“WHAT ON EARTH happened to your eye?” I demanded, peering at it. I had John on the cot in my small medical tent, the flap open to admit as much light as possible. The eye was swollen half shut and surrounded by a sticky black ring where the felt patch had been peeled away, the underlying flesh a lurid palette of green, purple, and ghastly yellow. The eye itself was red as a flannel petticoat and, from the irritated state of the eyelids, had been watering more or less constantly for some time.
“Your husband punched me when I told him I’d bedded you,” he replied, with complete composure. “I do hope he didn’t take any similarly violent actions upon being reunited with you?”
Had I been capable of a convincing Scottish noise, I might have resorted to one. As it was, I merely glared at him.
“I decline absolutely to discuss my husband with you,” I said. “Lie down, blast you.”
He eased himself back on the cot, wincing.
“He said he hit you twice,” I remarked, watching this. “Where was the second one?”
“In the liver.” He gingerly touched his lower abdomen. I pulled up his shirt and inspected the damage, which amounted to further spectacular bruising around the lower ribs, with blue streaks draining down toward the ilial crest, but little more.
“That’s not where your liver is,” I informed him. “It’s on the other side.”
“Oh.” He looked blank. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am,” I assured him. “I’m a doctor. Let me look at your eye.”
I didn’t wait for permission, but he didn’t resist, lying back and staring up at the canvas roof while I spread the eyelids as far as possible. The sclera and conjunctiva were badly inflamed, and even the dim light made the eye water profusely. I held up two fingers.
“Two,” he said, before I could ask. “And before you start ordering me to look to and fro and up and down . . . I can’t. I can see out of it—though it’s a bit blurry, and I see everything doubled, which is very disagreeable—but I can’t move it at all. Dr. Hunter opined that some muscle or other was trapped by some sort of bone. He didn’t feel competent to deal with it.”
“I’m flattered that you think I might be.”
“I have the fullest confidence in your abilities, Dr. Fraser,” he said politely. “Besides, have I any choice?”
“No. Keep quite still, there . . . Germain!” I had caught sight of a telltale flutter of pink calico from the corner of my eye, and the runaway came sidling in, looking vaguely guilty.
“Don’t tell me what you have in your shirt,” I said, noting a suspicious bulge or two. “I don’t want to be an accessory to crime. No, wait—is it alive?”
Germain prodded the bulge, as though not quite sure, but it didn’t move, and he shook his head. “No, Grand-mère.”
“Good. Come here and hold this, will you?”
I handed him my pocket looking glass and, adjusting the tent flap so that a ray of light shone in, then adjusted Germain’s hand so that the reflected light shone directly from the mirror into the affected eye. John yelped slightly when the light struck his eye, but obediently clutched the sides of the cot and didn’t move, though his eye watered terribly. All the better; it would wash out bacteria and perhaps make it easier to move the eyeball.
Denny was most likely right, I thought, selecting my smallest cautery iron and slipping it gently under the lower lid. It was the best thing I could find for the job, being flat, smooth, and spade-shaped. I couldn’t move the globe of the eyeball upward at all; even slight pressure made him go white. I could move it slightly from side to side, and given the sensitivity of John’s face just below the eye, I began to form a mental picture of the damage. It was almost certainly what was called a “blowout” fracture, which had cracked the delicate bone of the orbital floor and forced a displaced bit of it—along with part of the inferior rectus muscle—down into the maxillary sinus. The edge of the muscle was caught in the crack, thus immobilizing the eyeball.
“Bloody, bloody-minded, effing Scot,” I said, straightening up.
“Not his fault,” said John. “I provoked him.” He sounded excessively cheerful, and I turned a cold look on him.
“I’m not any more pleased with you,” I informed him. “You aren’t going to like this, and it will serve you right. How in heaven’s name did you—no, don’t tell me now. I’m busy.”
He folded his hands across his stomach, looking meek. Germain sniggered, but desisted when I gave him a glare of his own.
Tight-lipped, I filled a syringe—Dr. Fentiman’s penis syringe, as it happened; how appropriate—with saline solution for irrigation and found my small pair of needle-nosed forceps. I had another peek at the site with my makeshift spatula and prepared a tiny, curved needle with a wet catgut suture, cut very fine. I might manage without needing to stitch the inferior rectus—it depended whether the edge of the muscle had frayed very badly, by reason of its long entrapment, and how it survived being dislodged—but best to have the suture handy, in case of need. I hoped the need wouldn’t occur; there was so much swelling . . . but I couldn’t wait several days for it to subside.
What was troubling me was not so much the immediate reduction of the fracture and freeing of the muscle but the longer-term possibility of adhesion. The eye should be kept fairly immobile, to aid healing, but doing that might cause the muscle to adhere to the orbit, literally freezing the eye permanently. I needed something slippery with which to dress the site, something biologically inert and non-irritating—in my own time, sterile glycerin drops would have been instantly available, but here . . .
Egg white, perhaps? Probably not, I thought; body heat might coddle it, and then what?
“John!”
A shocked voice behind me made me turn, needle in hand. A very dapper-looking gentleman in a stylish wig and a gray-blue velvet suit was standing just inside the tent flap, staring aghast at my patient.
“What’s happened to him?” Percy Beauchamp demanded, spotting me in the background.
“Nothing serious,” I said. “Are you—”
“Leave,” said John, in a voice I’d never heard him use before. He sat up, fixing the newcomer with as steely a look as could be managed with one badly watering crimson eye. “Now.”
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” Beauchamp demanded. His accent was English, but English faintly tinged with French. He took a step nearer and lowered his voice. “Surely you have not become a Rebel?”
“No, I bloody haven’t! Leave, I said.”
“Dear God, you mean you—what the devil happened to you?” He’d come close enough now to behold the complete picture: filthy cropped hair, filthy disheveled clothes, filthy stockinged feet with holes in toe and heel, and a distorted visage now directing a glare of bloodshot venom at him.
“Now, look here—” I began, turning on Percy with determined firmness, but Germain stopped me.
“He’s the man who was looking for Papa in New Bern last year,” Germain said. He’d put down the looking glass and was watching the evolving scene with interest. “Grand-père thinks he’s a villain.”
Percy cast Germain a startled look, but recovered his composure with remarkable speed.
“Ah. The proprietor of distinguished frogs,” he said, with a smile. “I recall. Peter and Simon were their names? One yellow and one green.”
Germain bowed respectfully.
“Monsieur has an excellent memory,” he said, with exquisite politeness. “What do you want with my papa?”
“An excellent question,” said John, putting one hand over his injured eye, the better to glare at Monsieur Beauchamp.
“Yes, that is a good question,” I said mildly. “Do sit down, Mr. Beauchamp—and bloody explain yourself. And, you,” I added, taking John firmly by both shoulders, “lie down.”
“That can wait,” John said shortly, resisting my attempt to flatten him. He swung his legs over the side of the cot. “What are you doing here, Percy?”
“Oh, you know him, do you?” I said, beginning to be provoked.
“Certainly. He’s my brother—or was.”
“What?” Germain and I exclaimed as one. He looked at me and giggled.
“I thought Hal was your only brother,” I said, recovering. I glanced back and forth between John and Percy. There was no resemblance at all between them, whereas John’s resemblance to Hal was as marked as if they’d been stamped from the same mold.
“Stepbrother,” John said, still more shortly. He got his feet under him, preparing to rise. “Come with me, Percy.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” I said, raising my voice slightly.
“How do you propose to stop me?” John was on his feet, staggering a little as he tried to focus his eyes. Before I could answer, Mr. Beauchamp had lunged forward and grabbed his arm, to keep him from falling. John jerked violently away from him, nearly falling again as he stumbled backward into the cot. He caught his balance and stood glowering at Beauchamp, his fists half clenched.
Beauchamp’s gaze was locked with his, and the air between them was . . . electric. Oh, I thought, glancing from one to the other, suddenly enlightened. Oh.
I must have made some small movement, because Beauchamp’s gaze flicked suddenly toward my face. He looked startled at whatever he saw there, then, recovering himself, smiled wryly and bowed.
“Madame,” he said. Then, in perfect, accentless English, “He is really my stepbrother, though we haven’t spoken in . . . some time. I am here as the guest of the Marquis de La Fayette—amongst other things. Do allow me to take his lordship to meet the marquis. I promise to bring him back in one piece.” He smiled at me, warm-eyed and sure of his charm, which was considerable.
“His lordship is a prisoner of war,” said a very dry Scottish voice from behind Beauchamp. “And my responsibility. I regret that he must remain here, sir.”
Percy Beauchamp whirled round, gaping at Jamie, who was filling the tent flap in a most implacable fashion.
“I still want to know what he wants with Papa,” Germain said, small blond brows drawn down in a suspicious glower.
“I should like to know that, too, monsieur,” Jamie said. He came into the tent, ducking, and nodded toward the stool I had been using. “Pray be seated, sir.”
Percy Beauchamp glanced from Jamie to Lord John and back again. His face had gone smooth and blank, though the lively dark eyes were full of calculation.
“Alas,” he said, the slight French accent back. “I am engaged to le marquis—and General Washington—just now. You will excuse me, I am sure. Bonjour, Mon Général.” He marched to the tent flap, head held high, turning at the last moment to smile at John. “Au revoir, mon frère.”
“Not if I bloody see you first.”