by Rye Hart
Although, as a nurse, she attended to whatever patients were assigned to her, she began to apply special efforts to those who suffered from the loss of sensation and movement. She researched the subject, begging her father to contact specialists in the area so that, through him, she could learn more. She had then begun to take on private patients. Her reputation had grown and doctors in England had begun to contact her regarding patients of their own. Her father, torn between fierce pride in her skill and anxiety that she was conducting herself in a manner destined to bring social isolation and criticism, had finally decided that he could only allow her to do what she would do anyway, with or without his support and blessing.
Cressida Lockwood, at age twenty-four, had no marriage prospects, no social circle and none of the traditional feminine accomplishments, but what she did have was an indomitable will and a bewitching smile. She was very much like her late mother and Dr. Lockwood suspected that, had his wife lived, she would have wholeheartedly encouraged her daughter in her bold ambition, however unladylike it might have been regarded by others. The good doctor was surprised to learn that his daughter earned a good income from her treatments with private patients. He’d been aghast when he learned what she charged, until she explained to him that clients did not value what was easy to afford. Her rates affirmed her professional attributes.
Cressida lacked a husband to support her, but she had a respectable income of her own. She was in the process of purchasing a cottage of her own to live in, where she would be near to the hospital and yet independent. The conceit would be that her father was providing her with the residence, a fabrication which Cressida accepted with impatience. But her father insisted. Young women did not make their own way in the world, he cautioned her, and if her reputation suffered, so would her practice.
Chapter Three
Cressida accepted a tray in her room. Before she met with Rheims the valet and then her patient, she needed to be composed. Eating was an important part of emotional health, she believed and a warm meal on a cool day was imperative. She suspected that her patient’s eating habits were likely to be as out of sorts as his physical state. Patients who suffered from melancholy, seldom chose to realize that food was part of their healing.
Before leaving her room, she consulted the journal that she used to record her notes on her various cases. She reviewed other patients who had suffered a similar injury to Lord Richard so that she could be sure she was fully versed in the circumstances.
She met Rheims in the library. The valet, a middle-aged man who looked as if he could have used a good night’s rest, was plainly exhausted by his charge. His description of Lord Richard’s schedule was much as Louis had described it.
“Does His Lordship engage in any sort of physical exercise?” she inquired. “Anything at all?”
Rheims stared at her, less impudently than Louis had done, but with incredulity plain on his face.
“No, ma’am, but he can’t walk.”
“He has arms, has he not? They were not afflicted by the fall,” Cressida responded. “Does he have any interests? Painting, billiards, reading, anything at all?”
“No, ma’am. Sometimes he’ll sit at the window and watch the horse that threw him.”
“Does he?” Cressida’s smile made Rheims feel as if he had been rewarded for having accomplished some great achievement. “Very good,” she said, writing a note in her book. “What of his food? Does he eat?”
“He won’t touch puddings, though Cook tries to tempt him with her best desserts. He used to quite enjoy them, before the accident that is.”
So His Lordship feared gaining weight. That was excellent. She made note of this.
“Does he eat at regular mealtimes?”
“No, ma’am. When he’s hungry, whether it’s two o’ clock in the morning or one o’ clock in the afternoon, that’s when he eats.”
“And you are the one charged with procuring his meals?”
“Cook generally leaves out something for him, but it isn’t always what he wants and sometimes he throws it back at me,” Rheims confessed.
“Yes, well that must cease.”
Rheims’ jaw dropped. “Ma’am,” he warned, “Lord Richard isn’t the sort to take kindly to being given orders from a, from anyone,” he amended whatever he was going to say.
“I have no intention of giving Lord Richard orders,” Cressida assured him. “His Lordship was a military officer and no doubt is used to being the one who issued the orders.” She went on to ask him a few more questions although Rheims could not detect any real purpose for the information that she sought.
“Shall I take you to Lord Richard?” Rheims offered.
“There’s no need,” Cressida said, putting her book away. “If you tell me where he is, I shall find him.”
She didn’t want Rheims to have any further difficulties in dealing with his pig-headed charge; it was important to be, as she had said, the lightning rod so that Lord Richard could find solace in his family as he focused his hostility against her. He would need them as a source of encouragement for what was to come. She had dealt with this scenario before and knew the pattern. It did not make it any easier, though, to create an enemy so that she could heal him.
Before she went to find Lord Richard, Cressida took out her prayer book. She had found the Book of Psalms to be unfailingly comforting when she needed insights into human emotions at their most despairing, hostile, and threatening. She had told her father that she believed no physical ailment could be cured without due attendance paid to the mind and spirit.
Dr. Lockwood had responded by giving her a sturdily bound volume of the Psalms. “Read it every day,” he told her. “ The time will come when you don’t to read them because you will know them by heart. You will find one for every patient; the words will help you to maintain your poise, but it will also help your patient.”
The house was quiet at this time of day; Lady Constance was still out making calls and the Earl was at his club. The servants were at their posts. She followed the directions that Rheims had given her, walking down the corridor from the library until she came to the room now occupied by Lord Richard. She took a deep breath to calm herself, waiting a few moments until she was at ease, then knocked on the door.
“What the devil do you want?” shouted a response. “I did not ring for you.”
Cressida turned the doorknob and opened the door.
Lord Richard was sitting in front of his window. His room was crowded with furniture; a magnificent desk, an armoire, numerous tables, and an enormous four-poster bed with elaborate brocade bed curtains concealing the mattress within. The room was an untidy mess of discarded clothing, a tray with a half-eaten meal pushed to the side, and shoes and boots strewn without mates in corners. She suspected that the clutter revealed Lord Richard’s lack of patience as his valet attempted to tidy the bedchamber. Before she could possibly effect changes in the Viscount’s health, his surroundings needed a brisk cleaning.
“Who the hell are you?” Lord Richard demanded. “Put that down. Those are my belongings.”
“They should be either put away or laundered,” she replied evenly as she continued to pick up the garments.
“What are you doing in my bedchamber?” Lord Richard demanded.
“Just now, I am apparently your maid. Once the room is restored to order, I will be your nursemaid. My name is Cressida Lockwood.”
“Get out!” he ordered. He had a very handsome face, she noted dispassionately. A fine, noble forehead framed by thick dark hair showed a face that displayed what in better times would have been a man of refinement and charm. Now, lines of temper marred his lips and his eyes were narrowed in anger.
Cressida went on with her task. “We have much to accomplish if you are going to walk again, but we can do nothing as long as your bedchamber is in such disarray. How do you expect to move from one spot to the other if you are tripping over cravats and Hessian boots?”
“You are much
ill-informed,” he told her. “I don’t expect to trip at all because I cannot walk.”
“Do you accept that?”
“My acceptance is irrelevant. Are you a fool?”
“I am not, fortunately for you.”
“Have the lunatic asylums emptied out? That is the only explanation for your presence in my room.”
“To the best of my knowledge,” she said, stepping over the heap of shoes in the middle of the room, “the asylums remain occupied. Let me introduce myself a second time, since you perhaps did not hear me the first. I am Cressida Lockwood, Lord Richard. I am to be your nursemaid.”
“I don’t need a nursemaid, Miss Lockwood.”
He was sitting down and she was standing. Clearly he felt himself at a disadvantage, having to look up to her. She sat down in the chair next to him.
“Do you not? Do you propose to heal yourself? You do not appear to be having much success. What have you been doing to restore your mobility?”
He stared at her. For a brief instant, she could see the heartbreaking despair visible in his dark, liquid brown eyes. Then his expression returned to its former indignation. “I pray daily, Miss Lockwood, for a miracle,” he said flippantly. “But God is not hearing my prayers.”
“Perhaps you should speak to the vicar. I cannot offer advice on that score. Is that the horse that threw you?”
“The vicar---what? Yes, that’s El Diablo.”
“Why do you watch him?”
“Because he’s a damned magnificent animal, of course; the finest horse I ever rode.”
“Do you suppose he remembers you?”
“I suppose that he chuckles into his oats every time he recalls the moment,” Lord Richard replied. “He’s an arrogant brute, but one must forgive him.”
“Why? I should think you would detest the sight of him.”
“You know very little about it. You are clearly not a rider.”
“Nothing to match you,” she agreed cheerfully. “But if you don’t hate him for the accident, I wonder that you do not go to him.”
“I beg his pardon for neglecting my social obligations to the equine class, but as you can see, I am bound to my room and I cannot go where I will.”
“Do you have a chair? If you had a chair with wheels, as many in your circumstances do, you could move more freely.”
“I could not make my way, even with a wheelchair, out of the house, down the stairs, and across the grounds.”
“In stages, you could do just that. You should consider it,” she said, surveying his face with a critical eye. “You are beginning to look pasty-skinned. If you continue to be inactive, you will become quite portly. You will commence to look older than your years.”
Clearly taken aback by her matter-of-fact recital of the physical flaws which awaited him, Lord Richard’s eyebrows raised. “The lunatic asylums have indeed emptied,” he said resignedly. “The chief lunatic has invaded my home. Tell me, are you Joan of Arc or Cleopatra?”
“If I were inclined to be delusional, I believe I might as well aspire to be Sekhmet.”
“Who?”
“The Egyptian goddess of healing,” she supplied.
He gave her a derisive look. “Oh, certainly; one might as well aim for deification.”
“Certainly. Joan of Arc and Cleopatra did not end well. Burned at the stake, a snake bite, no, I think that if I’m to be a lunatic, I should like to be a goddess.”
“Perhaps I should also count myself as a god,” he suggested. “Hephaestus and I have certain things in common. We’re both cripples. Of course, he could still walk.”
“He limped,” she agreed. “But that would be progress for you, would it not?”
Chapter Four
Her words were intended to prod him. But he said nothing in response. His gaze returned to the window. Outside, El Diablo stood, his proud head raised as if he were listening to the wind speak in his language.
“Yes, Miss Lockwood, limping would be progress. Please leave. I apologize for my rude behavior. But there is no courteous way to tell you that you are not welcome here and that your presence in my private quarters is an intrusion. You must leave.”
“Your father hired me.”
“Then he can sack you,” Lord Richard retorted, restored to ill temper.
“He would have to pay me for work I have not done,” she said amiably. “It would be a very bad business arrangement.”
“He’ll show you the door and damn your impudence!”
“My arrangement with all my clients is that I must be paid, once I am hired. Fortunately, I have been successful and after my patients finished their tantrums and had the courage to make an effort to restore themselves, they did not want me to leave until I had helped them achieve their goals. Are you less than they?”
“Miss Lockwood, I am weary of—“
“You are weary because you are lazy,” she said kindly. “Doing nothing of purpose all day is enervating.”
“You are insulting! How dare you speak so to me? You are a nobody and you have the audacity to address me in such a manner?”
“I am very much your equal in this, Lord Richard. I am as determined as you are defeated; as knowledgeable as you are ignorant; as skilled as you are untutored. I can help you if you will agree to help yourself instead of closeting yourself in your bedchamber to wallow in the self-pity that you inflict on your family and your household servants as if their affection and respect mean nothing. You have done nothing to deserve their regard and yet you expect to be permitted to berate them indiscriminately, when their only crime against you is that they can walk and you cannot. Is it not time that you conducted yourself in the manner of a former officer and demonstrate that you were worthy to wear the uniform?”
“You know nothing of a man’s life in the military,” he said wearily. He was not looking at her. Once again, his eyes were fixed on the sight of El Diablo outside the window.
“You are quite wrong. A number of my former patients were soldiers. They impressed me with their bravery when they were not facing guns or bayonets.” She stood up. “I will leave you for now, but I will return tomorrow morning and we will begin our work together. But first, I have something for you.”
From the inside of the cuff of her blouse, she pulled out a white feather. “I believe that you understand the meaning of this?”
Lord Richard’s eyes blazed. “You importunate woman!” he said, his voice low, the syllables rumbling over a rough-hewn path of his angry words. “How dare you call me a coward?”
She was heading toward the door. “If you will not rise to the challenge before you, then I must regard you as a coward.”
“Don’t you dare leave before I dismiss you! You are a servant and you have the effrontery to leave before I have given you permission?”
“Then stop me,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
She was not surprised, hours later, when a servant came to tell her that the Earl would see her in the library. It was patently a command, and one that she had been expecting. Cressida put down the journal into which she had been recording her notes from her first meeting with Lord Richard and followed the servant down to the library.
The Earl was angry. At his side, his wife appeared worried.
“Miss Lockwood, I have just come from my son’s bedroom. I am offended that you would come into my home and insult my son. He has been horribly afflicted from his fall and you show him the white feather and term him a coward? By what right do you behave in such a manner?”
“My lord, you hired me to help your son. He has enough people who feel sorry for him. He needs someone who does not pity him. That someone is me. Is he angry at me? Good. Perhaps he will endeavor to prove me wrong. Please have his manservant go to his room and clean it. It has the appearance of an East End lodging room badly in need of attention. Then, please have some of your servants remove the furniture that is not needed. He needs a bed, and his desk, two chairs, one by the window, and the tab
le. Everything else must go. It is impossible for him to exercise when all the space is taken up with furniture. One more thing: he will need a chair with wheels. He has isolated himself in his bedchamber and that is unhealthy. He needs stimulation. How soon can you procure one?”
The Earl had intended to deliver a stinging rebuke to Miss Lockwood, but her observations were sound. He saw that his wife was paying close attention to the conversation. She would never disagree with him in public, but he sensed that she perceived value in the young woman’s abilities.
“We will have the furniture removed,” Lady Constance said. “You are quite right. The room is not conducive to my son making any progress of any kind. My husband had a chair manufactured immediately after Lord Richard’s accident. He has refused to use it.”
“Splendid!” Cressida said, clapping her hands together as if she were applauding the couple for their actions. “We don’t have to wait. Your son and I will go down to the stables tomorrow morning. It’s high time that Lord Richard renewed his acquaintance with the horse that caused this injury.”
“Miss Lockwood,” the Earl began cautiously, realizing that this young woman, if challenged, could be a most worthy foe. “I wanted to have El Diablo put down after the accident, but my son would not let me. I am not at all sure that it would be wise to bring him into contact with that monstrous beast.”
“The horse represents an adversary who vanquished him,” Cressida said. “Adversaries must meet; often they are the only ones who truly understand each other.”
“Miss Lockwood,” Lady Constance began. “I agree with you that his chamber must be cleared of obstacles, and heaven knows it needs a good cleaning. But he will be most upset to have his possessions removed. He has a pistol.”
