Page 18 of The Duke
She decided to unwrap it, instead, the chore taking her extra long because of his severe reaction each time she exerted even the smallest amount of pressure.
Imogen liked to think of herself as a seasoned and stouthearted nurse by now, incapable of disgust, but she gasped when she uncovered Trenwyth’s mangled wrist. The wound was not fresh, indeed, it was more healed than not. It became apparent from the haphazard stitching of the skin, and the misshapen form, that it hadn’t been properly cared for at all.
Battling her temper along with a fresh wave of pity, she reached for the iodine, applying it to the wound.
She barely ducked a vicious strike as he screamed in pain. Imogen stared down at him in helpless frustration as a suspicion began to form.
Fever, pallidness, delirium, and muscle contractions… all symptoms of typhus. But so was a rash that covered the entire body, and there was generally a dry and hacking cough, which Trenwyth didn’t have. Granted, his breathing was shallow, and his pulse weak… but didn’t William say he hadn’t released any water since he’d arrived?
Dropping the iodine, Imogen ran from the room in search of Dr. Fowler. Trenwyth didn’t have typhus but something just as deadly, if not worse.
CHAPTERFIVE
“Nurse Pritchard, I shouldn’t think you prone to such ridiculous bouts of female hysteria.” Dr. Fowler was a rather jowly man for one so thin. The extra skin drooped from his cheeks, punctuating his supercilious frown. “The diagnosis is typhus. Every medical professional who’s cared for Lord Trenwyth from India to here has agreed that this is a textbook case.”
That was assuming Trenwyth actually traveled from India and not Bulgaria or Constantinople like the evidence might suggest.
“So you didn’t make the initial diagnosis yourself?” Imogen pressed.
“Careful, Nurse Pritchard, you are on dangerous ground.” Displeasure snapped from eyes also afflicted with loose skin.
“I wouldn’t dream of meaning any disrespect, Dr. Fowler,” Imogen began, “but I believe I’ve made a strong case for septicemia. If you’d only witnessed how His Grace reacted when I touched his wrist—”
“The poor man had his hand hacked off,” Fowler interrupted impatiently. “Or sawed off, judging by the sight of it, ofcourseit still causes him pain.”
“Yes, but his pain seemed rather extreme and—”
“Is the site swollen, Nurse Pritchard?” He regarded her with such obvious disdain, she could have been a rodent in need of extermination.
“Not that I can tell, but it’s so poorly healed that—”
“Is it visibly quite red or extraordinarily warm to the touch?”
“His entire body is quite warm to the touch.” She’d not actually been hysterical when he’d accused her of it, but Imogen could now hear the desperation creeping into her voice.
“But the wound is not red, is it? There is no abscess or evident swelling.”
She didn’t want to cede the point, but she dare not lie. “If you’d only take a moment to come with me so that I can show you, I might be able to better express—”
“You’re treating me as though I didn’t examine the wound formyself.” The director put undue emphasis on the word. “Are you insinuating that I have been somehow derelict in my assessment?”
“I would never presume, but could we not at least perform a procedure to fix the damaged wrist and create a smoother limb? Then we’d know for certain, and if I’m mistaken, then at least His Grace lives more comfortably.”
“Nonsense! I cannot in good conscience submit such an ailing patient to the risks of the surgical theater,” he blustered. “I’d lose all credibility, and the ability to practice medicine. No, no, dear girl. Besides, the aesthetics of what’s left of Trenwyth’s arm are the least of his problems. He’ll likely not live long enough to notice—”
Impassioned, Imogen slapped her hands on his grand mahogany desk and splayed them open, leaning low over his seated form. “He cannot be allowed to die, Dr. Fowler. It is our duty to doallthat we can. To explore every angle and at least consider alternate diagnoses and treatment. What if I’m right? Isn’t it at least worth looking again?”
“I believe I know what is going on here,” Dr. Fowler said after regarding her for an uncomfortably long time. He rose from his desk, and Imogen had to stop herself from taking a step back. She stood to face him, like David squaring off with Goliath. Only without a slingshot. Or an army. Or any real expertise.
Bugger.
“I understand our beloved Majesty tasked you with Trenwyth’s survival. She is an imposing and powerful woman, but evenshecannot control the course of disease. The duke is in God’s hands now. The odds of him enduring this illness are insignificant at best.” Fowler crossed his extravagant office to open the door, dismissing her entirely. “Don’t take this so hard, my dear. Your concern and enthusiasm do you credit, and I promise there will be no reprisal on you should the duke expire. Your job is to keep him clean and comfortable, and to leave the diagnoses to the doctors.”
Imogen didn’t trust herself to move. Her entire body shook with equal measures of fear and rage. She abhorred conflict, was petrified of it. But worse than that, she despised ignorant, egotistical men who’d rather see someone die than have their opinions questioned by someone of inferior rank.
By a woman.
God’s hands, indeed.Cole was in their hands, inherhands, and they should be doing everything they could. How did Dr. Fowler not comprehend that?
