A Pitiful Remnant

by Judith B. Glad

  Or was she protecting him, while he convalesced? Difficult as he found that to believe, he admitted that he must consider it as a possibility. The sound of the opening door opening startled him.

  "Mornin', sor."

  "Ah... I am glad to see you, Nettles. I want to go to the stables before breakfast."

  "But your soak--"

  "Can wait. I need some answers before I see her ladyship this morning." He tossed the nightshirt to the foot of the bed. "Do you know where she is?"

  "I saw her headin' for the muniment room. She...uh...didn't look too happy."

  "Excellent. Not that she is unhappy, but that she is occupied. I'll want both canes," he said as Nettles assisted him into his breeches.

  "Are ye sure...?"

  "That I can walk to the stables? No, but there is only one way to find out. Never mind the cravat. A kerchief will do. And my brogues. Yes, yes, the woolen hose too." He contained his impatience with difficulty. When he finally had both canes in his hand, he took a cautious step. Yes, I can do this. "Charge."

  Nettles muttered something.

  Clarence thought it best not to ask him to repeat it.

  Once he got Clarence to the front door, Nettles put his foot down. "I'll fetch the dog cart. Mebbe you can walk to the stables and mebbe not, but I'll not have all my hard work go for naught because your pride made you try. You wait here."

  Clarence obeyed, wondering who was the master and who the employee.

  Entering the shadowy cavern brought back memories, not particularly pleasant ones. Unable to share his father's interest in hunting and frankly bored with the intricacies of hunter bloodlines, he had rarely visited the stables for any purpose other than fetching a hack for a ride around the estate or a jaunt into the village. He'd certainly never found hunters the fascination his sire had. So Clarence was surprised when Simms, the aging head groom, greeted him with some enthusiasm.

  "Her la'ship were here t'other day, pokin' about. Had a parcel of questions, she did, and she warn't too happy with the answers, I reckon. I knowed that soon's ye was back on yer feet, ye'd straighten it all out."

  Some judicious questions and an expression of interest soon imparted the full picture to Clarence. Last year his father had not given orders for the two-year-olds to be taken to the show where most of the sales took place. When Simms inquired, he was told not to worry; there would be a sale held later, right here at Guillemot. But no prospective buyers ever materialized, even though the training of the young stock continued.

  "We had to hire on two more lads, once we started working the youngsters," Simms said, "but his lordship said to go ahead, take on howsomever many we needed. But then he passed on, and we didn't go to this year's sales neither, and now we're short-handed, what with another crop of colts needin' schooled. But her la'ship said I had to let some lads go, not hire on some more, and you know, milord, that we can't do that, not with breeding season comin' on."

  Clarence listened, not admitting that he'd forgotten much of what he'd unwillingly learned about the management of a stud. Finally he interrupted Simms to say, "We'll settle all that later. Right now we need to plan how to get rid of those three-year-olds. And perhaps a stallion or two." Although he hadn't admitted it to his wife, he agreed that having six stallions at stud was impractical for a stable the size of Guillemot's. Especially since they weren't generating any stud fees.

  Simms argued for approaching some of the hunt clubs about the availability of the three-year-olds. Clarence considered it for a moment, and said, "No, we'll send them to Tatt's. Make plans to transport them to London next week." When Simms sputtered, he said, with all the authority he'd learned in the army, "I know we won't get our money's worth, but at least we won't be feeding them. Now about the stallions..."

  The groom's' face took on a sheepish expression. "Well, now, I reckon we might send Thunderbolt and Geraint's Pride on with the three-year-olds. Their bloodlines are good, but they ain't been proven. Showy they are, but neither one jumps worth a damn."

  "Then why-- Never mind." His legs were beginning to tremble. "We'll come back to this later. I want to take a look around. We'll take the dogcart."

  Once they were tooling along the lane leading to the home farm, Nettles said, "'Pears to me your father let things slide a bit."

  "He did indeed, and more than a bit." The breeze had a bite to it, but the scents carried on it evoked old memories, taking him back to his youth when all he could think of was escaping this rural backwater and seeing the world. He didn't regret going to the army, but now he couldn't imagine being anywhere else than here, where the loudest sounds were the raucous cries of crows warning a merlin from their roosts. I've had enough of cannonfire and screaming and killing.

  Everywhere they went that day, from the village, where they stopped for a bite at midday, to the cottages where a few laborers still lived, he saw signs of neglect. The home farm, never a particularly productive place, showed no evidence of recent cultivation, the small woods where he'd occasionally trapped conies were tangled with deadfall and almost impassable. Even the pond, where once ducks, both wild and tame, had nested and fed, was fetid and weed-grown.

  No wonder my wife was outraged. I may not be a farmer, but I'd be a fool to ignore these evidences of neglect. My father must have been demented.

  "I've seen enough," he told Nettles, when they'd turned back at the farthest boundary of the estate, where two fields were so weed-infested that they could not have been cultivated nor used as pasture for several years, were the last straw. His inheritance was worthless. And he couldn't even sell it.

  "I owe my wife an apology."

  "Huh!" was all Nettles said, but the single syllable held approval.

  Chapter Ten

  Nettles pulled the sheet up to Clarence's waist. "Ye're all but healed up, sor. A few more days and we can stop the soakin'."

  He reached around and scratched through the sheet. "Thank God. My skin's as well cured as a hog's belly. Ow!"

  "What?"

  "I scratched too close. That hole in my arse might be all but healed, but it's still damn tender."

  "You be careful. Start pokin' around and ye'll undo all the good these soaks have done ye." He moved around out of Clarence's view, but from the sounds he was making Clarence knew he was making the bathing room tidy and turning back the bed.

  "Get out of here, Nettles. There are maids to do all that."

  "Yes sor. But I might as well, since I'll be stickin' close so I can help you to bed."

  Experimentally, Clarence reared up on his forearms. When that didn't hurt, he rolled himself over onto his back. A sharp twinge in his arse told him he did indeed have more healing to do, but it was nothing like it had been. Gradually, carefully, he levered himself up into a sitting position, being careful to put most of his weight on his left buttock.

  "Ere now, what the hell are ye up to?"

  "Asserting my independence. I'm tired of being an invalid. Time I was on my feet again." Earlier, when Nettles had assisted him to the bathing room, he'd realized he'd been taking more of his own weight every day, that today Nettles was doing little else but steady him. Even the awkward slide into the tub had been easier, for he'd been able to support himself on his left leg. Finally.

  "What's the date?" He'd deliberately avoided counting the days of his recuperation, knowing that doing so would only slow the passage of time.

  Nettles pushed the drawer shut and turned away from the bureau. "I ain't sure exactly. Hold--" A faraway look came into his eyes. "March. Maybe the middle. One of the maids was saying at breakfast that Easter was comin' up in a bit, and that it was close on the beginning of April."

  "So it's been around two months. I should be able to walk on this leg without doing it any harm. Let's see." Without waiting for Nettles to cross the room, he slid from the table on which he'd lain daily while Nettles had massaged and manipulated his broken leg. He'd been determined that its muscles would not atrophy.

  "Wait--"<
br />
  He had no intention of doing so. Carefully, for he was not a foolish man, he set his left foot upon the floor and put a little weight on it.

  A little more, and he felt the muscles in his thighs begin to tremble. Great God, I've no strength left! "Hand me the cane, will you?"

  Nettles picked up one of his crutches.

  "The cane, Nettles."

  "But sor--"

  "Sergeant."

  "Yes, sor." He set the crutch aside and handed Clarence the walking stick.

  The amber handle was warm in his hand. He set the stick solidly on the floor and stepped forward tentatively with his right foot. Muscles continued to tremble, but they functioned. Leaning heavily on the cane, he swung his left foot forward, put his weight on that leg. His knee wanted to flex, his ankle to flop, his thigh muscles to cramp. "Damn!"

  When Nettles would have slipped his shoulder under Clarence's armpit, he waved the man away. The distance to his chaise longue couldn't be more than ten paces. Surely he could take those steps.

  He was halfway there, with Nettles hovering anxiously at his elbow, when the door opened.

  "What the devil are you doing?" his wife demanded, just as his toe caught on the carpet. "Trying to kill yourself?"

  She caught him before he could fall. Later Lisanor wondered how she had moved so quickly, for the door was fully three yards from her husband.

  Instead of him sprawling upon the floor, probably with Nettles atop him, he had landed on her. His hands were on either side of her head, one leg was wedged between hers, and they were nose to nose.

  While she fought to draw a breath, she thought she heard him say, "That will be all, Nettles."

  He raised himself slightly, taking his weight off her chest. The action only served to press his hips more firmly against hers. His hips, and-- Good heavens, is that what I think it is?

  "Are you injured?"

  Having finally found her breath, she said, "I don't believe so. Are you?"

  Nettles had come to his knees beside them. "Sor? M'lady? Are you all right? Shall I call for Carleton?"

  "Go away, Nettles. We're both fine. Her ladyship will help me to my feet."

  "But--"

  "Sergeant!"

  "Yes, sor."

  Guillemot remained atop her as Nettles walked slowly, hesitantly to the door. When it had closed behind the bâtman, he said, "I confess that I had intended to use more finesse in bringing you to this position."

  Lisanor had been attempting to decide the best way to get him safely off the floor, but his words made her freeze in place. "My lord?"

  He bent his head and brushed his mouth lightly across hers. "We have been married nearly four weeks, and I've only kissed you once. Well, twice now, but the one just now hardly counts. You have a lovely mouth, my dear." Before she could respond, he was addressing her mouth in a way that neither of his previous kisses had prepared her for. His tongue slipped lightly along the seam of her lips, as if requesting entrance.

  With a long, soft sigh of pure pleasure, she allowed it. For a brief moment, before she came to her senses. With both hands on his shoulders, she pushed him from her. "My lord, this is not--"

  His sigh was expressive, but of what she was unsure. "No, it certainly is not the time or place for what I have in mind. Will you assist me to my feet?"

  That task proved more difficult than she had anticipated, and certainly than he had hoped. Before he was safely ensconced upon his chaise longue, she had learned several words far more colorful than any she had heard in the barns.

  "I beg your pardon, my dear. Clearly I overestimated my degree of recovery." He was still sweating, and the lines of pain on his face, which she had thought less deep these past few days, were strongly evident. Even his voice was weaker.

  She sat on the edge of the chaise, laid her hand upon his chest. "There is an old saying, my lord, about not running before you can walk. Perhaps if you were to begin with shorter distances...or use two canes."

  He turned his face away. "Or perhaps I should accept that I will never be the man I once was."

  "Oh, for God's sake! We are none of us the persons we once were. Time passes and we change, we age. Perhaps you will never be able to run a footrace again, or charge up a--whatever it is that soldiers charge up--but you are perfectly capable of managing your estates, of taking your seat in the House, of-- Are you laughing at me, sir?"

  "No, my dear. I am not laughing. Not exactly. I think... I believe I am giving thanks."

  He caught her hands and raised them to his lips, which now bore a small smile. "It is my good fortune to have wed the most practical, commonsensical woman in England. You have not only brought me the means to salvage the disaster wrought by my father, but you have reminded me that the battle is not won by the faint of heart."

  She did her best to ignore the wish that he would kiss more than her hands. "I believe our bargain to be beneficial to both of us equally, my lord."

  "Lisanor?"

  "Yes, my lord?"

  "Say my name."

  "Your-- Guillemot."

  "No, my given name. Guillemot is an institution, not a person. Say my name. Please."

  Aware that his request had some significance to him, she put the respect she'd come to feel for him, along with the affection she'd just realized she had for him, into her tone. "Clarence."

  Again he kissed her fingers. "Thank you. And now, would you please call Nettles back. I could not walk ten paces today, but I intend to make another attempt."

  "I would be happy to assist you."

  "And give me another attempt to crush you? I think not. But you can, before you go, answer me one question."

  "Yes my-- Yes, Clarence?"

  "What kind of name is Lisanor?"

  "She was a Greek, the mother of Oedipus. My family's tradition is to choose names from Greek literature and mythology."

  "Have you no nickname? Something less, well, formal?"

  "No. My grandfather was adamant that we never shorten our names." She was about to say more, but a tap came at the door.

  Guillemot called, "Enter."

  "Major, there's a fellow asking for ye. Name's Throckmorton. Says ye sent for him."

  "Excellent. My-- Lisanor, we will resume this conversation later. Right now I must meet our new bailiff. At least I hope he will be." He pushed himself upright and looked around. "Where the devil is that cane?"

  Lisanor went to fetch it from where he had dropped it, halfway across the room. "Nettles, do not allow him to talk you into letting him walk unassisted again. Not until we find him another cane. And perhaps not even then. I want to be present when he does."

  "Aye, milady. I'll keep him in line. Now then, sor, up ye goes."

  She left them alone, but determined to be present during the interview with the applicant for the bailiff position. After all, she was Guillemot's business partner, was she not?

  * * * *

  "Mr. Throckmorton seems adequate to the task, although he may have some difficulties traversing muddy fields," Lisanor said, as soon as Guillemot's newly hired bailiff and Nettles had left the library. "How did you know him?"

  Clarence heard considerable skepticism in her tone, and was grateful that she was reserving judgment. "He was in my regiment, until he lost his leg. He grew up on a farm in Dorset, but there were four older brothers."

  "A common problem, I understand. A holding can only be divided so many ways. Does he understand cattle?"

  "If not, he will learn. Lisanor--"

  She went on as if he'd not spoken. "Perhaps Elmer could instruct him, if need be. What about--"

  "Lisanor, will you listen to me?"

  "Of course. What is it you wish? Are you comfortable? Is your leg--"

  "I am fine." Something seemed caught in his throat. He swallowed, took a deep breath.

  "Actually, I am not entirely fine. This afternoon--"

  "I knew it! You did yourself an injury when you fell. And to attempt more walking... Honestly, my
lord, I sometime question your good sense."

  "My lack of total well-being has nothing to do with my leg. This afternoon, when I landed atop you--"

  "The fall merely knocked the breath from me for a moment. No harm was done."

  "Lisanor--"

  "Yes, my lord?"

  "Be silent."

  Her mouth dropped open, but no sound emerged.

  Clarence knew he would treasure this moment for a long time. His bride was seldom at a loss for words. "On our wedding day, we discussed... We have been sharing a..." When he swiped a hand across his brow, it came away damp. "Hang it all, Lisanor, what I am trying to say is--"

  "I understand. This afternoon I...ah...became aware that you were--"

  He glanced at her hands, clasped in her lap. Her fingers were white with strain.

  Before he could speak, she went on. "We have come to know each other. I, at least, have come to respect you, to like you very well. I shall do my duty."

  He wanted to say that there was more he needed from her than duty. He needed her affection, her laughter, her strength of will and of spirit. But his mouth was dry and his body heavy with anticipation. Surreptitiously he glanced at the clock. Even though they kept country hours, dinner was nearly ninety minutes away. I wonder if there is some way--

  He realized that she had gone to the line of bell pulls against the far wall. "I shall order a supper in our chambers. The servants will be much relieved."

  "Wha--"

  "Pammy told me the other day that there was some distress in the kitchen that our marriage was unconsummated. Apparently the staff felt that their positions were uncertain until the question of our--and their--future was decided." She had carefully avoided looking at him as she spoke. Her cheeks, he saw now, were bright pink.

  "There was never any question. We are married."

  "Ah, yes, but an unconsummated marriage can be easily annulled."

  He gaped. "Would you--"

  "I did consider it, in the heat of anger. For perhaps half a minute. But no. I would never renege on my vows. Nor, I believe, would you ever stoop so low. But they did not know that. Given the uncertain situation here at Guillemot--and at Ackerslea, if it comes to that--once cannot blame the staff for being concerned."