Page 82 of A Secret Scottish Christmas

Hurrying to keep up with his long stride, she said, “He wasn’t when I left him with his twin brother.” Remembering what she had seen, she added, “There was a lot of blood.”

“It happens with head wounds.”

She tried to draw hope from his words but the scene she had left was too terrible for her to believe Robbie wasn’t in grave danger.

They arrived at the place where Nash hunched over Robbie’s prone form. Mr. Wilson crouched next to them. “I am Walter Wilson, the physician. Let me see the wound, please.”

Nash lifted the cloth Ailie had given him, his tear-streaked face and dire expression conveying his desperation to know Robbie would live.

The surgeon opened his case and took out a bottle marked “Spirit of Lavender”. Dousing a fresh cloth with the liquid, he dabbed at the blood flowing from Robbie’s left temple.

“Lavender?”

“Aye, oil of lavender is useful for digestive ailments but also good for cleansing wounds and soothing headaches and ’tis kind to the skin. I just want to wipe the blood away to see how deep is the wound.” Lifting the lavender-soaked cloth, now crimson with Robbie’s blood, Mr. Wilson appeared relieved. “He’s fortunate ’tis only a flesh wound, but he’ll have a wicked headache and a nasty scar.”

Nash let out a sigh. “Thank God he will be all right.”

Ailie reached her hand to cover Nash’s, trying to comfort him. “Mr. Wilson is an excellent physician, trained at Edinburgh University. You can trust him with Robbie.”

“I’m thankful to you both.”

Mr. Wilson stuffed the crimson cloth into his satchel and took out another small bottle. “My own mixture for treating wounds.” Putting some on yet another bit of cloth, he dabbed at the wound. The gash, now clearly visible, went from the end of Robbie’s eyebrow to the edge of his hair and a bit beyond.

When the surgeon was finished with the small bottle, he took out a roll of white linen. “In addition to a fresh bandage, I’ll wrap his head to protect the wound. The bandages will need to be changed at least once a day.” He handed Ailie another roll. “I know you can do this, Miss Stephen, but remember to first clean the wound with a bit of brandy until it scabs over. A coating of honey will help avoid infection.”

Ailie had treated wounds before, dutifully following the physician’s instructions.

Putting all back in his satchel, Mr. Wilson closed it and turned to Nash. “Come, let us get him back to my office. He’ll freeze here. And put your coat back on, young man or you’ll freeze, too.”

In what appeared to Ailie a mindless manner, Nash shrugged into his bloodstained coat and the two men lifted Robbie to an erect position.

Ailie picked up the physician’s satchel, heavy with his bottles and instruments. They began to retrace their steps, slowly and in an awkward manner, as Robbie, unable to walk on his own, was dragged between the two men.

Ailie’s spirits rose when Robbie let out a groan.

“He is regaining consciousness,” said the physician, “a good sign.”

Robbie’s eyes were still closed, and there was blood on the side of his face and a red stain on his cravat. Still, Ailie was heartened to see no bright stain of red coming through his bandage.

They had only gone a short way when Ailie spotted Will driving the wagon with the ladies down the street toward them. Hugh rode alongside.

Will pulled up next to Ailie and jumped down. “Good Lord, what has happened?”

“Afternoon, Mr. Stephen, ladies,” said Mr. Wilson. His gaze met Will’s. “It seems one of your guests has been shot.”

“It’s Robbie,” said Nash in a grave tone.

“We’re taking him to Mr. Wilson’s office,” explained Ailie.

Hugh dismounted and joined Will. Emily and the other ladies looked on, their faces lined with worry.

“Here, let me take him,” said Will. The physician surrendered his hold on Robbie to Ailie’s brother. “How bad is it?”

The physician reclaimed his satchel. “The ball grazed his temple leaving a nasty gash but, with care, he should recover.”

Hugh asked, “Can we take him back to the shipyard?”

“Aye,” said Mr. Wilson. “I can give you some laudanum for the pain. Ailie knows what to do and I have given her more bandages.” Reaching into his satchel, he took out a bottle and handed it to Will. “If you need more, send a footman and you shall have it. I will pay you a call tomorrow to see how he’s doing.”

“Thank you,” said Will. “We are most grateful.”

Mr. Wilson tipped his hat to the ladies and wished them a good day as he headed back toward his office.

As the men moved Robbie toward the back of the wagon, the women continued to watch anxiously from the side. Hugh let down the tail of the wagon and Nash and Will lifted Robbie to a horizontal position, carefully sliding him onto the bed of the wagon. Without the baskets, there was sufficient room for him between the benches.

Ailie climbed in and sat beside Robbie, gently raising his head to her lap. Nash took a seat on the bench across from her, his eyes fixed on his twin.

“Here, take this,” said Mary, offering her lap blanket to Nash, which he laid over Robbie’s prone form.

Tara offered her scarf to Ailie. “For under his head.”

After they’d gone a short way, Robbie opened his eyes. Dazed, he looked up at Ailie and blinked twice. “Where am I? Heaven? Must be Heaven as I’m looking at an angel. But my head hurts like Hell.”

The other women laughed, shaking their heads at Robbie’s attempt at humor.

Ailie looked into Robbie’s hazel eyes, so like his brother’s. “As my brother can tell you, I am no angel, but I vow to take good care of you, Robbie Powell.”

“The rascal recovers,” announced Muriel in a jovial manner but Ailie could see the countess, whose face had been lined with worry moments before, was much relieved to see Robbie awake and feeling well enough to joke.