Faces of the Wind

Chapter 18

"I am telling you, people in London are talking," Ursula said in an exaggerated stern tone, stressing every word, "some have actually seen her create a scene in Westminster with that politician with the foul reputation!" She held her head and strategically fell back onto an armchair.

"It is very likely of Arden to create a scene, but with some politician? I highly doubt it," William frowned at his sister.

Ursula briskly sat up straight, her eyes shooting thunder at her older brother. "George McGowan," she cried, baring her big, crooked teeth, "he was seen visiting an Italian woman before and she is now with child!"

"Maybe Arden came across him by coincidence."

"Coincidence?" She snapped, her eyes bulging, "Could you be more naïve, brother?" She sighed, "You definitely don't know what your daughters are up to!" She did not stop to take a breath even though she was near turning blue, "You have no clue what young women are capable of these days! Especially when left unchaperoned like your daughters!" She gasped loudly one would think she has been under water for long minutes.

"Arden is with her aunt," he replied, his face a grimace, "she is well-chaperoned, I believe."

"Oh, my dear, dear brother William," she got up and went to sit next to him on the sofa facing the blazing fireplace. She placed a tender hand on top of his and looked into his eyes, her brows furrowed. "That Lilley needs to be chaperoned herself," she cooed, "I would not trust a young lady in her company."

He sighed, "I cannot deprive the girls of their aunt; they already lost their mother and her closest friend was her only sister."

"I am not suggesting you deprive them of their aunt," she gave him a knowing look, "just be aware of your daughters' devices."

***

Charles Longfeather was violently shoved to the floor an instant before he pulled the trigger. He was relieved he pulled it nevertheless. He panted loudly then allowed himself to sob as he struggled to pull himself together and get up to restore his dignity. The fat man could not stand up nor make out what people around him were babbling in a loud frenzy. He ran a palm over his face, making it more reddish. "My little girl," he sobbed quietly, "my kind, beautiful little Irene."

Adrian felt like a rod hit him in the arm but with no pain. He was startled and the deafening roar of gunfire stunned his ears with a loud ringing. He then felt hot and wet on his right side until an excruciating pain began to creep up his arm. He looked at it and saw a stream of blood drip on the floor. He felt sick. Ever so carefully, he sat on the floor and his arm began to burn even more and a shooting pain made his heart say a silent prayer to pass out, but this wish was not granted. He stared at his father's white face with wide eyes that pled for protection and help.

"Take him to the guest room and try to control the bleeding with a clean cloth," Jeffrey instructed a very frantic Mrs. Dusteby, whose dress was beginning to soak in Adrian's blood. She nodded faintly, her face so pale she was near fainting.

He hurriedly put on his coat and changed into his boots. "I'll throw this trash outside my house and fetch a surgeon." He dragged a dazed Charles outside and closed the front door before he bent and lifted him a little by the collar, his eyes shooting venom. "I'll deal with you once this mess is over," he said from between clenched teeth before he threw the middle-aged man back to the ground.

The excruciating pain left Adrian unsure whether his arm was still there or gone. He felt very week and unable to move. Someone gently helped him lie down... or maybe he did it on his own, he was not sure.

Mrs. Pearse rushed to Mrs. Dusteby's aid, carrying a clean cloth, scissors, a needle, a thread, matches and a bottle of brandy. She was a big woman with a freckly, round face and fleecy flame-red hair. She spoke very little and seemed cold and short-tempered with people most of the time. No one was smart enough to be given the privilege of chatting with her.

"Make way, woman," she said to Mrs. Dusteby, who was fussing with her apron and trying to gently press Adrian's wound with it in an attempt to stop the bleeding as he lay on the floor breathing fast, letting out brief groans and his face a grimace of fright and agony.

The fortyish cook knelt, downed some brandy and ripped Adrian's sleeve with her bare hands. She found two bullet wounds and fastened a piece of cloth above them then poured bathed them in brandy. His groan never grew any louder but his grimace turned very intense, his voice vanished and his head was drenched in sweat.

Mrs. Pearse handed Mrs. Dusteby the brandy and instructed, "Make'im drink sum."

Mrs. Dusteby tried to lift his head a little and make him drink some brandy, but he wouldn't take it. Meanwhile, Mrs. Pearse threaded the needle, heated its tip with a match then began to stitch up Adrian's arm.

After seconds of intolerable agony, he finally felt at peace. He watched his body from above as if it no longer belonged to him. It was very still and tranquil.

"Dear Lord!" Mrs. Dusteby exclaimed in a combination of disbelief and irritation, "By God, woman, what has possessed you? You are no surgeon!"

Mrs. Pearse looked up and met the other woman's gaze. "Indeed not," she replied stiffly, "but, by God, I know 'ow t'save a man from bleedin' t'death while ee si' there judgin' me." She went back to stitching his arm then cleaned it again with brandy and tightly wrapped a white cloth around it before unwrapping the one she placed earlier above the wounds.

"There," she said as she patted the cheek of a shivering Adrian, "you'll be fine and dandy."

She looked at Mrs. Dusteby and added, "I'll put'im in bed while ye kindly fetch me sum water an' a towel."

Clouded with disbelief, Mrs. Dusteby got up to do as Mrs. Pearse said.

***

Jeffrey ran into the guest room, gasping for breath. "How is he?" He asked Mrs. Dusteby, who sat at the bedside.

"Mrs. Pearse stopped the bleedin', bu' he isn't very conscious," she replied. "Where is the surgeon?"

Lydia walked quickly, carrying a leather bag. "Here she is," she said, smiling confidently and gracefully.

"B-but," Mrs. Dusteby stammered, "you're a w-woman!"

Lydia's smile never faltered. She raised her brows and replied, "A woman with enough skill to extract a bullet." She took her shawl off. Mrs. Dusteby hurried to take it from her. Lydia placed her bag on the nightstand and opened it, presenting a set of surgical tools, among which was a long metal bullet extractor.

"I'm very glad he isn't very awake because I don't have any ether in my possession," she said calmly.

Mrs. Dusteby was struck dumb and her jaw dropped.

"Dr. Tremor was engaged by Viscount Chilston," Jeffrey said to his housekeeper, "his son is suffering from flu symptoms, which should be more serious than a gunshot."

"And Dr. Bentley?" She asked.

"In London."

"Are you sure this is the best option?"

"Couldn't think of anyone more competent than my niece," he replied.

"Mrs. Pearse did a fine job controlling the bleeding," Lydia said as she examined the wounds. She looked up at Mrs. Dusteby and added, "She's a woman, too, I suppose?" She smiled widely.

She went back to examining the wounds. "I need more light, please," she said, "thankfully, the bullet went through and didn't fracture any bones."

"Why don't you go search for the projectile while I fetch this lady surgeon some more candles, Mrs. Dsuteby?" Jeffery said.

***