pieces, but perhaps he had already seen their worth was not great, and had dismissed them as of no consequence regardless of why she had them.
A sharp knock at the chamber door caused her to startle and flush guiltily. It was one thing to be a liar, but another to feel at ease with the charade. "Come in," she called, her voice not quite even.
The maid with the eyepatch curtsied her way in and announced, "Mister Clifton to see you, miss."
The surgeon, a heavyset man somewhere in his fifth decade and with kind eyes, entered and bowed at the waist. "I see my patient is awake at last."
"You must be the one who bandaged my heel," Elizabeth said, resettling on the bed in a more upright position. She flushed scarlet again, realizing she had forgot to seem vague or disjointed. This was a rocky path she had chosen, this playacting.
"I am." The surgeon nodded, crossing to the bedside, his black bag in hand. "A wicked cut that was. I would like to see if there is seepage, if I may?"
Elizabeth surrendered her foot, and grimaced when he said the bandage must come off and be replaced.
"Can it be left off altogether?" she asked, trying once again for a singsongy, rather childlike tone. "Please?"
"No, indeed not, my girl! This wound is very deep. Do you understand me? The bandage serves as much to hold the sides of the wound together as it does to stop any bleeding. You must have it on for several weeks, or else the damage will only worsen." He stared into her eyes, as if looking for comprehension.
What could she say, or do? This was unbearable, this role playing. Better to retreat into silence... indeed, had she not heard of people so disturbed that they never spoke again? Better silence than lies, for silence could not trip her up.
She pursed her lips, and looked away.
The surgeon clucked his tongue, then proceeded to bandage her wound. When he was done, he took her chin in his hand and turned her face up to where sunlight could illuminate it. He stared into her eyes, then asked to see her tongue, which she obligingly thrust out for his inspection. He clucked his tongue again, and met her gaze squarely.
"I am going to see that Lord Greyleigh understands you are not to travel soon, not even if your family should be quickly discovered. It would do this wound great damage. We will have to see what level of putrefaction occurs. Although I do not favor leeches in all circumstances, this might also be required. If not properly cared for and left to mend, this wound might even affect your ability to walk with this foot later. Do you understand me?"
She must have gone pale, for he nodded, and said, "I can see that you do. Do not remove this bandage, miss, and avoid putting any weight on the foot. It is very important it be left to mend, unmolested, for at least two weeks."
Two weeks? she cried out in her mind. There went all her plans to leave promptly! How could she ever keep up a charade of insanity for two weeks? It was impossible. She simply would have to ignore this man's advice.
"At worst, you could be crippled." the doctor w arned. apparently not liking something he saw in her expression.
She lowered her eyes. "I understand."
He seemed satisfied with that, nodding his head and gathering his supplies once more into his black bag. "I will speak with Lord Greyleigh." he repeated just before he left the room.
Elizabeth sighed and settled back into the pillows. Two weeks? So which was the greater: the need for quick removal from this place, or the risk of permanently injuring her foot? Logic said the latter, but a kind of deliberate logic had led her to elope with Radford—and what a disaster that had proved.
Either way she chose, risky speed or impatient lingering, there was only one way to get on w ith things. She withdrew her purse from under the covers and loosened the knotted draw strings. She up-ended the contents on to her lap: one ivory cameo: three pairs of earbobs. two of precious gems and one of pearls: one diamond
A sharp knock at the chamber door caused her to startle and flush guiltily. It was one thing to be a liar, but another to feel at ease with the charade. "Come in," she called, her voice not quite even.
The maid with the eyepatch curtsied her way in and announced, "Mister Clifton to see you, miss."
The surgeon, a heavyset man somewhere in his fifth decade and with kind eyes, entered and bowed at the waist. "I see my patient is awake at last."
"You must be the one who bandaged my heel," Elizabeth said, resettling on the bed in a more upright position. She flushed scarlet again, realizing she had forgot to seem vague or disjointed. This was a rocky path she had chosen, this playacting.
"I am." The surgeon nodded, crossing to the bedside, his black bag in hand. "A wicked cut that was. I would like to see if there is seepage, if I may?"
Elizabeth surrendered her foot, and grimaced when he said the bandage must come off and be replaced.
"Can it be left off altogether?" she asked, trying once again for a singsongy, rather childlike tone. "Please?"
"No, indeed not, my girl! This wound is very deep. Do you understand me? The bandage serves as much to hold the sides of the wound together as it does to stop any bleeding. You must have it on for several weeks, or else the damage will only worsen." He stared into her eyes, as if looking for comprehension.
What could she say, or do? This was unbearable, this role playing. Better to retreat into silence... indeed, had she not heard of people so disturbed that they never spoke again? Better silence than lies, for silence could not trip her up.
She pursed her lips, and looked away.
The surgeon clucked his tongue, then proceeded to bandage her wound. When he was done, he took her chin in his hand and turned her face up to where sunlight could illuminate it. He stared into her eyes, then asked to see her tongue, which she obligingly thrust out for his inspection. He clucked his tongue again, and met her gaze squarely.
"I am going to see that Lord Greyleigh understands you are not to travel soon, not even if your family should be quickly discovered. It would do this wound great damage. We will have to see what level of putrefaction occurs. Although I do not favor leeches in all circumstances, this might also be required. If not properly cared for and left to mend, this wound might even affect your ability to walk with this foot later. Do you understand me?"
She must have gone pale, for he nodded, and said, "I can see that you do. Do not remove this bandage, miss, and avoid putting any weight on the foot. It is very important it be left to mend, unmolested, for at least two weeks."
Two weeks? she cried out in her mind. There went all her plans to leave promptly! How could she ever keep up a charade of insanity for two weeks? It was impossible. She simply would have to ignore this man's advice.
"At worst, you could be crippled." the doctor w arned. apparently not liking something he saw in her expression.
She lowered her eyes. "I understand."
He seemed satisfied with that, nodding his head and gathering his supplies once more into his black bag. "I will speak with Lord Greyleigh." he repeated just before he left the room.
Elizabeth sighed and settled back into the pillows. Two weeks? So which was the greater: the need for quick removal from this place, or the risk of permanently injuring her foot? Logic said the latter, but a kind of deliberate logic had led her to elope with Radford—and what a disaster that had proved.
Either way she chose, risky speed or impatient lingering, there was only one way to get on w ith things. She withdrew her purse from under the covers and loosened the knotted draw strings. She up-ended the contents on to her lap: one ivory cameo: three pairs of earbobs. two of precious gems and one of pearls: one diamond
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