“God had nothing to do with what happened to this man.” Even Dr. Longhurst, a colleague she knew to be rational and sensible to the point of stoic, injected an extra note of emotion into his voice at the ghastly sight of Trenwyth’s body.
“W-why?” Imogen whispered.
More bruises covered Trenwyth’s long form than unmarked flesh. His hipbones jutted against the thin white linen of the undergarment draped to grant him a modicum of modesty. He was malnourished, emaciated, and had obviously been tortured. His skin, once a hue of gold to rival the sunlit barley fields in August, now reminded her of the pale wax she had to peel from the top of an unopened bottle of Ravencroft Scotch. Though his cuts and abrasions had already been stitched and wrapped, the angriest bruises suggested he’d spent a great deal of time bound by coarse rope, indenting at his neck, his ankles and wris—.
Imogen closed her eyes, assaulted by a wave of anger, compassion, and disbelief.
His left hand, it was … gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
“You’re not going to cry, are you?” Panic edged into Dr. Longhurst’s voice.
“No.” Imogen sniffed, fearing that at any moment she might be proved a liar. It was all she could do to tear her horrified gaze from the rounded, bandage-wrapped wrist. “But … how did this happen? Who did this to him?”
Trenwyth shivered, though a sheen of sweat glossed his skin, and Imogen helped Dr. Longhurst to cover him as he murmured strange and nonsensical things.
“Know what I believe?” Longhurst asked in his abbreviated way, looking about them as though to assure their privacy. “The Ottoman Turks. Now help me open the windows. There’s new evidence that fresh, clean air is beneficial to those with fevers this high, and all of our antipyretic efforts have been thwarted.”
Dazed, Imogen trailed after Dr. Longhurst, surprised how reluctant she was to leave Trenwyth’s side, even to perform this little task. “The Ottomans?” He’d been the second one only this hour to deduce that. “Did you also read the American papers?”
He gave her a queer sort of look. “No, but I’ve spent time among the Persians and the Turkish people, studying some of their chemical and medical advancements. While I respect and enjoyed them very much, I’ve also seen what they do to their enemies. Have you ever heard of Sharia law?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“If a man is considered a thief, it is the practice of certain sects to relieve him of the offending hand.”
“How … barbaric.” She winced.
“About as barbaric as what we Westerners do, believe you me.”
Her own hand flew to her chest. Had Trenwyth run afoul of the Ottomans? Had he, indeed, been part of the April Uprising? Had he been a prisoner all this time? An entire year … She couldn’t bear the thought of so much suffering, only to end up like this.
“Will Dr. Fowler mind the open windows, do you think?” she queried, desperate to inject some sense of normalcy into the conversation, lest he perceive her particular distress over Trenwyth’s condition. Crisp, spring air swirled in, carrying the sweet scent of puffed carameled corn and cinnamon pastries sold by street vendors. The aroma was underscored by the more pervasive, unpleasant odors of the city such as coal smoke, horses, and the preferably unidentifiable bouquet of the Thames.
“Fowler can hang if he does,” Longhurst said evenly. “If the medical journals say this is best, then he should be paying them more mind than his backward traditions.”
Imogen silently agreed, returning to Cole’s bedside and checking his chart. He’d been given every treatment possible to combat his condition. The ice baths, tinctures, teas, and so forth had produced little to no effect. “What else needs to be done for him, Dr. Longhurst?”
To her utter surprise, the doctor rested a hand on her shoulder. “All we can do now is make him comfortable. And pray, if you do that sort of thing. Though his bandages may need changing in short order.”
“I would be most anxious to assist while you—”
“I don’t mean to seem … crude or unfeeling, Nurse Pritchard, but unlike you I’ve never had typhus. The less time I spend in here the better. For my patients and myself. If you could do as much on your own as necessary…”
Suddenly the thought of being alone with Trenwyth appealed to her very much. “Of course, Doctor. If you would, please send William up with some marrow broth, bandages, ice, and water?”
Longhurst nodded, assessing her with what she would call an earnest look before lowering his hand from her shoulder. “Do call me if—when his condition changes.”
“Yes, sir.” Imogen barely noted his leaving as the gravity of his words struck her with new trepidation. Trenwyth couldn’t, indeed, remain in this limbo of fever and illness. He’d either recover eventually or …
No. Shoving any grief-inducing words from her mind, she bent over him, resting a hand on his forehead. Touching him seemed surreal after all this time.
He was so incredibly hot, it astonished her that his perspiration didn’t instantly turn to steam.
Until she’d seen him, her greatest fear had been such a selfish one. That he would take one look at her, and remember who she was. That he would tell everyone that she’d been his prostitute, and she’d be dismissed on the spot. Now, a dread more insidious than that weaved its cold way through her as she hovered over him as though to shield him from the grim reaper.
She feared for his life most of all.
The man had been scoundrel and saint. Heathen and hero. A dangerous man and a deferential lover.
And now …
She brushed sweat-slicked hair away from his broad forehead, the most tender sentiment filling her chest nigh to bursting. Now he needed her again.
“You are going to live, Cole,” she whispered to him. “I’ll make certain of it.”
Typhus, a nasty disease they had called gaol fever in the not-too-distant past, preyed upon those that lived in squalor and drank putrid water. Then, the infection spread, like it had to those in the Pritchards’ close and dingy apartments so long ago when she’d battled the miserable disease.
Rarely did someone like Trenwyth contract it. Someone healthy, adult, and well fed.
How deplorable the conditions must have been in whatever hell he’d been rescued from.
William arrived with the items she’d requested, and Imogen instantly got to work. She knew the duke would find it uncomfortable, but in order to bring his temperature under control, she’d need to rub him down with the ice thoroughly and often.
“Does he need use of the necessary, Nurse Pritchard? He hasn’t since he arrived.”
Imogen checked, frowning. “No, I’ll ring for you if he does.”
Refusing William’s offer of further assistance, she waited until the door clicked closed again, and peeled the sheet back from Trenwyth’s body, now damp with his sweat.
Try as she might, it was difficult not to despair as she dipped her soft cloth in the icy water and began bathing his forehead with it. He flinched at first, but then his head turned toward her touch, as though it brought him relief.
In her cherished memory, Trenwyth was such an imposing man, almost inhuman in the perfection of his physique and abilities. Often, on her days off, she’d stroll through Hyde Park, pausing to consider the statue of Achilles at the Wellington Monument, and appreciating the physical similarities between the Greek hero and her one-time lover.