The Last Debutante by Julia London

Daria’s hands, then hurried into the kitchen and picked up a bowl from the table. The bowl contained a dark liquid that smelled like burnt wood. “You’ll have to do it, Daria,” she said gravely.
    “What? What am I to do?”
    “Dress his wounds.”
    Daria gasped. She shoved the bandages back at her grandmother. “Mamie, no ! I cannot —”
    “You can, and must! His bandages must be changed and I . . . I agree, I must seek help.”
    “You agree now ? You agree to go for help and leave me to change his bandages while a man the size of a beast roams about outside? No, Mamie, I will not!”
    But Mamie wasn’t listening. She had already removed her apron and was reaching for her cloak. “You have argued that I should go to the authorities, and now I am going to go. It is imperative! But we cannot in good conscience leave his wounds to fester—”
    “Don’t leave me alone, Mamie. Please,” Daria pleaded.
    It was too late. Mamie was already at the door. “You’ll do very well, my love. Spread the salve on his wounds and wrap clean bandages about them. Lock the door behind me, Daria, and open it only to me.”
    More shouting from the back made Daria jump what felt like a foot off the ground. “Mamie!”
    Mamie suddenly grabbed Daria’s hands and squeezed them tightly. “Please, for God’s sake, do as I ask! I will be back before nightfall, I swear to you. But we cannot let his wounds fester—he could lose a limb!” She let go of Daria’s hands, picked up the big blunderbuss that was leaning up against the door, and slid the bolt open. “Lock the door,” she warned Daria, and slipped out.
    Daria gaped at the closed door. Her grandmother had just left her alone to clean the wounds of a strange man while another one roamed about outside.
    “The bolt!” she heard her grandmother call.
    Daria scurried forward to slide the bolt and lock thedoor, then dashed to one of the small windows to look out. Her grandmother was marching toward the path that led to the road, the gun on her shoulder, the dog trotting behind her. “Mad,” Daria muttered. “She’s gone quite mad.”
    The man shouted again, causing Daria to jump again. She tried to breathe deeply to calm her racing heart, but it was no use.
    “Bloody hell, where have you gone?” the man bellowed in English.
    Daria whirled around and looked at the closed bedroom door. All right, then. There was no use crying over it. She squared her shoulders, then picked up the bandages and the bowl.
    How was she to do it? How could she remove the bandages from his naked body, touch his flesh, and then wrap the bandages around him again? It was beyond anything she knew. She was quite happy to be courted and wooed by men, but she realized that she didn’t really know men. Lord Horncastle had kissed her once and left her feeling cold. Mr. Reston, who had come down last summer, had courted her intently and had kissed her more than once, his hands wandering her body in a rather pleasant interlude. But Daria had felt nothing but his arms and shoulders beneath his proper shirt and coat. She had never, in all her life, touched a strange man’s skin. The memory of that stranger’s kiss, that mad, drugged kiss, slipped down her like warm milk.
    Another string of the Scottish language shook her; Daria paused to grab a cleaving knife from the shelf and tucked it up under her arm. Her hands were shaking, she noticed with chagrin. So she drew another breath to steady herself and marched down the hall.

Six
    J AMIE HAD RALLIED enough that he could feel his fury beginning to strengthen him. He shouted once more in Gaelic, since ladies shouldn’t hear what invective he said, even if they were evil.
    At last he heard footsteps coming down the hall, and he could tell from the delicate tread that it was the younger one. Daria. Seated upright with his back to the stone wall, he watched the door slowly open, creaking loudly on its hinges.
    A head of honey-gold appeared. Her gaze met