Page 64 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
They huddled silently in the heavy shadows until the light coming through the cracks around the door lengthened and bent, heralding the fall of evening.
Gilles and Caroline walked silently through the crush milling about the harbor. Most of the ship loading was done for the day, but life never settled completely at the docks. Usually when forced to pass this area, Gilles couldn’t help scanning the water in dread for signs ofle Rossignol. Today he kept his head down and a hand on Caroline’s elbow.
“We’ll make a circle and come back to Belsunce from the north,” he said softly as they neared the edge of the dockyards. It was doubtful anyone would recognize them with so many people about, and their pursuers had long since vanished, but they still had to take care. And no doubt her father would hire that guillotine for Gilles’s neck when they finally made it back.
A trio of men hefting large sacks swept by, and Gilles tightened his grip on her arm to guide them out of the way. Caroline moaned and pulled back.
Gilles released her. “What is it?” He glanced down at her arm, which she pressed against her side as she continued walking.
Dried blood tipped the insides of his fingers and stained his nails. “Wait. You’re injured.” He hurried to catch up.
Caroline shook her head sharply. “It’s nothing. I scratched it on the wagon.”
Hardly nothing with that much blood. “Let me look at it.”
“Gilles, it really is ...”
He put a hand on the small of her back and guided her to the wall where they’d sat eatingnavettesweeks before. Where he’d first realized there could be a chance of them not always standing at odds. He turned over her arm. The delicate white muslin of her sleeve was shredded and brown, surrounding a deep gash. It wasn’t quite the length of his hand but extended up most of her forearm. Dirt and dust flecked the sleeve, and fresh blood seeped from the wound. Not serious, but a far cry from “nothing.” If they didn’t get it cleaned, infection could set in. Gilles had seen too much of the life-altering effects of infection in his days at sea. “Send for a doctor when we get you home. You need this closed, or it will get worse.”
Caroline retreated. “No. We cannot let my parents know what occurred. My mother is already struggling to stay composed with all that’s happening.” Her voice came out shrill, panicked. “Not a word to either of them. Do you understand?”
Gilles slid a hand down the side of his face. “And how do you plan to keep this from them? You have blood all over your dress.” Something he should have spotted as they were leaving the warehouse, but he’d been preoccupied with making sure their pursuers had left.
She examined her arm and gave a helpless sigh. “Can you not do something about it?”
“I am not a doctor.”
Her head fell to one side. “How many years did you practice under the ship’s surgeon?”
Two, almost three. “I have not gone to school. I can’t call myself a doctor.”
“What does that matter?” She held her arm toward him. Yes, that would need attention. Sooner, rather than later. “You are trying to convince me that this is worse than anything you had to treat at sea.”
Gilles let out a slow breath. Not by a long shot.
His house was only a few minutes away. If they hurried, perhaps ... no, the Daubins would get suspicious no matter what happened. It was nearing five o’clock. Her mother had expected Caroline hours ago.
After one last glance around the harbor to be sure they weren’t followed, Gilles led her tole Panierdistrict. He let them in the front door to a silent and dark house. A large chest took up part of the front hall.
Père. Perfect.
Gilles called out to his parents, but no one answered. He could only hope they’d gone to Rosalie and Victor’s, and that they wouldn’t return any time soon.
The kitchen, golden in the evening sun that streamed through the windows, sat empty. They must have let Florence go home early, and Gilles thanked the heavens. One less person to explain things to.
“Sit here,” he said, directing Caroline to the bench at the table while he removed his jacket. He located a candle and lit it, then brought it to Caroline’s side. Shears, a knife, a strip of plaster, a bottle of wine, cloth. Perhaps a needle. He ticked off the things he’d need, bustling around the kitchen like Florence and Maman before a large meal. Get the grime off his hands. Boiling water would take too long. They’d have to use the warm water left in the kettle.
Caroline’s eyes tracked him wherever he went, and he had to keep repeating his list of tasks to prevent distraction. The dirt, sweat, and blood that covered her did not deter the attraction swelling in his chest.You already tried kissing her once today.He practically threw himself down the ladder into the cellar for the bottle of wine. Best to not repeat that rejection.
When he’d assembled everything, he settled down beside her on the bench. Red lines tracked across the whites of her eyes. She’d removed her sullied gloves and bonnet, and stray curls rimmed her pallid face.
“Ready?”
She nodded.
Gilles gingerly lifted her sleeve, trying to maneuver it around the wound, but the slender shape did not give him much room to work. Eventually he had to resort to cutting the tiny stitches along the seam. Not that the sleeve would be easily salvageable where it had been torn. He rolled the excess fabric up around her elbow and set her exposed arm atop a cloth. That had been the easy part. “What will we tell your parents?” He unstopped the bottle and poured a trickle of wine over the cut.
Caroline gasped as the crimson liquid mingled with blood and ran into the cloth below. Bits of straw and dirt washed out, but tiny white fibers from the sleeve still clung inside. Blast. “We can tell them we got held up by the crowds, but they can’t know what happened.”
