It rained.&nbs=
p;
It had been raining for a week, and the roads were choked with mud,
black mats of fallen autumn leaves, with flinty stone and blebs of sod, soa=
ked
clots of black dismembered branches.
The carriage charged along the slippery lane, careened and coursed,
pulled by three geldings and a mare, dark as the night through which they
ran. It was almost nine
o’clock, and they were very, very late.
Wrapped in a tattered jet-black cloak, the anci=
ent
coachman scanned the sky. Bru=
ised
thunderheads rolled soundlessly aloft, heavy as breakers on the strand. He turned and stared into the dark=
ened
landau. Inside, his master, t=
he
corpulent Marquess of Stanton, was diddling his latest conquest. A young brunette with doelike eyes=
and
skin as white as fog, her head reclined against the velvet seat, her throat
exposed, her mouth half open and her raspberry-colored lips aquiver. The coachman leered. He watched as the Marquess pawed t=
he
girl. He strained to get a be=
tter
look when, suddenly, the horses whinnied nervously. A bright white fork of lightning s=
plit
the sky. A thunderclap barked
back. The muddy lane revealed
itself and, without warning, without a moment’s chance to turn or pul=
l back
on the reins, a boy appeared before him.
The coachman cursed. He yanked the tracers, tried to
break. A Stygian darkness cho=
ked
the lane. There was a muffled=
thud,
a bump, a scream. The coachma=
n felt
the landau grind across the object in its path. There was another bump; then,
nothingness. The horses slowe=
d,
declining to a trot.
“What the blazes!” the Marquess cri=
ed
within.
The coachman reached out for a headlight as the
horses finally stopped.
“You there,” the Marquess said. The coachman had been a member of =
his
lordship’s staff for almost seven months, but the Marquess had yet to
learn his name. “Coachm=
an, what
say you?”
The coachman turned and looked into the landau.=
“I fear we’ve struck
someone, your lordship.”
The Marquess rolled his eyes.
The coachman slipped the headlight off its post=
and
lifted it aloft. He could see
nothing through the rain. He =
jumped
down from the landau and looked about the undercarriage. Nothing. The horses pawed the ground. Shielding his eyes, the coachman c=
hecked
their legs with care, one after the other.=
They appeared to be unscathed.
“Hurry up, man,” the Marquess said.=
“We’re late.”
The coachman sloshed around the carriage. In the dim glow of the headlight, =
he
could just make out a solitary boot.
It was worn and small – the footwear of a child. He stooped and was about to pick i=
t up
when something caught his eye. A
rust-red rivulet ran lazily along the lane. Blood! He straightened up. He stared into the night. Just then, another bolt of lightni=
ng
creased the sky. There! Two dozen yards away the frame of a
young boy was curled up in a heap.
The coachman groaned. =
He
dashed across the lane, bent down upon one knee, and reached out with a wiz=
ened
hand. The boy moaned softly a=
s the
coachman touched his neck.
“He lives, your lordship.&nbs=
p;
He lives!” Witho=
ut
waiting for an answer, the ancient coachman stripped the cloak from his bro=
ad
shoulders and wrapped it round the broken frame. “There, there,” he
said. “You’ll be =
all
right, lad.” Then he li=
fted
the boy and dashed back to the landau.
The Marquess of Stanton was staring out the
window. He had a flat round f=
ace, a
pair of tiny light gray eyes, set close together, and a short flat nose.
The coachman was trying to open the side door.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “He’s ’urt terri=
ble,
your lordship. We should lie =
him
down inside, sir.”
“In here?
Has the rain rinsed your wits, man?=
He’ll bleed all over the upholstery. Just leave him. Someone else will be along, I̵=
7;ll
warrant, soon enough.”
“Poor dear.” The lady with the raspberry-colore=
d lips
leaned forward, gazing down upon the shattered body in the coachman’s
arms. “He’s just a
boy,” she said. “=
We
can’t just leave him, Percy.”
The Marquess looked indignant. “Pray tell, why not, Melissa=
? Look at what passes for his
clothes. He’s obviously=
a
vagabond.”
“But he’ll die,” she answered=
.
“One urchin more or less,” the Marq=
uess
answered with a pout.
“Please, your lordship. Have pity, sir,” the coachman
said.
“Don’t be so heartless, Percy. I’ll think of nothing else t=
onight
if we just leave him here.”
The lady reached out for the door.&=
nbsp;
The Marquess of Stanton snatched her by the wrist. “If the price of= your attention is a moment’s dalliance… You are a little shrew, aren’= ;t you, Melissa?”
“But a soft and scented one,” she s=
aid,
pulling her hand away. “=
;And
one who would well please you.”
The Marquess laughed. He turned back toward the coachman=
. “It is your fault I find mys=
elf so
used,” he said. “=
Well,
hoist him up onto your seat, then, if you must. I will not soil my clothes for one=
the
likes of him.”
The young girl leaned against her suitor’s
chest. “Oh, Percy. You are a decent fellow, after
all,” she said.
“So I’ve been told,” the Mar= quess answered as the landau shuddered into flight. “On more than one occasion.&= #8221;
#
# #
&=
nbsp; Dr.
Lambro sat at his kitchen table, listening to the rain. He was supping on a pair of apples=
and a
chunk of cheddar, washed down by a flagon of warm stout. The rain pounded the thatched roof=
. A copper pot sat in one corner cat=
ching
a steady drizzle of rainwater that dripped in from above. He eyed it suspiciously and sighed=
.
His was a simple cottage: a small sitting room in front, spa=
rsely
furnished; a mid-sized kitchen with a blazing hearth and roasting spit, plus
the table at which he sat, ringed by four chairs; and above, on the second
landing, two more rooms – the master bedroom, and the other for his t=
wo
children, Mary and Nicholas. =
All in
all, it was not a very grand house.
Although well loved and respected by members of the hamlet, Dr. Lamb=
ro
was a man of simple tastes. He
never charged more for his services than his neighbors could afford. Indeed, he was as likely to be pai=
d in
eggs and pigs and chickens as in coin.&nbs=
p;
But he wouldn’t have it any other way. Such was his ilk.
He took a last bite of his apple and thought ab=
out
the old English saying: At=
e an
apfel avore gwain to bed, makes the doctor beg his bread. He smiled a bittersweet smile. The adage was truer than most knew=
, he
mused. Orchards were plentifu=
l in
the district. Perhaps that wa=
s why
the bag of coins he’d secreted under a flagstone in his cellar was so
light.
Dr. Lambro stood and stretched. It was almost nine o’clock a=
nd he
was tired. But his wife was
visiting a sick child down the lane, and he was loath to go to bed before
her. Even after all these yea=
rs, he
felt an unbridled need to protect her.&nbs=
p;
Not that she needed his protection; she was both spirited and
strong. And yet … old h=
abits
died hard. He had loved her w=
ith
all his heart from the first moment he had seen her.
A tall and gangly man, Dr. Lambro had the thick=
dark
hair, strong jaw, and piercing hazel eyes of his forebearers. He was dressed in a simple cotton =
shirt,
malachite green, with a bloodred kerchief round his neck and dark twill
trousers. His hair was cut sh=
ort,
and although he had just turned thirty-four, it was already graying at the
temples. His life had not been
easy, and it showed.
Just then he heard a pounding on the kitchen
door. Dr. Lambro turned. Who could it be at this hour? Certainly not his wife, he thought=
. The door was always left unlocked.=
“Come in,” he said.
The door burst open. Colonel Maxwell, his neighbor, ste=
pped
through the doorframe, carrying something in his arms. He was soaked from head to toe.
“Thank God you’re home,” said
Colonel Maxwell.
“There’s been an accident.”
Dr. Lambro stepped up. He looked down at the bundle in Co=
lonel
Maxwell’s arms. It was =
a boy,
no more than nine or ten. A s=
mall
line of blood slipped from his lips as his head lolled to the side. Without even thinking, Dr. Lambro
brushed his hand across the tabletop and tossed the remnants of his supper =
to
the floor. “Put him down
here,” he said.
“Quickly.” He
was already opening up the cape that had been wrapped about the boy. There was blood everywhere. The veins bulged from the boy̵=
7;s
neck and his skin had turned a bluish pallor. Cyanosis,
the doctor thought. Traumatic tension pneumothorax,
probably. Or worse. “What happened?” he as=
ked.
Colonel Maxwell was an imposing man, with a mig=
hty
barrel chest and massive head crowned with a thick gray mane of hair matted
down by the inclement weather. He
wore a brown frock coat, a mustard-colored waistcoat, and a cinder neckcloth
over his white shirt. Never o=
ne for
style, Maxwell still sported the muttonchops so popular among the military =
of
the late Regency. Without tur=
ning,
he hooked a thumb across one shoulder and said, “Struck by his
lordship’s landau on the
Dr. Lambro looked up for but a second before
continuing his work. The fat =
man
with the round flat face had already stepped into the kitchen. He was obviously a dandy. Beneath his coat and cutaway, he w=
ore a
checkered sea blue waistcoat, and his neckcloth was tied so tightly that it
braced his collar up against his ears.&nbs=
p;
“You do me honor, your lordship. Please. Come in,” said Dr. Lambro, t=
rying
to concentrate. Then he turne=
d to
Colonel Maxwell and added, “Pass me that knife there, by the sink.
Colonel Maxwell did as he was told. Dr. Lambro took the blade. With care, he began to cut away the
waistcoat and tattered, mud-stained shirt that clung like a second skin to =
the
boy’s chest.
“Heaven’s above,” the lady cr=
ied.
Two ribs stuck out of the boy’s chest.
“I told you, darling, this was just a was=
te of
time,” the Marquess said.
“We’re very late.”
“Perhaps if you had brought him earlier &=
#8230;”
“That isn’t what I meant,” the
Marquess interrupted peevishly.
“For our engagement.”
“Your what?” Dr. Lambro looked up with surprise=
.
“We’re to dine with the Earl of
Leicester. Do not fret, good =
doctor
– I’ll pay you for your time.&=
nbsp;
And the boy is obviously a vagabond. He shouldn’t have been gambo=
ling
out there on the road.”
Dr. Lambro’s face grew white. His back arched visibly. “I would urge you, sir, to l=
eave
my house.”
“What’s that? What did you say?”
“I said get out. Get out of my house, right now.=
221;
“How dare you speak to me that way, with =
such
impertinence,” the Marquess sputtered. “You forget your place, sir.=
I am a peer.”
Dr. Lambro rushed against the Marquess with the
ferocity of a feral cat. He p=
ushed
his lordship up against the wall, grabbing his cutaway in his bloody
hands. He brought his face up=
close
and said, “I wouldn’t care if you were king. Get out.” He began to drag him toward the
door. “Mark me, I say, =
or it
will be you upon my table needing surgery.”
“I would pay heed, your lordship,” =
said
the Colonel, “if I were you.
I know the doctor, and he is not a man to trifle with.”
The Marquess looked helplessly about the room.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The coachman stayed his ground
outside. The lady sidled towa=
rd the
door. With a great effort, the
Marquess pulled himself away. His
gray eyes bulged. His face gr=
ew
red. He looked down at his bl=
oody
waistcoat. “Very well,&=
#8221;
he said, brushing his clothes.
“We are already late.
Besides, it smells in here of cabbage and the poor.” Then, without another word, he tur=
ned
and headed out the door.
Dr. Lambro stepped back to the table. He picked up the knife, placed the=
tip
above the boy’s third rib, and began to push the blade into the skin.=
“Good God!” said Colonel Maxwell.
“Air is filling the cavity between the ch=
est
and lung. I need to relieve t=
he
pressure. Fetch me that
pheasant.”
Colonel Maxwell turned. A large cock dangled from the ceil=
ing,
tethered by its legs to bleed. He
tore it loose and brought it over to the doctor.
Dr. Lambro plucked a quill out without ceremony,
broke off both ends, and carefully removed the feathers. Then, with precision, he slipped t=
he straw-like
barrel down into the opening, immediately beside the blade. Next, he removed the knife. There was a small whistling sound =
as air
began to leak out of the barrel of the plume. “Please, Colonel, shut the
door.”
The Colonel stared for a moment at the three fi=
gures
retreating down the garden path through the rain, bathed by the amber glow =
of
the coachman’s lantern. He
closed the door and said, “By thunder, Lambro, you are a game one.
“I fear this boy will die if I don’t
operate immediately. And even=
then …”
“I’ve heard of the Marquess of Stanton. He’ll not suff= er this insult without satisfaction. You may count on that, sir.”
“’Tis but his pride that’s wo=
unded. Look at this boy.”
“But to make an enemy of
In all his years of military service, Colonel M=
axwell
had weathered countless enemy barrages, had faced down hundreds of cavalry
charges, thousands of anxious blades and bayonets. And yet … there was something
about the way the doctor glanced up from the table that made the blood free=
ze
in his veins. Lambro seemed a=
man
possessed.
The doctor smiled an icy smile and said, “=
;No
kin to me, perhaps; that’s true.” Then he looked down at the wounded=
boy
and said, “But he’s no stranger, Colonel Maxwell. I knew another boy once. Just like him. A long, long time ago. Another lif=
etime,
really.”
“Who was that?”
“Fetch me my surgeon’s kit from the=
front
room. Assist me, Colonel, if =
you
would, and I will tell you.”
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