“Bleeding, emetics, purging, and clysters,” he supplied with a grimace. “They were the pressing business that interrupted our walk.”
“What!” She couldn’t have looked more shocked had he informed her that he had the plague and had just infected her. “You cannot mean to say that you endured all that at once!”
“No. Not all at once. Eadon always gives me a day to recover from my bleeding before administering the emetics.” He shrugged. “Since a person can only use a chamberpot at one end at a time, he waits several hours for the effect of the emetics to pass before inflicting me with his purgatives and clysters.”
She looked positively appalled. “But—but to what purpose? I mean”—she shook her head—“I know you suffer spells, but I cannot think such harsh treatments to be necessary, nor can I see how they could be in any way beneficial.”
“They are beneficial in that they rid my body of morbid humors.” At her look of incomprehension, he explained, “Eadon believes my spells to stem from my body’s inability to rid itself of morbid humors.”
“What sort of morbid humors?”
“The ones that have resulted from my brain infection. According to Eadon’s theory, the humors are carried by my blood to my digestive organs and bowels, where they stagnate into some sort of poisonous matter. When that matter is allowed to build up, my body goes into violent convulsions in an attempt to cleanse itself. Thus, the only way to prevent the seizures is to regularly evacuate both the humors and the matter, something Eadon does weekly.”
“Weekly?” She gasped. “You poor man! How ever do you bear it? I was bled once and it hurt so much I thought I would die.”
“Were you?” He studied her prettily flushed face with a smile. “Somehow, I cannot imagine a girl with such rosy cheeks ever requiring a bleeding.”
“Rosy? Oh my!” Her hands flew to her face. Fingering her cheeks as if trying to feel their color, she anxiously inquired, “Are they so very red then?”
Michael frowned, taken aback by her dismay. He’d meant the remark as a compliment, which was exactly how every other woman in his acquaintance would have taken it. Deciding that a bit of clarification must be in order, he smoothly annotated, “I only meant that I have never seen anyone so aglow with health.”
“Aglow?” Her expression of dismay heightened into one of wide-eyed distress and she flattened her palms against her cheeks, hiding their becoming blush. “O-o-o! Then they are red, hateful things!”
For several seconds he merely stared at her, at a loss as to how to extract the foot he’d so clearly stuffed into his mouth. Uncertain how it had gotten there in the first place, he gestured his bewilderment and helplessly tried to redeem himself by venturing, “There is nothing the least bit hateful about red cheeks. I do not know about America, but here in England they are counted as quite lovely and desirable. Indeed, many women paint in an effort to achieve the very effect that comes naturally to you.”
She snorted, thus proclaiming that he’d managed only to shove his foot yet deeper. “Not according to our grandmothers. My grandmother said that my color is vulgar, and yours remarked on how it makes me look like an overpainted dollymop.”
Grandmothers, was it? That explained a lot. Snorting back to illustrate his disdain for their grandmothers’ criticism, he scoffed, “Dragons, the pair of them. Ignore their fustiness. It is just their way to pick and scold. They mean nothing by it. I should know, I have endured more than two decades of it. Besides, I happen to be privy to the fact that they both think you the loveliest and most charming girl in the world.”
“They do?” She eyed him dubiously.
“They do,” he confirmed, resisting his urge to sigh as he felt his foot begin to slide from his mouth. “If you would like proof, I shall gladly show you the letters they have sent me over the past month, all of which are full of praise for you.”
She seemed to consider taking him up on his offer, then slowly shook her head. “No, no. That shan’t be necessary. I believe you.”
He nodded. “Good. Then I hope that you will also believe me when I tell you that I, personally, have a preference for women with high color and that I find yours particularly glorious.”
“You … do?”
He nodded again. “Most definitely.”
She smiled then, something else he found particularly glorious, and dropped her hands from her cheeks. Sighing, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders, she murmured, “I’m glad you like it. I shall feel ever so much more at ease in your company if I needn’t consistently worry about offending you every time my cheeks grow red.”
“In that instance I am glad that you are glad, because I intend to spend a great deal of time in your company and wish you to be comfortable around me.”
She laughed her melodious laugh, another of her many glories. “That news makes me even gladder, for I enjoy your company immensely.”
“Which makes me gladder than glad,” he countered, letting his own hoarse chuckle mingle with the music of her laughter. Slanting her a playful look, he teased, “You aren’t saying that you like my company just because I look terrible and you pity me, are you?”
“No.” She shook her head over and over again. “Oh no, Michael. I was beyond crushed when you disappeared for two days. To tell you the truth, I feared that you had found my questions about the Windgate legend foolish, and that you had decided that you didn’t wish to be friends with such a ninny.”
He smiled tenderly at her confession. “I found your questions charming to the extreme. And since we are being so frank, I must confess that I was worried that I might have bored you with my pontifications about the cloisters. As you no doubt ascertained, I am fascinated by the abbey and have spent a great deal of time studying its history.”
She was shaking her head again. “I wasn’t bored for a second. Not only were your accounts interesting, they eased my fears about living here. Why, I have slept quite soundly ever since you explained matters.”
He took her hand, which still lay over his, and gave it a warm squeeze. “That you are comfortable at Windgate makes me gladdest of all.” And it was true. He wished nothing more than for her to be happy with her new home … and him.
Her cheeks darkened to crimson velvet. “You are most kind, your grace.”
“Michael,” he reminded her with a smile. “You promised to call me Michael, or must I stand up again?”
“Michael, yes.” She nodded. “I was thinking Michael, truly I was, but it came out as your grace. Habit, I suppose. And don’t you dare stand up. If you so much as try to rise, I shall have Francis bring me a rope with which I will tie you to that chair.”
Michael chuckled, not doubting for a moment that she would do as she threatened. “And is tying up one’s husband to ensure his compliance yet another of your quaint American customs?”
“Only when the husband in question is in danger of doing himself harm through his own stubbornness.”
“Indeed?” At her nod, he heaved a mock sigh of defeat. “In that instance, I suppose I have no choice but to surrender to your petticoat government.”
“None whatsoever,” she retorted, the tartness of her tone belied by her grin. “Furthermore, I shall brook no more argument on the matter. Exactly how you managed to make it down here in the first place, I shall never know, but I can assure you that I shan’t allow any more of such foolish behavior in the future.”
In truth, it boggled his own mind that he had been able to stagger this far. Even with the aid of the clucking and scolding Eadon, it now seemed an impossibly long distance to have walked in his current state. Not about to admit such a thing to Emily, he grinned back and gallantly replied, “I found all the strength I required in my anticipation of your enchanting company.”
As he’d hoped, she blushed again. “Be that as it may, you should never have left your bed. Why, if I
were any kind of a wife at all, I would order the footmen to carry you back there this very instant.”
“Ah, but then I would be bereft of your company and all my efforts would have been in vain,” he countered, exercising the charm that had once made him a favorite among the ton.
She sniffed. “If my company was truly all you wished, then there was no need for you to leave your bed. I would have gladly made a sickroom call. All you had to do was ask.”
“You would?” He frowned, taken aback by the notion of her sitting at his bedside. It had never occurred to him to ask her to do so. Had it, he’d have instantly banished the thought. Pride would have forbidden him to allow her to see him at such a disadvantage. For though he might never be able to demonstrate his virility, he desperately wanted Emily to view him as a man, not as an invalid to be coddled and pitied. Besides that, it hardly seemed proper to extend such an invitation to a woman he barely knew, even if that woman happened to be his wife.
Emily nodded in response to his startled query. “Of course I would have come. You are my husband, so it is quite proper that I attend you. And lest you worry that I would be shocked by something I might see, please be aware that I tended my father the last two years of his life and am thus inured to both the sights and smells of the sickroom.”
“He was a lucky man to have such a lovely and devoted nurse,” Michael commented, not missing the catch in her voice when she mentioned her father.
She shrugged in a way that was clearly meant to be nonchalant, but instead tugged at his heart. “I did what I could.”
“Which I am certain did much to ease his last days.” He again enfolded her small hand in his large one and gave it another squeeze. “You were no doubt a great comfort to him.”
She met his gaze then, her beautiful dark eyes shadowed by the soul-deep pain of her loss. “I tried my best, but in the end I think that he was eager to go and join my mother. She died when I was born and not a day passed that he didn’t miss her terribly. He loved her so very much.” A small smile touched her lips, and from the look of nostalgic longing on her face, it was apparent that she would have liked to have spoken of her family.
Wanting nothing more at that moment than to share her memories and learn more about the exquisite woman who was now his wife, Michael gently prompted, “It is clear that you loved your father a great deal.”
“Yes. I did. More than I can ever say.” Her smile broadened and her face took on a faraway expression. “He was so big and strong and handsome. And jolly. No one was more amusing than Papa. He had a special talent of making people smile, even those who were determined to remain glum. Of course, he was rather old when I was born, almost forty.”
“So very old?” he teased, thinking how impossibly young she must be to think forty old. Truth be told, he had no notion of her age. He’d never thought to ask, and his grandmother had never volunteered the information. Deciding it high time he found out, he gently inquired, “How old are you, Emily?”
“I was twenty-two in June, the third, to be exact. You?”
“Twenty-eight last March.”
“I have a brother, Henry, who is twenty-eight. You would like him—everyone does.”
“If he is anything like his sister, I am certain I would,” he replied, and he meant it. “Is Henry your only brother?”
“Oh, no. I have five. All older. George is the oldest, followed by Roger. Then there are Daniel, Henry, and Peter. I am the only girl, which, I suppose, is why everyone doted so on me.” She paused to smile up at Francis, who had just come to a stop beside Michael.
Michael glanced up at him in query.
He bowed. “If it pleases your grace, Cook would like us to serve now.”
So captivating did he find Emily’s company, that Michael had quite forgotten about dinner. After nodding his consent, to which Francis bowed and signaled to the other footmen, who instantly sprang into action, he returned to their conversation. Picking up where they had left off, he said, “My guess is that your family doted on you because you are charming and it gave them pleasure to spoil you.” A pleasure he fully intended to enjoy himself, now that it was apparent that she liked him enough to allow him to do so.
Her cheeks flamed, though it was clear from her smile that she was pleased by his words. “Whatever the reason, they are the best family in the entire world.”
At that moment the parade of footmen reappeared. Emily and Michael looked up in unison, their attention drawn by the savory dishes the men carried.
There was the usual starter of soup—Mulligatawny this evening, judging from its curried scent—followed by buttered prawns, pigeon pie, ragout of celery, mushroom fricassee, and Michael’s personal favorite, roast leg of lamb in crust with wine sauce. Everything looked and smelled delicious. So delicious that Michael’s stomach, which hadn’t been treated to anything but the blandest of fare for the past two years, let out a loud growl of appreciation.
Emily glanced up at the undignified sound, smiling. “That you have an appetite is a very good sign indeed, Michael.”
“I suppose,” he murmured, well aware that he couldn’t indulge in any of the delicacies the footmen were arranging in the center of the table. No. Any moment now someone would present him with his usual two-days-after-bleeding fare of beef broth, shank jelly, biscuits, dried raisins, and ass’s milk. Like everything else in his monotonous life, his meals were unsatisfying and dismally predictable.
No sooner had the thought popped into his mind than John, the third footman, set his pessimistically anticipated bowl of broth and plate of biscuits before him. Unlike the rich Mulligatawny being ladled into Emily’s bowl, the smell of which had his mouth watering, the insipid broth held absolutely no appeal for him.
For several moments thereafter, no one spoke. Emily, who had discovered herself to be ravenous, busied herself doing justice to her soup, while Michael more picked at than consumed his dreary broth. When Emily had at last spooned her bowl clean and declined a second helping from the ever-solicitous Francis, she glanced back at Michael. He sat listlessly swirling his spoon in his soup, his face set in lines of distaste as he stared down at it.
She frowned at his sudden lack of appetite. “Michael?”
He glanced up, smiling politely.
“You really should try to eat, you know. If the soup isn’t to your liking, there other dishes from which to choose. Perhaps you would prefer some pigeon pie?” She pointed to the plump, egg-glazed pie. “Or maybe some lamb?” She shifted her hand to indicate the beautifully dressed platter in question. “Cook has a particular talent with lamb.”
An almost pained look crossed his face. “I know. I love Cook’s lamb.”
“Well then …” She glanced up at Francis, who in turn looked at Michael.
Michael shook his head. “Unfortunately, I cannot indulge in the lamb, or in any of Cook’s other delicacies. Eadon’s orders.”
“What?” Emily frowned again, taken aback by his words. “But why? I would think that he would wish you to eat, especially after all you have endured the past two days. Without proper nourishment you will never regain your strength.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t think he is so much concerned with improving my strength as with preventing fits.” Another shrug. “Indeed, I sometimes think the reason his treatments are so effective is that I simply lack the strength to have a seizure.”
“But that is terrible!” she exclaimed, genuinely appalled. “Surely there must be a better way to control them, one that doesn’t require you to go about half-starved and feeling miserable all the time?”
Yet another shrug. “Not that I have experienced.”
“Well, I, for one, have always disapproved of any treatment that makes a patient feel worse rather than better.” She nodded firmly to emphasize her point. “When I tended my father during his final illness, I refused to allow the doctors to
do anything that would in any way weaken him, despite their protests that such measures were necessary. And do you know what?” Without waiting for his response, she continued, “He lived far longer than anyone ever expected. Instead of living several weeks, which was his doctors’ prediction, he survived for two years. And though he was never truly well, he was at least comfortable and well fed.”
“As I said, he was lucky to have such a lovely and devoted nurse,” Michael replied, smiling in a way that left no doubt as to the sincerity of his words.
She felt herself flush at his praise. “I could do the same for you, you know. Perhaps if I spoke to Eadon, we could find some sort of compromise that would allow you a bit more comfort.”
“You would do that for me?” He looked and sounded positively stunned by her offer.
“Of course,” she countered stoutly, unable to resist the urge to reach over and give his hand a squeeze. “You are my husband, and it is a wife’s duty to see to her husband’s needs. Besides that, I like you and I wish to help you.”
He continued to gaze at her, as if in wonder. “I like you, too, Emily, very much, and would like your help. Unfortunately, I fear there is little you can do. Unlike with your father’s doctors, you cannot simply nay-say Eadon’s treatments and chase him from the house. He is attending me by order of my grandmother, and for reasons I would prefer not to discuss now, I have promised her to grant him my full cooperation.”
“But doesn’t she see the toll his treatments are taking on your strength?” she demanded, astounded that someone who was supposed to love him as much as his grandmother reportedly did would allow him to suffer so.
He nodded. “She has also seen the price of my spells. After weighing the two, she has determined that the treatments are the less costly in terms of my welfare, though I must admit that I do not agree with her conclusion.” He made a wry face. “As horrible as the frequency of my seizures was, I at least felt much myself in the times between them.”
Bewitched Page 16
