Page 32 of Prescription for Sin

He knew what needed to be done.

“Trepanation,” she announced, collecting herself and turning to Sarah. “We’ll need boiling water and clean linen, Mrs Thorpe. I must cut a hole in his skull to drain the fluid. It’s the only way to save him.”

Mrs Thorpe gasped, crossing herself before hurrying toward the house, her feet leaving dark prints in the frost.

Emma reached for her medical bag with steady hands, withdrawing her prized hand trephine, a T-shaped instrument with a circular saw at one end. The silver gleamed dully in the light.

“Allow me to assist,” Everett offered, his voice carrying the quiet authority she was beginning to recognise as his true nature. As suspected moments ago, a physician stood before her, his eyes sharp with focus.

Pieces of the puzzle that was Everett Hughes fell into place, and she nodded in acknowledgement. “Very well,” she said, ignoring the questions gnawing at her.

When Mrs Thorpe returned with steaming water and linens, Everett asked in a low voice, “Where do you plan to make the incision?”

Studying the skull, she pointed to a spot. “Here. Away from major blood vessels.”

Everett nodded in approval but pointed his finger slightly to her right. “Here is better. Optimal drainage.”

“And how do you know?” Her voice was sharp with suspicion. She knew nothing of him, after all.

“I’ve done it a dozen times. You?”

“Twice.”

Emma carefully washed her hands and ordered Everett to do the same. She then shaved a portion of the farmer’s scalp where Everett had indicated, her straight razor gliding through hair and frost alike. Their breath formed small clouds in the cold air as they worked. She applied a tincture of opium to the area, though the farmer’s unconscious state made it largely unnecessary.

With steady hands that belied his recent injuries, Everett took the trephine and began the delicate process of cutting through bone. Emma watched, fascinated by his technique—unmistakably that of a highly trained surgeon, not the nobleman’s son playing at medicine as was typical. His movements were efficient, practiced, betraying years of experience.

As the circular piece of bone was carefully removed, a small amount of blood and fluid drained from the opening. The farmer’s breathing, which had been shallow and laboured, began to even out almost immediately. Sarah’s cry of relief pierced the tense silence.

“Remarkable,” Emma breathed, her professional admiration warring with personal feelings of suspicion, anger, fear. Their eyes met briefly over their patient, Emma’s countenance stone cold and his that of guilt.

They worked together to clean and dress the wound, their hands occasionally brushing as they passed instruments and supplies. Each touch sent a jolt of awareness through Emma, but not in the same way it had during their lesson. Even her body questioned whether his touch would gratify or doom her.

She applied her special poultice—a mixture of yarrow, comfrey, and calendula she’d learned from an elderly midwife—before they carefully wrapped his head in clean linen.

Once Everett and the farmhand settled Mr Thorpe in his bed, propped with pillows to aid his breathing, Emma turned to his wife. The woman’s face was lined with exhaustion and worry, her rough hands ceaselessly twisting her apron. Emma felt a surge of compassion for this woman who had already endured so much.

“Now, Mrs Thorpe,” she began, keeping her voice gentle but firm, “I know this looks frightening, but we’ve done everything possible. The next few days will be critical.”

She proceeded to give detailed instructions about care and monitoring, reaching for the laudanum in her bag. As she explained the dosing, Emma noticed Everett watching her with an expression that made her heart flutter; pride mingled with something deeper, more personal.

“I’ll return at first light,” Emma promised, squeezing Mrs Thorpe’s work-roughened hand. “Remember what I said about washing your hands with soap. It’s crucial.”

As they stepped out into the bitter night air, the adrenaline of the emergency began to fade. Emma found herself stealing glances at her companion, seeing him in an entirely new light. Who was this man who could shift so seamlessly from passionate lover to skilled surgeon?

Everett met her questioning gaze, a flicker of vulnerability passing across his features before his usual confident mask slipped back into place. They had much to discuss, but for now, the weight of their shared secret, and shared success, hung between them in the frosty air.

“We make quite a team, Dr Brown,” he said softly as they walked toward the waiting wagon.

The ride back from the Thorpes’ farm was thick with unspoken questions. Emma’s hands trembled slightly as they boarded; not from the cold, but from the tumult of emotions threatening to overwhelm her carefully maintained composure.

When they reached her house, she rounded on him as soon as they were inside. “Who trained you?”

“Emma—”

“Don’t.” Her voice shook. “No more lies. I’ve seen battlefield surgeons with less skill than you showed tonight. Your technique with the trephine…that’s years of formal training. Royal College, if I had to guess.”

Everett sank into a chair, the weight of his deception visible in the slump of his shoulders. “You’re correct. I trained at St. Bartholomew’s.”