“Very well.” Dr. Nealy packed up his bloodletting supplies, thrusting the metal bowl into Henrietta’s hands. “Clean this.”
Her face went a little pale, bringing it back to its non-embarrassed hue.
It became immediately clear why he sent her out of the room, for once she disappeared, Dr. Nealy put his hands to Marcus’s ankle and pressed, moving the bone back into position. Marcus strangled a colorful oath. The edges of his vision blurred, then blackened.
“The clicking sound means your ankle is broken. I’ll return with a splint.” Dr. Nealy left through the front door.
Heartbeat by heartbeat, Marcus unclenched his teeth, jaw, fists, and muscles from his neck to his arse. Breathing came later. Nothing in his life had ever hurt as much.
Henrietta returned, noted the doctor’s absence, and slammed the empty metal bowl on the tea table. “Did you scare him off?”
Sweat beaded on his brow, and he couldn’t find the resources to talk. Light flickered with each heartbeat. He knew he was close to passing out, but he wouldn’t allow it.
“No,” he grunted. “I’m afraid he’ll be back.”
“I should hope so.”
The doctor returned with a wooden contraption that looked like a tiny coffin with leather belts strung across it. There was no top, and one side was missing. A container to torture the dead. “This is a fracture box. You shall remain abed with your leg in this for a minimum of six weeks to allow your bones to heal.”
“Six weeks!” This might be worse than death. Marcus had no time to lose six weeks. Asher still needed his help. And then there were the rumors that New York would issue letters of marque soon, and he intended to set sail when they did.
Dr. Nealy positioned Marcus’s leg in the box. “Any sooner and you chance re-injury. If it doesn’t heal properly, you’ll have permanent damage, deformity, and unremitting pain.”
“What about crutches?”
He cushioned the leg with a rolled-up length of cloth. “A fracture box sets the bones properly. Crutches are of little use until you are mostly healed. For now, you must rest.”
“Fine.” Marcus clenched his jaw against his frustrations while the doctor finished with the straps. “Hen, would you mind arranging for a friend to retrieve me?”
Henrietta nodded—a bit too eagerly.
Dr. Nealy finished with the straps. “I’m afraid you can’t leave. You won’t be able to withstand the jostling of a carriage or cart, nor can you sit a horse. You’ll risk making the injury worse. For the next six weeks, you must remain here with Mrs. Caldwell. I’ll stop in from time to time to check your progress.”
Chapter 5
The house was quiet but for the ticking of the clock on the mantel. It was a fussy thing with nymphs and satyrs, and Henrietta loved it. Six weeks. How could she have a man stay with her for six weeks? How would her reputation survive? Where would she put him? The second bedroom was out of the question. Which left the attic. Two servants used to share the space. Surely there was enough room for a man lying in bed for six weeks.
But this was Marcus Hardwicke. As a child, while his brothers studied for hours with tutors, Marcus would escape, climbing the tallest trees. Looking at him now, with his strong arms and broad, muscular chest, he was still a physical man, not one to sit at ease for a day, let alone weeks at a time.
There had to be another option.
She ran through her list of friends and came up empty. None would be able to stay with her. They had their own lives and responsibilities.
How had this happened? If her ramshackle house caused her endless problems, adding an injured man to the mix did her no favors. She barely made it through the day without panic twisting her inside out. How would she manage with an audience?
“Hen?”
“What?” she snapped, letting out some of the pressure mounting in her chest. Then more calmly, “What, Marcus?”
“I’m sorry. This was not my intention when I offered to help.”
“I know. I’m sorry too.” Henrietta leaned back in her chair. “Are you in a great deal of pain? No, don’t answer that. Of course, you are. More brandy?” She made to rise. He held out his hand to stop her. At the center was a pernicious red welt. “On second thought, I’ll get the honey.”
“Honey.” Marcus grinned. “Don’t go yet. It can bide.”
Henrietta settled again and waited. He seemed to want something. The clock tick-ticked and still Marcus said nothing. He looked terribly uncomfortable, too large for the short settee, one leg extended and bound in the fracture box, the other bent at the knee and bouncing, sending a tremor through the floorboards.
“To whom may I send word you are here? A wife?”
“No wife.” His grin deepened.
“Perhaps someone can come to help you to the attic?”
“The attic? You wish to sequester me in the attic?”
Henrietta looked toward the hallway where steep stairs rose to the servants’ quarters, unoccupied since Sam’s death and his uncle’s miserly ways. “I’m afraid so.”
“You could always make a pallet for me in the kitchen. I could be like a house elf, charming and useless, occupying the space beside the hearth.”
Henrietta laughed. “That space is well used, I’ll have you know.”
“Is that where your servants sleep?”
Henrietta shook her head. “I told you, my finances lack fortitude.”
“So do I.” He sighed and rested his head on the back of the settee. “My partner, Augie, he’ll come.” He glowered at his bee sting, poking at it with a finger. “He’ll bring Sissy.”
A twinge of jealousy jabbed just below her throat. “Is that a friend?”
Marcus lifted his head. “Sissy? Best kind. She’s not much to look at, but she’s loyal.”
Henrietta scoffed in annoyance. “That’s not a nice thing to say. Poor woman.”
At this, Marcus shifted to face her directly. “Wom—no!” He broke into laughter. “She’s my dog.”
“Your dog?” Whatever that jabbing below her throat was, it was now strangling her. “She’s not coming here.”
“She can bed down with Slow Dick in your barn.”
That was slightly better. She focused on breathing. It wasn’t enough.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Henrietta dashed for the solitude of the kitchen, pausing briefly at the second bedroom door. Pressure built in her chest as tears pricked her eyes. A quiver started in her chin, and her tight rein of control slipped. He’d figure out soon enough about the second bedroom. She wasn’t ready to talk about it. She didn’t know if she ever would be.
This was her home, she reminded herself, pacing before the hearth. She didn’t answer to him. Nor could he move without assistance. Therefore, she told herself, the chances of Marcus encountering Willow’s bedroom were small.
A breath whooshed through her lungs, and she brought her shoulders down, giving them a rolling shake. She’d be better in a moment.
On a tray, she arranged a pot of honey, clean strips of linen for bandaging, a bottle of brandy, and a glass. She lifted it. The left side dipped. She could move the pot of honey to balance things. Or she could add a second glass.
She added a second glass.
Henrietta was tired of caring for the infirm. Some felt the calling, like this new doctor. She had other things she wanted to do with her time, not that she had much of it. After all the cooking, cleaning, gardening, shopping, and darning, little time remained for personal endeavors.
Recently, she’d begun writing a novel. It was an indulgence and unlike any she’d read before. The female character was neither a fairy-tale princess nor a lady of gentle breeding, but like the women she knew from the lending library. She imagined this woman going about her chores when the most unexpe
cted situation arose, and she found herself thrust on an adventure. Of course, Henrietta hadn’t figured out yet what the adventure might be. Perhaps she’d be kidnapped by a dreadful brigand with a secret heart of gold, or rescued by a strapping soldier who thought nothing of scaling the walls of her heart. There was a lot to consider.
A crash came from the parlor. Henrietta dropped the tray and ran.
Marcus lay in a heap on the floor beside the settee. “Don’t say it. I know.”
“I’ll say this instead: behave, or no brandy.”
“Cruel woman.”
Henrietta left him on the floor to retrieve the tray. When she returned, he’d propped himself against the settee with both legs extended. She placed the tray on the floor and sat beside him.
“Hand.” She held out her own and accepted his. His hand was larger with long, blunt fingers, calloused and scarred from work. His nails were neat and short, with only the slightest line of gray beneath the white arcs. His palm, as wide as a book, sent a frisson of awareness through her body she hadn’t felt since, well, when she was fifteen and witless.
Henrietta inspected the bee sting. It was red and hot to the touch, with the stinger still embedded. She took tweezers from her pocket and worked it out. At the other end of the hand, Marcus sat motionless.
“Don’t forget to breathe,” she whispered.
Their eyes met. His resoluteness slammed through her, right to her core.
“You either.”
Henrietta nodded and set to work, bandaging his hand with honey. “There. As good as new from the wrist up.” She poured two glasses of brandy, handing him one.
“To being as good as new from the wrist down.” He clinked his glass to hers.
~ ~ ~
Marcus woke with a spike through his head and a half-empty bottle of brandy beside him. For the moment, he couldn’t feel either ankle, the bee sting, or his hips from sleeping on the hard floor.
Carefully, he brought himself to a sitting position. There were pillows strewn about him as if he’d survived an upholstery storm.
Ah, there it was. The searing pain at his ankle. Lovely. Five weeks, six days. He was absolutely counting yesterday as a full day.
“You’re awake. And sitting up.”
Henrietta wore a blue dress today. Little white flower buds littered the field of her skirts. She held a tray before her like her guarded expression. The urge to apologize came again, but what good would it do?
“I made you a bone broth. Another of my mother’s remedies.”
She set the tray on the tea table and came to his side to toss pillows onto the settee behind him.
“Dr. Nealy would probably ask whose child you sacrificed to make it.”
Henrietta pursed her full lips to hold back a laugh and hugged a pillow to her chest. “He wasn’t that bad.”
“For starters, he lacked a sense of humor. If he’s going to bleed a man over his humors, he ought to have his own in balance. Maybe he needs a clyster.”
She handed him a bowl of broth. “Hush. Drink this.”
Heat permeated the ceramic bowl, warming his hands. He balanced it on his thigh instead. “Have you heard from Augie?” Tentatively, he took a sip. It tasted better than it smelled, which was an awful lot like simmering glue. He knew it from bookbinding. If he could stomach it, not even a gallon of it would fill him up.
“I sent word last night. Too soon to have heard from him, I’m sure.”
Cozy, small, and bright with the curtains pulled back, the room was a reflection of Henrietta. Simple, sturdy furniture made the room functional. Colorful cushions and pillows made it inviting. But there was a fractious heart at its center. Sitting on the mantel, a clock ticked loud enough to proclaim its worth without censure for its naked nymphs.
“What did you have for breakfast?”
Henrietta picked out a folded piece of cloth from a basket beneath her chair and continued sewing from the last time she must have sat there long enough to add a few stitches. He couldn’t tell if it were a man’s shirt or lady’s shift. He hoped it was a shift. He tried to picture her in it, soft and crumpled and smelling of lavender against her flushed skin. Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains and gilded the curve of her cheek. He’d like to have her for breakfast.
“Eggs and toast. Coffee—”
Marcus’s stomach rumbled.
“Oh dear, you’re far hungrier than broth.”
“The broth is good.” He was exceedingly hungry. Brandy for supper left him with a fog wrapping his brain.
Henrietta jumped up, leaving her sewing behind. “I’ll make you something more.”
He hadn’t intended to make her work harder, or work at all for him. He also couldn’t not eat for six weeks. When Augie arrived, he’d ask him to bring back food from the market, some meals from Nellie’s kitchen at the Three Squirrels. He needed to come up with a plan to help her out.
He took another sip of broth. The clock’s ticking thundered through his head. He should ask her to move it to another room. Say, the shed out back.
Henrietta returned and tidied up more, forgetting her sewing on the chair. She took his bowl and rushed out again.
Someone knocked on the door. Thank Christ. Augie could help the poor girl get him sitting on the settee again, or worse, ensconced in the attic.
Henrietta ran to the door, her face flush with activity. “Perhaps it’s your friend,” she said, reading his mind. Silence greeted her at the door. Since Marcus sat on the other side of the wall separating the parlor from the foyer, he didn’t know if it were Augie or not. Augie often silenced people unfamiliar with him. He was tall and dark, making the whites of his eyes look extra bright, haunted if the mood struck. It was enough to make the most polite fumble to react.
“Mrs. Moskowitz, how good of you to come. Uncle.” Her voice tightened. “Come in.”
He knew nothing about her uncle. In fact, he hadn’t given much thought to what it must be like for her, a widow, caring for a man in her home. He knew he looked disreputable sitting on the floor, clothes wrinkled and sweat-stained. He needed a shave, a comb through his hair, and a bath. A meal would do him wonders.
At least Mouse would understand. The uncle, however, could be a problem.
“I must inform you, Uncle.” Her voice echoed in the hallway against the bare walls and hardwood floor. “I have a guest. He injured himself yesterday and cannot travel.”
“He? My nephew is barely cold in the ground.”
Marcus hadn’t gotten that impression from Henrietta.
“Yes, Uncle.”
Marcus willed himself onto the settee. It took all of his strength to establish himself with his leg extended on the wooden chest in the awkward, heavy fracture box. Stars blinded his eyes.
“I brought a nosh. He must be hungry, such a fine, young man.”
Mouse was laying it on a little thick, though maybe she was like that with her civilian friends.
“You. Stop right this second. You are not to take one more step into this house.” The man’s voice thundered with authority, imbued with a Scottish burr harsher than the doctor’s.
“I—”
“I don’t care who the devil you are.”
“Uncle Caldwell!” The hem of Henrietta’s skirts wavered into view. “She is my friend.”
Oh, Christ. No. Marcus rubbed his brow as if he could erase reality. Her uncle by marriage and Colonel Caldwell were one and the same, and he should have put this together before now. How many Caldwells could there be?
This was the man who had Asher arrested.
An older gentleman entered the room. He was of medium height and clothed in a royal blue coat straining over his stomach. The wig he wore curled above his ears without a hint of powder. His severe gaze s
urveyed the room, slate eyes landing on the noisy clock, lips thinned and tightly pursed.
“Who are you?”
Behind him, Henrietta and Mouse squabbled over the dish between them. If he heard them, Mouse wanted to serve it immediately while Henrietta wanted to wait. Either way, Mouse wasn’t leaving. He’d have to find a way to speak to her in private.
“I’d like one, if I may,” Marcus called out, ignoring the colonel. What would Caldwell do, arrest him too? He wasn’t breaking any laws sitting there.
Henrietta sent him a quelling look with a quick shake of her head. He was hungry and didn’t understand the fuss. It wasn’t as if eating now or later would improve the odds of Caldwell leaving before he realized who Marcus was. Or Mouse, for that matter. But Henrietta couldn’t know how they were all connected.
“See, I told you!” Mouse took her dish to the kitchen. Henrietta rubbed her temples.
“You,” Caldwell repeated. “Your name?”
“Marcus . . . Aurelius?”
The older man’s eyes narrowed to a daring squint. “You think this is funny? I can have you out on your tail within five minutes. Try me.”
“Uncle!”
“I mean it.”
Henrietta huffed. “Please. He has a broken ankle and cannot travel.”
“Says who? He looks hale enough.” Caldwell studied him as if Henrietta’s parlor were a butcher shop and he was the first cut.
“Dr. Nealy came yesterday.”
“Ah, he is a fine man. Loyal to the Crown. Not enough of those these days.” Caldwell sneered at him. What could he possibly know? They’d never met face to face.
A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 4
