Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(5)

“It was my most successful work,” Sara admitted modestly.

“My wife and I have spent many an evening discussing our theories on the ending of the novel. Did Mathilda cast herself from the bridge to end her misery, or did she choose to seek atonement for her sins—”

“Excuse me,” said an icy voice from the bed. “I’m frigging bleeding to death. Mathilda can go tip a pike.”

Sara frowned contritely. “Oh, I’m sorry. Dr. Hindley, please see to Mr. Craven at once.” She turned her gaze to Worthy. “Where would you like me to wait?”

“In the next room, if you please. You’re welcome to ring for tea and refreshments.”

“Thank you.” As Sara went to the drawing room, she wondered what it was about Mathilda that always inspired such interest. The book’s popularity never failed to amaze her. There had even been a recent stage production of the story. People tended to discuss the character of Mathilda as if she were a real person, seeming to enjoy endless debates concerning the novel’s conclusion. After writing the story of a girl who had run away from the country and fallen into the sinful ways of prostitution, Sara had deliberately left a question as to the ending. On the last page, Mathilda was poised at the edge of London Bridge, faced with the decision to end her ruined life or commit herself to a selfless existence of doing good for others. Readers could form their own opinions about Mathilda’s fate. Personally, Sara didn’t think it important to know whether Mathilda lived or died…the point was that she had learned the error of her ways.

Discovering that her reticule was hanging forgotten from her arm, Sara delved inside and found her spectacles. She polished them on her sleeve until they shone, placed them on her nose, and located her notebook. “ ‘Tip a pike,’ ” she mused, writing down the unfamiliar expression. She must ask someone to explain it later.

Slowly she removed her cloak and draped it over the back of a chair. She felt as if she were trapped in a temporarily vacated lion’s den. After walking to the windows, she pushed aside the heavy plum-colored drapes to reveal a view of the street. All of London was just outside these thin panes of glass, a world of busy people absorbed in their own lives. She turned to gaze at the gold mirrors adorning the walls, and the sumptuous furniture upholstered with painted white velvet. The tables, inlaid with semi-precious stones, were weighted with arrangements of fresh hothouse flowers. The room was beautiful, but too extravagant.

Sara preferred the small cottage she and her elderly parents lived in. There was a kitchen garden in the back, and fruit trees that her father tended meticulously. They had a small yard and paddock, and an old gray horse named Eppie. The faded furniture in their small parlor was constantly filled with callers. Her parents had many friends. Nearly everyone in Greenwood Corners had come to visit at one time or another.

This, by contrast, was a splendid and lonely palace. Sara stood in front of a vivid oil painting depicting Roman gods involved in some decadent celebration. She was distracted by a groan from the next room, and a curse from Mr. Craven. They must be stitching the wound on his face. Sara tried to ignore the sounds, but after a few moments, curiosity compelled her to investigate.

Coming to the doorway, she saw Worthy and Dr. Hindley leaning over Mr. Craven’s head. His lower body, covered with a white sheet, was still. But his hands were twitching at his sides, as if he longed to shove the doctor away from him.

“We’ve given you all the laudanum we can, Mr. Craven,” Dr. Hindley remarked, drawing another stitch through the cut.

“Damn stuff…never works on me. More whiskey.”

“If you’ll just be patient, Mr. Craven, it will be done in a few minutes.”

Another pained groan erupted. “Damn you and everyone else in your stinking, bloodletting, bone-sawing, corpse-humping business—”

“Mr. Craven,” Worthy interrupted hastily. “Dr. Hindley is doing his best to repair the damage done to your face. He is trying to help you. Please don’t antagonize him.”

“It’s quite all right,” the doctor said calmly. “By now I know what to expect from him.” He continued to join the edges of skin with small, careful stitches.

All was quiet for a moment, and then Derek gave a muffled gasp. “Bloody ’ell. I don’t care what it looks like. Leave me alone—” He made a move to get up from the bed.

Sara entered the room immediately. It was clear that Craven had a quick temper, but he must be coaxed into staying. It would be a shame not to let the doctor salvage what he could of his face.

“Sir,” she said briskly, “I know it is uncomfortable, but you must let the doctor finish. You may not care about your appearance now, but you might later. Besides…” She paused and added pointedly, “a large, strong man such as yourself should be able to bear a little pain. I assure you, it’s nothing compared to the suffering a woman endures in labor!”

Slowly Derek eased back to the mattress. “How do you know?” he sneered.

“I was present at a childbirth once in Greenwood Corners. It lasted for hours, and my friend bore the agony with hardly a sound.”

Worthy looked at her pleadingly. “Miss Fielding, you would be more comfortable in the next room—”

“I’m distracting Mr. Craven with some conversation. It might take his mind off the pain. Wouldn’t you prefer that, Mr. Craven? Or should I leave?”