Jane relented. For all that she had complained about a navy surgeon having little experience in childbirth, Sir Ronald was thorough and seemed to know his business. He was gentle with his questions and apologised for those which bordered on indecorous.
Nevertheless, it reminded her so thoroughly of the last time a military surgeon had examined her that Jane found that the tears she had not shed when she miscarried were now on her cheeks. “I am so sorry. It has been a difficult day.”
“Of course.” He settled back in his chair. “Well, I am happy to report that you appear to be in good health, in spite of today’s mischance. I would need to do an examination to be certain, but given your history, I should judge that you are well into your fifth month.”
“Thank you.” The fact that his verdict matched what Dr. Jones had told her made her feel a little more confident about Sir Ronald’s judgement.
He stood and walked to the end of the bed. “Boy. Bring me that washbasin.” Sir Ronald opened his leather satchel, digging through the contents as Zeus complied with his order. “My concern, Mrs. Hamilton, is that you appear to be suffering from an inflammation of the brain. I would like to bleed you to restore some tranquillity to your system.”
“Thank you, but I would prefer not to be bled.”
He held up a lancet. “Have you been bled before?”
“I have not.”
“Then allow me to reassure you. After your time in the sun, bleeding is necessary to reduce the inflammation. Lessening the quantity of blood will diminish its stimulant quality, which will calm your nerves. It will also diminish the force with which your heart propels blood, and thus meet the same end by lessening the rapidity of the current. Lastly, it will have a direct sedative influence on the nervous centres, which is important in this circumstance, as that is the most reliable method to lessen the inflammation of the brain.”
“I am only tired because of our walk today.” Jane followed the blade as it caught the afternoon light. Her stomach tightened at the thought of being bled. She had never experienced the antique practice, but her mother’s physician had been very fond of it. “The heat overcame me.”
“I am certain you are correct that much of your fatigue traces to the heat. However, the decision to walk in it displays all the symptoms of a fevered mind.” He took the basin from Zeus and set it beside the bed. “Take her shoulders, please.”
“No.” Jane slid further back on the bed.
In a practised movement, Sir Ronald knelt on Jane’s thighs and grasped her right arm. “Now, boy.”
Zeus met Jane’s eyes and hesitated, his hands lifted. A crease formed between his brows.
“Please, Zeus. Get my husband.” Whatever Vincent had thought he was asking for, it was not this. Jane twisted under the heavy pressure of Sir Ronald’s knee. “Please!”
“Do as I say, boy.”
Still, Zeus hesitated, glancing to the door.
“Now, or I will have you whipped!” Sir Ronald barked, every inch of his military bearing becoming clear. “Remember who your master is.”
Bending his head, Zeus took Jane by the shoulders and held her down.
She screamed, as loud and hard as she could. Jane did not bother with Vincent’s name, knowing that he would hear. Whatever his intent, it was not this. She screamed again.
Disregarding her cries, Sir Ronald held Jane’s arm firm and put the blade to her arm. It stung only a little. For a moment, she thought it but a scratch, until the blood began to pour forth into the basin.
Outside, she could hear Vincent running down the hall. The latch on the door rattled, but it had been locked. With a thump, it bounced in the frame. Then again. “Jane!” And again. But the house was old and of stout construction. The lock gave not at all.
Jane still struggled against the hands that held her down, but without as much strength.
She could follow Vincent by his footsteps as he ran down the hall, through the blue parlour, out onto the veranda, and down the echoing wood to the balcony door of their apartment. He flung the door open with such force that a pane of glass shattered. She lifted her head to call him, but the room spun about her as if she had been working glamour.
The rage on Vincent’s countenance had turned it into a snarling red mask. He dashed across the room, knocking over a chair in his haste.
Sir Ronald did not look around. “If you touch me, your wife will bleed to death.”
Vincent checked his flight against the bedpost. His teeth were bared like a mad dog. “Step away from her.”
“If you insist. Although, again, if I leave, she will bleed to death.” Sir Ronald watched the bowl and kept a firm grip on Jane’s arm.
Jane did not hear Vincent’s reply. It was lost in a multitude of grey spots and the buzzing in her ears.
Sixteen