or two.

“Get the mortar and pestle and start crushing,” she said.

Jack dug the ceramic bowl out of her bag, dropped in the pills, and used the pestle to crush the medicine into powder. “He’s been shot, tortured, caught in a fire, and now stabbed. His body can’t take much more.”

He’d also had several sleepless nights in bed with her. “Occasionally people who suffer concussions