“I ain’t pretending. The kids like me. I’m good at looking after them.”
“You’ll have to run sometime. You’ll leave them high and dry, just like you did me and your dad, and all your friends. You wouldn’t let us have Basher McBride when you led him to my mates, and now you’re telling us to leave him alone again. You are his tart, I know it. And I’m not having it.”
Jeffrey grabbed Bertie by the front of her dressing gown, jerking her to him. She suppressed a yelp, but she fought, fists pounding his shoulders. Jeffrey yanked her dressing gown open . . . and found the barrel of Sinclair’s revolver pressed to his head.
“No,” Bertie said, fading back in dismay.
Sinclair dug the pistol deeper into Jeffrey’s temple. “Let go of her, leave the silver, and get out of my house,” he said. “If I ever see you again, I will shoot you. If you don’t go, I will shoot you right now. Do you understand me?”
Jeffrey swallowed, his eyes wide, believing. He opened his hands and released the folds of Bertie’s dressing gown.
“Out,” Sinclair repeated.
Jeffrey kept his eyes on Sinclair’s pistol as he backed away. “Right, right, I’m going.”
His hand stretched toward the valise as he passed it, and Sinclair took a step toward him. “I said leave it.”
Jeffrey clenched his fist, turned swiftly, and made for the window. He opened it easily, climbed through, and disappeared into darkness.
Sinclair shut the window on the freezing draft and found the lock broken, obviously forced by Jeffrey. No matter, he’d have Macaulay repair it in the morning.
Sinclair turned back to Bertie. In the light of the one lamp, her blue eyes were huge in her pale face, lamplight shining on the thick braid of hair that flowed over her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she was saying. “He came tonight—he said he’d hurt you and the kids, kill you even, if I didn’t help him. I thought a bit of silver you never use wouldn’t do no harm. He’d be caught as soon as he tried to pawn it, the idiot.”
Sinclair didn’t hear her. He laid the gun carefully on the table and went to her.
“Never mind.” Sinclair brushed back Bertie’s warm hair as he drew her close. He kissed the top of her head. “It doesn’t matter, lass.”
Bertie was shaking, and Sinclair realized after a heartbeat that she was crying. His Bertie, the courageous woman who looked at life and all its grimness with a bright smile, was crying in remorse.
Sinclair tilted her face up to him. “Stop, love.”
Bertie’s face was wet with tears. Sinclair leaned down and kissed one away, then he kissed her parted lips. She kissed him back, her mouth trembling, her hands curling on his chest. Her warmth wove around Sinclair despite the situation, intoxicating him.
The silence in the house meant they were alone in the night. Sinclair moved his touch to her buttocks, firm and sweet under the gown, his arousal hot and stiff under his loose dressing gown and nightshirt. Nothing existed but her kisses, her unfettered body against his . . .
Ice-cold wind blew into his back as the window slid up again. Sinclair heard the cock of a pistol.
Instinct took over. Sinclair flung Bertie down, the two of them landing on the carpet, limbs tangling. The gun boomed at the same time, and then there was another cry of surprise and pain, one too high-pitched to belong to Macaulay.
Sinclair was on his feet and out the dining room door, snatching up the falling body of Andrew, who had blood on his chest and looked up at his father with confusion in his eyes.
Bertie, her lungs constricting, snatched up the pistol Sinclair had laid on the table and rushed to the window. No one was there. She saw Jeffrey’s form vaulting to the top of the high garden wall and over, but he was too far away to stop.
She turned back, discarding the pistol on the sideboard, to where Sinclair cradled Andrew in the doorway. Andrew was still breathing, little gasping pants, blood all over his chest.
“Bertie, help me.” Sinclair’s voice was harsh.
Bertie fell to her knees. Sinclair ripped open Andrew’s nightshirt, exposing his pale chest and a red, gaping wound. Sinclair shrugged off his robe and stripped off his own nightshirt, kneeling in nothing but his underbreeches. He wadded up the nightshirt and pressed it to Andrew’s shoulder.
“Hold that right there,” he said to Bertie. “Use as much pressure as you can. I have to take out the bullet.”
“A doctor . . .”
“Too long to wait. I’ve done plenty of field surgery, taken bullets out of my friends.”
None of them had been eight years old, Bertie would wager. She obeyed, leaning her weight on the nightshirt, warm from Sinclair and now stained red with blood.
Andrew’s eyes were closed, his face waxy. But his chest still rose and fell. That was something. As long as the chest went up and down, Andrew was alive.
Footsteps thumped on stairs, from above and below, the household rushing to see what was the matter. Cat trailed them, gripping her doll in both arms, her face pale.
Sinclair moved the cloth enough to spread the lips of the wound. “Hold him down,” he said to Bertie. “I’ll need clean water, and a needle and thread,” he snapped over his shoulder.
Footsteps pounded again as the servants hurried to obey. Cat sank down on one of the dining room chairs, her blue eyes wide, but Bertie couldn’t leave Andrew to go to her.
Sinclair dipped his already bloody fingers into the wound, and in one go, closed his fingers around the bullet and drew it out.
Andrew’s eyes flew open, and he screamed. Bertie held him, her heart beating wildly, and wanted to scream with him. Andrew cried out once more, then slumped back to the floor, eyes closing, but his chest rose again with his breath.
Sinclair dropped the bloody bullet onto the rug. A small thing, but too large to be lodged in Andrew’s little body.
“More pressure,” Sinclair said. He joined Bertie in holding the nightshirt over the wound. Sweat streaked Sinclair’s bare arms and chest, in spite of the cold.
Mrs. Hill came hurrying in with a sewing box, Aoife and Peter with water they sloshed everywhere. Mrs. Hill handed the sewing box to Bertie and Macaulay took the pans of water, setting them on the floor. Cloths were already inside.
Macaulay touched Sinclair’s shoulder. “Let me, lad. You rest now.”
“No,” Sinclair said in a hard voice. “I’ll do it. Fetch a constable and get after that bastard.”
“Already done. Man might be long gone though.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Bertie said. “I know the places he’ll go.” She relinquished her place to Macaulay, and opened the sewing box and threaded a needle.
A circle of feet and dressing gowns surrounded them, the entire household watching over their favorite boy. Sinclair took the needle from Bertie and instructed Macaulay to keep holding the pad of nightshirt where it was.
Sinclair smoothed out the thread with his fingers, held the lips of the wound together, and plunged the needle into his son. Andrew barely whimpered this time. His eyes remained closed, body limp, as Sinclair, his face tight, sewed up the wound.
The constable arrived, along with a doctor. Bertie only noticed the doctor when a black bag landed on the floor near her. Sinclair closed off the last stitch, carefully cutting the thread with the sharp scissors Bertie handed him.
The doctor, a lean man with a thick beard, bent down to them. “Competent job, Mr. McBride.”
Sinclair didn’t answer, didn’t acknowledge him. The doctor pressed his hand to Andrew’s brow, felt his cheeks.
“No fever yet,” he said. “But that will come. We need to keep him warm and get him up to bed.”
Sinclair kept his hand on Andrew, the needle dangling from his fingers. His gaze was fixed on his son’s face, the bleakness starting to come over him again. Bertie took the needle and thread from h
im and dropped the bloody things into her pocket.
“I’ll take him up.” Macaulay rose, reaching for Andrew.
“No.” Sinclair’s answer was vehement. He got to his feet, lifting Andrew gently in his arms. “I’ll take him to my bed.”
Bertie caught the trailing nightshirt that was still over the wound as Sinclair started for the hall, carrying Andrew. She trotted after them, holding the shirt, as Sinclair went swiftly up the two flights of stairs, through his dark study and into his bedroom.
“For God’s sake, put on the lights,” he snapped. “Keep it light. And warm. It’s too damned cold in here.”
Bertie turned up the gas on the nearest lamp and lit it, but she’d turned the gas too high, and it nearly exploded into light. She hastily turned it down then went to the next sconce. The fire in Sinclair’s hearth was low, so Bertie poked it to life, adding a bit more coal from the bin.
Sinclair’s bed was wide, with a thick mattress and a wooden head- and footboard that curved around the corners of the bed. It was big enough for two, but looked overly large with only one small lad in the middle. Andrew lay so still, his body ghostly white, the color of his skin blending with his hair, light like his father’s.
Sinclair sat beside him, still half naked, his muscled back tight, his shoulders rigid. Bertie picked up Sinclair’s fallen dressing gown, thick and padded, and draped it over his shoulders. He didn’t acknowledge her, his attention only for his son.
The doctor set his bag down on the other side of the bed and bent over Andrew. Sinclair at least let the man examine him, the doctor listening to Andrew’s heart and briefly lifting Andrew’s eyelids.
“The bullet doesn’t appear to have hit anything vital,” the doctor announced. He lightly touched the stitches. “Through a fleshy part it looks like. But watch him. If you see blood on his lips, you send for me at once.”
Sinclair helped the doctor pull the covers up over Andrew to his chin. He gave the doctor an absent nod, and the doctor turned to Bertie and drew her aside.
“Who are you, young woman?”
Bertie blinked, for a moment not entirely sure. “I’m Bertie. Miss Frasier. I mean, the governess.”
“Good, then Master Andrew has someone to look after him.” He handed Bertie several packets. “Mix these in water and make him drink it, several times a day. Take the empty packets back to the chemist—he’ll make up more for you. Keep Andrew warm and still, very still. We don’t need the wound to open and him to bleed. And examine the wound for discoloration. There will be bruising, but we don’t want to see streaks of red, especially ones leading toward the heart. That means infection. Can you remember all that?”
“Yes.” Bertie swallowed. “Of course.”
“Good lass. You’re English?”
Bertie spread her hands. “As English as they come.”
The doctor nodded and lowered his head to speak to her. “These Scots have odd notions. Make sure Master Andrew has much rest and no cold air. We don’t want him to take a chill.” He glanced at the bed, where Sinclair was sitting, holding Andrew’s hand. “Get Mr. McBride to take some brandy and lie down. He’s had a shock.”
Bertie managed a nod. “Right you are.”
The doctor smiled and patted her shoulder. “Good girl. If Master Andrew takes worse, you send for me at once.”
He took up his bag and walked out of the room, nodding once to Aoife, who held the door open for him. Macaulay looked after the doctor with some distaste, no doubt having heard him proclaim that “Scots had odd notions.”
Mrs. Hill came bustling in with a decanter in her hand. She fetched a glass from Sinclair’s study and brought it back into the bedroom. “Brandy, sir,” she said to Sinclair. “Best thing for you. And then you go lie down in the spare bedroom. We’ll watch over Master Andrew.”
Sinclair didn’t respond. He kept Andrew’s hand in his, stroking the boy’s fingers.
“Let me,” Bertie said, reaching for the brandy.
Mrs. Hill shook her head. “You need to look after Miss Caitriona. She’s with Peter, but the lad doesn’t know what to do. Go on, now.”
Caitriona. Bertie’s heart gave a guilty thud. In the panic, Bertie hadn’t kept account of where the girl was. She’d assumed Cat had followed them all upstairs, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“Right,” Bertie said, and hurried out of the room.
Chapter 15
Bertie’s heart was like lead as she took Cat by the hand and walked her from the ground floor, where she’d been sitting with Peter, to the nursery. Cat said nothing, quiet as usual, but her hand was ice cold.
Bertie turned up all the lights in the nursery and stirred the fire high. Fear needed to be treated with light and heat, not darkness. When she finished, she found Cat sitting at the table, doll in her lap, her gaze fixed on the fire.
Cat was strikingly different from Andrew in looks—her hair was dark and glossy, her blue eyes framed with black lashes. She took after her mother, Mrs. Hill had told Bertie, and Mrs. McBride’s photo confirmed, while Andrew was a miniature of Sinclair.
Bertie ought to give Cat tea or something, but she couldn’t find the wherewithal to go back downstairs or even ring for one of the maids. They were upset too. Andrew, for all his tearing ways, was easy to love.
Cat was more of a challenge, the poor lamb. Bertie drew a chair next to Cat’s and put her arm around the girl’s shoulder. Cat didn’t shrug it away, which told Bertie she wanted the comfort.
“Is Andrew going to die?” she asked Bertie in a quiet voice.
Bertie’s first impulse was to lie, to soothe her fears and say, Of course he isn’t! But Bertie had lived with ugly truth all her life, and she’d learned to prefer it. Better to face something straight on than to hide and try to pretend it away. Hurt more when you had to stop pretending, in the end.
“I don’t know, sweetie,” she said, stroking Cat’s long braid. “But your dad will take care of him, and the doctor.”
“They took care of Mama too. But she died.” Cat’s voice was faint. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, not much we can do is there? Except hope. And pray.”
“I don’t believe in God.”
Bertie started. Personally, she and God had an off-again, on-again relationship, but to hear it put so baldly, from a child, surprised her. But then, Cat had seen her mother taken away from her and her father become an absolute blank, and no one, divine or human, had been able to stop either occurrence.
“Well, I believe it,” Bertie said. “I think if one of us does, that should be good enough.”
Cat gave her a skeptical look. “When Mama died, a lady from Sunday school told me I should be happy, because it meant Mama had been very good and was let into heaven early. She said the angels hadn’t wanted to wait to reward her.”
“Oh.” Stupid woman. What a horrible thing to tell a child! Bertie recalled a story she’d heard at the tender age of six, in which angels watched for children who were exceptionally good, and took years away from their lives so they’d die and go to heaven quicker. Bertie remembered being terrified and trying to be as bad as she could possibly be.
“Don’t you worry about that,” Bertie said, patting Cat’s hand. “That’s nonsense, that is. It isn’t even in the Bible. What I remember of it anyway.” Not that she’d read any of it herself, but some of the stories from the church her mother had taken her to had stuck with her. “That’s ladies who don’t know anything, and thinking they’re comforting you. I wouldn’t take no notice.”
“Andrew isn’t good,” Cat said.
“There you are then.” Bertie grinned at her. “He’ll be fine.”
“But everyone loves him.”
“So do you,” Bertie said.
Cat’s eyes filled with tears, and she nodded.
Bertie drew her close, doll and a
ll. “It’s all right, love. You worry about him all you want, and I’ll pray. We’ll help your dad, and we’ll get Andrew better.” Then Bertie would hunt Jeffrey down and make him pay. If Andrew died . . .
“Do you love my papa?” Cat asked.
Bertie jumped, but again, she couldn’t lie. She gathered Cat closer and rested her cheek on the girl’s hair. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I think I do.”
Sinclair held Andrew’s hand far into the night and the wee hours of the morning. When he felt sleep coming upon him, he stretched out beside Andrew, laying his hand on Andrew’s chest. If Andrew so much as twitched, Sinclair would wake.
Sleep came in waves. It would surround Sinclair in blackness for a few minutes, then ease up, then sweep over him again. Through it all Andrew never moved.
When morning light came, so did Andrew’s fever. Sinclair came wide awake, never feeling his restless night. He commanded cool water to be brought and a tonic called Warburg’s tincture. The tincture was meant for malarial diseases, but Sinclair knew by experience it would work to bring down fever. The powders the doctor had handed to Bertie were useless—he knew that too. Good for dyspepsia and not much else.
Andrew, restless, didn’t want to swallow the medicine, but Sinclair got it into him. He bathed Andrew’s face and hands, changing the bedding himself when Andrew soiled it.
All day Sinclair nursed his son, not knowing what time it was or caring. Somewhere during the day, he let Macaulay talk him into donning a shirt and trousers, but Sinclair saw no reason to dress completely. He napped off and on, felt the deepening of whiskers on his face. He knew others came and went, but Sinclair couldn’t pull his concentration from Andrew.
Sinclair always sensed Bertie’s presence though, even when he didn’t turn his head to look at her, even when she said nothing to him. Cool calm stole over the room whenever she was in it, as though she brought peace and reassurance with her.
When the sun went down, Peter restocked the coal fire, and Macaulay brought Sinclair a cup of beef tea and forced him to drink it. Bertie came in as Macaulay departed.