She reached for his arm once more, but he glared at her. “I told you I have this,” he shouted. “Let go of me!”
Saddened, Abigail removed her hand, and Richard lowered himself into the chair, his legs still on the bed. Then he howled so loudly, Patrick went running from the room in terror.
“This is madness!” he shouted. “I cannot move them!” He glared at his offending legs, cursing. He looked quite the sight with his upper body almost in the seat of the wheelchair and his legs on the bed.
Abigail could take no more. She assured herself the chair would not roll out from under him and then moved around him and hefted is legs.
“Let go of me, Woman!” he shouted.
She ignored him as she took a step to the side and swung his legs so they were directly in front of him. He sat awkwardly, for his bound leg stood straight out, and he was unable to bend his leg in order to place his foot on the footrest.
“This is not going to work,” he grumbled as she held his leg up in her hands.
Abigail called for Patrick, and when the boy came running in, she said, “Go outside to the shed. I believe there is an extra plank there we can use.”
The boy nodded and ran outside. Soon he returned with the board she had mentioned.
Perfect, she thought. “I will place this beneath you, and you can rest your leg on it for the time being.”
She asked Richard to lift his body, which was not an easy task as his arms lacked strength. However, he managed to make enough space for Patrick to slide the plank beneath him, and then she placed his leg onto the board. She sent Patrick running to the shed once more, and he returned with rope, which she used to bind his leg to the plank.
“There,” she said with a satisfied nod. “That should at least get us there.”
Richard fussed a bit longer, but Abigail ignored his murmurs. She was doing the best with what she had, and he would simply have to accept it.
Her own forehead was damp with perspiration before she was done. When she looked back up to his face, however, she took a step back from the contempt he showed her.
“There is no need for you to suffer,” she said, admonishing. “You were unable to do it, so I had to help.”
He glared at her. “Do not defy me again,” he growled. “I do not want, or need, your pity!”
She gave him a derisive sniff. “I do not pity you,” she said as she reached for his medicine bottle.
He took a large swig of the thick liquid, which had the acrid odor of spirits, and rested the bottle between his legs. “Retrieve me a shirt.”
She nodded and grabbed a shirt from a set of clothes she had kept aside from the luggage that had been sent ahead to the cottage.
He snatched the shirt from her. “Patrick,” he called out to the boy who had returned to the other room, “come here.” As he continued to don his shirt, Patrick entered the room, his face timid.
“Sir?”
“You will push me.”
“Yes, Sir,” the boy said, seemingly glad to do so.
“I will pay you, so do not worry about that.”
Patrick shook his head. “I don’t worry, Sir,” he replied as he moved around to the back of the chair.
Richard placed his hands on the wheels. “Push with firmness, but not too fast nor too slow.”
“Yes, Sir,” Patrick replied. He looked up at Abigail, his face scrunched in confusion, but Abigail gave him a reassuring smile that seemed to calm him.
Slowly, the wheels moved forward, both boy and man grunting at the weight. Moving around the bed took some time to maneuver, and little of what Richard said was meant to encourage Patrick. However, once they moved straight forward, they seemed to struggle less.
The front door was more difficult to traverse, and Abigail helped by placing her hands on top of Patrick’s and pushing the chair through the door. She was shocked at how heavy the chair was, and by the time they were outside, her breath was hard to catch.
The half-moon allowed just enough light to see the path that led to the road.
“I am ready to go home,” Richard said, still grumbling. “Let us leave.”
Abigail nodded to Patrick, and the three began the slow process of pushing the wheelchair over the hard, rocky path. Once they reached the road, Patrick seemed to have less resistance on the hard-packed dirt, but he still pushed from behind, his back bent as he heaved all of his small weight into keeping the chair moving.
Richard, though he kept his head low, pushed the wheels with his hands. Abigail imagined that, if Richard had not been giving what little aid he was, Patrick would have struggled all the more.
“If you become tired,” Abigail said to Patrick, “tell me. I can push for a while to allow you time to rest.”
“He is fine,” Richard snapped. “Your help is not needed.”
Abigail swallowed hard as the sadness she had felt before they left set upon her shoulders like a wet, heavy blanket. She suspected he spoke not only of not needing her help with the chair, but rather that he would no longer need her in any part of his life. And that thought scared her more than anything else.
Chapter Eighteen
As they neared the path that led to the cottage, the road became an incline, and Abigail glanced at Patrick. The boy was breathing hard and grimaced as he put all his weight into making the chair move. The way Richard forced this child to perform such heavy labor angered Abigail. Why had the man not simply asked his driver to transport them? It would have been quicker and easier for them all.
However, it was not just the fact that Richard had put such pressures on Patrick. No, the fact that he had denied her the opportunity to lend aid still stung. As far as she was concerned, he was being stubborn; she was quite capable of helping him, so why was he not allowing her to do so?
The wheelchair slowed, and Abigail took control of the handles. “Patrick, you may rest. I will push from here.”
The boy whispered a tired “Thanks” and flopped down onto a large rock beside the road, panting from his recent exertion.
Richard turned his head and glared up at her. “We are nearly there!” he growled. “I do not wish anyone to see me.”
“Then I will push you,” she replied with a calmness she did not feel.
Richard narrowed his eyes at her and then turned and grabbed the wheels, preventing them from moving.
“Remove your hands, please,” Abigail said in a commanding, but firm, voice.
“No!” Richard spat. “Patrick will push me.”
Moving the chair so it was sideways on the small incline, Abigail removed her hands and crossed her arms under her breasts. “Very well,” she said in a cool tone. “We shall remain here while the boy rests. Perhaps some late-night travelers will pass by and offer their help.”
Richard turned to look at her in horror. “Fine! Let us hurry.”
Abigail stifled a smile, though she felt guilty for smiling when he was clearly upset. Yet, he was the one being stubborn. She might feel that she was the cause of his current predicament, but she refused to allow him to bully her when she was trying to help. As she resumed the trek up the road, she was surprised at the weight of the chair and the man in it. However, once Richard placed his hands back on the wheels and pushed them forward, it made the climb easier.
By the time they reached the path that led to the cottage, her calf muscles had tightened, and her leg muscles screamed in pain. She looked onto the level path with relief.
“Patrick,” Abigail said, “run ahead and light one of the lamps. Also, be sure the boards I placed on the step are still as I left them.” Earlier, when they were leaving to return after readying the cottage, Patrick had noted that the step would be an issue for the chair, so she had sent him to find two boards. As luck would have it, he found two just the right size to use as a temporary ramp.
“Yes, Miss Abigail,” Patrick replied to her request, and soon he was skipping up the path ahead of them.
“He is a good boy,” Abigail sai
d. “And he has been a wonderful help in my time of need.”
“Where are his parents?”
“They are both deceased. His mother…well, I do not know the circumstances of her death, but his father, according to Patrick, died after his mother because of his love of the drink.”
It was quiet except the sound of the crunch of the dirt under the wooden wheels. Abigail was thankful that it had not rained for the past few days, for she could not imagine pushing Richard through mud; the dirt was difficult enough.
“The boy will remain with us for a time,” Richard said. “Then you should see he finds a proper home.”
“I will,” Abigail replied as she pushed the chair up to the single step before the front door. “How long do you believe we shall remain here?”
Richard sighed. “For some time, I imagine,” he replied. “Tomorrow, I will write to our parents to inform them that we have decided to travel the country and may be gone for several months.”
The door opened, and Patrick walked out. With his help, Abigail and Richard were able to maneuver the chair up the small ramp and into the house. Once inside, Abigail moved the wheelchair to where one of the armchairs recently sat.
“It’s been a few years since I have been here,” Richard said, looking around the room.
Abigail smiled. “Does it make you happy to return?”
“No,” he replied simply. “My return to this home was meant to be done in happiness and celebration.”
Abigail felt her heart sink to her slippers, but she made no comment. What could she possibly say to make things better?
“Patrick,” Richard said, “go to one of the guest rooms and retrieve bedding for the couch.”
The boy nodded and hurried off with a candle in hand.
“I have set us up a bed in the office so you do not have to traverse the stairs,” Abigail said, hoping he would be happy with the arrangements.
He was not, however. “And where would you sleep?” he asked with a bitter laugh. “In a separate bed, of course. Do not play the dutiful wife with me any longer.” She went to speak, but he surprised her by taking her hand in his. “Please, it hurts me more than you can ever know,” he said in a whisper.
She was unsure how to respond, so she simply nodded. Patrick came bounding down the stairs, his hands filled with blankets and a pillow, but Abigail stopped him. “Richard, you can sleep in the bed I have set up in the office. I can take one of the beds upstairs.” Saying the words tore at her heart. Yet, why should she feel sorry? Had she not denied him sleeping in her bed once they were married? Oh, what a mess she had made of her life! “At least allow me to settle you in for the night,” she said, walking over and taking the blankets from Patrick.
“I will take care of it,” Richard said with a shake of his head. “Goodnight.”
She could not mistake the dismissive tone in his voice, and with a nod, she placed her hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Come. We both need our rest.”
She followed the boy up the stairs and into one of the bedrooms. Once he was under the covers, Abigail leaned over and kissed his forehead and pulled the blanket up to his chin. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Miss Abigail,” he said with heavy eyes.
She took the candle and went to the main bedroom and glanced around. It was a bedroom meant to be shared by a couple in love, not by a woman who had destroyed the life of her husband. Perhaps she should have slept on the couch, but then she would have been much too close to Richard, and that would have been agony.
***
For a fortnight, the routine Abigail followed was the same. In the morning, she would find Richard already awake, sitting in his chair, his eyes focused on the empty fireplace. She would make him tea and sometimes he would eat a bit of bread or fruit but nothing more. Once she cleared the dishes, she would wash and dry them and return them to their places.
Once the morning chores were completed, she would ask him if he would like to go outside and enjoy a breath of fresh air, to which he would give her a vehement “No!” before returning his angry gaze to the fireplace. Even an offer to move him in front of one of the large windows that looked out over the beach was rejected before she finished speaking.
As each day passed, her frustration grew, for the man would not converse with her except for the mumblings of a few words or his quick shouts of negative responses.
In the morning and at night Mrs. Donovan would stop by to check on his progress and offer words of encouragement that went unnoticed, or at least ignored, by Richard.
“It is not good for him to remain inside,” the nurse had insisted on more than one occasion. “He must get fresh air.”
“I have tried,” Abigail replied with a sigh. “He refuses. He will not even allow me to open a window for fear someone might stumble by and see him sitting there in that chair. I’m at a loss as to what to do!”
The nurse gave her a small smile. “You must be patient. He has had a great change in his life, one few men can accept. You are his wife, so it is up to you to convince him that his life has not come to an end.”
Abigail doubted Richard would heed her words, but she promised the nurse that she would do what she could to get him to do more than what he was currently doing.
This particular morning, Abigail awoke to a bright sun whose rays she had to block with her hand. She had left the window open and a light warm breeze blew in, ruffling the curtains. It was time to do whatever she could to convince Richard to enjoy the wondrous day.
As she drew near the sitting room, she heard the mumble of voices, so she peeked around the corner to find Patrick standing beside Richard, a book in his hand and the cap on his head slightly askew. “I can’t read, Sir, but maybe you could read this book to me.”
Abigail’s heart went out to the young boy who craved affection and attention from anyone willing to give them.
Richard, however, simply raised his head and then drew the small blanket closer. “That is a book on business,” he said as he turned his head away in disgust, “not one for enjoyment. Regardless, I will not read it to you.”
Patrick shrugged. “Then I will ask Miss Abigail to read to us. It will make you feel better.”
Abigail gasped as Richard’s hand shot out, sending the book flying across the room with a thud. “Leave me be,” the man hissed. “And stop pestering me.”
Stepping into the room, Abigail walked up to Patrick and put her arm around his shoulders. “Why do you not go out back,” she said kindly. “I will join you in a moment.”
Tears rimming his eyes, the boy nodded, went over and collected the book, and then headed toward the backdoor of the cottage.
Abigail then turned her attention the Richard, searching his face for the man she once knew.
“You look at me in disgust,” Richard spat. “Stop.”
“No, it is not disgust,” she said, kneeling before him. “I look at a man I do not recognize in search of my husband and my greatest friend. Where has that man gone?” He turned his eyes away, and Abigail placed her hands on the arms of the chair on either side of him. “The splint is to be removed soon, and then there is a chance you will walk again. There is always hope.”
His laugh was acrimonious. “No, there is not,” he whispered when his short bark of laughter had died down. “Eventually, I must return to my home. What shall I tell people about my condition?” Abigail went to reply, but he continued without allowing her to speak. “Shall I tell them that my wife refused my love? That, in anguish, I went out into the night storm? That I cried out like a child in hopes of being rescued?” His eyes met Abigail’s, and his lip curled. “No, there is no hope, for I will be made a laughingstock—or even worse, they will see me as less a man. Am I not that anyway?”
With a heart heavier than the boulders by the sea, Abigail felt the tears build. However, she refused to cry. She had to be strong, for her friend. For her husband. “I do not know how to apologize more than I have,” she said. “I try to help you,
to do as a servant would do, as a way to amend what I have done wrong. I have spoken the words, and yet you brush them away like an annoying fly. What is it I can do to make up for my part in what has happened?”
Richard turned his gaze toward the window and sighed. “Go join the boy,” he said quietly. “I would rather be alone for now.”
“You are alone all too often,” she said. “The boy grows tired of going into town to…”
“I care not for him!” Richard bellowed. “Nor anyone! Do you not see that?” His breathing became labored and he leaned forward. “Leave me now lest I say something I will regret.”
With a nod, Abigail rose and headed out of the room. Glancing back, Richard’s gaze had returned to the fireplace. In her heart, Abigail hoped she could truly love him and somehow heal him. Yet that rested in hope, and as he had just explained, perhaps that hope was useless.
Chapter Nineteen
As each day melded one into another, Richard could do nothing to quell the anger and heartache that grew within him. His only true companion was the bottle of brandy he kept at his side at all times. Though Abigail and the nurse spoke often of the hope that he would once again walk, he feared making the attempt. What if he failed? If he made no attempt, he would not fail, and therefore, he would never learn the truth—that there was no hope that he would walk again.
A month had passed since the day he had fallen, and though Abigail and Patrick were nearby, they kept their distance from him. If he was honest, he still cared deeply for Abigail, and he had a fondness for the boy who was eager to please. However, how could he place such a burden of his malady on either of them? To do so would be unfair, for they had their lives, rich and full lives, to live.
Deep down, he knew that eventually he would have to return home; however, he wanted to delay such a journey as long as possible. And over the past week, he had developed a new plan, one that would buy him time, as well as Abigail her freedom.
Rescued by the Duke: Delicate Hearts Book 2 Page 13
