Just Like Heaven

“He’s not laughing,” Honoria said flatly. Good heavens, what on earth could he have to laugh about at such a time? She gave her mother a little nudge to back away, and she poured more hot water on Marcus’s leg, working until she was satisfied that she’d cleaned the wound to the best of her ability.

“I think that’s all of it,” Honoria said, sitting back. She took a deep breath. She felt hopelessly tense, every muscle in her body pulled tight. She set down the scissors and tried to stretch out her hands, but they felt like claws.

“What if we poured laudanum directly on the wound?” Mrs.

Wetherby asked.

Lady Winstead blinked. “I have no idea.'

“It couldn’t hurt, could it?” Honoria asked. “It’s not likely to irritate his skin if it’s something that can be swallowed. And if it can do something to dull the pain . . .'

“I have it right here,” Mrs. Wetherby said, holding up the small brown bottle.

Honoria took it and pulled out the cork. “Mother?'

“Just a little,” Lady Winstead replied, not looking at all sure of her decision.

Honoria splashed a little laudanum on Marcus’s leg, and he instantly howled with pain.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Wetherby moaned. “I’m so sorry. It was my idea.” “No, no,” Honoria said. “That’s the sherry. It’s how they make it.” Why she knew this she had no idea, but she was fairly certain that the ominously labeled bottle (it said POISON in much biggerletters than LAUDANUM) also contained cinnamon and saffron. She dabbed her finger in and took a little taste.

“Honoria!” her mother exclaimed.

“Oh, my God, it’s hideous,” Honoria said, rubbing her tongue against the roof of her mouth in a fruitless attempt to rid herself of the taste. “But there is definitely sherry in it.'

“I can’t believe you took some of that,” Lady Winstead said.

“It’s dangerous.'

“I was just curious. He made such a face when we gave it to him. And it was clearly painful when we poured it on. Besides, it was only a drop.'

Her mother sighed, looking very much aggrieved. “I wish the doctor would arrive.” “It will still be some time,” Mrs. Wetherby said. “At least an hour, I should think. And that is if he is at home to receive the summons. If he’s out . . .” Her words trailed off.

For several moments no one spoke. The only sound was Marcus’s breathing, strangely shallow and labored. Finally, Honoria was unable to take the silence any longer, and she asked, “What do we do now?” She looked down at Marcus’s leg. It looked raw and open, still bleeding slightly in places. “Should we put a bandage on it?'

“I don’t think so,” her mother said. “We’ll only have to take it off when the doctor arrives.'

“Are you hungry?” Mrs. Wetherby asked.

“No,” Honoria said, except she was. Ravenous. She just didn’t think she could eat.

“Lady Winstead?” Mrs. Wetherby said quietly.

“Perhaps something small,” she murmured, not taking her worried eyes off Marcus.

“A sandwich, perhaps?” Mrs. Wetherby suggested, “or my goodness, breakfast. Neither one of you has had breakfast. I could ask Cook to prepare eggs and bacon.'

“Whatever is easiest,” Lady Winstead replied. “And please, something for Honoria, too.” She looked at her daughter. “You should try to eat.'

“I know. I just . . .” She didn’t finish. She was sure her mother knew exactly what she was feeling.

A hand settled gently on her shoulder. “You should sit, too.” Honoria sat.

And waited.

It was the hardest thing she’d ever done.

Chapter Eleven

Laudanum was an excellent thing.

Marcus normally eschewed the drug, and indeed he had a feeling he had looked down upon those who used it, but now he was wondering if perhaps he owed them all an apology. Maybe an apology to the entire world. Because clearly he had never been in real pain before. Not like this.

It wasn’t so much the poking and snipping. One would think it would be painful to have bits of one’s body hacked away like a woodpecker jabbing at a tree trunk, but that actually wasn’t so bad.

It hurt, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t bear.

No, what killed him (or at least felt like it) was when Lady Winstead took out the brandy. Every so often she would dump what had to have been a gallon of the stuff over his open, gaping wound. She could have set him on fire and it wouldn’t have hurt so much.

He was never drinking brandy again. Not unless it was the really good stuff. And even then, he would only do so on principle.

Because it was the really good stuff.

Which needed to be drunk.

He thought about that for a moment. It had made sense when he’d first considered it. No, it still made sense. Didn’t it?

Whatever the case, sometime after Lady Winstead had poured what he dearly hoped was not the good brandy on his leg, they’d got a dose of laudanum down his throat, and really, he had to say— it was lovely. His leg still felt as if it were being slow-roasted on a spit, which most people would consider unpleasant, but after enduring Lady Winstead’s “care” without any anesthesia, he was finding it positively pleasant to be stabbed with a knife under the influence of an opiate.

Almost relaxing.

And beyond that, he felt rather unaccountably happy.

He smiled up at Honoria, or rather he smiled up at where he thought she might be; his eyelids had clearly been weighted down with rocks.

Actually, he only thought he smiled; his mouth felt rather heavy, too.

But he wanted to smile. He would have done, if he’d been able.

Surely that had to be the most important thing.

The jabbing at his leg stopped for a bit, then started up again.

Then there was a lovely, short pause, and then— Damn, that hurt. But not enough to cry out. Although he might have moaned. He wasn’t sure. They’d poured hot water on him. Lots of it. He wondered if they were trying to poach his leg.

Boiled meat. How terribly British of them.

He chuckled. He was funny. Who knew he was so funny?

“Oh, my God!” he heard Honoria yell. “What did I do to him?'

He laughed some more. Because she sounded ridiculous.

Almost as if she were speaking through a foghorn. Oooorrrrrhhhh myyy Grrrrrrrrrd.