P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

“Dr. Willoughby is on his way?” Hattie managed to ask calmly. At Charlotte’s nod, she turned to Tabitha, who stood behind Charlotte. “Tabitha, please accompany Miss Charlotte to her room and stay with her until I come for you both, is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Charlotte glanced nervously at Mona. “But … we saw someone carry a man up to the attic. That man who visited you that day in the library.”

“Not now, Charlotte. I will explain as soon as I am able.”

Charlotte nodded, for once not arguing, then turned to Mona. “Thank you for the beautiful fabric, Mrs. Starr.”

Mona smiled. “You’re welcome, my dear.” Charlotte curtsied and left, and Mona said to Hattie, “A charming girl. It would be a shame to see her put at risk because of this business.”

“Yes.”

Mona stood. “It’s best that I leave before the physician arrives—it wouldn’t do to have him notice my carriage. And the longer I linger, the more likely it is that a neighbor could note my presence.”

Hattie sighed. “You’re right, though I don’t like the thought that either of us would be judged for our actions this evening.”

Hattie showed Mona down the stairs and out through the kitchen.

Mona turned, her hand on the back doorknob. “Frank wouldn’t want it known that this has happened, and I know him well enough to know he wouldn’t have wanted me to involve you. If I’d had any other alternative—”

“You made the right decision,” Hattie assured her firmly. “I’ll send word as soon as I know what his condition is.”

Mona continued to hesitate. “And I will send communication of any information I am able to uncover regarding his attack. But please, don’t try to deal with whoever did this on your own.”

“I will take every precaution,” Hattie agreed.

Mona’s expression indicated that she’d caught Hattie’s prevarication, but she didn’t pursue the subject. “As soon as I return to the waterfront, I’ll send one of my men to stand guard.”

“Do you believe that’s necessary?”

“Yes, I do. And don’t worry, he’ll be invisible—your neighbors won’t know he’s around.”

“Very well.” Secretly, Hattie was relieved to know someone would be watching out for them, and for Frank. “I am in your debt.”

“Just take care of Frank—he’s one of our own. We wouldn’t want to lose him.”

Shutting the door behind Mona, Hattie took the water and clean cloths Sara was holding. “I’ve left Mr. Lewis longer than is wise. Please bring Dr. Willoughby up when he arrives.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Hattie climbed the stairs to the attic, pausing just inside the door.

Frank lay where the coachman had left him, still unconscious. He must have shifted while she’d been talking to Mona, because one foot had fallen to the side, dangling off the edge of the cot.

Laying a hand on his brow, she was startled by the heat she felt there. Surely a fever was a sign that his body was trying to heal? She gently brushed the hair off his forehead, as she’d wanted to do yesterday in the library, though this time her reason was to pull the hair away from the bloody cuts and bruises covering his face.

One eye had already blackened, and two long gashes—perhaps made by the steel toe of a boot, she realized, shuddering—ran across his forehead and down his left jaw. His nose was bent and badly swollen along the right side, indicating it had been broken. Yet even as battered as he was, the strength of his character was apparent in the uncompromising line of his jaw and squared-off chin. Her gaze traveled down his body, noting that the knuckles of both hands were split and smeared with dried blood, indicating how hard he’d fought back.

“Who did this to you?” she murmured.

She sank into the chair Sara had set beside the cot. How could she have let this happen?

Tears burned behind her eyes. She’d seen far worse in the Boston clinic, she reminded herself, and she’d be no good to him unless she could keep her emotions in check.

Unlacing his work boots, she gently pulled them off, setting them on the floor at the foot of the bed. Fetching a pair of sewing scissors, she carefully cut away his shirt, revealing a broad, muscular chest marred with reddish-black and purple splotches along his ribs.

She was contemplating whether to leave the removal of his pants to Dr. Willoughby when Sara entered with a second basin of cool water. “I thought if you kept cold compresses on his bruises, it would ease the pain a bit.”

Hattie smiled at her. “Thank you, Sara. As soon as Willoughby arrives, please do me the favor of keeping a close eye on the girls. Don’t allow Charlotte or Tabitha to come up here. Explain as little to them as you can—I will deal with their questions once we know more of Mr. Lewis’s condition.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She hesitated. “Do you think he’ll recover?”

“I pray to God that he does.”

Hattie closed the door behind Sara as much as she dared, to discourage the girls’ curiosity. Then she drew a chair and table over next to the bed. Wetting a cloth in warm water, she began the process of gently cleaning the blood off Frank’s face, hands, and torso, biting her lip each time he moaned. As she worked, the anger that had begun to build within her earlier grew into a burning rage.

* * *

WHEN Dr. Willoughby arrived, Hattie retreated once more to the second-floor parlor, to await word of his diagnosis. After an agonizingly long hour, the portly, middle-aged physician knocked on the door. She bade him enter, rising to fix him a glass of his favorite brandy.

He lowered his bulk into the Murphy rocker next to her with a sigh, his face lined with exhaustion.

“How is he?” Hattie perched on the edge of her chair, handing the doctor his drink.

He accepted with a nod of thanks. “That young man sustained a hell of a beating—pardon my language. I’d like to personally thrash the men who did it.”

“So there was more than one attacker?”

“I found evidence of at least three.” Hattie swallowed her outrage, allowing him to continue. “One man couldn’t have overpowered a man of his size. He was surprised from behind, I would guess, by the initial blow to the back of his head, which would have stunned him. After that, he wouldn’t have been able to protect himself, though it seems he tried.” The physician paused to take a gulp of brandy. “I can see no evidence of compression of the brain, so in that respect, he is lucky. His features remain even and do not slacken to one side, and his pupils are dilated evenly. I suspect, since he continues to sleep so deeply, that he has sustained a concussion. Do you know how long he has been unconscious?”

“At least four or five hours, from what I was told.”

“Hmm.” He frowned at that, staring into the fire for a long moment. “Well, all you can do is keep him quiet and keep constant vigil, to see whether he awakens. I’ve elevated his head—keep it that way—and stitched up the various cuts. Under no circumstances should he have any stimulants.”

“What of his ribs?”

“Yes, I was getting to that—two are broken. I’ve taped them to keep them in place so that they do not puncture his lung. You mustn’t let him shift about too much. The ribs will be quite painful for a while yet, and he won’t like the effect when he breathes. I’ve left a dram of laudanum in the room, in case he experiences too much pain, but you are only to administer it after he has regained full consciousness and appears to be completely lucid. He’s best off with only willow bark tea, if he can tolerate the pain.”

“My housekeeper knows how to prepare it.”

“Good. He also has numerous bruises in his kidney region. Should those become more tender or swell, notify me immediately.” Willoughby turned from the fire with a frown. “If Mr. Lewis had a lesser constitution, I suspect he would’ve died from the beating he took.”