Colin threw the bag a little farther to the side. Dunson’s eyes flickered to it for only one second. That was all the time he was going to get. It was now or never. Colin launched himself at him, while at the same moment Abigail twisted and ducked in his grasp, letting herself fall to the floor.
As he expected, when attacked, Dunson’s instinct was to point the gun at him, but it was too late to shoot. Colin was already upon him. He grabbed the steward’s arm and with a mighty shove; he slammed him against the wall, both men grappling for control of the gun. Colin's mind raced, analyzing every movement and searching for an opening to disarm his opponent safely. It wouldn’t do to have the pistol discharge with Abigail in the room.
As the struggle continued, the room seemed to shrink around them. Dust swirled in the air, mingling with the sunlight streaming through the windows, adding an ethereal quality to the fight. Their breaths came in ragged gasps, sweat glistening on their brows. The kidnapper's face contorted with frustration, realizing that Colin was not an easy target.
With a series of swift, calculated movements, Colin disarmed Dunson. The pistol fell and clattered across the floor, and fired with a deafening explosion. At that moment, time seemed to pause. As if in a nightmare, he saw Abigail, who had been trying to reach for the gun, collapse to the floor.
Colin's heart skipped a beat, but he fought to keep his composure. He had to end this now. Without hesitation, Colin pressed his advantage, striking the kidnapper with a series of blows that sent him reeling backward. With a last mighty punch, his opponent crumpled to the floor, unconscious or dead. He didn’t much care at this point.
All his attention was on the still figure of his wife, sitting slumped against the wall. Her face was ghostly white, her glassy eyes focused on him for a moment before she closed them. He fell to his knees at her side, frantically checking her for a wound. She slid sideways, leaving a smear of red on the wall behind her.
“Abigail!” He called, but she had fallen unconscious. The bullet had hit her. But where? Oh God! With trembling hands, he laid her on the dusty floor and turned her, looking for the wound. Blood oozed from a hole in the center of her back.
Panic threatened at the edges of his consciousness. But his medical training took over and his hands steadied. Abigail’s life depended on his next actions.
He tore his necktie, making a wad and applying it to the wound to stem the bleeding. The cloth was soaked through in a moment. She was losing too much blood. He then ripped strips from her petticoat and applied it to the wound with gentle pressure. The blood flow seemed to slow. He checked her pulse, relief coursing through him when he found it still beating in a steady rhythm.
He needed to get her out of here. Clean the wound, extract the bullet. But he had to be careful when moving her. The place of the wound was a delicate one. He looked around frantically for something to place her on and saw an old door lying on the floor. That’ll do as a pallet.
He put his coat on top of the old wood and, with infinite care, deposited Abigail on the door. He was going to need help to carry her, but he was loath to leave her for even a minute to go get the servants. Just then, he heard hesitant footsteps below. He ran to the staircase and peered down. His coachman and footman were in the hallway below, looking carefully, their weapons drawn. Thank God!
“Over here!” He called, and they ran up the stairs as soon as they spotted him.
“Milord! We heard a gunshot–”
“My wife has been shot. Hurry up! I need your help to get her home.”
“Mr. Oats,” he said to the coachman. “Help me carry my wife downstairs and into the carriage. You,” he addressed the footman, “tie the kidnapper if he’s still alive and send for the police. Then stay here until they come.”
The process of transporting Abigail to their home was slow and torturous. He agonized over every moan that escaped her lips with every bump of the carriage. At the same time, he was conscious of time passing. Of the urgency of the situation. Every minute they delayed care for her wound, she was in greater danger of not recovering, but they had to move carefully so as not to jostle her, for that could also harm her.
He entered the house barking orders at the servants, who luckily scurried to comply at once. “Bring me clean towels and boil plenty of water.”
Elizabeth came running down the stairs, her eyes wide with fear. “Colin! What...oh my god! What happened to Abigail? Is she–?”
“She was shot.” He interrupted his sister before she could complete that awful sentence. “But she is going to be fine. I need you to help me or get out of the way.”
“What do you need?” The girl replied with commendable aplomb.
“Can you help me remove her clothes? And if you think you can stomach it, I could use some help with the surgery.”
She nodded resolutely. “Count on me.”
When Abigail had been brought to his room, he laid her on the bench where he usually received his massages and carefully accommodated her, face down, on the firm but cushioned surface.
His medical bag, not used since he had arrived in this country to be the Earl, was nevertheless not too far away. He retrieved it from his wardrobe. Withdrawing a pair of scissors, he handed them to Elizabeth.
“Can you cut her bodice?” The girl nodded, grabbing the scissor, and he turned to get all the other implements he might need.
He tore off his coat and waistcoat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The maids arrived at that moment with clean towels and boiled water. He thoroughly washed his hands up to the elbows using carbolic soap and had Elizabeth do the same. Then proceeded to clean and disinfect all his instruments in the same way.
Soaking a towel in the boiled water, he carefully peeled the cut garments away from her body and used it to wipe the blood from her back. The wound still oozed sluggishly, but was not actively bleeding now.
Next came the laborious task of cleaning the wound and retrieving the bullet. Abigail moaned in pain and he soaked a handkerchief in ether and handed it to Elizabeth to hold under Abigail’s nose in order to anesthetize her.
Even knowing she was anesthetized, every probe into her flesh felt as if a knife was digging into his own back. Worse. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his heart beat way too fast. He inhaled deeply, blocked the image of who she was, of whose life was at stake here and focused. The fastest he was able to accomplish the surgery, the less trauma to her body and the better the recovery would be.
After what felt like an eternity, but were probably only a few anguish filled minutes, the surgery was done. All in all, he thought it had been a great success. He had been able to retrieve the bullet cleanly.
