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Authors: Shirl Henke
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expect a gentleman to remain in a charity ward?" Drum inteijected, equally incredulous.
As Drum picked up his jacket, Alex pulled the shirt over his head. The garment was frayed and much mended but clean at least. "There's no need for me to lie abed, Joss, although I do thank you for stitching me up." The lightweight shirt had been bearable but when he tried to pull the stiff, blood-caked jacket over his shoulder, a blinding wave of dizziness followed the pain. He persevered as Joss stood glaring at him.
Drum assisted him in donning the coat but when he swung his legs off the table and tried to stand up, his knees did the most peculiar thing. Suddenly they weren't there. He felt as if he were floating on his way down to the floor. Drum's oath and Joss's cry as they reached out to break his fall seemed to come from a distance.
Glaring at Alex's companion from behind her thick lenses, Joss said, "Men! Now see what you've done, encouraging his folly. If those stitches have broken open I shall take that walking stick of yours to both of you!"
"Not before I withdraw the sword inside of it to defend us, my good madam," Drum retorted as they helped Alex back onto the table.
"I am not a madam. I am a miss."
"And not a good one either. Little surprise no man would
wed a long Meg with the disposition of a fishmonger," he muttered sotto voce as Joss stormed from the room, calling for Liddie to prepare another bed.
"You'd best keep your thoughts to yourself. She isn't bluffing about using that cane on you," Alex said groggily.
"Us, old chap, us. She threatened you as well—but 'pon my honor I would defend your life to the bitter end," Drum replied with a dramatic flourish, adding, "and with that forward baggage it would be a bitter struggle indeed."
Within the hour Alex was dozing on a bed set up in one of the cubicles at the far end of the hall and Drum had departed. Joss, who had been working since the previous night, returned to the Fin and Feather for a few hours of sleep after Dr. Byington arrived and pronounced her work on the injured American's wound to be as well done as he could have managed himself. She had an afternoon meeting at the homeless shelter, then a prayer vigil at Mrs. Wallace's home. By evening she was once again hovering over Alex's bed.
"He looks flushed and feverish," she said worriedly, touching his forehead. It was scalding hot to the touch in spite of the chill in the big old building.
"The wound was a nasty 'un, Miss Jocelyn," Nurse Hal- loran replied. "Fever's ta be expected, but 'e's a strappin' lad, 'e is. Should pull through if any can."
Joss knew many people with injuries far less serious had died of fevers. Remembering his grandmother's Muskogee remedies, she made a decision. "Please inform the doctor that I shall be gone for an hour or so."
Only the thought of Alex lying feverish back at the hospital gave her the courage to approach the Caruthers’s elegant brick house and knock, imperiously insisting that the disdainful butler summon the baron. Her manner—or Alex's name—must have worked, for she was quickly ushered into an opulently appointed sitting room to wait
When his lordship entered the room, Joss noted there was little family resemblance between Alex and his uncle. The first time she had seen him, the baron had been at that ghastly riot when she was too bedazzled by Alex's golden spell to take note of anyone else, the second at Goodysale's when Poc was bleeding in her arms. Montgomery Caruthers was certainly not an ill-favored man with his graying sandy brown hair and chiseled features. He was tall and slim yet not quite as tall as his nephew. Nor did his pale patrician face have the bold masculine vigor of Alex's swarthy countenance. His light blue eyes lacked warmth. But the chilly smile was
As Drum picked up his jacket, Alex pulled the shirt over his head. The garment was frayed and much mended but clean at least. "There's no need for me to lie abed, Joss, although I do thank you for stitching me up." The lightweight shirt had been bearable but when he tried to pull the stiff, blood-caked jacket over his shoulder, a blinding wave of dizziness followed the pain. He persevered as Joss stood glaring at him.
Drum assisted him in donning the coat but when he swung his legs off the table and tried to stand up, his knees did the most peculiar thing. Suddenly they weren't there. He felt as if he were floating on his way down to the floor. Drum's oath and Joss's cry as they reached out to break his fall seemed to come from a distance.
Glaring at Alex's companion from behind her thick lenses, Joss said, "Men! Now see what you've done, encouraging his folly. If those stitches have broken open I shall take that walking stick of yours to both of you!"
"Not before I withdraw the sword inside of it to defend us, my good madam," Drum retorted as they helped Alex back onto the table.
"I am not a madam. I am a miss."
"And not a good one either. Little surprise no man would
wed a long Meg with the disposition of a fishmonger," he muttered sotto voce as Joss stormed from the room, calling for Liddie to prepare another bed.
"You'd best keep your thoughts to yourself. She isn't bluffing about using that cane on you," Alex said groggily.
"Us, old chap, us. She threatened you as well—but 'pon my honor I would defend your life to the bitter end," Drum replied with a dramatic flourish, adding, "and with that forward baggage it would be a bitter struggle indeed."
Within the hour Alex was dozing on a bed set up in one of the cubicles at the far end of the hall and Drum had departed. Joss, who had been working since the previous night, returned to the Fin and Feather for a few hours of sleep after Dr. Byington arrived and pronounced her work on the injured American's wound to be as well done as he could have managed himself. She had an afternoon meeting at the homeless shelter, then a prayer vigil at Mrs. Wallace's home. By evening she was once again hovering over Alex's bed.
"He looks flushed and feverish," she said worriedly, touching his forehead. It was scalding hot to the touch in spite of the chill in the big old building.
"The wound was a nasty 'un, Miss Jocelyn," Nurse Hal- loran replied. "Fever's ta be expected, but 'e's a strappin' lad, 'e is. Should pull through if any can."
Joss knew many people with injuries far less serious had died of fevers. Remembering his grandmother's Muskogee remedies, she made a decision. "Please inform the doctor that I shall be gone for an hour or so."
Only the thought of Alex lying feverish back at the hospital gave her the courage to approach the Caruthers’s elegant brick house and knock, imperiously insisting that the disdainful butler summon the baron. Her manner—or Alex's name—must have worked, for she was quickly ushered into an opulently appointed sitting room to wait
When his lordship entered the room, Joss noted there was little family resemblance between Alex and his uncle. The first time she had seen him, the baron had been at that ghastly riot when she was too bedazzled by Alex's golden spell to take note of anyone else, the second at Goodysale's when Poc was bleeding in her arms. Montgomery Caruthers was certainly not an ill-favored man with his graying sandy brown hair and chiseled features. He was tall and slim yet not quite as tall as his nephew. Nor did his pale patrician face have the bold masculine vigor of Alex's swarthy countenance. His light blue eyes lacked warmth. But the chilly smile was
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