Page 43 of Lord of Mistrust

“Good day, sir.” Couldn’t they dispense with the pleasantries? His arm was sore enough to make his eyes water, though the pain seemed less widespread.

The doctor pulled up a stool, withdrew a glass lens on a cord around his neck, and placed it over one eye. He then removed Robert’s bandages with swift efficiency.

“What’s this?” The man grimaced. “Who’s interfered with my treatment of this fellow?” He glared accusingly at Whiteley.

“That would be me.”

Robert looked up just as Chloe swept into the room, her chin up, and looking very determined. A pox on it—the last thing he wanted was a battle in his chamber. He scowled a warning at her, but she gave him no more than a passing glance. Her attention was concentrated on the doctor.

The gentleman stood and gave her a cursory bow. Then he quizzed her through his glass lens. “By what authority do you intervene, my lady?”

“By the authority of a wife.”

Shocked, Robert shot a pleading look at Whiteley, but the man hushed him with a gesture.

The doctor’s lips thinned. “Then your concern is understandable. So, was it you who ordered the wound be cleaned out with these revolting creatures?”

What revolting creatures? Robert looked at his arm and saw fat white bodies writhing around in the slit of his wound. He clamped his teeth firmly on his lower lip. A gentleman did not scream like a little girl. Nor did he leap from his sickbed and shake the filthy animals from his body. And a wise man would wait and see what transpired. Even if his stomach was roiling with disgust.

“It was,” Chloe replied. “I regret I was unable to meet you when you took over my husband’s care, but I’d been called away.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think my suggestion of washing the wound frequently with tincture of arnica somewhat less barbaric?”

“I thought anything less barbaric than the recommendation you made of amputation.”

Robert bit harder on his lip. The doctor wanted to amputate?

“I don’t wish to question your methods, sir. I merely intended to try my own and hope for a better result. No one wants to lose a limb unless as a last resort.”

Robert had to agree with Chloe. But why was she posing as his wife? And when had she put the maggots there? He was becoming increasingly confused.

She pushed her shoulders back. Her expression was one which brooked no denial. “Would you say my husband seems improved today?”

The doctor glanced at Robert. “His color is healthier.”

That sounded good. He felt cooler, too. Mayhap it was time to join in the discussion.

“My fever is less.”

Chloe looked at the doctor. “A strong tisane of feverfew, every hour when possible. Surely, you cannot complain at so well tried and tested a remedy?”

“I have no complaint.” The doctor was now bent over Robert’s arm, gingerly plucking the maggots from the wound and dropping them into a cloth.

“I think these can be returned to the midden.” He handed the wriggling package to Whiteley, who made a swift exit from the chamber.

Both Chloe and the doctor leaned over the wound. Robert held his breath.

“It does appear cleaner,” the doctor pronounced.

Chloe wrinkled her nose. “And the offensive stench has gone, so I assume that means the infection is lessening, too.”

“That may, indeed, be the case.”

Robert could tell Doctor Bower was keeping a tight rein on his temper. He couldn’t blame him—no professional gentleman would want his methods overturned by folklore and old wives’ tales. Would his usual physician, Doctor Leigh, have threatened amputation?

Chloe’s eyes were alight with hope. “Then—do you think it still needful to amputate my husband’s arm?”

The doctor tucked his lens away. “It is too early to say, my lady.”