“I see.” The surgeon looked relieved. “Then I think it’s for the best you leave. Too many people can be a hindrance.”
She stood, a petite woman who looked quite formidable despite her small stature. “Then send Mrs. Brown away.” Her voice was firm and unwavering.
“Miss Neves, I have had some practice with this sort of thing,” Mrs. Brown said. Her eyes were kind. “I know what I am about. I will take good care of him.” She linked her arm with the reluctant Miss Neves and led her to the door. Emmeline tugged at Stratford, and he followed. A moment later they were outside, the door closed in their faces.
“I don’t trust surgeons,” Miss Neves said.
“Neither do I.” Stratford had seen his share of men die from surgeons’ quick, dirty work. But this was not a severed leg or a shattered arm. This was a simple pistol ball in the arm. “But if the surgeon had a bad reputation, Mrs. Brown would have said so or we would have heard it in the village.”
“It’s out of our hands at any rate,” Emmeline said. “I don’t know how to remove a pistol ball. Should we go wait in the dining room?” She released his hand, and Stratford had the urge to pull it back. But she put an arm around Miss Neves, and anyone could see the young lady needed shoring up more than he. The doors of the dining room stood open, and as they neared it, Stratford saw Nash standing at the table, pouring drinks.
“Brandy?” Nash asked as the three approached. “You look like you could use it.”
Stratford took two snifters and handed one to Emmeline and offered the other to Miss Neves. She shook her head and pointed at Nash. “This is your fault. I want nothing from you. If he dies, his blood is on your hands.”
Nash shrugged. He obviously couldn’t see how the gesture angered Miss Neves even more. The color on her cheeks deepened to scarlet.
“I have a lot of blood on my hands, miss,” Nash said. “More than any one man ought to have.”
“You are not even sorry, are you?” Miss Neves demanded. Emmeline tried to calm her, but she shook the other woman off. Stratford thought this might be a good time to down her snifter of brandy if she didn’t want it.
“Why should I be sorry? Duncan always was a lunatic. I’m surprised he survived the war.”
“Nash,” Stratford warned. Nash had always been callous and devoid of any sentimentality. But there was no reason to upset Miss Neves any further.
“I should shut up now?” Nash asked, looking in Stratford’s direction.
“I think that would be best.”
“Then I’ll leave the field to you.” He felt along the back of the chairs until he found his way to the door of the dining room. “I will extend my hospitality to one night. But I expect all four of you gone tomorrow.” He closed the doors with a thud and walked away.
“What an awful man!” Miss Neves cried, taking one of the full snifters and downing it. She began to cough and sputter, and Emmeline had to pat her on the back. When Miss Neves seemed somewhat recovered, Emmeline turned her gaze on Stratford.
“I must agree with Ines. Your Mr. Pope is an odious scoundrel. What sort of man shoots his own friend and then throws him out? It’s unconscionable.”
“Nash hasn’t been the same since the war and his injury. He wasn’t always so unfeeling.” Not that he was ever particularly warm and friendly. But Stratford supposed that anyone trained as a sharpshooter would have to rid oneself of feeling very early on. Else how could he shoot men on a mere order? Stratford had killed his own share of the enemy in battle. That was the nature of war. But those men had been ready to kill him. They’d seen him coming and had a fighting chance. Nash took men unaware, and Stratford had to believe that sort of job, day after day, weighed on a man.
“Why did you bring us here?” Emmeline demanded.
Stratford pointed at his chest. “This was not my idea. It was all Duncan.”
“Não!” Miss Neves interrupted. “If anyone is to blame, it is me. If I had not pretended I was someone I am not, we would not have needed to come here. If he dies, the fault is also mine.” She began to weep, and Stratford poured himself another snifter of brandy. Emmeline gave him a disgusted look and went to comfort the other woman.
“It is not your fault, and he will not die. Hush, now, dear. You have done all you could for him.” Emmeline continued to pat her shoulder and comfort her, while Stratford went to the window and looked out at the late afternoon sun. His belly growled, unhappy with only a meal of brandy. He had heard a rumor of soup, but none had been produced. Knowing Duncan’s appetite, that did not surprise Stratford. Something nudged his leg, and he looked down to see Loftus looking up at him.
“They make a great deal of noise, don’t they?” he said to the dog, patting his head. The dog whined, and Stratford nodded. “I think we all might benefit from something more than brandy. Shall we visit the kitchens?”
The dog must have known that word because his head came up and his tail began to wag enthusiastically. Stratford tried to tell the women he would return, but he couldn’t seem to find a moment to break in, so he patted his leg to encourage the dog and went out through the servants’ door.
The kitchens were in no better shape than the rest of the house, though there had been some effort at tidiness. The problem, Stratford saw, was that there had been a fire at some point, and the flames had damaged one wall and the ceiling. Both had been shored up with heavy pieces of timber, but they smelled of charred plaster and wood and would need to be replaced before they caved in and hurt someone. Stratford poked about and found a few potatoes and dried meat. He gave the meat to Loftus, who took it to a corner to chew on. Stratford, having been in the army, knew something about cooking, and went to fetch water from the yard. That done, he heated it, cleaned the potatoes, and put them in to cook. It was simple, but no one would go hungry.
He sat, patted the dog, and watched the pot to make sure it didn’t boil over. Emmeline found him that way a little while later. “Any news from the surgeon?” he asked.
She shook her head. “He hasn’t emerged from the parlor yet. Ines has wept herself to exhaustion. I left her with her head on the table, asleep. Are you...cooking?”
He raised his brows. “Someone had to provide a meal, and Mrs. Brown has her hands full at the moment.”
She looked in the pot and nodded. “I had no idea you had such skills.”
“I’m full of surprises,” he said. She looked at the dog, who was sleeping with his weight against Stratford’s legs.
“I see that. It looks as though you won Loftus over.”
“Dried meat is the way to a dog’s heart.”
She took the seat beside him. “You’re the strategist,” she said, looking at the fire. “What do we do?”
He looked at her. Even after all they had been through the past two days—had it only been two days?—she looked lovely. She looked a bit rumpled, to be sure, but he’d always liked her with her dark hair loose and her cheeks pink from exertion. “Too many variables yet unknown to make a plan,” he said. “We wait to see how the surgeon fares and how Duncan looks in the morning and then decide.”
“Your Mr. Pope said we must leave tomorrow.”