Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(42)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

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.”

He took up his bag and walked out of the room, nodding once to Aoife, who held the door open for him. Macaulay looked after the doctor with some distaste, no doubt having heard him proclaim that “Scots had odd notions.”

Mrs. Hill came bustling in with a decanter in her hand. She fetched a glass from Sinclair’s study and brought it back into the bedroom. “Brandy, sir,” she said to Sinclair. “Best thing for you. And then you go lie down in the spare bedroom. We’ll watch over Master Andrew.”

Sinclair didn’t respond. He kept Andrew’s hand in his, stroking the boy’s fingers.

“Let me,” Bertie said, reaching for the brandy.

Mrs. Hill shook her head. “You need to look after Miss Caitriona. She’s with Peter, but the lad doesn’t know what to do. Go on, now.”

Caitriona. Bertie’s heart gave a guilty thud. In the panic, Bertie hadn’t kept account of where the girl was. She’d assumed Cat had followed them all upstairs, but she was nowhere to be seen.

“Right,” Bertie said, and hurried out of the room.

Chapter 15

Bertie’s heart was like lead as she took Cat by the hand and walked her from the ground floor, where she’d been sitting with Peter, to the nursery. Cat said nothing, quiet as usual, but her hand was ice cold.

Bertie turned up all the lights in the nursery and stirred the fire high. Fear needed to be treated with light and heat, not darkness. When she finished, she found Cat sitting at the table, doll in her lap, her gaze fixed on the fire.

Cat was strikingly different from Andrew in looks—her hair was dark and glossy, her blue eyes framed with black lashes. She took after her mother, Mrs. Hill had told Bertie, and Mrs. McBride’s photo confirmed, while Andrew was a miniature of Sinclair.

Bertie ought to give Cat tea or something, but she couldn’t find the wherewithal to go back downstairs or even ring for one of the maids. They were upset too. Andrew, for all his tearing ways, was easy to love.

Cat was more of a challenge, the poor lamb. Bertie drew a chair next to Cat’s and put her arm around the girl’s shoulder. Cat didn’t shrug it away, which told Bertie she wanted the comfort.

“Is Andrew going to die?” she asked Bertie in a quiet voice.

Bertie’s first impulse was to lie, to soothe her fears and say, Of course he isn’t! But Bertie had lived with ugly truth all her life, and she’d learned to prefer it. Better to face something straight on than to hide and try to pretend it away. Hurt more when you had to stop pretending, in the end.

“I don’t know, sweetie,” she said, stroking Cat’s long braid. “But your dad will take care of him, and the doctor.”