“The carriage approaches, sir. Shall I show her in directly?”
“Yes, Lowand, straight away. Do send for my mother, as well.”
“Already done, sir.” He left with a bow.
Before the door clicked closed, Bernard came neighing at Duncan, galloping his way back across the room.
“Not at all fair,” Duncan said. “It was your turn to guess.”
“What am I? What am I?” The neighing continued until Bernard launched himself onto Duncan’s lap again.
“If I guess, then you must have two turns after this.” More neighing was his answer. “Only a true horseman could make such a convincing likeness. You must be a horse.”
“Yes! Yes!” Bernard shrieked his delight.
The door opened once more to the smiling face of Georgina.
“Grandmama! I’m a horsey horseman!” the boy exclaimed, once more climbing down from Duncan’s lap to gallop to Georgina.
Duncan beamed at the boy.
Eyeing one of the drawing room chairs, he was tempted to transfer to something more suitable for Mary’s visit before dinner, but the wheeled chair was so comfortable, he was reluctant to leave it. It would be far easier, anyway, to remain in the chair, ready to be wheeled into the dining room once Quinn and Miranda arrived.
Georgina pulled the boy into her arms and carried him to the hearth by Duncan. “I thought he was learning his capitals today.”
“It was a losing battle, Mama, I tell you. Every country had an animal sound rather than a capital. I conceded after being told the capital of Denmark sounded remarkably like a bird of prey.”
“Why don’t you take him for a ride tomorrow?” She attempted to smooth Bernard’s riotous curls.
“I think I shall. A trot about the yard will do him some good.”
Mr. Lowand opened the door once more, stepping into the room this time. “The Lady Mary Mowbrah.”
A woman of noble bearing and birth sauntered into the drawing room, her dinner dress regal, her expression haughty. Duncan’s lips curved in a smile. He was not yet accustomed to seeing her like this, in such contrast to the young girl of his memory, but each time he saw her, the woman she had become imprinted. How the devil could he be so fortunate? She was perfection.
Though his mother released Bernard to give a curtsy, and Duncan gave a seated bow, the formalities did not last long before Mary’s smile illuminated the room. Georgina approached Mary with arms wide. Bernard had quite a different reaction. He took one look at the newcomer and ran behind Duncan’s chair, but not before Mary had glimpsed his mad dash, careening her neck to see where he was hiding.
Duncan winked at her. “Come out, Bernard,” he said. “There’s someone who wants to meet you.”
Silence answered him.
Mary approached with Georgina on one arm, her other arm hidden behind her back. They took their seats facing Duncan and the hidden boy. From behind her back, Mary pulled a wooden horse on wheels with a waxed rope attached. It caught Duncan so by surprise, he chuckled.
“Are you as fond as I am of the game horse and hound, Sir Duncan?” she asked, twirling the rope in her hand.
Duncan arched an eyebrow. “Horse and hound?”
“Yes, you see, this is the horse, and I’m the hound. Wherever I lead, the horse follows.”
She stood, set the wooden horse on the floor, and bent low to reach the rope. With a most unladylike bark and bay, she pranced around the seating area, pulling the horse behind her.
Duncan was in tears. Try as he might to stifle his laughter, he could not. His sides hurt from the effort. His mother was not immune either, as she was red in the face from trying to hold back her laughter.
At length, Georgina stood and said, “I do believe hounds hunt in packs. May I join your pack?”
Mary woofed in response, continuing her journey about the room. Soon in step with Lady Mary, Georgina’s hound-howl bayed in unison. If Duncan made it out of the room without splitting the sides of his waistcoat, he would be shocked. Of all the ways he had envisioned the first meeting between Mary and Bernard, this had never factored in as a possibility. What would aristocratic society think to see this sight?
Lo and behold, from around Duncan’s chair, out stepped Bernard. His hands gripped the wheeled chair, knuckles white, but his eyes were wide with fascination. He watched his grandmama and the stranger walk about the room with a horse in tandem. He took another step forward. Then another.
Mary paused, cocked her head to one side, and said, “Would you like to be a hound and join our pack?”
Bernard shook his head. “I want to be a hunter.”
Another step forward, and he raised an imaginary rifle.
It would seem the whole room was in on the game except Duncan. Initiating the hunt, Duncan made his best bugle trumpet, and off the hounds went, the horse following, and the hunter romping at the rear, ready to catch his fox.
The game was still afoot when Miranda and Quinn arrived, entering the drawing room with mouths agape.
“Should I have brought the girls here instead of to the nursery?” Miranda asked, looking from the madness to Quinn.
Bernard stopped in his tracks to hear that the girls were in the nursery. Looking from the door to Mary and back again, Bernard finally walked up to Mary and offered his hand. She took it without hesitation.
Leading her to Quinn, Bernard said, “This is my new friend.” He looked back to her and asked, “Are you my friend?”
“I would love to be your friend. Only, I don’t know your name, master hunter,” Mary said.
When he glanced to his papa, Duncan said, “Lady Mary, allow me to introduce to you my son Bernard. Bernard, this is Lady Mary.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Do I call you lady?”
“Mary will do. Now, would you like to show your new horse to your cousins, or shall I keep him here?”
“He’s mine?” A face of wonder peered around her to the wheeled horse.
Nodding, Mary fetched the horse, handing it to Bernard to carry to the nursery. With a shy mumble of gratitude, Bernard and his horse raced out of the room, eager to share his toy and stories of his new friend.
As though the past quarter of an hour had not occurred, Mary straightened her shoulders and greeted Miranda and Quinn with all the noble pomp one might expect. Shortly thereafter, a footman arrived with the butler to announce dinner and to wheel Duncan into the dining room.
That evening, while propped against his headboard, Duncan admired the vision of Mary from dinner. Though he rarely paid attention to women’s fashion, he could not help but pay attention when she had been so enchanting.
Her ebony hair, worn high with ringlets bound in an interlacing bit of white ribbon, had contrasted against her dinner dress of white sarsnet. His gaze had been drawn to her bosom, not because he was a lustful man, but because it was a low bodice edged with silver lace and fastened down the center with rosettes of pearls that trailed all the way to the lower hem. The dress ended with a vee mid-shin, a satin petticoat worn beneath and reaching to her slippers.
Only to reach for his wine did he look away from her. The animation of her features, the natural red of her lips, the flush of her cheeks, all captivated him.
The dinner conversation focused on the sensations of Duncan’s lower extremities during his twice daily rides. Each ride produced the same results. And each dismount returned him to his original, senseless state. The table was abuzz with conversation after Duncan shared the news. He had yet to tell anyone aside from Mary in the brief tease by the lake, though he had been bursting to tell everyone. The delay, he reasoned, was to determine if the stir was by chance or something more. Given it occurred repeatedly, it promised to be something more.
Hope ignited, he worked longer and harder to move his feet or lift his legs. It was a nightly ritual that never yielded results.
/> Until tonight.
Glaring at bare legs stretched across his bedsheets, the covers flung to one side, he concentrated on wiggling a toe, flexing a foot, lifting a leg, something, anything. Attempts to replicate the sensations he experienced on horseback failed. He could not say what it was about the movement of the horse, but the gait, position, or maybe the rhythm awakened dormant feelings. All he could do from his bed was try to move the unmovable.
When it happened, he nearly missed it. The flick of the toe was so minute he thought it might be a blur in his vision or a trick of the candlelight, a shadow guttering. There was no mistaking the movement by the fifth time. He could feel nothing. With eyes closed, he would never know his toe was moving. With eyes open, he could see clearly his toe moving on his command.
Once it started, it would not stop. Every time he moved his toe, it responded. It mocked him, as if he had never not been able to move it. Up, down, up, down. He curled the big toe, his other toes joining the chorus by the end of a half hour. Only his right foot, though, never the left.
The tick of the clock chiming eleven kept him from whooping with joy and calling all in the house to witness the miracle. Who could sleep at a time like this? What if he fell asleep and woke to an unresponsive foot?
He kept at it until the shadows were long and his eyes were propped open only by optimism. By the time he slumped onto his pillow from exhaustion, he had twitched his foot into a semblance of a flex. Such a feat was worthy of sleep.
When morning light woke him, he flung back his covers, furious at having slept well past dawn. In his final thoughts before sleep took him, he had sworn to wake early. And here it was, late into the day, his coffee cold, the fire low, and the sun rising steadily higher. Cursing, he propped himself against his headboard, just as he had done the night before, and tossed back the frigid beverage. With a grimace, he stared at his feet.
Three deep breaths. Make that four deep breaths. He held the fifth breath and gave his toe a wiggle.
HA!
It moved on command.
A night’s sleep had not diminished his progress. A madman’s grin on his face, he waved his toes and flexed his right foot. His left taunted him. The big toe on the left foot gave a stuttering flutter every third try. Nothing else on the left responded. His right, however, was more responsive with each try. Feeling gutsy, he moved his legs over to the side of the bed.
Fighting gravity, he attempted to lift the right leg. Only an inch it gave, but it gave an inch. It moved one whole inch! He kept at it, commanding his right leg to lift and then his left. The right remained steady, moving an inch. The left hung limp. Not wanting to embarrass himself in front of, well, himself, he should not be tempted to try to stand, but he was feeling inexplicably grand. How could he not try to stand? No, a toe wiggle did not mean his legs could hold his weight, but he could not stop himself from wanting to try.
Inching further over the edge of the bed, he watched his feet until they met the floor. It was not the easiest of tasks, for without being able to feel the floor or straighten his left foot, he was unsure if his entire foot was touching the floor or if it was positioned well enough to hold weight. His right foot was easier to position, though he could not feel the floor against the sole. When he felt confident enough about the positioning, he grasped high on the bedpost and pulled himself up until his legs were as straight as they could be with him gripping a column, his right leg bearing most of his weight. With a gentle push, he righted himself and released the post.
For nearly two full seconds, his legs held him, the muscles engaging, and then he crumpled to the floor, his left foot giving under the pressure. Picking at the rug threads, he propped himself on an elbow and grinned again. Two seconds.
From his horizontal position, he aimed to bend his right knee and even flex his leg muscles. Neither happened, but his foot continued to respond to every command. Heaving himself up by the edge of the four-poster, he climbed back onto the bed. Legs dangling over the side once again, he kicked out his right leg, the movement sluggish, but there, and the distance a solid inch and a half if he had to wager a guess.
The aftertaste of the coffee had turned to a bitter, stale flavor by the time he was ready to ring for Peter and resume the day as normal. For at least an hour he had worked, likely longer.
Before calling for his valet, he positioned his feet against the rug for what seemed the hundredth time and pulled himself up with the bedpost. Each time had been steadier. Each time had been longer. This time, he held onto the column and stood.
He concentrated on how the rest of his body felt in the stance, how his torso engaged, how his hips were positioned.
Understanding how he needed to balance himself was vital. There could be no doubt his leg muscles were working, or else his legs would not hold his weight as they were doing now. Their contractions seemed intermittent and untrustworthy, disconnected in some way from his commands. And yet they were working. He was fascinated.
Delaying the call for his valet for just a moment longer, he attempted to take a step forward. His right leg inched upwards and forward, dragging his foot beneath and behind it, and—dammit! He could not lift the leg enough to straighten the foot. Grasping the post to keep himself from falling, he looked down to his foot, trying to turn the ankle to straighten his sole to the rug.
His arms shook from the strain of holding himself upright for so long. By the time he had his foot straight enough to put weight on it again, his upper body burned. He released his hold on the column by ruled measure, not wanting to put too much weight and twist his ankle. He simply could not tell if his foot was positioned correctly. Not being able to feel the floor was unnerving.
At last, he was standing again, his legs holding his weight. Perhaps attempting to take steps should wait until after more practice with lifting, flexing, and the like.
And then he realized the sticky wicket he had put himself in. The bell pull was by the bed table, at least four steps away. Dammit! He had three choices: climb back onto the bed to scoot his way to the bell pull, attempt walking again and hope he did not collapse, or shout for Peter and hope the man was in the dressing room and not downstairs. After a look down to his legs, standing proud, and a wipe of the sweat from his brow, he opted for the latter.
As luck would have it, the man came dashing into the room, expecting the worst.
When the valet saw Duncan standing on his own two feet, hands on hips, nightshirt damp with sweat, and a fool’s grin on his lips, Peter gaped.
The remainder of the day proceeded much as every day, aside from the fuss his mother made to hear his progress, and aside from the grin that would not fade. Oh, yes, and lest he forget, the arrival of the outdoor Bath chair.
Mr. Swansbourne had worked himself ragged to get the chair to him a week ahead of schedule. Such work was not taken for granted, for Duncan was well under the impression such a chair took a great deal of time and an exorbitant amount of money. Had Mr. Swansbourne not been acquainted with the family, and had the villagers not seen Duncan as a war hero, it would have likely taken months for the chair to arrive. As it happened, it only took just over a week.
One look at it and Duncan was more motivated than ever to walk again. He was not ungrateful. It was exquisite craftsmanship, far and away more impressive than his wicker chair, but it was enormously large, too heavy to lift if needed, and not easy for him to maneuver in or out of it without assistance.
The Bath chair was mostly iron with a seat to the back, two wheels to the sides, one wheel in the front, two handles in the back for pushing, and one curved rod for the rider to steer. The exciting aspect was that he could guide the direction of the chair with the steering rod, which he could not do with his indoor wheeled chair. But the massiveness of the thing was daunting. He was unsure it would even fit on the mounting platform, and heaven help the person pushing him up the ramp.
In t
he chair’s defense, or more in Mr. Swansbourne’s defense, the seat was well cushioned for comfort, more akin to a carriage seat than what he would have expected. There was even a retractable canopy to shield the rider from sun or foul weather.
Duncan made a show of having himself wheeled about the gardens. The chair rode smoothly and did not slip on gravel or stick in mud as his indoor one was wont to do. He could see its uses, certainly, but he did not care to use it unless he had to. After all, how was he to climb onto Caesar with any finesse from this contraption? For the first trial, he had the indoor chair carried to the platform so he could transfer from one chair to the other to be then wheeled up the platform in his wicker chair. It was all too cumbersome. He was grateful, but having tasted the elixir of life, he wanted his freedom.
The one joy was when Bernard thought it would be grand to go for a ride in the Bath chair with his papa. Around the garden they went, Sean pushing them rather than a footman, making the excuse that he wanted to spend time with his boys.
By dinner, Duncan could not wait to get back into his room and work on his movement. He was a man obsessed. His conversation was limited to grunts, and he nearly shoveled his food. The sight of his bedchamber sometime later was a welcomed sight indeed. Burning down another candle until it guttered, he worked at lifting one leg and then the next, his left leg responding a hair more than it had that morning. Had it truly only been last night when he had moved his right toe for the first time? It was all happening so quickly! From nothing to this!
Before the candle snuffed itself, Duncan had removed from his bed to attempt walking again, having no more success than that morning, but nothing stopped him from trying.
Two days later, the first week of October, he rode out to meet Mary at the lake.
His progress was notable but slow. He could lift both legs against gravity, rotate both ankles, and stand for nearly thirty seconds before the muscles shook and gave. All attempts to walk had failed in the same way as his first tries. Without being able to feel the ground or lock and bend his knees at will, walking was an unachievable task, but given all he had accomplished in only two days, he remained optimistic, fueled by each new goal reached.
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