by Rye Hart
“It looks very peculiar now,” she said, “with almost nothing in the room. But if he really is going to walk again, I suppose the nurse must be right. He’d never be able to take a step with all of that still in there.”
Rheims was relieved that he hadn’t been given the assignment. “Miss Lockwood told me that he will need to be dressed for outside tomorrow,” he informed the others. “He’s going to be taken down to the stables to meet up with that horse.”
“The stables!” Mr. Lincoln exclaimed. “She must be mad!”
Rheims said nothing; it was not for him to dispute Mr. Lincoln’s verdict. But he privately thought that perhaps Miss Lockwood’s brand of madness was exactly what the Viscount needed.
Chapter Five
Lord Richard had too much pride to balk like a recalcitrant child in front of the grounds men and his nurse when she informed him that his wheelchair awaited him outside, and that the men were there to carry him to it so that they could go outside to take advantage of the lovely October day. She had counted on this reaction and maintained a sunny flow of chatter as he sat, sullen and stiff, in the makeshift chair the two men made with their hands as they bore him out of the manor house. Cressida thanked them once Lord Richard was outside and seated in his chair.
“I’ll wheel now, until Lord Richard is doing it on his own,” she told the grounds men sunnily before dismissing them.
“Might I ask where we’re going? Or is this an abduction?”
“Don’t you know? The stable lads have been instructed to bring out El Diablo. I expect that he has missed your company. Animals are very loyal, you know.”
“El Diablo is not loyal,” Lord Richard argued. “He is a horse. He threw me. It’s quite simple and only a prattling woman would decide that what’s needed to make me walk again is a reunion with the beast that threw me.”
“It’s not simple in the least. You will probably have to regain his respect. And perhaps allow him to apologize.”
Lord Richard turned in his chair to glare at her. “You ought to write children’s stories,” he told her, sneering. “Pennington and the Penitent Horse.”
“That’s splendid!” she announced. “Perhaps I will do so. I shall have to credit you with the idea. Or rather, I shall have to name you as the author; it’s very difficult, I hear, for a woman authoress to have a manuscript accepted for publication. Only think how well received a manuscript from Lord Richard Pennington would be. Do you draw at all? Someone will need to do the illustrations.”
“You’re mad,” he said with resignation, turning back around. “Quite barking mad.” But his tone was moderate and as she pushed him, he looked around, noticing the trees in the beauty of their autumn coloring. Cressida doubted that even the most bitter of men could be immune to the glory of fall in England and she detected that Lord Richard was no different. His head turned to note the flowing majesty of the maple’s brilliant leaves, the stately grandeur of the bright oak and its finery, the elegant, festive look of the trees arrayed like autumnal debutantes showing off their beauty to their swains.
Richard, his senses alive to the vitality of the world as they had not been since he’d immured himself in his quarters following the accident, consumed the sights with his eyes. This was beauty beyond anything he remembered; was it truly a unique autumn, or had he been too intent on the manufactured world of the Season to bother noticing anything that was not accompanied by a saddle or a petticoat? The outside air—how had he gone without it for so long?—was like wine, aromatic and heady. Why were there no landscapes of the Pennington grounds inside the manor house? Surely there were English artists capable of recreating the scene on canvas. He would speak to his father about it this very afternoon.
Then he saw the buildings emerge. The stables came into view where he had spent so much of his youth, endlessly astride a horse, mastering the skills needed to be a cavalry officer even in his boyhood. He saw the paddock, now occupied solely by one animal, one who truly deserved his own kingdom, for there was no horse that could match him.
Cressida could see his shoulders tense, even beneath his cloak, as they approached the paddock where El Diablo awaited. The horse had noticed that he had arrivals to his realm; he watched them draw nearer as if he had not decided whether he would grant them an audience.
“He’s rather massive, isn’t he?” Cressida said.
“Seventeen hands,” Lord Richard said proudly.
“It’s no wonder that you fear him,” Cressida commented.
“Fear him? I’ve never feared a horse in my life,” he scoffed. “Who said such a thing?”
“No one; I merely assumed that because you had avoided him since your fall that he frightened you.”
“Your assumptions are incorrect,” he said brusquely.
Standing behind him as she pushed the chair, Cressida observed the change in his posture. The stiffness she had perceived previously changed. His shoulders were set back, not in anxiety, but in readiness, rather like an officer preparing to meet a foe. But a worthy foe, one which merited his respect rather than his disdain.
El Diablo nickered as they approached the fence.
“Poor thing,” Cressida said. “I don’t suppose he gets much attention anymore. Everyone’s afraid of him.”
Lord Richard started to deride her continued effort to ascribe human emotions to a horse, but then he stopped. El Diablo was shaking his head, pushing his nose across the fence as if he were trying to reach Lord Richard. Lord Richard reached out his hand to pat his horse, and El Diablo neighed, sounding pleased at the contact.
Cressida stood back so that she did not intrude upon the scene. Richard began by petting El Diablo, rubbing his muzzle and then bending beneath the fence slat so that he could rub the horse’s shoulders. El Diablo stood in contentment while he received the attention that he had missed.
“I believe he’s been lonely,” Cressida said at last.
Lord Richard didn’t answer. Just as he had savored the sights of the autumn scenery, he was now reveling in the smell and touch of his horse. How had he managed to stay away for so long, locking himself inside a prison of his own making where the only odors were the daily smells of food cooking, of people, of the manor itself? He had always been happiest when he was out of doors; how had he failed to realize that he was bound to be wretchedly miserable if he denied himself what had long been a chief pleasure? It was not just walking that he had been deprived of, he realized as El Diablo lowered his head and blew gently out of his nostrils. It had been life itself.
Richard laughed. “Devil,” he said affectionately, taking his handkerchief and wiping the moisture from his face.
“Perhaps a trifle deficient in etiquette?” Cressida suggested.
“El Diablo has always made his own rules.”
“An enviable situation.
Richard patted the horse again. “Yes, it would be.”
Lord Richard was in no hurry to leave, so Cressida stayed behind him, not intruding upon what was happening. When the stable lads and grooms went by, they seemed startled to see Lord Richard. One of them, a burly, bearded man with a shock of red hair that looked as if his head had caught fire, came over.
“My lord!” he bellowed. “It’s good to see you. Looks like this brute has missed you.”
“I believe he has,” Lord Richard said. ”Hello, Harry. How are the rest?
“Doing well, sir, doing well. You haven’t seen Turnip’s foal, my lord.”
“So old Turnip came through, did she?”
“Shall I bring her out? You were always good to Turnip and she’ll be glad to see you.”
Harry seemed eager to trot the horses out so that they could renew their friendship with the young man who had been gone from them for half a year. Richard paid attention to each one, and each one appeared to welcome the return of their master, but it was clear that his closest bond was with the horse that had thrown him, and before leaving, Richard wanted to see El Diablo again.
It was past lunchtime when Lord Richard was ready to return to the manor. He admitted that he was tired, but when Cressida apologized for not realizing that this was exhausting, he put his hands on the wheels of his chair and turned half way so that he could speak to her.
“It’s good to be tired for a reason,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”
“If you’re willing to thank me for your horse blowing his nose on your face, my lord, then you’re welcome. I daresay we have more such adventures in store.”
“I don’t promise to thank you for all of them,” he warned darkly. But he was smiling as he turned back around.
He was very handsome when he smiled. His features were designed for good humor, she realized; the high cheekbones and lean jaw allowed humor to present itself fully across his face and his eyes were vivid stages for mirth. It was not mirthful, she realized, for him to spend two hours with the horse that had thrown him, but it was part of the healing process. He would find out that, just as she had warned, there would be new causes for weariness and not all of them would be as pleasant as his interlude with the residents of the Pennington stables.
Chapter Six
The Earl was genuinely appreciative when Cressida, in answer to his summons, came to the library later that night.
“Miss Lockwood,” he said without preamble. “I must thank you for what you have done. My son is a different man today. He came to the library before supper to ask me why we have no painted landscapes of the grounds. I had never considered such a thing, but of course now I will commission an artist. It’s the first showing that he’s made of interest in anything at all since the injury. I also learned that your outing to the stables was a success.”
“Harry was grinning from ear to ear when he told me,” Lady Constance said. She dabbed at her eyes with a dainty, lace-edged handkerchief. “He said that Lord Richard came calling on the horses. He was most amusing. How can we thank you? You’ve truly achieved a miracle.”
It was always this way; families were so delighted that a small improvement had altered their loved one’s attitude that they thought the victory was won. It was Cressida’s duty to let them know that such was not the case.
“We have begun well,” she acknowledged. “But we still have far to go.”
“Yes, but he’s using the chair, he’s gone outside. I call that a tremendous advance, and I thank you for it,” said the Earl.
“He has indeed advanced. But has he chosen to take his meals with the family, or engage with guests? No, I thought not. This is just a beginning. I truly don’t wish to dishearten you and I am glad of your pleasure. But I do not charge such steep rates for one small victory. My goal is for Lord Richard to walk. His doctors believe that this is possible; I have communicated with them. It depends on whether Lord Richard is willing to believe me when I say that it’s possible; whether he will credit a woman with knowing how to understand his medical condition; and whether he is willing to commit himself to what will be very hard work. He has weakened muscles which must be revitalized, you see. There are other parts of his anatomy which have been severely damaged by his fall.”
Lady Constance made a sound and the Earl showed offense. Cressida, realizing that they believed she was referring to Lord Richard’s ability to sire an heir, rushed to explain.
“My lord, Lady Constance, please do not misunderstand me. His limbs are weak; if he is to walk, we must make sure that his legs can regain strength, but we must also ascertain that his spine has not suffered irreparable harm. We must build up the strength in his arms and chest.”
“Miss Lockwood, I understand that you are accustomed to discussing these intimate matters with medical professionals. But please exhibit some sensitivity for my wife, who is not accustomed to it.”
Lady Constance held up her hand. “Please, dearest, do not worry on my account. I want to hear what Miss Lockwood has to say. We could not come to Edward’s aid and he died. Perhaps we can do better with Richard. I am willing to assist Miss Lockwood in any manner, no matter how indelicate, if the end result is for the good of our son.”
Cressida hid a smile. Her father had warned her that frank talk such as she employed with him would not pass muster with her clients; she must remember that she was addressing people who shied away from a candid understanding of bodily functions. Nonetheless, she sensed that Lady Constance, far more so than her husband, was a realist when it came to her son’s condition and would not blanch from its ramifications. It was women, after all, who bore children and to Cressida’s mind, that equipped them for a much greater understanding of human anatomy than what their husbands were prepared to realize.
“I apologize,” she said meekly. “I should not have forgotten that I am speaking to the family of my client, and not to other members of my profession.”
The Earl nodded. “Thank you.”
“Miss Lockwood,” Lady Constance spoke up, “we prefer that you deal honestly with us. I am sure that the Earl and I would rather the truth be told. Would we not, dearest?”
The Earl looked as if he wanted no such thing, but he contented himself with a curt nod. “We have demonstrated our confidence in you, Miss Lockwood,” he said. “I trust that you will not disappoint us.”
“I shall endeavor to earn your trust,” Cressida replied. “Please be aware that there are more battles in store.”
Lady Constance sighed. “Our son is very strong-willed. I hope that this will not be unpleasant for you.”
“It is a necessary part of the process,” she answered diplomatically.
Cressida did not exaggerate. When she knocked on Lord Richard’s door the next morning, his response for her to enter was spoken in jovial tones. He was shaven, dressed, and already in his chair. “Good morning, Miss Lockwood. As you see, I am ready for you.”
“Yes, I see. Very good,” she said absently as if her thoughts were elsewhere. “Have you eaten?”
“I am not hungry. I will have something later.”
“It’s very important for you to maintain a proper diet,” she said. “A hearty breakfast is imperative for a successful day. Shall I ask the kitchen to send up a plate for you or would you prefer to order your own food?”
Lord Richard was taken aback. He had understood the previous day to be the prelude to a succession of like days. For a nurse to stall his progress upon such a trivial matter as breakfast was unfathomable. “My appetite, Miss Lockwood, is my own matter, and not my nurse’s.”
“I beg to differ, Lord Richard. Your physical being depends on food in order to function. If we are to make the level of progress that I believe you are capable of, you must be strong enough to sustain the effort. You have been neglectful in that respect.”
“Have you made inquiries in the kitchen of my meals?” he asked in disbelief. “Is there no area of my life which is beyond your intrusiveness?”
“In a word, no. I seek your cure, not your good will, Lord Richard. We are nurse and patient, not master and servant, not friends. I was hired, Lord Richard, not invited. To that end, I must and will probe and provoke every aspect of life. If I am successful, and if you are cooperative, I believe that you will regain some, and perhaps all, of your former life. If you are not cooperative, I will fail and you will remain as you are, but condemned to bear the memory of what might have been possible had you been willing. I have discovered that the bacon served by your kitchen staff is the best I have ever eaten. Shall you have some?”
She returned to his room in an hour.
“As you see,” Lord Richard said, pointing to his empty plate, “I have eaten everything.”
“I see. Was it good?”
“Of course. Mrs. Mays is an excellent cook; she has worked for my family since I was a youth. She has served the Prince Regent when he was my family’s guest in our home.”
“I rather imagine that Mrs. Mays is far more pleased when a member of the family returns an empty plate than by any servings offered to royalty,” Cressida said.
He began to
object, then realized that she had delivered a compliment. “Perhaps you are correct,” he said abruptly. “I have never had the conversation. Now that I have broken my fast to your satisfaction, pray tell what you have in mind for today. And why have you brought a butterfly net into my room?”
Cressida, butterfly net in hand, walked past him to the window. Opening it, she turned to him with a smile. “You must rebuild your body, my lord. We will begin by strengthening the part of your body which has merely been neglected, but not injured. Allow me to demonstrate.”
She pulled a chair close to the window and sat upon it. Butterfly net in hand, she raised her arm and, casting to the right, swept it across the expanse of the window. She did this five times, then switched arms and performed the same act with her left arm. Her slender body moved with a surprising display of power as she swung the net from side to side. Her bronze hair, arranged in a simple, not fashionable manner, was striking because of its color and volume. Lord Richard was surprised to discover that his nurse, although not conforming to his definition of beauty, possessed her own unique appeal. Lord Richard had been, by choice, absent from female company since his injury, except for his mother and household servants. Formerly an admirer of the ladies, and one who had availed himself of their charms, Lord Richard had demanding standards. It was not possible, to be sure, that a mere nursemaid could meet them. But as he watched the interplay of muscles in her back, the grace of her arms, and the tilt of her head, he found the view a pleasant one.
Chapter Seven
The Earl and his wife had sat down to supper and were already through the first course when the dining room doors opened and their son wheeled himself in.
“I apologize for my tardiness,” he said as he approached the table. “I was dressing for supper and the process takes longer when one’s arms are aching. Miss Lockwood---thank you, Louis,” he said to the footman who came forward to move the dining room chair out of the way so that Lord Richard could move himself closer to the table, “is a harsh taskmaster.”
