Read Online The Devlin Diary by Christi Phillips - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christi Phillips
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and does not want to expose the court doctors and thence the entire court to her infirmity. Do not let it be known that you are your father’s daughter. We will say you are a childhood friend with knowledge of physick, here out of mercy.
“We’ll expect you tomorrow morning,” he says as he escorts Hannah to the door of the mademoiselle’s suite. She is met there by his manservant, who leads her back along Whitehall’s shadowy paths through the privy gardens and to the street, where a carriage awaits: Lord Arlington’s own carriage this time, an ostentatious vehicle of gleaming black lacquer generously trimmed with gold. As the horses break into a canter, Hannah realizes that the poppy syrup has begun its merciful work. The coach bounces over a deep pothole, swerves and lists, and she hardly feels anything. The pain she does feel seems distant, almost as if it is happening to someone else.
She turns her gaze from the window to look across the carriage at Arlington’s man, her unwanted chaperone. What is his name? Jeremy, he said, Jeremy Maitland at your service. As she intuited earlier, he isn’t a ruffian, he’s too thin and fine featured, but in spite of his appearance he sports a deep cut across the back of his left hand. She hazily wonders how it happened. More important, it’s poorly dressed; the tattered bandage is already blood-soaked.
“Have you seen a doctor for that?” Hannah asks.
“This?” He raises his hand as if he hasn’t noticed it before. “It’s only a scratch.”
“People can die from scratches.” The coach rocks and the hood of her cloak settles around her shoulders.
“Not me.” As if he feared he might have been rude, he adds, “I’ve never had much use for doctors. Most of them do more harm than good.”
“Regrettably, that is too often true. Ars longa, vita brevis, ” she says, then remembers that Maitland is a servant; he will not have any Latin. She translates Hippocrates’ adage: “‘The art of healing is long, and life is short.’ There is much I don’t know, but I can help with that if you like.”
“You’re a doctor?” he inquires as if he does not quite believe it, but is impressed in spite of his stated dislike for the profession. It makes her want to boast a little, even to confide in him, but she remembers Arlington’s strict demand for secrecy and thinks better of touting her expertise.
“I have some knowledge of physick,” she answers cautiously, “and have medicines right here in my case.” The coach shakes and the glass vials jiggle against the wood box as if on cue.
“All right then.” He holds out his hand. She takes it and gingerly unwinds the bloodied bandage. The cut looks new, a few hours old at most. His hand is surprisingly strong and uncalloused. She opens a jar of ointment of yarrow, good for healing wounds and inflammations.
“This may burn a little,” she warns as she dabs it over his injury. To her surprise he makes no outcry and does not jerk his hand away. She looks at his face, expecting to see the hurt registered there, but he is composed. “You weathered that well,” she says, using a linen cloth from her cabinet to bind his hand.
“As I said, it’s only a scratch. I’ve suffered much worse. But you’ve done a fine job, I see,” he says, turning his cleaned, bandaged hand in front of his face. “And now, Doctor, what is my payment to be? What do I owe you for saving my life?”
His questions are innocuous, but there’s an underlying impertinence in Maitland’s manner. Hannah looks away, suddenly self-conscious, aware of the plainness of her wool dress, her simple linen petticoats, her disheveled hair, how tired she must look. There was a time when she would have countered his youthful impudence with a smile and a riposte, but now it only makes her ill at ease.
“I do not charge for such trifles. As you said, it is nothing.”
Her cool, reserved manner is not lost upon him. “Have I offended you? Perhaps
“We’ll expect you tomorrow morning,” he says as he escorts Hannah to the door of the mademoiselle’s suite. She is met there by his manservant, who leads her back along Whitehall’s shadowy paths through the privy gardens and to the street, where a carriage awaits: Lord Arlington’s own carriage this time, an ostentatious vehicle of gleaming black lacquer generously trimmed with gold. As the horses break into a canter, Hannah realizes that the poppy syrup has begun its merciful work. The coach bounces over a deep pothole, swerves and lists, and she hardly feels anything. The pain she does feel seems distant, almost as if it is happening to someone else.
She turns her gaze from the window to look across the carriage at Arlington’s man, her unwanted chaperone. What is his name? Jeremy, he said, Jeremy Maitland at your service. As she intuited earlier, he isn’t a ruffian, he’s too thin and fine featured, but in spite of his appearance he sports a deep cut across the back of his left hand. She hazily wonders how it happened. More important, it’s poorly dressed; the tattered bandage is already blood-soaked.
“Have you seen a doctor for that?” Hannah asks.
“This?” He raises his hand as if he hasn’t noticed it before. “It’s only a scratch.”
“People can die from scratches.” The coach rocks and the hood of her cloak settles around her shoulders.
“Not me.” As if he feared he might have been rude, he adds, “I’ve never had much use for doctors. Most of them do more harm than good.”
“Regrettably, that is too often true. Ars longa, vita brevis, ” she says, then remembers that Maitland is a servant; he will not have any Latin. She translates Hippocrates’ adage: “‘The art of healing is long, and life is short.’ There is much I don’t know, but I can help with that if you like.”
“You’re a doctor?” he inquires as if he does not quite believe it, but is impressed in spite of his stated dislike for the profession. It makes her want to boast a little, even to confide in him, but she remembers Arlington’s strict demand for secrecy and thinks better of touting her expertise.
“I have some knowledge of physick,” she answers cautiously, “and have medicines right here in my case.” The coach shakes and the glass vials jiggle against the wood box as if on cue.
“All right then.” He holds out his hand. She takes it and gingerly unwinds the bloodied bandage. The cut looks new, a few hours old at most. His hand is surprisingly strong and uncalloused. She opens a jar of ointment of yarrow, good for healing wounds and inflammations.
“This may burn a little,” she warns as she dabs it over his injury. To her surprise he makes no outcry and does not jerk his hand away. She looks at his face, expecting to see the hurt registered there, but he is composed. “You weathered that well,” she says, using a linen cloth from her cabinet to bind his hand.
“As I said, it’s only a scratch. I’ve suffered much worse. But you’ve done a fine job, I see,” he says, turning his cleaned, bandaged hand in front of his face. “And now, Doctor, what is my payment to be? What do I owe you for saving my life?”
His questions are innocuous, but there’s an underlying impertinence in Maitland’s manner. Hannah looks away, suddenly self-conscious, aware of the plainness of her wool dress, her simple linen petticoats, her disheveled hair, how tired she must look. There was a time when she would have countered his youthful impudence with a smile and a riposte, but now it only makes her ill at ease.
“I do not charge for such trifles. As you said, it is nothing.”
Her cool, reserved manner is not lost upon him. “Have I offended you? Perhaps
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