Page 22 of A Zephyr Rising
Some of the tension in her shoulders relaxed.
She continued checking Charlie’s pulse every fifteen minutes.Each time, she held her breath.If something truly bad happened, it would be one more thing she could add to the growing list of ways she had interfered and hurt the Martins.
When they were about twenty minutes away from London, a shriek pierced the cabin of the motorcar.Bosworth swerved upon hearing it, quickly pulling the car back onto the road.
Charlie’s eyes were wide open with fright.He screamed again, rapid, panicked breaths racking his ribs.
“Charlie.”Ginger shook his shoulders gently.“Charlie, calm yourself.It’s all right.”
The boy’s eyes shut, tears finding their way from under his lids.Spittle formed on his lips and he thrashed, groaning.
“What’s wrong with him?”Henry blinked blearily, sitting straighter.
“I don’t know.”Ginger leaned closer to him, holding him gently.“Charlie, don’t move like that.You could hurt your leg.Be calm.”With soft, hushing breaths, she gripped him as he sobbed and cried.
“What do we do?”Henry’s brow creased with worry.
“Stay calm,” Ginger ordered over Charlie’s cries.“Don’t add to his distress.”She refocused her attentions on him, stroking his back.“Calm, Charlie.You must breathe.Deep breaths.Breathe deeply.”
Then, the tautness of his body released, his sobs eased to soft hiccups.As his body became less rigid, his torso shook.The sedative must have worn off some, or the pain intensified.His hands were tight fists, his jaw clenched.
“Mum,” he managed.
“Mum will be with you as soon as she can,” Ginger said, running her fingertips through his silky hair.She’d never noticed how soft a child’s hair could be.Did he even remember who Ginger was right now?He seemed incoherent.
As the shadowy buildings of the city drew closer, Charlie relaxed in her arms, his cries softer.Henry scrubbed his eyes and blinked at her.“How did you do that?”
“I-I haven’t the foggiest.”Ginger continued to hold Charlie tight.Her response had been natural.Perhaps a maternal instinct?
Whatever it had been, she’d calmed and helped him.
She swallowed, overwhelmed, even guilty of the sense of wonder overcoming her.Helping him through the pain may have been the most satisfying thing she’d ever done.
ChapterSeven
The curtain around Charlie’s hospital bed parted and Ginger woke.She’d been dozing, exhausted from the long morning.Henry’s pocket watch was limp in her hands.Only a few minutes before noon.
They’d driven straight to St.Thomas’ Hospital in London, where Dr.James Clark had met them in the early hours before dawn.Thank goodness for inventions like the telephone.Dr.Morgan had reached his friend and apprised him of the situation hours earlier.Despite the country doctor’s terrible manners, she was grateful for the favor.
Ginger stood from her chair as a nurse stepped into the small space and tidied the bed.
The nurse wore a uniform like a nun’s—a long-sleeved grey dress, white apron, red cape, and a veil covering her head.How had the woman become a nurse?What had inspired her?
Being a nurse right now would be useful.Especially with the war.
Ginger’s thoughts were interrupted as two orderlies brought Charlie back from surgery on a stretcher.The doctor had set the young boy’s leg in a cast.His eyes were closed, his face relaxed in a deep slumber—a remarkable change from the way they’d brought him in.
The skirt of her evening gown still wore stains of his blood.Her fingertips skimmed the stiff fabric.
The curtain swayed as the doctor stepped through.James Clark was younger than Ginger had imagined a surgeon with such glowing references—he looked to be only a few years older than Henry.His dark blond hair was naturally wavy, giving him a boyish look.
Ginger approached him, clasping her handbag.“How did he do?”
“He did well.I reset the bones.He has a long road to recovery ahead of him.But I did what I could.”Dr.Clark pulled off his glasses and wiped the lenses with a handkerchief.“Injuries of this nature are difficult.I can’t predict how it will affect the growth of his leg.”
Then Charlie might live with this forever—and not just the scars, but possibly a deformity.Her shoulders sank, her guilt heavy.“Thank you, Dr.Clark.For your help and your honesty.”Most men seemed to tread carefully around her “delicate sensibilities” and leave her without a proper response to her questions.
She stepped back and nearly toppled over, pain gripping her ankle.Gasping, she reached for the first thing in her grasp—Dr.Clark’s forearm.
