Just Like Heaven

Chapter Twelve

“Doctor!” Honoria jumped to her feet about twenty minutes later as a surprisingly young man entered the room. She didn’t think she’d ever met a doctor who didn’t have gray hair. “It’s his leg,” she said. “I don’t think you saw it when—"

“I didn’t see him before,” the doctor said brusquely. “My father did."

“Oh.” Honoria took a respectful step back as the doctor bent over Marcus’s leg. Her mother, who had come in just behind him, walked over to Honoria’s side.

And then took her hand. Honoria squeezed it as if it were a lifeline, grateful for the connection.

The young man looked at Marcus’s leg for not nearly as long as Honoria would have thought necessary, then bent and put his ear to his chest. “How much laudanum did you give him?"

Honoria looked at her mother. She had been the one to dose him.

“A spoonful,” Lady Winstead said. “Perhaps two."

The doctor’s mouth tightened as he straightened and faced them. “Was it one, or was it two?"

“It’s difficult to say,” Lady Winstead answered. “He didn’t swallow it all.” “I had to wipe his face,” Honoria put in.

The doctor did not comment. He put his ear back on Marcus’s chest, and his lips moved, almost as if he were counting to himself.

Honoria waited for as long as she could stand, then said, “Doctor, er . . ."

“Winters,” her mother supplied.

“Yes, er, Dr. Winters, please tell us, did we give him too much?” “I don’t think so,” Dr. Winters answered, but he still kept his ear to Marcus’s chest. “The opium suppresses the lungs. That is why his breathing is so shallow."

Honoria put her hand to her mouth in horror. She hadn’t even realized his breathing was shallow. In fact, she’d thought he sounded better. More peaceful.

The doctor straightened and turned his attention to Marcus’s leg. “It is critical that I have all of the pertinent information,” he said brusquely. “I would be much more worried if I did not know that he’d been given laudanum.” “You’re not worried?” Honoria asked in disbelief.

Dr. Winters looked at her sharply. “I didn’t say I wasn’t worried.” He returned to Marcus’s leg, examining it closely. “Just that I’d be more worried if he hadn’t had it. If his breathing was this shallow without laudanum, it would indicate a serious infection indeed."

“This isn’t serious?” The doctor gave her another annoyed look. He did not appreciate her questions, that much was clear. “Kindly hold your comments until I finish examining him."

Honoria felt her entire face clench in irritation, but she stepped back. She would be polite to Dr. Winters if it killed her; if anyone had a chance at saving Marcus’s life, it would be he.

“Explain to me exactly what you did to clean the wound,” the doctor demanded, glancing up briefly from his examination of Marcus’s leg. “And I also want to know what it looked like before you started."

Honoria and her mother took turns telling him what they’d done.

He seemed to approve, or at the very least, he didn’t disapprove.

When they were done, he turned back to Marcus’s leg, looked at it one more time, and let out a long breath.

Honoria waited for a moment. He looked like he was taking time to think. But bloody hell, he was taking a long time to think.

Finally she couldn’t stand it. “What is your opinion?” she blurted out.

Dr. Winters spoke slowly, almost as if he were thinking out loud. “He might keep the leg."

“Might?” Honoria echoed.

“It’s too soon to tell for sure. But if he does keep it”—he looked at both Honoria and her mother—“it will have been due to your good work.” Honoria blinked in surprise; she had not expected a commendation. Then she asked the question she dreaded: “But will he live?"

The doctor’s eyes met Honoria’s with frank steadiness. “He will certainly live if we amputate his leg."

Honoria’s lips trembled. “What do you mean?” she whispered.

But she knew exactly what he meant; she just needed to hear him say it.

“I am confident that if I remove his leg at this moment he will live.” He looked back over at Marcus, as if another glance might offer one last clue. “If I do not remove his leg, he may very well recover completely. Or he may die. I cannot predict how the infection will progress."

Honoria went still. Only her eyes moved, from Dr. Winters’s face, to Marcus’s leg, and then back. “How will we know?” she asked quietly.

Dr. Winters tilted his head to the side in question.

“How will we know when to make the decision?” she clarified, her voice rising in volume.

“There are signs to look for,” the doctor replied. “If you begin to see streaks of red moving up or down his leg, for example, we will know we must amputate."

“And if that does not happen, does that mean he is healing?"

“Not necessarily,” the doctor admitted, “but at this point, if there is no change in the wound’s appearance, I shall take that as a good sign.” Honoria nodded slowly, trying to take it all in. “Will you remain here at Fensmore?"

“I cannot,” he told her, turning to pack up his bag. “I must see to another patient, but I will be back this evening. I do not think we will need to make any decision before then."

“You do not think?” Honoria asked sharply. “Then you are not certain?"

Dr. Winters sighed, and for the first time since he’d entered the room, he looked tired. “One is never certain in medicine, my lady. I would that were not the case.” He looked over at the window, whose curtains were pulled back to reveal the endless green of Fensmore’s south lawn. “Perhaps someday that will change. But not in our lifetime, I fear. Until then, my job remains as much of an art as a science."

It was not what Honoria had wanted to hear, but she recognized it as the truth, and so she gave him a nod, thanking him for his attentions.

Dr. Winters returned the courtesy with a bow, then gave Honoria and her mother instructions and left, promising that he would return later that night. Lady Winstead escorted him out, leaving Honoria once again alone with Marcus, who lay terrifyingly still on his bed.

For several minutes, she stood motionless in the center of the room, feeling strangely limp and lost. There really wasn’t anything to do. She had been just as scared that morning, but at least then she had been able to concentrate on treating his leg. Now all she could do was wait, and her mind, denied of a specific task, had nothing but fear to fill it.

What a choice. His life or his leg. And she might have to be the one to make it.

She didn’t want the responsibility. Dear God, she didn’t want it.

“Oh, Marcus,” she sighed, finally walking over to the chair at his bedside. “How did this happen? Why did it happen? It’s not fair."

She sat and leaned down against the mattress, folding her arms and resting her head in the crook of one elbow.

She would, of course, sacrifice his leg to save his life. That was what Marcus would choose if he were sensible enough to speak for himself. He was a proud man, but not so much so that he would prefer death over handicap. She knew this about him. They had never talked about it, of course—who talked about such things? No one sat at the dining table talking about whether to amputate or die.

But she knew what he would want. She had known him for fifteen years. She did not need to have asked him the question to know his choice.

He would be angry, though. Not at her. Not even at the doctor.

At life. Maybe at God. But he would persevere. She would make sure of it. She would not leave his side until he . . . Until he . . .

Oh, dear God. She couldn’t even imagine it.

She took a breath, trying to steady herself. Part of her wanted to run out of the room and beg Dr. Winters to remove his leg right now. If that was what it would take to guarantee his survival, then she would hold the damn saw. Or at least hand it over to the doctor.

She couldn’t face the thought of a world without him. Even if he wasn’t in her life, if he stayed here in Cambridgeshire and she went and married someone who lived in Yorkshire or Wales or the Orkney Islands and she never saw him again, she would still know that he was alive and well, riding a horse, or reading a book, or perhaps sitting in a chair by a fire.

It wasn’t time to make that decision yet, though, no matter how much she hated the uncertainty. She could not be selfish. She needed to keep him whole as long as possible. But what if, in doing so, she waited too long?

She closed her eyes tight even though her head was buried in her arms. She could feel her tears burning against her eyelids, threatening to burst forth with all the terror and frustration building within her.

“Please don’t die,” she whispered. She rubbed her face against her forearm, trying to wipe away her tears, then settled back down in the cradle of her arms. Maybe she should be pleading with his leg, not with him. Or maybe with God, or the devil, or Zeus, or Thor. She’d plead with the man who milked the cows if she thought it would make a difference.

“Marcus,” she said again, because saying his name seemed to bring her solace. “Marcus."

“ ’Noria."

She froze, then sat up. “Marcus?"

His eyes did not open, but she could see movement beneath the lids, and his chin bobbed ever so slightly up and down.

“Oh, Marcus,” she sobbed. The tears poured forth. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be crying.” She looked helplessly for a handkerchief and then finally just wiped her eyes on his bedsheet.

“I’m just so happy to hear your voice. Even though you don’t sound at all like you."

“W-w-wa—"

“Do you want water?” she asked, jumping on his broken words.

Again, his chin moved.

“Here, let me sit you up just a bit. It will make it easier.” She reached under his arms and managed to straighten him a few inches.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. A glass of water sat on the bedside table, the spoon still in it from the last time she’d tried to give him a drink. “I’m just going to give you a few drops,” she told him. “Just a little at a time. I’m afraid you’ll choke if I give you too much.” He did much better this time, though, and she got the better part of eight spoonfuls into him before he signaled that he’d had enough and slumped back down to horizontal.

“How do you feel?” she asked, trying to fluff his pillow. “Other than terrible, I mean."

He moved his head slightly to the side. It seemed to be a sickly interpretation of a shrug.

“Of course you’re feeling terrible,” she clarified, “but is there any change? More terrible? Less terrible?"

He made no response.

“The same amount of terrible?” She laughed. She actually laughed. Amazing. “I sound ridiculous."

He nodded. It was a small movement, but bigger than he’d managed so far.

“You heard me,” she said, unable to contain the huge, trembling smile on her face. “You mocked me, but you heard me."

He nodded again.

“That’s good. You can feel free. When you’re better, and you will be better, you’re not allowed to do that, and by that I mean mock me, but for now, you may go right ahead. Oh!” She jumped to her feet, suddenly bursting with nervous energy. “I should check your leg. It hasn’t been long since Dr. Winters left, I know, but there’s no point in not looking.” It took only two steps and one second to see that his leg was unchanged. The wound was still an angry, glistening red, but it was no longer tinged with that sickly yellow, and more importantly, she saw no red streaks sneaking up the limb.

“The same,” she told him. “Not that I thought there would be a change, but as I said, there’s no point in not . . . well, you know."

She smiled sheepishly. “I already said it."

She held silent for a moment, content just to gaze at him. His eyes were closed, and indeed, he didn’t look any different than he had when Dr. Winters had been examining him, but Honoria had heard his voice, and she’d given him water, and that was enough to bring hope to her heart.

“Your fever!” she suddenly exclaimed. “I should check that."

She touched his forehead. “You feel the same to me. Which is to say, warmer than you should. But better than you were. You are definitely better than you were.” She paused, wondering if she was speaking into the proverbial mist. “Can you still hear me?"

He moved his head.

“Oh, good, because I know I sound foolish, and there is no point sounding foolish for no one."

His mouth moved. She thought he might be smiling. Somewhere in his mind, he was smiling.

“I am happy to be foolish for you,” she announced.

He nodded.

She put one hand to her mouth, letting her elbow rest on the opposite arm, which was banded across her waist. “I wish I knew what you were thinking."

He gave a tiny shrug.

“Are you trying to tell me you’re not thinking of much of anything?” She pointed a finger at him. “Because that I will not believe. I know you far too well.” She waited for another response, no matter how small. She didn’t get one, so she kept on talking.

“You’re probably figuring out how best to maximize your corn harvest for the year,” she said. “Or maybe wondering if your rents are too low.” She thought about that for a moment. “No, you’d be wondering if your rents are too high. I’m quite certain you’re a softhearted landlord. You wouldn’t want anyone to struggle."

He shook his head. Just enough so that she could tell what he meant.

“No, you don’t want anyone to struggle, or no, that’s not what you’re thinking about?"

“You,” he rasped.

“You’re thinking about me?” she whispered.

“Thank you.” His voice was soft, barely even audible, but she heard him. And it took every last ounce of her strength not to cry.

“I won’t leave you,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “Not until you’re well."

“Th-th—"

“It’s all right,” she told him. “You don’t need to say it again.

You didn’t need to say it the first time."

But she was glad that he did. And she wasn’t certain which of his statements had touched her more—his two words of thanks, or the first, his simple, solitary “You.” He was thinking about her. While he was lying there, possibly near death, even more possibly at the brink of an amputation, he was thinking about her.

For the first time since she had arrived at Fensmore, she wasn’t terrified.