Trenwyth had been spared that, at least.
She crooned soft things to him as she melted another ice chip on his mouth, painting his lips with it, and allowing the water to trickle inside. This he seemed to tolerate well, and even sighed when she produced another.
“I dreamed of you,” he rasped through a throat abraded by desert sand and pain. “I dreamed of blood. And you.”
“I dreamed of you too,” she confessed, pressing her hand to his forehead once more. She’d thought it impossible, but he felt even warmer than before.
“Bugger,” she muttered, and stood.
“No.” He pulled her back to the bed with surprising strength.
“Hush, Cole, hush now,” she soothed, reaching down to uncurl his fingers from her skirts. It seemed that her voice lowered to a whisper every time she said his name; the intimacy of it felt wicked on her tongue. She should be calling him Your Grace, even in private, but the familiarity seemed a nominal sin considering the circumstances. “I’m going to change your bandage.” She kept talking, as it seemed to appease him and calm his increasingly shallow breaths. “Then we’ll see if you can keep down some bone broth and tea.”
Settling herself on the other side of him, she stretched his left arm out so his wrist hung over the edge of the bed. She intended to use the flat-sided scissors to cut the bandage off, but the moment the scissors touched the edge of the bandage he groaned and flinched expansively. Had Imogen worse reflexes, he could have been cut.
She decided to unwrap it, instead, the chore taking her extra long because of his severe reaction each time she exerted even the smallest amount of pressure.
Imogen liked to think of herself as a seasoned and stouthearted nurse by now, incapable of disgust, but she gasped when she uncovered Trenwyth’s mangled wrist. The wound was not fresh, indeed, it was more healed than not. It became apparent from the haphazard stitching of the skin, and the misshapen form, that it hadn’t been properly cared for at all.
Battling her temper along with a fresh wave of pity, she reached for the iodine, applying it to the wound.
She barely ducked a vicious strike as he screamed in pain. Imogen stared down at him in helpless frustration as a suspicion began to form.
Fever, pallidness, delirium, and muscle contractions … all symptoms of typhus. But so was a rash that covered the entire body, and there was generally a dry and hacking cough, which Trenwyth didn’t have. Granted, his breathing was shallow, and his pulse weak … but didn’t William say he hadn’t released any water since he’d arrived?
Dropping the iodine, Imogen ran from the room in search of Dr. Fowler. Trenwyth didn’t have typhus but something just as deadly, if not worse.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Nurse Pritchard, I shouldn’t think you prone to such ridiculous bouts of female hysteria.” Dr. Fowler was a rather jowly man for one so thin. The extra skin drooped from his cheeks, punctuating his supercilious frown. “The diagnosis is typhus. Every medical professional who’s cared for Lord Trenwyth from India to here has agreed that this is a textbook case.”
That was assuming Trenwyth actually traveled from India and not Bulgaria or Constantinople like the evidence might suggest.
“So you didn’t make the initial diagnosis yourself?” Imogen pressed.
“Careful, Nurse Pritchard, you are on dangerous ground.” Displeasure snapped from eyes also afflicted with loose skin.
“I wouldn’t dream of meaning any disrespect, Dr. Fowler,” Imogen began, “but I believe I’ve made a strong case for septicemia. If you’d only witnessed how His Grace reacted when I touched his wrist—”
“The poor man had his hand hacked off,” Fowler interrupted impatiently. “Or sawed off, judging by the sight of it, of course it still causes him pain.”
“Yes, but his pain seemed rather extreme and—”
“Is the site swollen, Nurse Pritchard?” He regarded her with such obvious disdain, she could have been a rodent in need of extermination.
“Not that I can tell, but it’s so poorly healed that—”
“Is it visibly quite red or extraordinarily warm to the touch?”
“His entire body is quite warm to the touch.” She’d not actually been hysterical when he’d accused her of it, but Imogen could now hear the desperation creeping into her voice.
“But the wound is not red, is it? There is no abscess or evident swelling.”
She didn’t want to cede the point, but she dare not lie. “If you’d only take a moment to come with me so that I can show you, I might be able to better express—”
“You’re treating me as though I didn’t examine the wound for myself.” The director put undue emphasis on the word. “Are you insinuating that I have been somehow derelict in my assessment?”
“I would never presume, but could we not at least perform a procedure to fix the damaged wrist and create a smoother limb? Then we’d know for certain, and if I’m mistaken, then at least His Grace lives more comfortably.”
“Nonsense! I cannot in good conscience submit such an ailing patient to the risks of the surgical theater,” he blustered. “I’d lose all credibility, and the ability to practice medicine. No, no, dear girl. Besides, the aesthetics of what’s left of Trenwyth’s arm are the least of his problems. He’ll likely not live long enough to notice—”
Impassioned, Imogen slapped her hands on his grand mahogany desk and splayed them open, leaning low over his seated form. “He cannot be allowed to die, Dr. Fowler. It is our duty to do all that we can. To explore every angle and at least consider alternate diagnoses and treatment. What if I’m right? Isn’t it at least worth looking again?”