The Bargain by Mary J. Putney Page A

believe it.”
    Kinlock gave a tired smile that made him look surprisingly boyish. “Well, you wanted a miracle. Did you stop at St. Bart’s church the other day?”
    â€œNo, but I certainly will tomorrow!”
    â€œBe sure you do. Even God likes to be thanked when he’s done well.”
    Sally stood. “Time for me to go back to David. Are there any special instructions about what to do for him during the night?”
    â€œMy only instructions are for you to get a good dinner and a solid night’s sleep,” he said sternly. “Doctor’s orders. If you don’t start taking better care of yourself, you’ll be a patient in no time. You needn’t worry about Major Lancaster. Morgan will stay with him, and I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
    She opened her mouth to protest, then had second thoughts. With the tension ended, she was weary to the bone. There was nothing she could do for David that couldn’t be done as well by someone else. “Very well.”
    Kinlock got to his feet and rolled his shoulders, loosening taut muscles. “Would this grand establishment run to whiskey?”
    If he wanted to bathe in a tub of the best port, Sally would make sure that his wish was granted. “Shall we go downstairs and find out?”
    Kinlock collected his medical bag, and they descended to the drawing room salon. Lady Jocelyn’s well-trained butler responded to Sally’s tug on the bell cord, speedily producing decanters of whiskey and brandy. She had to give the staff credit. Not once had anyone indicated contempt for her lowly self by so much as the flicker of an eye, though no doubt they had plenty to say in the servants’ hall.
    Noticing that Ian Kinlock’s hands were shaking as he poured himself a whiskey, she asked, “Are you always so strained after surgery?”
    He looked a little shamefaced. “Aye. My hands are steady as a rock during an operation, but after I have trouble believing I was foolhardy enough to do it. It’s uncommonly difficult to cut into a human body, knowing how hard it is on the patient, but sometimes surgery is the only cure. Like today.” He tossed back half his whiskey, then replenished it and settled on a sofa, drinking at a more moderate pace.
    Sally sipped her brandy. Very fine, as she’d expected. “What was the awful-smelling dressing that you used?”
    Kinlock grinned. “Are you sure you want to know?”
    â€œYes, please.”
    â€œMoldy bread and water.”
    â€œGood heavens! After making such a point of clean instruments, you put that filthy stuff on David?” Sally exclaimed, genuinely horrified.
    â€œI know it seems strange, but all over the world there are folk traditions of using moldy materials for dressings,” the surgeon explained. “In China, they use moldy soy curd. In eastern and southern Europe, I’m told the peasants keep a loaf in the rafters. If someone is injured, they take down the bread, cut off the mold and make a paste with water, then apply it to the wound.”
    â€œHow remarkable.” Sally had always been insatiably curious, a good trait for a teacher. “Do you keep a moldy loaf in your attic?”
    He shook his head reminiscently. “This particular specimen was given to me by a Russian sailor who swore that it was the best he’d ever used. I gave it a try and found I lost fewer patients to infection and mortification. I’ve been feeding the mixture bread and water for the last eight years.”
    â€œWhat made you decide to try something so unorthodox in the first place?”
    â€œI’ve traveled widely, which gave me an interest in folk medicine. My more traditional colleagues sneer, but sometimes it works. One of my aims in life is to test such practices and discover which are valid.” He smiled. “For example, I’ve seen no evidence that putting a knife under a childbed cuts the pain in half,