His Forbidden Liaison. Joanna MaitlandЧитать онлайн книгу.
heard footsteps on the stairs. Mr Jacques might be returning, or Guillaume. Desperately, she seized another pillow and pushed it roughly behind the man’s head. She pulled her arm free and pinched his nostrils closed with her fingers. One second, two seconds, yes! His mouth opened to take a breath. With a single, swift movement, she tossed the contents of the glass down his throat, holding his nose until he swallowed. He gasped for breath, and groaned. But it did go down. It was done.
She settled him back more gently on the pillows, and quickly rinsed out the glass. She was just about to return the bottle to her valise when the door opened. ‘Mr Jacques!’ she exclaimed. She hid the bottle among her skirts, as she had done the pistol, seemingly hours before. Was she blushing? It seemed it did not matter, for neither Mr Jacques, nor the man who followed him, was looking at her. The new arrival was a surgeon, to judge by his clothing, and by the bag he carried.
‘Here is your patient, sir,’ Mr Jacques said, gesturing towards the bed. ‘And still insensible, thank God. You will be able to do your work without concern about the pain you may cause him.’
The surgeon crossed to the bed, took a cursory look at Herr Benn’swum, and began to unpack the instruments from his bag. ‘This will not take long, sir,’he said briskly. ‘I shall need a basin, and some bandages, if you would be so good.’
‘Yes, of course. Miss Grolier, would you be so kind as to ask the landlord for a clean sheet, or some other cloth that we may use for bandages?’
Marguerite nodded. It sounded as though Mr Jacques was trying to prevent her from witnessing the operation. It was thoughtful of him, though unnecessary, for she was not afraid of the sight of blood. She had assisted at the bleeding of her mother, oftentimes. It had rarely made much difference, though on occasion it had calmed the poor demented lady’s ravings.
Marguerite cast a last, cautious glance at Herr Benn. The laudanum seemed to have worked remarkably quickly. His eyes were closed, and he was no longer making any sound. She breathed a sigh of relief.
She hurried out of the room and down the staircase to the entrance hall, where she soon obtained what they needed. She was determined that she would not be out of that chamber for a moment longer than she could help. If Herr Benn spoke again, she needed to be there to hear whatever he might say. For now there were two potential betrayers: Mr Jacques and the surgeon. It might fall to her, and her alone, to defend the English spy.
The surgeon continued to probe into Ben’s wound. ‘The ball lies deep.’ He grunted as he worked. ‘Ah, I have it now.’A moment later, the ball rattled into the tin basin that Jack was holding. It was followed by a gush of bright blood. The surgeon calmly replaced the bloody pad of Jack’s shirt and pressed hard. ‘We need those fresh bandages now.’
‘Aye.’ Jack glanced over his shoulder to the open door. There had not yet been time. It was but a few minutes since Miss Grolier had gone downstairs to fetch the bandages. He looked back at the bed where Ben lay, very still, and almost as pale as the linen surrounding him. Jack was grateful that his friend had not come round during the operation, and yet it worried him that Ben had shown no sign of regaining his wits since they had left Marseilles. Perhaps Jack had been wrong in assuming that the wound had damaged no vital organs? ‘He will recover now, sir?’ Jack was unable to keep the anxiety from his voice.
‘Yes, with careful nursing. There is a deal of damage to his shoulder, for I had to dig deep to remove the ball. ‘Twill be a long time before he wields a sword with that arm.’
Jack was instantly on the alert. Why should a surgeon speak of swords and fighting? But he replied only, ‘It is not his fighting arm. He is left-handed.’
‘Ah. Then he has been lucky, for his shoulder will take some time to heal. How came he by this wound, sir?’
‘We were set upon by a group of footpads, in Marseilles. We were outnumbered, and running from them. When they saw that we were about to escape, one of them shot him.’
‘Wicked,’ the surgeon muttered. ‘And cowardly, too, especially now, when we are like to need every Frenchman we have.’
‘Especially now?’ Jack echoed. ‘Forgive me, sir, but I—’
The surgeon’s eyes widened and he stared at Jack. ‘Have you not heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘The Emperor has returned. God save him!’
Jack felt as though he had been winded by a blow to the gut. ‘Returned?’ For a moment, he could not manage more than that single word. Then his common sense took hold and he breathed again. The surgeon was yet another of the many Bonapartists waiting all over France. Jack must take care. He must not allow the surgeon’s suspicions to be aroused. ‘Are you sure, sir?’ he asked breezily. ‘We heard nothing of that at Marseilles. Just that he would return.’
The surgeon paused. ‘Be so good as to keep the pressure on the wound.’ As soon as Jack had taken over, the man turned away. He began to clean his hands with a cloth and then to put his instruments back into his case. ‘Well, I suppose the rumours could be mistaken,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But the way it was told to me, I tell you, sir, it was not that the Emperor might return, but that he had returned. I pray it is so, for with fat Louis on the throne, France will always be under the heel of her enemies.’ He spun round to face Jack. ‘Vive l’Empereur!’
It was a test. Jack swallowed. He had no choice. ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ he echoed, trying to sound as though he meant it.
A sound from the doorway made him turn. Marguerite Grolier stood there, transfixed, with a bundle of white cloth clasped to her bosom.
Jack swore silently. If the lady was a Bonapartist, he might have improved his standing with her. But if she was not, he could have made himself an enemy. He wanted neither of those. He wanted her to trust him, without question. But she was standing as if stunned, her glorious eyes very wide. Was that from pleasure? Or dismay? He could not tell. He desired her as an ally, but he dare not risk treating her as anything but an enemy.
‘At last!’ the surgeon cried. ‘Bring them here, ma’am. This man is bleeding.’
The surgeon’s words spurred her into action. She started violently and hurried across to the bed. Between them, she and the surgeon tore bandages and had soon bound a clean pad on to Ben’s wounded shoulder.
‘He’ll do now, sir,’ the surgeon said.
‘Thank you. How soon will he be well enough to travel, do you think? We should not remain here, especially if the news you bring is true.’
The surgeon grinned. ‘Pray God it is, eh, sir? He promised to return with the violets. He would not break such a promise. Not a promise to France.’ The surgeon had a rather faraway look in his eyes, which sat strangely with his burly figure and bloodstained fingernails. But many Frenchmen had revered Bonaparte as a hero. Just as this man clearly did.
‘I need to know, sir. How soon?’Jack repeated. ‘How long must my companion remain here before he is fit to travel?’
‘Oh, that. A day or two only. Much will depend upon whether he develops a fever. That ball should have been removed hours since, you know.’
Jack nodded guiltily. ‘I…I know it.’ He straightened. ‘May I escort you downstairs, sir? Perhaps you will take a glass with me before you leave?’
The surgeon beamed. ‘That is kind, sir. I accept, gladly.’
Jack glanced towards the lady, who nodded. Since Ben was unconscious, she could safely be left alone to take care of him for a space, while Jack took the surgeon below and paid him for his services. There would still be plenty of light for her to continue her journey later. He would thank her properly then, and try to allay her suspicions, somehow. He wanted her to think well of him when they parted, just as he did of her, whatever her allegiance. In truth, she deserved more gratitude than he would ever be able to express, since she must never learn of their mission.
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