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Seth gingerly lowered himself to the indigo sofa. What he would have given to have Nurse Griffin in his corner as bottleman at a prizefight.
Matilda approached her patient,brandishing a bandage as though she knew what to do with it.
But whilst bathing and sipping Betty’s restorative to banish the trembles, she’d swotted up on Marine Practice of Physik and Surgery, Including the Nature and Treatment of Gunshot Wounds,by Dr J Ranby, Esquire; Surgeon General to the British Army. Third Edition 1781.
So how hard could it be?
And in any case, Betty had given lots of practical instruction should the written theory prove erroneous.
His waistcoat had been shed earlier, and she perused his remaining attire, ready to assist. “Do you require me to cut your shirt off with a sharp blade?”
“Er, no,” he said rather breathlessly. “I don’t believe that will be necessary.”
Even so, he winced as she edged the material up his spine and then along that injured shoulder. She’d noted every clench of his jaw as the coach had jolted them, despite his manly assurance that all was well – a fearsome fib, if ever she’d heard one.
Tugging the shirt over his head proved more problematic as the laces caught on his chin and she was forced to yank, nigh removing his ears. Who’d have known it would be so arduous to unclothe a man? Surely it would have been easier to cut the material, as Dr J Ranby, Esq. had directed?
In order to accurately diagnose from her medical tome, she crossed to the trolley, had another quick nip of Betty’s Special Tonic to fortify herself, and then trundled it nearer the sofa, the implements rattling.
She sat behind Seth to scrutinise the affected area, hefty book in hand.
A fierce scarlet brand in a wide U shape marred his shoulder, the area swollen. “Hmm.” She flipped past Fevers and Vomiting. “I think…” She paused at Gangrene and softly prodded the skin: somewhat hot and puffy. “I do believe… I believe it to be an ecchymosis of the musculus trapezius, perhaps even the rhomboideus major.”
“And that would be?”
“An abominable bruise to the shoulder. Shame it’s not a gunshot wound as I know all about those. But we’d best clean it, just in case.” Dr J Ranby had been rather cavalier as regards cleanliness, but Betty had advocated that a good slosh of brandy never went amiss, so Matilda would tend her hero with all due diligence.
Seth’s eyes flickered in the low lamplight, and she smiled reassuringly before investigating the hodge-podge of bottles on the trolley.
“Has it broken the skin?” he rasped.
“No…” She turned back to examine once more; without doubt it would turn black and blue in the next few days and ache for a month, but it would be remiss of her not to consider all possibilities, so just in case, she glanced to the Splints and Fractures chapter, twisting her head at Diagram 5b. “Can you rotate your shoulder without fierce pain?”
“I’ve dislocated it before,” he asserted, but nonetheless rotated it as requested. “And that hurts in a different way, but do carry on, Nurse Matilda,” he said with a wink, “for I cherish your gentle touch.”
She blushed, batted a hand to his waist and flicked past Intermittent Fevers, Jaundice and The Itch. Although… “Does it itch?”
“Er, no.”
So gathering a strip of linen, she splashed around plenty of brandy and then smoothed the cloth over the red swelling.
He flinched and a groan emerged from her patient, so she softly prodded once more to judge whether any fluid had built up beneath the skin. “If it’s that painful, perhaps it requires lancing.” And she spun to the tea trolley, knocking over a tin of… “What’s this?” she asked, holding up a peculiar cotton-like item.
“Ligature thread made of cat gut, I believe.”
Ugh.
Seth threw a wary glance at the silver instruments. “I’m quite sure lancing is not yet necessary.”
“Hmm…” She pursed her lips. “In that case, I prescribe arnica ointment, as although Dr J Ranby may know his gunshot wounds, I shall defer to Betty in this instance.”
“Foul stuff, that,” remarked Seth with a wipe of forehead. “It’s the jar that smells of mothballs and gin.”
She uncapped and recapped the many glass vessels, sniffing until a pernicious mix of camphor and alcohol nigh seared the hair from her nostrils, so she placed the jar to her lap and swiped a finger over the waxy substance. Too firm and cold for Seth’s injured skin, hence she dug out a dollop and warmed it between her palms.
The bruise would be uncomfortable to sleep upon and no doubt other aches would assail him on the morrow. She exhaled heavily. “This is all my fault.”
He swivelled, eyes gleaming. “No, Matilda. A swine of a man with no care for you did this. Can you imagine if you had stayed at his house and then refused to marry Sidlow? What he might have done to compel you?” Seth turned back. “It will heal and I’ve had worse. The cut above my eye hurt like the deuce when it was stitched. I swear Mother used an embroidery needle.”
