Page 42 of Highland Crown
“Why did you give up that career? It must have been lucrative during the war.”
“It was… fairly. But I have a wife and three children now.”
Her thoughts turned to Cinaed again and how much of his personal life she didn’t know about. Most seafarers must have families. He was a Mackintosh, but what did he call home? And did he have a woman or even a wife there?
The memory of his lips pressing against hers brought back that momentary thrill, but she immediately buried it deep within her. Any repeat of that instant was beyond the realm of fantasy, and she understood his motivation for kissing her.
“His fever?” the surgeon asked.
“It came on today.” She searched for the right words. “He’s certainly overexerted himself since being shot.”
He frowned, pressing the back of his hand to Cinaed’s temple. “I don’t recommend bleeding him. He’s already lost too much blood.”
Isabella silently agreed. Treating fever commonly included cutting a vein and draining blood from the patient. In a situation where the fever was this high, a good doctor was expected to cut deeply and allow the patient’s blood to spurt into the air with every beat of the heart.Archibald had been a believer in the method, but she’d never seen evidence of its effectiveness.
“Perhaps leeches,” Carmichael mused aloud. “Just to be safe.”
She ran the back of her hand across her brow, brushing back an errant lock of hair. When a feverish patient was too weak for bloodletting, leeches were considered useful. Rubbing the skin with sugar water, milk, or blood would persuade the leech to bite and suck blood until gorged. She was more open to such a controlled approach, but she still thought Cinaed would be better off without it.
“Perhaps we should give my husband a chance to battle the fever on his own, without the loss of more blood.”
Mr. Carmichael checked Cinaed’s pulse and brought his ear close to the chest to listen to the heartbeat. “Very well. I may send for the apothecarist to suggest a potion to help reduce the fever.”
She’d had no faith in the potions she’d seen mediocre apothecarists produce in Edinburgh: tinctures, poultices, soups, and teas made with water or alcohol-based extracts of ground or dried herbs, animal bone, and whatever minerals the maker had at hand.
“Why don’t we wait?” she suggested gently. “Considering his condition, the distinction between a medicine and a poison is hazy at best, wouldn’t you agree?”
She’d read deeply on the subject when she was studying in Wurzburg and recalled Paracelsus declaring the only difference between a medicine and a poison was the dose. All medicines were toxic. It was cure or kill. And in her experience, very few apothecarists—eventhe good ones—took into account the particular patient when determining the right dosage.
Mr. Carmichael pulled at his ear and began to say something but stopped. He turned his back and carried his instruments to the table.
“Searc won’t be satisfied if I suggest we wait a few days to see how our patient does with his fever. As you’ve already seen, he demands answers and solutions. He wants everything to be done for your husband now. If he thinks I’m not doing the best job, he won’t hesitate to fetch another surgeon.”
Isabella rubbed at the throbbing pain in her head. She wished she could explain to the bulldog downstairs that Cinaed was getting the best medical care possible. But it was impossible.
“What do you suggest we give him?” the surgeon asked quietly.
“Willow bark. Or the distilled water of the blackberry bush. Both are effective. Devil’s bit might be another good choice,” she added. “I’m certain they must have it here. The boiled root can be very powerful against…” Isabella stopped, realizing she’d said too much.
For what felt like an eternity, silence filled the room, broken only by the sound of Cinaed’s breathing.
“I see. Where didyoutrain, Mrs. Mackintosh?”
For a moment, she was speechless. Isabella squeezed Cinaed’s hand with the hope of gaining even an ounce of his courage. “Well, midwifery requires—”
“Becoming an expert in surgery?”
“Hardly an expert, Mr. Carmichael. Not even a novice. Only a wife trying to save her husband’s life.”
Isabella stood and pulled the clean linen sheet overCinaed’s chest. Turning around, she found the surgeon taking his time as he wiped his instruments and placed them in his bag.
“I’ve known no novice, and certainly no untrained wife, who could perform as precise and complicated an operation as the one you conducted removing the bullet from his chest. In fact, I’d say it was brilliantly done, no matter who did it.”
Isabella wrapped her hands around her waist and told herself he wasn’t accusing her. He was complimenting her.
“And as to your knowledge of apothecary…”
What got into her to offer so much information?
