Page 45 of The Music of Love

For once Stacy was without his dratted glasses. His eyes were half closed and his lips were curled into a smile.

“Hello, Portia.” His voice was slurred and drowsy.

“Where is he hit?” she demanded.

“In the neck and in the leg.”

Portia let out a string of the vilest Italian curse words she could think of.

Soames, Powell, and Frances gaped.

Stacy laughed weakly. “Fiery and fierce,” he murmured.

“Bring more light,” Portia told Soames once they reached the drawing room. She motioned to Powell, “Put him on the settee, Jewell, and then go fetch a basin of hot water. Powell, get me a glass of brandy. Frances, you will help me.” She saw Daisy hovering anxiously in the open doorway. “Daisy, find old bedding or something we can use for bandages.” Daisy and the men scattered and Frances dropped down beside her, already unbuttoning Stacy’s coat and waistcoat.

The men had tied a tourniquet around his leg wound—which was leaking slowly—but the one on his neck only had his bloody cravat pressed against it. Portia removed it and hissed; the bullet had not severed an artery, but the wound was bleeding freely.

Powell came with the brandy.

“Lift his head,” she ordered, holding the glass to his lips, which were now as white as the rest of him. “Drink, Stacy, it will help with the pain.”

They poured a little down his throat but she was afraid to choke him with more and handed Powell the glass before turning to the other woman. “We’ve got to stop the bleeding. How are your needle skills, Frances?”

She glanced at the gash, grimaced, and then shook her head. “I am not afraid of blood—but this. . . No, I cannot do it. Are you sure it needs to be done now? Can’t we wait for—”

“I will do it.”

Frances’s jaw wobbled with shock. “Are you sure?”

“I volunteered in soldiers’ hospitals in London and I’ve seen it done many times.” Although she’d never done it herself—but why mention that? “It needs to be done quickly.”

Frances pressed her lips into a grim line and nodded. “I’ll go fetch my embroidery bag.”

The next half hour was one of the worst of Portia’s life. It took five people to hold Stacy down while she sewed the bleeding wound shut. He was weak from a lack of blood but swore like a sailor. By the time she was finished Stacy was hoarse from yelling but at least the bleeding had stopped.

The injury in his thigh was another matter entirely; the bullet was lodged in the flesh. She had packed the wound with clean cloths before beginning work on his neck, but they were soaked through from all his thrashing, even with the tourniquet.

Portia grimaced and looked up at Frances, whose blue eyes were red from weeping. “How long until the doctor comes?”

“He should be here by now.” Soames said. “He only lives on the other side of Bude.”

“He must be out on a call. It could be hours.” Portia chewed her lip ragged. “It needs to come out. The flesh is becoming more swollen by the minute. It will only get worse.”

Frances swallowed audibly and then nodded. “Right, then. I’ll clean the wound and make it ready, Portia, you get some of that brandy down his throat.” She took the basin of fresh, hot water Soames was holding and began to cleanse the area.

Portia knelt beside the settee and smoothed the damp hair from his forehead. His eyelids flickered. “Stacy, can you take some brandy? We’ve got to remove the bullet. It will go better for you if you can take some.” He opened his mouth and she tipped the glass, dribbling the liquid in slowly, until he’d finished it. “Can you take more?” He nodded and she turned to Powell. “Bring the bottle.” While he went to fetch more she looked down at her patient. “How are you?”

“You planned this so I’d take off my spectacles.” His voice was a hoarse croak.

Portia laughed, the sound hysterical. “Let that be a lesson to you. Perhaps next time you won’t tease me.”

Powell handed her another glass just as Soames entered with another basin of steaming water—and the doctor right beside him.

“Thank God!” Portia wiped away the tears that had begun to make their way down her cheeks.

The doctor was a calm, older man who was not about to be flapped by a mere bullet. He commended Portia on her stitchery and substituted a laudanum draught for the brandy. Within half an hour the bullet had been extracted and Stacy was in his bedroom, where the doctor and Powell could go about any business too delicate for females to witness.

Portia realized somebody had ordered tea and took a cup, her hands shaking. Nobody spoke for a very long time. It was Frances who finally broke the silence.