by Abby Ayles
“But, he is a man,” Kitty replied nervously.
“Yes, he’s my brother,” Delilah said with a quiet giggle. “Did you expect a woman?”
Kitty tried to look away from him, her face growing warm. “I simply... I had assumed that he was... I thought he was a boy,” she stammered nervously. “You did say he was your younger brother.”
“Yes, younger by five years,” Delilah said, “but very much a man. Will that be a problem?”
“I am not sure I can be a nurse to an adult man, Delilah,” Kitty explained. “It is improper. My reputation will be ruined.”
“Nonsense,” Delilah replied. “All you are doing is keeping an eye on a friend's brother. You shall not be in a room alone with him, you shall sleep in your own room at night. You will administer him medicine and nothing else. It is a very noble thing for the daughter of a Baron to do for an Earl.”
This also took Kitty aback. “An Earl?” she whispered to herself. Her eyes landed on the beautiful man lying in the bed at the far end of the room. That man was an Earl? He looked so rough, so unkempt, so rugged. She would have taken him for a noble's mischievous son, perhaps, but not for a man with a title all of his own.
“Besides, nobody will know,” Delilah continued. “It will be between the four of us and the doctors, nobody else.”
“The four of us?” Kitty asked hesitantly.
“Yourself, your father, myself, and my brother, of course,” Delilah responded. “Nobody else needs to know.”
Kitty sighed. “I am not convinced of this, Delilah. It seems wrong.”
“It is not,” Delilah insisted. “Please, I beg you, please help us.”
Kitty could feel Delilah's words pulling at her heart strings. But then she glanced at the sleeping man again. Earl Augustus Sinclair. He was too attractive, too desirable. There would be talk. “Promise me nobody else will ever find out,” Kitty said.
As they spoke, Earl Sinclair's eyes fluttered open and landed on the two women. For a moment he seemed a bit dazed, then he focused on them. Kitty looked into his dark eyes and saw something she had not seen before. A strange combination of pain and desire, as his eyes scanned her figure. He smiled groggily and pushed himself up on the pillows.
Then he winced with pain and let out a groan, collapsing back, only sitting up a little straighter than before.
Kitty blushed, noticing that the movement had further pulled up his vest, revealing much of his hard, chiselled stomach, shining with a faint layer of perspiration, heaving with his pained breaths. She looked away and tried to fix her eyes on a painting across the room, but they kept being drawn back to that naked flesh.
“You are both making far too much noise,” he said, closing his eyes. “Go away if you shall bicker.”
“Do not be like that, brother,” Delilah replied. “She is the girl I told you about. The Baron's daughter, the one with rheumatism. She has very kindly offered to look after you, so that you do not have to go to a hospital, and now you are going to scare her away with your rudeness.”
Earl Sinclair just groaned in what seemed like a combination of frustration and pain. He cracked open one eye. “Very well, she may sit with me.” He made no effort to move, or to cover himself.
Kitty looked to the bedside, where there was an empty chair. She had just wanted to leave. But something about him stirred something in her. The pain was something she knew, something she understood. And his stubbornness reminded her of her own father. She wanted to help him. She wanted to take away this beautiful man's pain. Someone who looked so wonderful did not deserve to wear such a pained expression.
Striving not to look at his bare stomach and hips, Kitty sat down beside Earl Sinclair's bed. “How are you feeling today? Your sister said you had an accident last night,” she began.
“I am feeling rotten, I am in agony, and those bird-witted doctors must have done something horrible to my back because it feels broken from top to bottom,” he replied, turning his head to face her, making eye contact.
She wanted to reply, but she tried to feel more compassionate. “I understand. It must be unusual for someone who was once healthy to experience so much pain all of a sudden. A bad day takes even me by shock.”
“What do you do on a bad day?” he asked.
“I rest,” she replied. “There is nothing more to do. The body heals itself very well, but it needs rest. Unless you want some ointments—”
“No,” he interrupted her. “No ointments. No herbs. No pills. Nothing of the likes. I will not have some snake oil salesmen trying to poison me just so they can charge to cure me.”
“You do not trust doctors?” she asked. “Very well, we shall use no medicine.”
His lips curled into a soft smile. “Ah, so you understand me, do you? Very well, then. You may be my nurse. But if you insult me or undermine my pain I shall fire you.”
And with that he sank into his pillows, almost immediately falling back asleep. Kitty stood up, trying not to look at his bare stomach again as she walked over to where Delilah was.
What a curious man he seemed to be already!
In some ways he reminded her of her father. He was gruff and stubborn, and he would only have things his own way. He was commanding her as though he believed he had a right to, and yet she felt compelled to look after him, if only because through all that stubbornness she could spot a hint of fear, of weakness, that he was trying to defend.
And yet in some ways he reminded her of her mother, especially after the illness, when she was despairing, had lost all her faith in medicine, and turned to God to either cure her or take her from this Earth.
“So, shall you stay, or am I forcing him into hospital?” Delilah asked as they walked out of the room.
“I shall stay,” Kitty replied.
Chapter 6
Over the course of that first afternoon and evening, Kitty learned two things. Firstly, that Earl Augustus Sinclair was a fantastic man. He was very handsome, of course. One of the most attractive men she had ever laid eyes upon. And he was powerful and wealthy too. But he was so much more. He was not only stunningly attractive to look at, but an incredible wit, highly educated, and always prepared with something interesting to say. Even through the pain he was making jokes, snapping back at any remarks he did not like, and holding conversations on the subjects of literature, faith, and politics.
Secondly, she had learned that he was also an incredibly frustrating man. Because he seemed to devote all of his intellect, all of his wit, and all of his humour to bossing others around, evading responsibilities, and being cruel to anyone who so much as suggested the use of actual medical science.
Bit by bit his terrible attitude was eroding at her patience, killing her initial interest and fascination, and making her wonder if perhaps this was not a bad idea after all: it was a terrible one.
She was already sick of him by the end of the day, and glad when he had been left to eat his dinner in his bedroom on his own as Kitty and Delilah took the dining room.
But before bed she had been asked by Delilah to ask him about his symptoms and make some notes. Apparently, it was the doctors' instructions to keep a close record of his recovery, and now that duty fell to Kitty.
“I am in pain and I do not wish to talk to anyone,” he said as soon as she walked in.
She had been in and out of his room ever since she had settled in, and this sort of response was apparently perfectly normal. She drew a deep breath, smiled, and walked over to the bed. “I am sorry, Earl Sinclair, but it's time to make some notes about your improvements.”
“What improvements? Do I look improved to you?” he grumbled.
“Please, Earl Sinclair, anything I might need to know,” she insisted.
“You need to know nothing at all. Be gone. I am in pain,” he growled, rolling onto his side in the bed and letting out a gasp followed by a pained moan.
Kitty sighed. “Lord Stamford,” for he was, as she had learned, the Earl of Stamford, “you
must tell me of your symptoms, or else I cannot care for you.”
He grumbled a little, then rolled onto his back again. He winced in pain as he rolled, but apparently it hurt less than rolling over in the first place. “Very well, very well, but be quick.”
Kitty scribbled down that he was having trouble rolling, but was still able to do so unassisted.
“First of all,” Kitty said, “I would need to know how you feel when you sit up.”
He glared at her as though she had just asked him to eat a handful of dirt from the garden.
“How can I tell how well you are doing if all you do is lay in bed? You need to challenge yourself a little and see how far your body can move, Lord Stamford,” she explained.
Still glaring angrily, he groaned and sat up. It took him a great amount of effort. His arms shook as he pushed himself up, the muscles bulging. His face reddened and he began sweating from the pain. The blankets that were around him now pooled at his hips. Again, he was barely dressed. In fact, he was less dressed than he had been earlier.
Kitty found herself looking at his completely naked torso. His long johns had also been removed, and she saw only the hem of his drawers, unbuttoned and loose about his hips. His body was rippling with hard muscles. It was easy to tell he was the brother of the beautiful, graceful woman Kitty had met at Duke Haskett's gala.
She had never seen a man like this before. Both in the sense that she had never seen a man in such a state of undress and that she had never, to the best of her knowledge, seen such a magnificent specimen of a man outside of fine sculpture and paintings. She swallowed hard and averted her gaze.
“Is anything the matter, Miss Langley?” he asked, his tone of voice suggesting he knew exactly why she was uncomfortable.
“You are somewhat unclothed,” she remarked, swallowing again and forcing herself to look at a spot on the marble floor, to avoid looking back at his stunning physique.
“I am, I am,” he agreed. “I was warm, and my undergarments were too tight on my back and legs. Does it bother you?”
“Please, just put on some clothes,” she requested, looking away, her face blushing hotly.
“Very well, very well, if I am such an eyesore,” he replied.
Kitty refused to give him the pleasure of admitting to him that the problem was, in fact, all the opposite. She wondered how many Our Father's she'd have to say to make up for what she had witnessed today alone.
She heard the bed creak as he shuffled across it. Her eyes were drawn to him once more before she forced herself to look away. She needed to show some more self-restraint. Some more dignity.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and let out a groan. “Kitty, you must help me, I cannot get up out of bed on my own yet.”
“I beg your pardon?” Kitty asked.
“I need you to let me lean on you, Miss Langley,” he replied. “Now.”
She felt the heat rising to her face more than ever before. Her hands shook with nerves. “Can we not ask a male servant to—”
“No, I am on the edge of the bed and I am not sure I shall have the energy to do this for much longer. You must help me,” he insisted.
She could tell that he was loving this. He was doing it on purpose. She pursed her lips, stood up, and, trying not to look at him more than strictly necessary, walked around the bed to where he was sitting.
He held his hand out to her and she put her arm out for him to hold onto. He gripped tightly, pulling himself to his feet. He was just heavy enough that she needed to grip at his arm with both hands to help get him upright. She could see his knee, just below the hem of his drawers. It was swollen, purple and black all over, and angry. If the doctors hadn't been able to reset it he might have been looking at losing the leg.
He leaned into her grasp as he moved across to where some clothes were draped on an arm chair. Picking up his pyjama trousers, he looked down at his knee. He tried to lift his leg. It was swollen stiff. He looked from Kitty to the trousers.
“No, just- Let us forget them. You can put the top on,” she said. She wasn't sure how he had even managed to get his long johns off in the first place.
Augustus leaned into her, first with one arm, then with the other, as he slipped on his pyjama top. Once it was draped over him, she began helping him back to the bed. It was clear he would need some sort of support like this several times a day, every day, for at least a week. By then the swelling might have gone down enough that he could move better on his own.
Holding that strong arm, she felt her belly tighten with excitement. She chastised herself, told herself that this was just a task, that she was helping her friend. But all her body knew was that she was holding the most formidable arm of any man she had ever even seen.
The fact that he was obviously injured was keeping her mind somewhat focused, but she knew she could not continue to do this. She needed someone – a strong man, preferably – to help him move, dress, and clean himself. She felt herself flushing again as she realized that he would need help washing. No. She had to get someone else involved before it got that far.
As he sat back down in the bed and began buttoning his pyjamas up, she sat down in the chair beside him. Her hands were shaking slightly and her heart was pounding hard from holding onto him. She was ashamed of herself, of how base she had allowed her thoughts to become.
She watched as he finished covering his chest, used both hands to lift his leg up into the bed, grimacing with pain, and then raised his other leg naturally so he was lying down again. He breathed out, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead, eyes glassy, as he tried to overcome the pain.
He couldn't. He let out a choked scream, a single tear breaking forth from the corner of his tightly closed eyes. Then he collapsed back on the bed, the tear gliding down his cheek. He raised his hand and swiped it away quickly.
“So what do you want?” he asked rudely, not turning to look at Kitty. This wasn't unusual either. Whenever he was in serious pain he would become blunter, less polite. Kitty knew what it was, of course. He was ashamed that he, a great strong man, was being seen in such a state of weakness.
She smiled and made a few notes of his movement earlier between asking him questions about the pain and the swelling.
Although she offered pain relief as she left for the night, he rejected it. He did not want any medicines, he believed they would poison him. So she just left.
Kitty sighed in frustration. She much preferred him when he was asleep. Hopefully he would sleep well tonight. But it was unlikely. She had never experienced swelling or bruising like that, not even at her worst. There was a good chance that not only the joint, but the ligaments and muscles around it had been stretched and torn.
She realized that if he did not get the medical care he needed soon, he could end up like her, with a leg prone to flare ups and pains for little reason. He needed a doctor to inspect his wounds, possibly surgery. And he was rejecting such help. It made her angry. She had tried her whole life to feel less ill, to gain extra mobility, to be normal. And here he was, apparently determined to make himself as ill as possible.
As she got ready for bed, she made a point of putting on her bed coat pre-emptively. Something was bound to go wrong. That leg did not look right, and he was not properly resting it or taking anything for the pain. She lay down in bed and began reading a book, trying to unwind and feel less angry.
It didn't work.
All she could think about was how much of a stubborn idiot the earl was. How selfish he was being. How inconsiderate towards people like her, who only wanted to make him well. How unappreciative of his own body. And he was bound to be up all night in pain.
Surely enough, Delilah's sharp knock came at the door. “Sorry to bother you again, but—”
Kitty repressed an eye roll. “What does your brother need?”
“He's asking for you,” Delilah replied.
Chapter 7
Kitty had briefly pondered leaving him there that
night. After all, he was all but doing this to himself. But she felt too sorry for him. She knew he was in a lot of pain, and when people were in pain they would act oddly. Being hostile, or blunt, or needy were all perfectly normal responses to pain in someone who normally did not experience it.
She got out of bed and put on her slippers, seizing her little candle before setting off down the hallway. Come to think of it, she couldn't imagine what it must be like to go your whole life without much, if any, pain, only to experience such intense agony constantly for a whole day. She had to forgive him some of his behaviours.
Peering in through his bedroom door, she saw Earl Sinclair was lying in bed, moaning in pain. As she walked in he smiled meekly and held out his hand. “Do not leave me,” he said softly as she reached over and let him grip her small fingers.
She nodded and smiled warmly. “I shall not. I shall sit here all night if I must.”
He sank back into the bed, gripping her hand firmly. He was gripping her so hard that it almost hurt. But this only made her realize how much pain he must be in, to be gripping her so intently, so desperate for comfort. A tear escaped her eye. She knew she shouldn't cry over this, but she couldn't help herself. She wanted to take his pain away.
Kitty sat down beside the bed, checking out of the corner of her eye to make sure that the door was wide open. However much she was officially his nurse, she could not afford to be shut in the room with him. After all, she was a young, unmarried, respectable woman. She needed to maintain her reputation.
She could not remove her hand from his. Although he was dozing, as soon as she pulled back he would grip her tighter. She sat there, holding his hand and crying, she was so grief stricken to see another person suffering so much.
But no, it was his own fault. He was doing this to himself. He could choose to be cared for by doctors, or to take pain relief, and he rejected them both.
She was rather frustrated with this man. But somehow, she couldn't bring herself to just get up and go. She knew she was allowed to walk out whenever she liked. Nobody could make her spend her days caring for a man who was not her husband, in the comfort of his own home, where anyone might make assumptions about their relationship.
