“Miss Graham, perhaps you could take a seat so I might examine your hand.”
We moved toward the center of the room. Halstead eased himself down on a high-backed sofa, and after a second of deliberation, I took the seat beside him. The doctor pulled forward a spindle-legged chair and sat in front of me.
“I see you favoring your right hand,” he said. “Perhaps we could remove your glove and take a look.”
Under the doctor’s gaze, I held out my hand, and he inched off my glove. “You will probably need to avoid wearing gloves for the next several days. Too much compression for a burn can be harmful.”
I nodded. He unwrapped the gauze as we all sat in silence, and then he carefully held my hand in the light, which streamed through the second-floor windows down to where we sat. He shifted, examining it from several angles. I gritted my teeth against the pain. The doctor looked at me. “It is a nasty burn, no doubt. You didn’t think to call for me when it first happened?”
“I didn’t wish to be a burden. It seemed an unnecessary step.”
The doctor exchanged a glance with Halstead before returning his focus to me. “I hope you take this as a compliment when I say there are many women who send for me for much less. I admire a woman who can handle a bit of pain, but it still doesn’t hurt to exercise a bit of caution.”
I swallowed and could sense Halstead watching me. “Yes, I see your point, sir.”
“What has been done to it already?”
“Just yeast and cool water.”
The doctor made a noise of disapproval as he pulled out a small metal bowl from his bag. “Why anyone thinks that method is worth its salt is beyond me. We are going to soak it in linseed oil for a few moments. It may burn, but this will help ensure it doesn’t fester. If it does, the healing process will be halted and our methods will become much more drastic.”
The severity of his tone made me shift in my seat. From the same bag he produced a bottle. He uncorked it and began to pour its contents into the basin. The only sound was the gulping noise of the liquid as he emptied it from the bottle.
Then he put the cork back on the bottle and put the basin on his lap. “I will need you to put your hand in and keep it there for at least thirty seconds, no matter how painful it is. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course.”
The footman reentered and stood just behind the doctor, a basin in one hand and a pitcher in the other. “Bring over that table,” the doctor instructed, “and you can place both the basin and the pitcher on it.”
Halstead glanced up at the footman. “Stephen. I don’t wish news of Dr. Andrews’s visit to be common knowledge. I trust I can count on your discretion.”
The footman gave a stiff nod.
The doctor turned to me. “Try, perhaps, to think of something else, for that might help distract you. I will count aloud to thirty so you may know how long to wait. Are you ready?”
“I think so.” With a quick glance at Halstead and a deep breath, I extended my hand and put it into the basin. The oil encased my skin, slimy and smooth and calming for a second before a blazing pain encompassed my entire palm. So fierce was the pain that I clenched my teeth together to keep from crying out and squeezed my eyes shut. I struggled for any sort of thought that might anchor me, but the jolting pain in my hand would not allow it.
My stomach began to churn, and sweat began to bead on my upper lip. I breathed deeply through my nose, fighting against the urge to withdraw my hand.
A slight touch on the small of my back surprised me, and my eyes flew open. The doctor’s voice droned on in the background. “Seventeen . . . eighteen.” Halstead looked at me steadily, his expression muted. Calming.
“You’re almost done,” he whispered, and his hand on my back moved ever so slightly. “Just a little longer.”
“Twenty-six . . . twenty-seven.”
My eyes squeezed closed again, and my hand shook as though the flames were licking it all over again.
“Thirty.”
Air burst from my lungs in a gasping breath. I pulled my hand back, the linseed oil dripping onto my dress, but the pain continued, despite my escape, and I could not bring myself to care that I might be ruining the fabric.
The doctor set the basin of oil down on the floor.
“Can she not rinse it off now?” Halstead asked sharply. He reached for the empty basin.
The doctor grabbed my arm and held it over the basin, using his other to pour the cold water from the pitcher over my hand, rinsing away the oil. I let out a sigh of relief. The reprieve was so immediate I could have cried in gratitude.
Halstead exhaled, and his features relaxed. He’d been nearly as tense as I during the ordeal, and I imagined it had not been a pleasant sight. “What now?” he asked.
Dr. Andrews produced a towel, which he used to gently dab my hand dry. The slight pain the motion produced was hardly noticeable. My hand still trembled from the cleansing sting of the oil. “Now we must wrap it. With breathable gauze, just like before. And I am sure this will not be welcome news, but this is a procedure that needs to be repeated tomorrow.”
Right then it did not matter, for the seething pain was gone, and my breathing had become regular again.
The doctor began to wrap my hand. “Is there someone who can assist you with this task? It will not be easy to do by yourself since it is your right hand that is burned.”
“My maid, Betsy . . .” My voice trailed off as doubt took hold. I didn’t want her telling Aunt Agnes
