Rules for a Proper Governess

Sinclair dropped the bloody bullet onto the rug. A small thing, but too large to be lodged in Andrew’s little body.

“More pressure,” Sinclair said. He joined Bertie in holding the nightshirt over the wound. Sweat streaked Sinclair’s bare arms and chest, in spite of the cold.

Mrs. Hill came hurrying in with a sewing box, Aoife and Peter with water they sloshed everywhere. Mrs. Hill handed the sewing box to Bertie and Macaulay took the pans of water, setting them on the floor. Cloths were already inside.

Macaulay touched Sinclair’s shoulder. “Let me, lad. You rest now.”

“No,” Sinclair said in a hard voice. “I’ll do it. Fetch a constable and get after that bastard.”

“Already done. Man might be long gone though.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bertie said. “I know the places he’ll go.” She relinquished her place to Macaulay, and opened the sewing box and threaded a needle.

A circle of feet and dressing gowns surrounded them, the entire household watching over their favorite boy. Sinclair took the needle from Bertie and instructed Macaulay to keep holding the pad of nightshirt where it was.

Sinclair smoothed out the thread with his fingers, held the lips of the wound together, and plunged the needle into his son. Andrew barely whimpered this time. His eyes remained closed, body limp, as Sinclair, his face tight, sewed up the wound.

The constable arrived, along with a doctor. Bertie only noticed the doctor when a black bag landed on the floor near her. Sinclair closed off the last stitch, carefully cutting the thread with the sharp scissors Bertie handed him.

The doctor, a lean man with a thick beard, bent down to them. “Competent job, Mr. McBride.”

Sinclair didn’t answer, didn’t acknowledge him. The doctor pressed his hand to Andrew’s brow, felt his cheeks.

“No fever yet,” he said. “But that will come. We need to keep him warm and get him up to bed.”

Sinclair kept his hand on Andrew, the needle dangling from his fingers. His gaze was fixed on his son’s face, the bleakness starting to come over him again. Bertie took the needle and thread from him and dropped the bloody things into her pocket.

“I’ll take him up.” Macaulay rose, reaching for Andrew.

“No.” Sinclair’s answer was vehement. He got to his feet, lifting Andrew gently in his arms. “I’ll take him to my bed.”

Bertie caught the trailing nightshirt that was still over the wound as Sinclair started for the hall, carrying Andrew. She trotted after them, holding the shirt, as Sinclair went swiftly up the two flights of stairs, through his dark study and into his bedroom.

“For God’s sake, put on the lights,” he snapped. “Keep it light. And warm. It’s too damned cold in here.”

Bertie turned up the gas on the nearest lamp and lit it, but she’d turned the gas too high, and it nearly exploded into light. She hastily turned it down then went to the next sconce. The fire in Sinclair’s hearth was low, so Bertie poked it to life, adding a bit more coal from the bin.

Sinclair’s bed was wide, with a thick mattress and a wooden head- and footboard that curved around the corners of the bed. It was big enough for two, but looked overly large with only one small lad in the middle. Andrew lay so still, his body ghostly white, the color of his skin blending with his hair, light like his father’s.

Sinclair sat beside him, still half naked, his muscled back tight, his shoulders rigid. Bertie picked up Sinclair’s fallen dressing gown, thick and padded, and draped it over his shoulders. He didn’t acknowledge her, his attention only for his son.

The doctor set his bag down on the other side of the bed and bent over Andrew. Sinclair at least let the man examine him, the doctor listening to Andrew’s heart and briefly lifting Andrew’s eyelids.

“The bullet doesn’t appear to have hit anything vital,” the doctor announced. He lightly touched the stitches. “Through a fleshy part it looks like. But watch him. If you see blood on his lips, you send for me at once.”

Sinclair helped the doctor pull the covers up over Andrew to his chin. He gave the doctor an absent nod, and the doctor turned to Bertie and drew her aside.

“Who are you, young woman?”

Bertie blinked, for a moment not entirely sure. “I’m Bertie. Miss Frasier. I mean, the governess.”

“Good, then Master Andrew has someone to look after him.” He handed Bertie several packets. “Mix these in water and make him drink it, several times a day. Take the empty packets back to the chemist—he’ll make up more for you. Keep Andrew warm and still, very still. We don’t need the wound to open and him to bleed. And examine the wound for discoloration. There will be bruising, but we don’t want to see streaks of red, especially ones leading toward the heart. That means infection. Can you remember all that?”

“Yes.” Bertie swallowed. “Of course.”

“Good lass. You’re English?”

Bertie spread her hands. “As English as they come.”

The doctor nodded and lowered his head to speak to her. “These Scots have odd notions. Make sure Master Andrew has much rest and no cold air. We don’t want him to take a chill.” He glanced at the bed, where Sinclair was sitting, holding Andrew’s hand. “Get Mr. McBride to take some brandy and lie down. He’s had a shock.”

Bertie managed a nod. “Right you are.”

The doctor smiled and patted her shoulder. “Good girl. If Master Andrew takes worse, you send for me at once.”