"Ah, yes, I have one more question. You said that is the master bedchamber. But where is mine?"
"Why there, of course. The Ladies Guillemot have always shared their lords' bed." She gave a regal nod as befitted her exalted station, and departed.
Lisanor's knees gave way and she nearly missed the slipper chair that was, conveniently, just behind her. She had assumed that Lord Guillemot would not claim his conjugal rights until his health had improved. While she knew that at some point they would consummate their marriage, she had not expected it quite so soon. I am not ready. I don't know him. How can I possibly...
She sprawled there, unable to move while her thoughts scampered like mice disturbed in their nest. But before she could gather them into some sort of coherence, the door to the corridor opened.
"Here ye, go, sor. We'll have ye comfortable in a trice."
Guillemot's man--Needles?--edged past Carleton, again half carrying her husband. As soon as they were inside, the butler closed the door and hurried across the room to an alcove Lisanor had not noticed, half hidden as it was by shabby velvet draperies. "In here, Mr. Nettles. My lord, I believe you will be most comfortable on this chaise. You have overdone it somewhat. You must rest, but I know--"
"You're right. I won't go to bed like an invalid." Guillemot seemed to see Lisanor for the first time. "Good day, my dear. I see you've made yourself comfortable."
She bit back the sarcastic response that leapt to her lips.
Clarence was relieved to see Miss Hi--his wife--relaxing in the sitting room. There was much they must say to each other, and the sooner it was done, the sooner they would begin to rub along together smoothly. He contained his impatience while Nettles saw him settled on the chaise, while Carleton fussed with the tray holding the cordial they forced upon him twice daily, fetched a glass from the breakfront cabinet, and unfolded the rug.
"That will be all," he said, as soon as he was established. "Thank you."
"My lord--"
"Carleton, I admit to weakness in my leg and a certain lightheadedness when I have been on my feet for too long, but I am not ill. I am newly wedded, and my...my wife and I would like to be alone. We will ring if we need you."
"But--"
"No, Nettles. I do not need you to stay with me. Miss...Lady Guillemot is more than competent to cross the room and ring for you or Carleton, should I need you." He forced himself to smile, despite wanting nothing more than to relax into a semi-reclining position and close his eyes.
"Yes, sor." Nettles turned to face Miss...
Damnation! She is my wife. Why can I not remember that?
"You'll not let him get overtired, my lady?"
"I will take very good care of him, fear not. Thank you both." There was no doubt that her words were a dismissal.
At least she knew how to deal with servants. Clarence had wondered, coming as she did, from a farmhouse. Poor girl. She was in for a difficult period of adjustment. While Guillemot was not one of the great houses of England, it was one of the old ones, and it had its traditions. Traditions he was determined to continue.
When the door closed behind Nettles and Carleton, he lay back and let himself relax. The double vision that had plagued him ever since he'd landed on his head when his horse was shot from under him had finally reduced itself to a slight blurring when he tired. He hoped the doctor was telling the truth, that it would eventually disappear entirely. His left wrist and leg, while both still weak, were slowly getting stronger. Only the still draining wound in his right buttock remained a problem. What a joke. Shot in the arse. Wouldn't Rodney...
No, Rodney wouldn't laugh his fool head off. Rodney was dead. Along with so many more. Men he'd fought beside for four long years, comrades he'd loved like brothers.
"Are you in pain?"
He kept his eyes closed. "No. Not more than usual. Just tired. I don't seem to have the stamina I should."
"Would you... Can you tell me about your wounds?"
"I'd rather not. They are really quite tiresome."
"My lord, I did not ask out of idle curiosity. I've long thought that human wounds are little different from those suffered by animals. For the past six years, I have treated our livestock and our people when they were cut, broken, or shot."
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she went on.
"Yes, my lord, shot. While we fought no battles at Ackerslea, we did see our share of hunting accidents, particularly when we opened the woods to hunting."
"Huh."
"Now, will you tell me about your injuries?"
"I fell on my head. Concussion, the doctor said; it's all but healed. I was struck on the wrist by something heavy--a club, perhaps--and it apparently broke several small bones. At least that's what the sawbones on the ship said. My left leg was broken in the retreat and rebroken during the battle for the gates of Coruña." He opened his eyes and watched her carefully as he spoke the last sentence. "And I was shot in the...the right buttock."
She didn't smile, gave no indication she thought the location of his wound was amusing. "Tell me about your treatment."
"I hardly think--"
"My lord, we have much work ahead of us, putting your estate back in condition and seeing to the spring planting at Ackerslea. You are no good to me flat on your back. If my healing skills can help you, we would be abrogating our responsibilities if we did not make use of them. I think you'd better let me have a look at your injuries."
"My lady!"
"Oh, don't worry. I've seen a man's naked buttock before."
For some reason, all he could do was laugh. Clarence lay back on the chaise, roaring with laughter. After a few moments, he got it under control, reduced to occasional snorts. Until he opened his eyes and saw the outraged expression on her face, and it sent him off again.
At last he was able to speak without chuckling. "This is not how I envisioned spending my honeymoon."
Her sniff was eloquent. "I imagine not. It is, however, how we will spend our honeymoon, until we have you back on your feet, without your needing anything more than a walking stick to prop you up. Can you turn over on your own, or do you need help?"
"Can't this wait until we've retired? Just think how much easier it will be to lift my nightshirt than to pull down my britches."
"Oh, stop laughing. There is nothing funny about this. Very well, then. I will wait until tonight, but don't think I will forget."
"No, ma'am." His attempt at meekness was spoiled by the snickers he could not suppress.
"And speaking of tonight... Do you actually expect me to share your bed?"
All urge to laughter vanished. "Of course. You are my wife. Henceforth it is your bed as well."
"And you expect to...to consummate our marriage tonight? In your condition?"
"To be honest, no. I'm not sure I am capable. And even if I were, I'd prefer to wait until..." Unsure how to express his wishes, he fell silent.
"As would I. While you are healing, we can become acquainted. I confess I had felt some trepidation at... Well, we are strangers for all intents and purposes. I feel we should develop at least a liking for one another before we--" All austerity had left her expression and she had become what he'd forgotten she was, an innocent young woman who'd married a total stranger.
For the first time, Clarence felt hope for his marriage. Miss Hi--No, damn it all, my wife. Elizabeth? No, Lisbeth, or something like that. I hope.--had cleaned up well, to his surprise, given his first impression of her appearance. Now he was discovering that she was outspoken, practical, sensible, and possibly dictatorial. But perhaps, she might also be, in a small way, romantic. He held out his hand. "I think becoming better acquainted is an excellent notion." He couldn't resist a chuckle, though. "And we will begin by your inspecting my arse."
Her eyes widened an instant before she burst into laughter. And then she put her hand in his, not as a lady would, but as an equal, sealing an agreement.
* * * *
Lisanor
emerged from her dressing room cautiously, hoping Lord Guillemot was not already in the bed. The chamber was dimly lit; only a single candelabra stood on a chest at the foot of the bed.
As she approached, the bed seemed to grow in her sight, until she stood beside it and realized for the first time how enormous it was. The surface, covered by an embroidered counterpane, was waist-high to her, and the length surely could accommodate someone half again her height. A step stool awaited her ascent, something certainly necessary even for one of her stature.
"At least we won't be crowded together," she muttered, conscious of a sense of relief. She'd once overheard a neighbor's wife complain of being "squashed together like peas in a pod" at night, and had secretly dreaded that sort of intimacy almost as much as...as the other.
Having given Pammy the evening off, she had no one to see her hesitancy, so she took her time inspecting the chamber. It was a large room, the bed its principal fixture, leaving little space for other furniture. Its corner posts rose nearly to the high ceiling, and from them draped faded tapestry swags and soft woolen curtains. A good thing too, she thought, as she shivered in the chill air.
One corner was occupied by the fireplace, but it had not produced enough heat to take the chill off the room and she doubted it ever would, even with an abundance of fuel. Tonight it held what her grandfather would have called a stingy fire, made with half a scuttle of damp coal.
She heard muffled voices from behind the door she knew to be the master's dressing room. Quickly she removed her robe and laid it on the slipper chair beside the bed. She mounted the steps and slid between warmed sheets, pulled them up to just under her chin.
No, this will not do. I am not a shrinking bride. I am a partner in a business arrangement, and tonight will not be a traditional wedding night. She slipped from the bed, spread the bedding up and smoothed it. When the opposite door opened, she had slipped into her robe and was seated on the slipper chair.
Once again Nettles and the young footman were all but carrying her husband. Carleton hovered just behind. They finally set his feet to the floor at the side of the bed. "Here ye be, sor," Nettle said. "Jest let me--"
"I can--"
"No, my lord, you cannot. The doctor has specifically advised against your climbing stairs unassisted." Carleton slipped a shoulder beneath one of Guillemot's arms and Nettles followed suit on his other side. Between them, they hauled him up the three steps beside the bed and gently seated him upon the mattress. Nettles raised his legs, forcing him to recline against the piled-up pillows.
Lisanor caught a flash of pale, hairy calf before he snatched at the sheet and covered himself.
For a moment he lay still, breathing deeply. At last he opened his eyes and looked directly toward her. "Good evening, my dear. If you will be patient, we shall be rid of these two would-be nurses in a bit."
Carleton had arranged several bottles and a glass of water on a small drum table that Nettles had brought to the side of the bed. "My lady, if you are willing, I will show you what medicaments his lordship might require in the night."
"Of course." She stepped to join him. His instructions were direct and easily understood. "I believe I can manage, Carleton. And if I do not, I'm sure someone will answer the bell."
"Jest call out, milady. I'll be sleepin' right outside the door," Nettles said, as he opened the long velvet draperies that covered one window. He pushed the lower pane open a crack. "An' if ye gets too chill, let me know. The major likes a bit of a breeze, but he fergits it's still winter hereabouts."
"Thank you, Nettles. I am also used to sleeping with a window open." She supposed that meant that the bedcurtains would remain open as well. A good thing she'd worn her flannel nightrail and cap. The diaphanous garment Tamsen had insisted was appropriate bedwear for a bride was still in her trunk. Where it would stay, if she had anything to say about it.
Nettles and Carleton finally bowed themselves out. She was alone with her husband.
"I don't bite, you know."
Startled, she turned to face him. "I am not afraid of you, my lord." It was a lie, but only a small one. "Can you turn onto your stomach?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"We agreed that I would inspect your wound, did we not? To do so, I will need for you to be lying prone."
"Oh, great God, you were serious."
"I am usually serious, my lord. Please turn onto your stomach. Or do you require Nettles' assistance?"
"No. I can manage." And he did, although not without a few grunts and a sharp inhalation. When he was fully prone, he pulled one of the pillows over his head.
Lisanor reminded herself that he was merely one more injured man. She raised his nightshirt high enough to let her see the bandage covering all of one buttock, while carefully not looking at his long, strong legs.
His wound was ugly. Apparently the surgeon had dug deep to remove the ball and whatever it carried with it. He'd clearly been hurried, for the slices into Guillemot's flesh were, she decided, far wider and deeper than a careful surgeon would have made. Most of them oozed yellowish fluid between the stitches holding them closed. "Not any more skilled with a needle than he was with a knife," she murmured. She wouldn't have done this slapdash a job on a worthless old farm animal.
No wonder he was in pain. And if the infection were not cleared up soon, he'd be in danger of losing his life. She pulled a corner of the pillow free of his grasp and raised it. "Don't move, my lord. I will return in a trice."
She knocked on the door to his dressing room. "Nettles, I need you."
It burst open. "What? Is he--"
"His lordship is as well as can be expected under the circumstances." When she realized he was staring past her at the bed, she understood his astonished expression. "I have examined his wound. It is imperative that we begin treating it immediately. Please send to the kitchen for a pound of salt. And when you have done that, fill the bathing fixture to a depth of about six inches with water just warm to the touch."
"But--"
"Do as she says." Guillemot's voice was no longer muffled. When she turned around, she saw him still on his stomach, still with his buttocks and legs exposed, but with his head uncovered and turned toward her. "She says she's good at doctoring cows."
"And horses and pigs, my lord." Assured that he was willing to allow her to treat him, she returned to her dressing room to change. A nightrail was not the best garment to wear while bathing someone.
As it ensued, she needn't have bothered. Neither Nettles nor Guillemot would allow her to enter the bathing room.
"Bad enough I've exposed my backside to your innocent gaze, my dear. I am not willing to flaunt myself further. Why don't you retire? Read something, or go to sleep. I'll return once I'm properly stewed."
She went to bed. As she settled into the soft mattress, she decided that no woman in England had ever spent so peculiar a wedding night.
Some time later she woke as her husband was returned to the bed. Keeping her eyes closed, she pretended to be asleep. He must not have been fooled, for once they were alone in the dark, he whispered, "I think the pain is less. Thank you, my dear."
* * * *
The room was still dark when something woke her. Lisanor lay still a moment, listening. And then she heard it again. A sharp inhalation, as if someone was drawing a breath to sh--
"Hold! Hold the line, damn you!"
Something struck her a great blow across the chest, driving the breath from her.
"Get back. I'll kill any man who runs."
As she gasped for air, the covers were pulled away. Quickly she rolled to the side, nearly fell off the edge of the mattress.
"Here they come. Stand, men! Stand for England!"
Fumbling on the small table beside the bed, she found the candlestick, but where-- Ah, there was the china box holding spills. She struck steel to flint again and again, as the shouts slowly died into inchoate mumblings. Finally a spill caught and she lit the candle.
Her
husband was sitting straight upright, his face buried in his hands, sobbing hoarsely. She scrambled up the steps and into the bed, for the first time wishing it were less wide, less roomy. Tentatively she laid a hand on his shoulder, unsure if he would recognize her as a friend. Surely he had been in the midst of a remembered battle.
He stiffened, but did not otherwise react. Slowly she stroked across his shoulders, gradually deepening the strokes until they became soothing rubs. After a few minutes, when she felt him relax minutely, she changed the motion of her hand, moving it up and down the line of his spine.
She murmured soothingly, not words but the sorts of sounds she'd have made to a terrified horse, an injured dog.
"They are dead." His whisper was so soft she barely heard the first words. "All those brave boys. All dead. Damn the French. Damn them to hell!" The last sentence was a shout, echoing around the room.
Lisanor shared his rage, having wanted to speak the same syllables more than once. Yet how could she pretend that her losses to the wars were anything compared to what they must have cost this man? She slid her arms around him and pulled him close. For a long time she held him, while the candle guttered and his tears dampened her nightrail.
Eventually he slept. She did not, for she had much to consider, not the least of which was that marriage might be more than an agreement for conservation of property.
* * * *
On the fourth morning since her marriage, Nettles emerged from the bathing room, beaming. "I'd'a not believed it, m'lady. His ar-- Ahem. His wound is healing clean."
Lisanor looked up from the letter she was writing. "I am not surprised. Hot salt water is often efficacious in drawing pus from deep wounds." That was as near to saying I told you so as she felt it politic to go. "Having a facility in which his lordship can immerse his wound is far better than merely applying hot salt compresses. He is fortunate that you were diligent in keeping his dressings clean and that the surgeon was able to remove all foreign matter from his wound."
If possible, the man's smile widened. "I done me best, m'lady."
"And his lordship is aware of it. It is largely due to your care of him that he is recovering without further complications." She turned back to her letter, hoping he would go away and stop looking at her as if she had performed a miracle.
A Pitiful Remnant Page 5
