“Explain to me exactly what you did to clean the wound,” the doctor demanded, glancing up briefly from his examination of Marcus’s leg. “And I also want to know what it looked like before you started.”

Honoria and her mother took turns telling him what they’d done. He seemed to approve, or at the very least, he didn’t disapprove. When they were done, he turned back to Marcus’s leg, looked at it one more time, and let out a long breath.

Honoria waited for a moment. He looked like he was taking time to think. But bloody hell, he was taking a long time to think. Finally she couldn’t stand it. “What is your opinion?” she blurted out.

Dr. Winters spoke slowly, almost as if he were thinking out loud. “He might keep the leg.”

“Might?” Honoria echoed.

“It’s too soon to tell for sure. But if he does keep it”—he looked at both Honoria and her mother—“it will have been due to your good work.”

Honoria blinked in surprise; she had not expected a commendation. Then she asked the question she dreaded: “But will he live?”

The doctor’s eyes met Honoria’s with frank steadiness. “He will certainly live if we amputate his leg.”

Honoria’s lips trembled. “What do you mean?” she whispered. But she knew exactly what he meant; she just needed to hear him say it.

“I am confident that if I remove his leg at this moment he will live.” He looked back over at Marcus, as if another glance might offer one last clue. “If I do not remove his leg, he may very well recover completely. Or he may die. I cannot predict how the infection will progress.”

Honoria went still. Only her eyes moved, from Dr. Winters’s face, to Marcus’s leg, and then back. “How will we know?” she asked quietly.

Dr. Winters tilted his head to the side in question.

“How will we know when to make the decision?” she clarified, her voice rising in volume.

“There are signs to look for,” the doctor replied. “If you begin to see streaks of red moving up or down his leg, for example, we will know we must amputate.”

“And if that does not happen, does that mean he is healing?”

“Not necessarily,” the doctor admitted, “but at this point, if there is no change in the wound’s appearance, I shall take that as a good sign.”

Honoria nodded slowly, trying to take it all in. “Will you remain here at Fensmore?”

“I cannot,” he told her, turning to pack up his bag. “I must see to another patient, but I will be back this evening. I do not think we will need to make any decision before then.”

“You do not think?” Honoria asked sharply. “Then you are not certain?”