Free Winter at Death's Hotel by Kenneth Cameron Page B

you’re not to worry.”
    She wasn’t worried, but she’d have been happier if he were here and were saying things like “to hell with the damned train; you’re my wife!” rather than sending telegrams. With that slightly depressing thought, she fell asleep again.
    ***
    When she woke a second time, she knew where she was almost at once (the “almost” was a fraction of a second of panic)—hotel, room, Arthur-on-train, fall—and she was aware that her ankle hurt like billy-o. She tried to move her leg, and the pain caused her to make a sound, not a ladylike scream at all but a kind of guttural Aaaghh .
    â€œOh, thank God, you’re awake.”
    â€œEthel?”
    â€œIt’s me, madame.” Ethel’s bovine face loomed over her like a balloon that had floated in the window.
    â€œI thought you were on the train.”
    â€œOh, no, madame! My place is with you. How are you?”
    â€œI want to sit up.”
    â€œDoctor said—”
    â€œSit me up! Aaagh! Like knives in my ankle. Is it broken?”
    â€œSprained, madame. Mr. Doyle and the hotel doctor had quite a set-to about it. Mr. Doyle— Dr. Doyle he is, really, isn’t he? as he reminded the hotel man—said it was only a sprain and you could recover on the train, and they’d only need a litter and two attendants to get you on and off the train, which could be done through a window, but the house doctor said it was broken and he was going to hospitalize you. And then Mr. Carver called in a specialist and he said you’d only sprained your ankle and bed rest was called for, and Mr. Carver said of course the hotel would provide the very best care without you having to move to a hospital or some such. By that time, Mr. Doyle and I had divided up the luggage again, and I got all his into one carriage and off he went to catch his train, and the boys and me brought everything back up here—one of them calling me honey again to my face, and didn’t I give him what for!—and they brought you up on a freight lift, and here you are!”
    Louisa was absorbing the fact that her husband had gone away before he had known how badly she was hurt. She said in a somewhat slurred voice, “I suppose Mr. Doyle wasn’t really worried for me.”
    â€œHe was, madame, oh, he was! But you kept saying, ‘You must go, Arthur, you must,’ and telling him to go, and it was you ordered me to divide the luggage.”
    â€œI did?” She thought how noble of her that must have been. “I must have struck my head, for I don’t remember.”
    â€œOh, you took a terrible crack on the noggin, madame! Head first it was, and you’ve rather a black eye, I’m afraid, although it don’t show so much if you keep that side in the dark. And your glasses broke to smithereens.”
    â€œA black eye?” She was horrified. It seemed…unseemly. Then it seemed rather thrilling. “Get me a mirror. The hand mirror from my little case will do.”
    â€œOh, madame, I wouldn’t if I was you.”
    â€œOh, havers, Ethel! Anyway, you’re not me.” Good heavens, where did “havers” come from? That’s one of my mother’s words. “Fetch the mirror, do, please.”
    Ethel’s balloon floated away, then reappeared. Hands tried to push her up in the bed; there was a lot of stacking and smacking of pillows. The mirror was put into her hand. “Doctor said not to upset you.”
    It wasn’t simply a black eye. It was a swollen cheek, a cut eyebrow, and a large purple-blue bruise with rather disgusting yellow edges that went from her forehead down almost to her jawbone. Louisa stared at it. She moved the mirror so as to get different angles on it. “Well,” she said, “I’ve never looked like this before.”
    â€œNo, madame.” Ethel was almost whispering.
    â€œI shan’t be able to go