Sweet strains of music floated out
from the violin’s strings and filled the room with rising, dancing notes. His
eyes were closed; his body rocked slightly as he drew the melody from the
lacquered wooden box. He was a young man, tall but with a full frame, and his
face showed no trace of the storm that raged within him. There was only the
music, overpowering and strong. The song grew in fullness and beauty, working
its way up to a glorious crescendo before settling into the slow, graceful
conclusion.
He released a long breath and wiped
the sweat from his brow with the cuff of his shirt. Shaking his head, he placed
the violin and bow down on a cushioned chair beside him and slumped back in
defeat.
On the other side of the room, a
woman sat on a low couch with her head tilted to the side, watching him with
wide, compassionate eyes. “Well, I thought it sounded charming, Victor.”
He glanced up in surprise and
grinned at her. “My apologies, Mother. I didn’t know you were here.”
Her graceful lips parted in a broad
smile. She was still an attractive woman at forty-five, and the silver wisps
amidst her black tresses gave her the added appearance of a woman who could age
with grace. “It was really quite beautiful. Did you write it?”
“Yes, I wrote it. All in my head,
I’m afraid—perhaps I should write it out on paper.”
“And for whom is this piece
written? You certainly put your heart into it.”
“I…I don’t know that I had anyone
particular in mind when I composed it.”
She raised a skeptical eyebrow,
tapping a finger against her cheek. She tried to hide the telltale dimple of
her smile, but it was impossible. “You know, son…Anna Nelson’s birthday is
coming up tomorrow. Were you planning to attend the ball?”
Victor stood and stared out the
window for a long moment, his hands clasped behind his back. If he met his
mother’s gaze, he knew she would be able to peer straight into his heart. “I
don’t know. I guess I hadn’t thought about it.”
She huffed and stood up, walking
across the carpeted floor until she was beside him. “Come now, Victor. I know
you don’t like the social pressures of these gatherings, but it would be good
for the community to see you there. You’ll be off to open your practice in London soon enough, and I
know some of the people around town have been asking about you.”
“I suppose.”
“Including Lady Nelson. She says
Anna speaks of you often. Apparently she hasn’t forgotten your years of
friendship as quickly as you have.”
“Please, Mother. I haven’t
forgotten.” His voice became suddenly wistful as he gazed out over the gardens.
“But it’s…different now.”
“Is it? I heard a familiar refrain
worked into the harmonies of that song. Do you remember how it went? It was your song—don’t you remember? The two
of you used to sing it together all the time.”
Victor gritted his teeth. “I
remember it well.” He turned and smiled at her sorrowfully. “And you’re right,
of course. The song is for her. But I doubt she’ll ever hear it.”
“You should at least go to the
ball. You were friends all through your childhood—you owe her that much.”
“Yes.” He breathed deeply and
nodded. “I know.”
“Well,” his mother said. “You
certainly have your father’s stubbornness, Victor McNeill. It’s what I get for
marrying a Scot.”
“Thank you for your concern, Mum. It’s
just that I’m a little…a little preoccupied right now. The life of a physician
will not be an easy one for me, I think.”
“But it is a worthy one, son. And I
am proud of you.”
Victor nodded and leaned forward to
kiss her on the cheek. “I don’t think I’ll be home for dinner tonight.”
“Oh? And where are you going, young
man?”
“I’m going to meet Ruben down at
the old abbey.”
“And then to the pub, probably?”
He gave her a playful wink. “Who
can say where the road may lead us, Mother? It’s an immense world out there.”
He made his exit quickly, pleased
to see that she let him go without an argument. She didn’t approve of his
drinking habits, but it was something she had gotten used to. Mister McNeill
himself often took a flask of scotch or brandy around with him. The pub could
be a raucous place, but there were few better spots at which to enjoy the
company of the men of the town.
He rushed out the front door and
clambered up into the little carriage that stood just inside the gate of their
palatial home. “Julius!” he shouted.
The elderly black servant appeared
out of the gatehouse and smiled pleasantly. Julius had been with the McNeill
family for at least twenty years—since before Victor had been born. He was a
short man, and his black hair, which clung to his head in tight curls like a
skullcap, was now tinged with gray throughout. He was strong in body, but had
become slower with age. Even so, he still loved to work the gardens and
insisted on driving the carriage for any and all occasions.
“Master Victor,” Julius smiled and
bowed low.
“Can you take me to the old abbey?”
“Of course, sir,” he replied,
stepping nimbly up onto the thin platform that formed the front of the one-horse
coach.
As they rolled down the well-worn
path toward the main road, Victor smiled brightly. His eyes took in the scenery
around him—the gently rolling terrain of Kent , from which the grand spire of
the cathedral rose like an arrow pointing toward the heavens.
A fiery young Irishman, the son of
immigrants who hailed from the Shannon
Valley Canterbury
were many, and the two young men had endeared themselves in the hearts of most
of the residents. There were some, however, like Mister Williams the butcher,
who were less than fond of them, having been on the receiving end of too many
of their ill-conceived plans. The clerics in the cathedral also kept a watchful
eye over the two of them, ever since their unannounced theatrical re-enactment
of the murder of Thomas à Becket—the sainted hero of the Canterbury cathedral—during an Evensong
service.
Ruben’s family of twelve—he was the
third of ten children—was fairly poor, and most winters were trying times for
them. They were too proud to accept charity from the church or from the
McNeills, and they refused to take out loans to cover their expenses. Even so,
they always managed to come through the difficult times with a song and a
smile. And that was what Victor really admired in them—it didn’t matter so much
whether they were rich or poor, Irish or Scottish or English, but that they had
the resolve of character to face life’s furies with joyous abandon.
The little carriage rumbled down
the incline of the street, passing the old chapel of St. Martin and turning a
corner to come to an overgrown field. It opened onto a splendid view of the
cathedral rising from in the middle of the city, but what had always fascinated
Victor was not that great edifice of stone, but the ancient rocks that stood directly
before him now, scattered throughout the field. They were the ruins of the
Abbey of St. Augustine, some of the oldest remnants of the first wave of English
Christianity. He and Ruben had spent many hours tracing out the lines of the
ancient walls, deciding which room was used for what purpose, and using it as
an imaginary castle for their fantastical adventures. More often than not, it had
ceased to be the home of monks and abbots and had become instead the Camelot of
King Arthur and his bold knights. They always felt at home there. There was
something old and sacred about that place, as if the remembrance of those pious
monks of years gone by still lingered in the grassy sod—it was still an
accepting place, and many times that old abbey had seemed to welcome their
laughter and good-natured antics.
“Thank you, Julius,” he called out,
banging his hand against the side of the carriage a couple times as he leapt
out.
“My pleasure, Master Victor,”
Julius responded with a smile. Victor never tired of seeing him smile—that
flash of joyous white against the darkness of his skin was beautiful, and his
eyes had a special twinkle to them.
“Julius, my good man!” a voice
called out from the field. Within few moments, the ruddy face of Ruben
appeared. He bounded over the stones and ran up the grassy slope to the side of
the carriage.
“Good afternoon, Master Ruben.”
“How are your carrots coming?”
“Oh, they’ll be splendid this year,”
he winked. “Just put some of the seeds in the ground this morning, actually. I
can tell already—this is a good year for growing. You can smell it in the
earth.”
Ruben smiled brightly. “You’ll have
to lay aside a few for me come harvest.”
“You have my word, Master
O’Connell,” he bowed from where he sat on the carriage. Cocking his head toward
Victor, he raised an eyebrow. “Should I make a swing by the pub this evening?”
“You’re a good man, Julius. We’ll
be waiting for you.”
“Very good, sir. Have a pleasant
afternoon.” With a quick flick of the leather reins, the horse jumped to a
trot, and the carriage rolled on past them and disappeared around a corner in
the street.
Victor turned and glanced at his
friend. They were of the same height, but Ruben’s build was more like a river
barge than a man. His shoulders were broad and strong, matching in physical power
the intensity of his character. Ruben always asserted it was a hereditary
trait, a necessity for his Irish forebears who spent long days stacking bricks
of peat from the bog. He returned Victor’s gaze, his green eyes flashing
mischievously.
“Well, old friend, what say you?”
Victor smiled. “Do we still have those
bows and arrows we made a couple years ago? I thought we hid them here in the
abbey somewhere.”
“I think we buried them behind the
altar of the chapel.”
“Maybe we could see if they’re
still in good repair, and go hunt some pigeons in the wood.”
“Aye,” Ruben grinned broadly. They
raced off down the grassy slope, and as they neared the ruins of the abbey,
Ruben leapt over and tackled his friend. It was a time-honored ritual of their
friendship—they wrestled about in the grass for several moments, grunting and
snarling like beasts as they flung each other over down the incline. Eventually,
however, Ruben’s strength won out, and Victor was forced to surrender with a
laugh. There had never been a fight that Ruben didn’t win.
They rose, brushed off their
clothes, and continued on. No section of the abbey had more than a few stones
standing on one another—it was all open to the elements, and they quickly found
the chapel and leapt over the little wall. Digging up the sod behind the altar
with their hands, they found there what they sought—the crudely-fashioned bows
and arrows of yew that they had left there before Victor’s departure for London . The strings had
rotted away, but Victor was able to quickly replace them with a ball of string
which he claimed he had brought along for just that purpose. As they strung
their bows, they sat on opposite sides of the chapel, facing each other with
their backs against the stones of the low wall.
“So, Victor,” said the young
Irishman, “you’ve been home from school for over a month now. What have you
been up to? I haven’t seen quite as much of you lately.”
“I’ve been busy, Rube. Trying to
get organized to go back to London —I’ll
be working as an assistant to Dr. Taylor in his practice for a year or so, then
I hope to open up my own somewhere in the city.”
“Are there any pretty girls in London ?”
“A few, perhaps.”
“Perhaps? Listen, you can be a fool
when it comes to women, but even you notice them.”
“Let’s just say that I haven’t
found any there that I would entertain thoughts of marrying.”
“Would you entertain other thoughts
about them, then?”
“Of course not!”
Ruben shrugged with a smile. “Just
asking. Someone has to keep you accountable.”
“And you think you’re a good man
for the job? You’ve broken more rules in this town than any man in the history
of England .
You probably would have been hanged if you had lived a few hundred years ago.”
“Aye, I suppose,” he chuckled. “It’s
getting harder to find time when I’m not working in the fields or the shop,
though. All my wondrous creativity is going to waste. I even thought about
running off and joining His Majesty’s Navy for awhile, but my family still
needs me here.”
Victor nodded. He held up his
newly-strung bow and gave it an experimental tug. “You could come to London with me, you know. There’s
plenty of work to be found, and you could send some money back home to your parents.”
“Why would I want to go there? You
just said there weren’t many pretty girls. I think I’ll take my chances around
here. I still have a shot at wooing that lovely young lady—what’s her name?—oh
yes, Anna Nelson.”
Victor shot him a dry look. “You
would have a better shot at her if you became a seaman, I think.”
Ruben threw back his head and
laughed. “You, my friend, are helpless! The only reason I have a shot at wooing
her is because you move far too slowly.”
“Perhaps. But I want you to come with
me to her ball tomorrow, so you can have your shot then.”
“Ah, so we’re to attend together! Wonderful!
Which one of us plays the lady? I hope it’s you, because I look frightful in a
dress.”
“If you try to go in a dress, these
arrows will quickly turn from pigeons to find a larger, more Irish target.”
Ruben laughed and sprang up from
where he sat. Tucking the arrows beneath his belt, he ran over and hoisted his
friend to his feet. Together, they raced off through the open cloister of the
old abbey, making for the wood on the eastern fringe of the city. They prowled
through the undergrowth for an hour, taking shots at any bird that flew into their
field of view, but with little success. Despite their many years of trying to
play Robin Hood, their aim still often went awry. They tired of the sport after
awhile, and surrendered their bows to several younger lads who had been
following them about.
They wandered back into the city
and found Patrick, the aging fiddler who earned his keep by filling the streets
with music. He was standing in the shadow of the great stone gate, a remnant
from medieval days. Some passersby scowled darkly at him, but most were fairly
generous, and he always greeted them with a smile and a “God bless you”. Victor
and Ruben took up positions on either side of him and formed his choir section,
which delighted him to no end. They sang their hearts out for nearly another
hour, laughing and clapping along to the old folk songs. With the pressures of
becoming a doctor looming over him, Victor relished the experience—for one last
time, he could be a child. His world was changing so quickly, but for those few
moments, he was able to seize those years that had slipped by and hold them to
his heart once more.
And despite his mother’s
disapproval, they did end up at the pub, where they were greeted cheerily by a score
of the town’s men. The talk that night revolved around the same subject that
had dominated conversation for months, even years—a squat, power-hungry
Corsican warlord named Napoleon Bonaparte. Ruben quaffed his ale, and Victor
his rum, while they shook their fists and shouted along with the other men in
mutual rage over the pretentious Frenchman who had overrun Europe. They sang
together their songs of war—songs mocking the French for their bloody
revolution of a decade past, other songs mocking Napoleon and la Grande Armée, and still other songs
lauding the feats of Admiral Nelson’s boys at Cape
Trafalgar . Thomas Ramner’s pub resounded with the shouts of English
patriots that night, their tongues more than a little loosened by the fiery
brew.
It was several hours later, while
Ruben and Victor were smoking their pipes in silence, watching the smoke drift
lazily up to the ceiling, when the door of the pub flew open and a young boy
rushed in. His face was flushed, and he strained for breath as he peered around
the hazy interior of the pub. It took a moment for Victor to recognize him,
even when he rushed directly up to their table.
“George Stanton,” he said after a
moment, regarding the brown-haired boy closely. He was trying hard to catch his
breath, but he gestured toward the door with his eyes wide.
“What is it, boy?” Ruben pressed
him. “Come on, get it out.”
“Mister McNeill, sir,” he gasped,
“your Negro, outside. Some men are beating him with sticks!”
Victor smashed his pipe down
against the table and leapt up, propelling himself toward the door. Ruben
followed close behind, his face a grim picture of focused determination. Their
blood was running swiftly now, aided in no small measure by their drinks, and
they burst into the street with a roar. They could hear it as soon as they were
outdoors—the sound of the dull wood slamming against flesh, the cries and
shouts of the fight. With a roar that made his throat burn, Victor launched
himself into the mass of bodies. There were four of them there, mostly young
men, perhaps a few years older than he was. Julius was still on his feet,
trying to defend himself with his arms while they rained down blows on him left
and right.
“Bloody Negro!” one of them
shouted, only to find a moment later that he was face-first on the cobbled
street, a crimson stream pouring from his nose.
Ruben and Victor tore into the four
men with a furious passion, swinging their arms as forcefully as they could. Victor
caught one of the men in the gut, and he doubled over immediately. But as Victor
turned, a wooden plank seemed to fly out of nowhere and struck him directly
across the face. Blinded and confused for a moment, he collapsed to the street
on top of the battered form of his servant. Before he could rise again, a
booted foot began smashing his ribs and the plank came down hard against his
back again.
With a cry of fury, he mustered his
strength again and launched himself like a sprinter into his attacker. Tearing
the board out of his hands, they wrestled for a few moments, exchanging blows
and curses back and forth. After a few moments, the other man threw him off,
kicked him one last time, and scrambled off into the darkness. Victor looked
back to see Ruben standing triumphantly over the unconscious forms of the other
three men. His lip was still curled back in rage, as if daring any of the
assailants to regain consciousness while he was there.
A fair group of people had gathered
in the street around them—the entire pub had emptied to watch the brawl, and had
been joined by a sizeable crowd of wide-eyed passersby. Victor cursed under his
breath and crawled back to where Julius lay. The old man’s eyes were closed and
blood covered his face from a cut on his forehead. But his broad, powerful
chest was still heaving for breath, the air rushing into his lungs in ragged
gasps.
“Julius!” he said, his voice hoarse.
“Julius, can you hear me?”
Quickly examining the wound on the
servant’s forehead, he sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth. It was a
deep cut, showing the smooth white bone of his skull. And like any head wound,
it was bleeding profusely, trickling down to form a crimson puddle in the
street.
Someone knelt down beside him, and
he glanced up to see a young woman with long brown hair, an expression of
concern on her face.
“Is there anything I can do?” she
asked, meeting his gaze.
“Do you have a clean kerchief?”
She nodded and handed over a square
piece of white linen, which Victor immediately pressed down over Julius’s
wound.
Ruben bent down, his fists still
clenched at his sides. “Will he be alright?”
“I hope so.”
The young woman pointed to his leg.
“I think he’s broken something there, too.”
Victor looked down and nodded. Julius’
left leg was bent backwards in an unnatural position. “It looks like he’ll have
to wait awhile before he can get back to tending his carrots,” he muttered. “Come
on, Ruben. Help me bring him to the carriage. And be careful of his leg.”
The two young men gently lifted the
unconscious servant and carefully laid him on the seat of the carriage. Ruben
leapt up to the driver’s platform and snatched the reins, while Victor turned
around to find the young woman still standing there.
“What’s your name, Miss?” he asked,
breathless from the fight. Blood was pouring from his smashed nose, and one of
his eyes had already swollen shut, but he paid the wounds no heed.
“Patience,” she replied. “Patience Carmichael .”
“Alright, Patience, do you know
where Dr. Simons lives?”
She nodded.
“Can you go get him, tell him what
happened, and make sure he comes out to the McNeill house as quick as he can?”
“Of course,” she nodded. Turning,
she raised her skirt a few inches and began running down the benighted street.
Victor leapt up beside Ruben, and
they were instantly in motion. They rode slowly, making certain that the bumps
and holes in the road wouldn’t jounce Julius out of the seat. Though it felt
like an eternity, it was no more than a few minutes before they stopped and
bore him inside the large house.
Victor called out for his parents
as soon as the door was open, but he didn’t wait for them to appear. Taking Julius
into a side room, they laid him down on a low couch. Victor knelt beside him
and saw that the linen kerchief was already sodden with blood.
“Ruben, go to the kitchen and start
some water boiling over the fire. And grab my medicine kit from my chamber. I
may have to try and close this cut before the doctor gets here.”
The Irishman rushed out of the room
and clomped off down the hallway. Victor began to wipe the sweat from his face
with his shirt sleeve, and it was only when it came back with a scarlet stain
that he realized that he was also bleeding. It took him a minute to clean up
his face and stop the flow from his nose, but he kept an ever-watchful eye on Julius.
Kneeling at the side of the old servant, Victor placed a hand on the man’s
chest, still moving faintly with the rhythm of his breath.
“Stay with me, Julius.”
A few moments later, Victor’s
parents burst into the room, worried expressions on their faces. Aidan McNeill
was nearing fifty, but in many ways he still appeared to be a much younger
man—only the silver in his beard betrayed his age. That evening, though, he
appeared far older, with lines of worry creasing his face as he paced back and
forth, his eye constantly on the unmoving form of his loyal servant. His wife
Clara stood near the back of the room, biting her lower lip in tense anxiety. The
dimness of the light from the two oil lamps in the room only heightened the
sense of desperation. Victor wished it was daytime, so that at least the sight
of the warm sunlight streaming through the windows would bring some hope.
Ruben returned within a few minutes
with a bowl of steaming water and Victor’s black leather bag. But Victor had
only had time to examine the wound briefly before a knock came at the main door
of the house. Ruben rushed out to answer it, and Dr. Simons appeared, followed
close behind by Patience. They were a little surprised to see that she had
chosen to come along with the doctor, but by that point they were grateful for
any support, even from a stranger.
Dr. Simons was a short, fat man who
had a tendency to waddle rather than walk. But he was a brilliant surgeon and a
good friend of the McNeills, having saved Clara from a bout of pneumonia years
before. Later, he had taken Victor into his practice as an apprentice of sorts,
and he proved an able teacher as well as a kind companion. He knelt down at Julius’s
side and quickly inspected the forehead wound and the fractured leg. He worked
quickly and quietly, cleaning the wound and then binding it again to staunch
the blood flow.
As he worked, Patience came up beside
Victor. “How does it look?” she breathed.
“I’m not sure. It’s a bad wound.”
She nodded and focused her
attention on Dr. Simons again. Victor watched her with curiosity. He didn’t
remember seeing her in Canterbury
before, so he had no idea where she had come from. But he had been in London for two years, so
there was a fair chance that she had arrived during that time. She was an
attractive young woman, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old, as far as he
could reckon. But what caught his attention more than her appearance was her
concern, her action on behalf of strangers. He smiled slightly. It was a good
feeling to know that even in a world at war, there were still those with the
courage to stand up and help the fallen. It was that dream that had led him
into medicine, and to see it so clearly in this young woman was a comforting
experience.
Patience had not escaped Ruben’s eye,
either. Within a few minutes, while the McNeills watched Dr. Simons quietly go
about his work, he had drawn up to her side, and they spoke quietly to one
another for awhile.
After nearly an hour, Dr. Simons
turned around and drew in a deep breath. “I’m doing everything I can, Mister
McNeill,” he addressed Aidan. “But we should put this into the hands of a far
more skilled Healer. You know as well as I that prayer works wonders.”
Aidan nodded grimly and drew Clara
to his side. “Come, friends,” he spoke, his voice slightly hoarse. “Come, join
with me in prayer for Julius.”
Dr. Simons nodded his approval and
returned to his work, while the other five joined hands in a circle. Aidan
McNeill, the proud son of a Scottish Presbyterian elder, had been raised in
pious faith, and he felt unashamed to show it. He dropped to his knees, and the
others followed in like fashion.
“Let us seek the Lord’s face
together,” he said softly, then bowed his head. The other four closed their
eyes obediently as his voice began to fill the room with their plea for
healing. He prayed for several minutes, asking humbly for the Lord’s blessing
upon Julius, and he ended with a whispered “Amen”.
“Amen,” the other four repeated. They
released one another’s hands and stood again, still watching as Dr. Simons
began to construct a splint around Julius’s leg.
Victor loved and respected his
father’s piety, and his own faith had been reinforced and strengthened by that
humble man’s example. But even so, he was always a bit uncomfortable in such
situations. What does one do after kneeling in the presence of the Most High? What
should he say to his friends after such a heady moment? So they merely stood
there, silent, and watched. Clara’s hands were clasped and pressed against her
mouth, her eyes still closed, and Victor knew she was still in prayer.
Just then, another knock came at
the main door, and Ruben strode out to the hallway to answer it. After a few
moments he returned, this time followed by a tall, elderly man in a butler’s
suit. Victor recognized him instantly—this was head servant of the house of
Lord and Lady Nelson.
He bowed in the doorway and fixed
his gaze on Victor. If he was at all taken aback by the young man’s ragged
appearance—his blood-encrusted nose and swollen eye—he made no indication of
it.
“Master McNeill,” he intoned.
“Oliver. What brings you here
tonight?”
“I was sent by Miss Anna,” he said,
his voice even. “She wished to remind you that she hopes you will accept her
invitation to come to the ball tomorrow evening, as she has heard no reply.”
Victor exchanged glances with his
mother. He walked over and whispered in her ear.
“Should I go, what with Julius’
condition? Maybe I should be here to watch over him.”
“Don’t worry about it, son,” she
replied softly. “If he needs further care, I know Dr. Simons will stay with him
as long as possible. I’m looking forward to seeing Lady Nelson again as well,
so you had better make an appearance if I do.”
Victor nodded, drew a deep breath,
and faced the butler again.
“Well…yes, yes, I’m planning on
coming, as are my parents. Please give Anna my apologies for not responding to
her first invitation.”
“Very good, sir,” Oliver said, and
began to bow.
“One more thing, though. I’d like
to also bring along my dear friends here.” He motioned to Ruben and Patience,
who exchanged a bewildered glance.
Turning, Victor looked at them quickly.
“Would you like to come? It’ll be a fine party, I’m sure.”
Ruben immediately nodded. Patience
seemed a little less certain, and she hesitated for a moment. But in the end
she nodded, breaking out into a bright smile. “Yes, of course—as long as that’s
alright with Miss Nelson, of course.”
Oliver allowed a slight smile to
raise the corners of his mouth. “Quite alright, I’m sure. Miss Anna had already
anticipated Master O’Connell’s presence should you have decided to come. Her
hospitality is open to all. May I have your name, Miss?”
“Patience Carmichael .
And please give my thanks to Miss Nelson for her gracious allowance of my
presence.”
“Of course, Miss Carmichael.” He
turned crisply on his heel and walked out the door, apparently oblivious to the
friendly slap on the back that Ruben gave him.
Victor watched him go and released
a heavy sigh. He really did want to see Anna again, but part of him was
dreading the meeting. The two years of separation had changed them both, and he
feared that their close friendship was now to be merely a fond memory of years
gone by.
While Victor’s thoughts were
whirling about such things, Dr. Simons rose to his feet and turned around. His
face was drawn, but impassive as he faced the family.
“I’ve done what I can do,” he said
softly. “The wound is closed and his leg is set. He also has some broken ribs,
so you must be very careful about moving him. There may be some internal
bleeding in his head, but it’s impossible to tell at the moment. It’s in the good
Lord’s hands now. My hope is that he may wake up by tomorrow morning, and if
that happens, there’s a good chance that he’ll make a recovery. But I doubt
he’ll be doing much more physical labor for the rest of his years.”
Aidan nodded and thanked him. The
doctor smiled wearily and announced that he would return in the morning to
check in once more. Patience left with him after telling Victor where she
lived, so that they would be able to pick her up before the ball.
“In fact,” she said pleasantly,
“unless you’re detained here, why don’t the two of you join my family for
supper tomorrow? We can proceed to Miss Nelson’s party afterwards.”
“That sounds lovely,” Victor said
with a bow. “Thank you.”
They departed, leaving the house in
silence.