Rachel was coming to assist with the surgery, and I’d go through all the instruments and procedures again with her. I’d come down an hour early, though, wanting both to make my final preparations and to spend a little time alone, settling my mind and spirit to the job ahead.
I felt surprisingly calm, considering the complexity and risks of the operation ahead. It could be argued that even if I failed, the poor child couldn’t possibly be worse off than she was—but of course she could die as a result of the surgery, from shock, infection, or even accidental hemorrhage. Abdominal surgery was much more serious than trying a transvaginal correction—but given what I had at hand, I thought the chances of achieving a cure were much better that way. And then there was the matter of the curettage that had removed the dead infant; I had no idea what kind of damage that might have inflicted, but if there was any, I might be able to correct it.
I glanced automatically at the shelf where my penicillin factory was working—or at least I hoped it was working, billions of little spores excreting their helpful substance. I hadn’t had time in Savannah to establish a good process and test the resultant product; there was, as was so often the case, no guarantee whatever that I had usable penicillin in my broth. But I did have a small chunk of very ripe French cheese, acquired at extravagant cost and stirred into a little boiled milk to make a paste; the thick scent of it fought for ascendancy with the pungent smell of ether.
I could hear the early-morning sounds of the city outside, soothing in their ordinariness: the whisk of a broom on pavement, the clop of horse-drawn wagons, a tantalizing smell of hot bread as the baker’s boy’s quick footsteps passed by. The simple demands of life quickly made routine out of any sort of chaos, and as invasions went, the occupation of Savannah had been reasonably bloodless.
My sense of well-being and calm detachment was interrupted a moment later by the opening of the surgery door.
“May I help—” I began, turning. Then I saw my visitor and altered my remark to a fairly hostile “What do you want?”
Captain—no, he was a colonel now; the wages of treason, I supposed—Richardson smiled charmingly at me, then turned and bolted the door. I pulled out a drawer and removed my small amputation saw; it was small enough to handle quickly, and the serrated edge would take his nose off, if my aim was good.
The charming smile broadened into a grin as he saw what I was about, and he bowed. He wasn’t wearing a uniform—and no wonder—but was clothed in a decent, rather sober suit, with unpowdered hair tied simply back. No one would have looked at him twice.
“Your most humble servant, ma’am. Have no alarm; I merely wished to make sure we weren’t interrupted.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m alarmed about,” I said, taking a firm grip on the saw. “Unbolt that bloody door this minute.”
He looked at me for a moment, one eye narrowed in calculation, but then uttered a short laugh and, turning, pulled the bolt. Folding his arms, he leaned against the door.
“Better?”
“Much.” I let go the saw but didn’t move my hand far from it. “I repeat—what do you want?”
“Well, I thought perhaps the time had come to lay my cards upon your table, Mrs. Fraser—and see whether you might want to play a hand or two.”
“The only thing I might be inclined to play with you, Colonel, is mumblety-peg,” I said, tapping my fingers on the handle of the saw. “But if you want to show me your cards, go right ahead. You want to be quick about it, though—I have an operation to conduct in less than an hour.”
“It shouldn’t take that long. May I?” Raising his brows, he gestured at one of the stools. I nodded, and he sat down, looking quite relaxed.
“The essence of the matter, ma’am, is that I am a Rebel—and always have been.”
“You—what?”
“I am presently a colonel in the Continental army—but when you first knew me, I was working as an American agent in the guise of a captain in His Majesty’s army in Philadelphia.”
“I don’t understand.” I grasped what he was telling me but couldn’t grasp why the hell he should be telling me.
“You are a Rebel yourself, are you not?” One sparse brow lifted in inquiry. He really was the most ordinary-looking man, I thought. If he was a spy, he was physically well suited for it.
“I am,” I said guardedly. “What about it?”
“Then we’re on the same side,” he said patiently. “When I cozened Lord John Grey into marrying you, I—”
“You what?”
“Surely he told you that I had threatened to have you arrested for distributing seditious materials? At which you’re very clumsy, I might add,” he added dispassionately. “His lordship assured me that he had no personal interest in you whatever and then most obligingly married you the next day. His lordship is a very gallant man—particularly in view of his own preferences.”
He cocked his head, smiling in a conspiratorial manner, and a spear of ice shot through my belly.
“Oh, you do know, then,” he observed, watching my face. “I thought you would. He’s extremely discreet, but I think you a very perceptive woman, particularly in sexual matters.”
“Stand up,” I said, in my coldest voice, “and leave. Right now.”
He didn’t, of course, and I cursed my lack of forethought in not keeping a loaded pistol in the surgery. The saw might serve if he attacked me, but I knew better than to try attacking him.