Not a Gentleman

By Tintinnabula

Chapter 1

The Riot

John Thornton didn't see the rock that whizzed by to strike his love's temple but he felt the jolt, as surely as she felt it herself, although not so acutely. He shuddered as she crumpled, doll-like, in his arms. Truly he could not be held responsible for the shout that escaped his lips moments later.

"Are you satisfied now? It was me you came for- kill me if you want!"

He was lucky, he realized, that the soldiers arrived just moments later, for the crowd might have taken him at his word. They had more rocks- and sturdy leather clogs- at the ready. But they got what they deserved. Those fools! And more fool, she, to think that these ruffians could be reasoned with.

But he loved her regardless of her impetuous naivete. Miss Hale was a lover of justice. This stood to reason: as the daughter of a clergyman, she was raised on a steady diet of scripture and philosophy. Of course she would stand on the side of what she thought was right. But John had hopes that one day she would see that he, too, was right, and stand by his side. Apart from today's most astonishing behavior he'd already been encouraged: she'd said words that brightened his outlook only the night before, once he'd taken the time to ruminate upon them. That surely it was good to see both sides of an argument.

John found the small, bloodied rock, wrapped it in his handkerchief, and secreted it in his waist coat pocket, then gentlyĺ lifted his savior into his arms. Her eyes did not flutter when he whispered her name, and as he clasped her to his chest the steady trickle of blood from her temple strengthened into a rivulet. He did not notice the bright crimson pattern it made on the starched linen front of his shirt and the silk twill of his waist coat. He did notice that she smelled of lavender and roses. He breathed in the heady fragrance and sighed.

Margaret—dare he call her that?- was lighter than he expected, her form reminding him again that she was a mere eighteen years of age. John held her tenderly as he crossed the threshold, reminded briefly that this was something one typically did with ones bride, although typically said bride would not be bloodied and unconscious. He hurried her inside, only stopping at the foot of the stairs to kiss her once on the forehead, out of the sight of the prying eyes of servants and family.

John gingerly deposited Miss Hale onto the chaise lounge recently warmed by his hypochondriacal, vaporous sister, whose incessant fanning seemed enough to summon those typhoons seen in the far eastern parts of the Empire. Clearly Fanny would be useless as a nursemaid. But Mother would take care of Miss Hale, John knew, even if his sister could not. Certainly by the time John returned from speaking with the constable a doctor would have things in hand and Miss Hale stabilized.

But that was not the case, John learned, when he returned from his duties not a half hour later. Miss Hale was still unconscious, although a dressing had been applied to her wound. Dr. Donaldson's silver eyebrows were knit together, and his features, typically schooled in a neutral expression, betrayed concern.

"Might I speak with you in private?" the Scotsman asked quietly. John ushered him into his study, closed the door and gestured to a pair of leather wing chairs flanking the fireplace. He offered him a brandy, but the man demurred.

"I'll not mince words with you," Dr. Donaldson began.

John bowed his head. "I appreciate that." As one who spoke plainly, John appreciated this trait in others. Like all true men, he had little patience for the inanities of small talk. And in a situation like this where one of the weaker sex had been injured, he simply would not set aside the time to engage in such trivialities, customary though they night be in other locales. His chief concern- his only concern- was Miss Hale.

"Head injuries can be quite dangerous. And the sad truth is, modern medicine knows very little about the healing of the brain."

John's eyes widened, and his face paled as fear snaked into the recesses of his own brain.

"Miss Hale's skull does not appear to be fractured, but her brain has been deeply concussed. There are issues with her eyes indicating that it is a severe bruise, and to return her to her home in Crampton is out of the question." The doctor shook his head. "The jolts of a carriage ride over two miles of rough cobblestones would be quite harmful, I am afraid. Has her family been contacted?"

"I am not sure. I will need to ask my mother." John willed himself to continue listening, willed his features not to betray the emotion he felt, willed the tremor from his voice.

"You will forgive this intrusive line of questioning I hope, but I have seen you many times at the Hale residence and know you to be a familiar acquaintance of Mr. Hale."

John nodded. "I count him among my closest friends," he murmured.

"And you are then aware of the circumstances surrounding his wife's health?"

Again John nodded.

"I do not think Mr. Hale is in any state of mind to be hearing this news about his daughter. In fact, his own health is not the best. He is a man of advancing years, after all. I would suggest..."

"You would suggest a somewhat altered tale of events?"

Dr. Donaldson nodded. "Perhaps that she has simply taken ill."

John rose from his chair and stirred the embers in the fire as he pondered the doctor's suggestion. "I do see the logic in that."

"I do not ask you lightly to deceive your friend. It would be better, I feel for Mr. Hale to deal with issues as they arise, rather than worry for what may be. There is some chance, after all, that Miss Hale may survive this."

John spun on his heel to face the doctor, his face incredulous. "Do you mean to say there is an even greater chance that she may not survive?"

Dr. Donaldson nodded gravely. "As I said, medicine understands very little of the workings of the brain. Dr Bright of Guy's Hospital has done an extensive study of these types of injury and has made two major findings-"

"Which are-?"

"I did not realize you were a man of science, Mr. Thornton."

"I do not claim to be. I am but half educated, yet still considered by some to be sharp-witted. I do, however, read about what these men of science have done whenever possible. Pray continue."

Dr. Donaldson sighed at the insolence of the overbearing manufacturer. "Dr. Bright found two things: that our traditional treatment of bleeding by leeches, cupping or blistering had little effect-"

John scoffed. Even someone as poorly educated as he could see the non-scientific basis of such treatments. Although Aristotle's peers might have recommended it, science had advanced well beyond those times. There had even been stories in the newspapers about work done in France showing the clear lack of merit of such treatments, and the efficacy of the new, numerical method of medicine. How was it that a poorly-educated brute should know this, but a doctor did not?

"-and that the brains of deceased patients with injuries such as our Miss Hale have extreme swelling. It would therefore be best, one would think, to do something to relieve the swelling. However, Dr. Bright's team has not yet moved into the realm of experimentation."

"Perhaps they are not as much men of science as you would like to think them, then."

"No," Dr. Donaldson agreed, before reaching into his leather satchel for a small, leather-bound notebook and pencil. He scratched notes into it furiously for a minute or two, then nodded to himself several times. John took the opportunity to hand him the instrument of Miss Hale's injury, and looked on as the doctor unwrapped the shilling-sized stone.

"It was wise of you to pick up the rock. You can see here that it was this face her that struck her," he pointed to a narrow edge, "and therefore, all of the mass of the rock was concentrated in that small area. In some of Dr. Bright's patients, there were broken blood vessels inside the brain as a result of such injury. But I should add in these cases the injuries were much more substantial. Men run over by carriages and the like." The doctor scribbled again in his tiny notebook, and muttered to himself.

John returned to the fireplace, and poked the coals in vexation. How this man could be so dispassionate about a woman who was possibly dying? What an odd man this doctor was. But then again, he had asked for it, had he not, when he'd handed him the stone?

"Now, as for events that transpired today...I did hear bits and pieces of the story of Miss Hale's accident today. Servants will talk, unfortunately." Dr. Donaldson lifted an eyebrow. "Interestingly, they seem to think of us doctors as part of the furniture." He paused as John stared back at him as gloweringly as the reignited coals of the fireplace, seemingly daring him to continue. The doctor blinked once in recognition of this bulldog glare and continued, although slightly less confidently.

"I gather that there is an understanding of some sort between you and Miss Hale?"

John felt his blood begin to simmer. The sheer, unadulteratered impudence of this man, to suggest so openly that Miss Hale- his Margaret- would declare herself publicly, so brazenly-

"I only ask, because as her intended, you would have the authority to make medical decisions in lieu of her father."

A cloud lifted from John's countenance, and the storm raging in his mind dissipated into fine, swirling mists.

"Yes," he said abruptly, as he headed for the door. "We have an understanding. Margaret is my fiancee. Tell me, what are the options for her treatment? I would imagine we are wasting time."

Author's note: Dr. Richard Bright of Guy's Hospital, London is a historical figure. In 1831 he published a treatise on brain disorders including a section on concussion and other forms of brain damage which I have pulled from, as this book would have been available to Dr. Donaldson. Sadly, although in the 1830s researchers showed that pneumonia and other infectious illness were not improved by bloodletting, the standard treatment of the early 1840s still did include leeching, cupping and blistering. (Note that doctors were not washing their hands, either, not even for surgery—that was not suggested as medical practice until 2 years after the publication of N and S, and the doctor who did so lost his job). I hope you enjoyed what I've written so far, and that if you did, you will leave a review as it is an incentive to write more!