The Healing Season. Ruth Morren Axtell
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could make out the top edge of Mr. Russell’s waistcoat above his coat. If she lifted her hand, she could trace the outline of the topmost button with her fingertip. Her bonnet touched his chin.
It was a nice feeling. A phrase drifted into her thoughts—to love, honor and cherish… Was this what it felt like to be “cherished”? The last part of the phrase came into her mind unbidden, till death do us part.
At that moment someone slammed against Mr. Russell’s back. Although he braced his arms against the door behind her, he couldn’t completely cushion the impact of the blow. Her face was crushed against his neck and her bonnet fell back. She smelled the fresh-laundered scent of his neck cloth.
As soon as he was able, he righted himself and drew away from her while still anchoring her between his arms. “I beg your pardon. Did I hurt you?”
His eyes roamed over her face as he spoke, examining it for injury.
Gingerly she touched the bridge of her nose with her gloved fingertips. “No. I’m quite all right.” Never better, she realized. “Are you?” He had taken the brunt of the impact.
“Yes, I’m fine.” His perusal over, his brown eyes fastened on hers.
She stood spellbound. For the first time in her life she had the sensation of being safeguarded by a man, and not safeguarding herself from one.
They stood several minutes in the alcove of the doorway as the crowds pushed by them, wreaking destruction everywhere. Eleanor stood content, sure nothing could happen to her in the shelter of Mr. Russell’s arms.
She didn’t notice when the shouts eventually diminished, but felt the immediate absence of Mr. Russell’s body when he took a step away from her. Sunshine fell back on her face. He looked away from her. “They’ve moved on down the street. Toward the Thames, I expect.”
“I hope they don’t set fire to the theater.”
“There’s no telling with the mood they’re in.” He turned around and surveyed the area. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling abandoned.
Everything lay in chaos. Overturned and charred vending stalls, shattered glass, refuse and merchandise scattered everywhere. Here and there they heard moans.
He swiveled suddenly back to her. “Are you sure you’re all right? I didn’t hurt you when I pulled you in here?”
Still standing on the stoop, she was about eye level to him. Although his words were clipped, almost sharp, she couldn’t help a bemused smile at his insistence. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”
Once again, he had been rapidly surveying her. Now he stopped and looked as if he was doubting her word. Although she couldn’t read what was in the chocolaty-brown depths of his eyes, again, she felt a deep, unspoken connection.
Abruptly he turned away and tugged at his waistcoat. “Good.” He moved farther into the street and looked up and down it. “I must attend to the injured.”
She stepped down and joined him in surveying the wreckage. Before he could say anything more, she placed her arm in his. “I’ll go with you.”
He frowned down at her. “You most certainly will not. I shall first escort you to your chaise and then I’ll return to the dispensary to get some supplies. Now, if you will be so good as to lead us to it.”
She planted her feet firmly in place. “There’s no danger now. I can assist you.” She motioned around her. “Can’t you hear them? There are many who need our help. We can use my carriage to get your things. It will save time. I’ve left it at the Bull and Horn.”
When he made no reply, merely set his mouth in a firm line, she tugged on his arm. “Come on. There’s no time to waste.”
“Very well, but only back to the dispensary. I’ll leave you there and return here.”
That’s what you think, she thought as she hurried down the street.
Eleanor regretted her rash impulse to assist Mr. Russell as she knelt by his side, watching him wash out bloody gashes and sew them up. She brought him pitchers of water, helped bind up wounds with the rolls of bandages, tried to hand him whichever instrument he called for from his large square bag.
She struggled to keep from fainting each time she encountered a serious wound or fracture.
How could anyone bear such pain? she cried inwardly, trying her best to hold a patient still as Mr. Russell dealt with a deep cut or an ugly-looking laceration.
She focused instead on the steadiness of Mr. Russell’s nerves as he set broken bones, stitched up wounds and soothed crying children.
Those were the worst to behold. Eleanor could hardly stand their cries as, in their mothers’ arms, they writhed in pain, from the injuries inflicted on them by the angry mob. But Mr. Russell’s hands were so sure and capable. Gentle yet strong, never hesitating to use force when needed, but able to manage the most minute, even stitches across someone’s brow in record time.
Even when bloody, his hands managed to look pale and clean.
She poured water over them between patients and gave him a clean cloth to wipe them dry.
“Thank you,” he told her each time, his eyes scrutinizing her as if he wanted to make sure she was holding up.
His assistant Jem finally arrived when they were nearing the end. It had taken him a while to get the children back and then escort the other actress home.
Finally it was over. No more pitiful cries, no more victims to be pried from beneath a stall or cart. She wiped the perspiration from her brow, feeling light-headed all of a sudden. She closed her eyes, willing the sensation to pass.
“Let me get you to your carriage.” She heard Mr. Russell’s voice as if from far away as he supported her by the elbow. “You look done in.”
She shook her head and took a deep breath. “It’s nothing. I just felt dizzy all of a sudden.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’ll warrant it’s because you haven’t eaten anything.” He turned to Jem. “You’d better get back to the apothecary.”
Without giving Eleanor a chance to interrupt, he began walking and she was forced to follow him as he hadn’t let go of her arm. “There’s a coffee shop near the dispensary. I’ll get you a cup of tea.”
A cup of tea. “That would be lovely,” she said with a grateful smile.
He didn’t even glance her way, but helped her into the chaise and gave the coachman instructions.
Eleanor leaned against the back of the seat and closed her eyes. It probably had been foolish of her not to eat the meat pastry he’d offered her earlier. But she’d never dreamed how her afternoon was going to end.
She didn’t speak during the ride. She kept her eyes shut and tried to recover her strength. Mr. Russell was going to think she was a ninny. So much for her valiant show of stalwart nurse.
When they arrived at the coffee shop, Mr. Russell sat opposite her at a small, round table and ordered a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches.
He poured her a cup and laced it with milk and sugar without asking her how she took it.
She made no protest but held it in her hands a moment, breathing in its delicate aroma as she surveyed the doctor over the rim. He placed a couple of the sandwich quarters on a small plate and moved it toward her.
“There, have those with your tea and the faintness should pass.”
“Yes, Doctor.” She began at first to nibble at one corner of the roast beef sandwich, but soon found she was famished despite—or because of—all she’d experienced in the past few hours.
“Here, have some more. You could use them,” he said as he put the platter close to her.
She stared at him in surprise.