The selection at the sideboard was all his favorites. Cook was spoiling him. When he reached his place at the table, his mail waited in a neat stack next to his plate. The first letter was from his steward, Mr. McLarren, with the Sidwell Hall updates. Such letters never failed to bring a smile. That he was a baronet with an estate never ceased to amaze him. He really must plan a trip soon, but so help him he would walk through the front door during the first visit.
The second letter bore the seal of Major-General Andrew Pierce, Earl of Langley. Duncan’s breath caught in his throat. This had to be an inquiry of when he would be fit to return to service. He could think of no other reason to receive a letter.
Why, why, why did this have to come now? He was not ready. Time. Time was what he needed. He wanted to return, did he not? But he needed time. First, he had to see if he could heal well enough to return. And then there was Mary.
Tucking the second letter in his coat to read later, he instead read the first letter aloud so his parents could enjoy hearing about Sidwell Hall. Mr. McLarren had specific orders to keep Duncan abreast not only of the hall, but of the people. He wanted to keep up with the comings and goings of the neighbors and workers so that when he met them all, he would know their lives.
After breaking his fast, he withdrew to the drawing room, eager to pen a letter to Dr. Knowlton on his progress before his morning ride with Caesar. While progress was not quite where he wanted it to be before he revealed the news to his family, it was miraculous enough to share the news with the good doctor.
Seated in his wheeled chair at the escritoire, his hand followed the quill as it danced across the page, line after line depicting his exercises, his cruising, and his standing without aid. Though he mentioned the sensations while riding, he also confessed to a lack of feeling once dismounted, and thus the need to look down when walking. With luck, the physician would write back with a suggestion Duncan had not considered.
Mid-sentence, an idea formed.
Returning the quill to its holder, he pushed himself away from the desk. Ready or not, his ankle would have to go to work.
Careful, anxious, both hands gripping the arms of the chair until his knuckles whitened, he pushed himself up. His legs straightened. His ankle bore his weight. For a moment, he simply stood upright.
Then, closing his eyes, he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, not enough to lift a foot off the ground, but enough to test the feel of one leg bearing the weight versus the other.
He concentrated on his hips. Though he felt nothing below the hips, he could feel the hips themselves. What he wanted to test was if there was a noticeable difference in how the weight-bearing hip felt to the non-weight-bearing. Back and forth he swayed.
Yes, there was a difference. It was slight. Imperceptible to someone not paying attention, but there was a difference. He could feel each foot pressed to the floor through the hip.
Eyes open, he took a tentative step forward, watching his foot to ensure it contacted the floor. As it moved heel to ball on the floor, he focused on how the hip felt in the movement. The hip moved up, creating the sensation of contraction.
Rocking back onto his right foot, he lifted his left leg off the floor then heel-to-ball stepped on it once more. Still on the left foot, he stepped forward and back countless times, memorizing the feel of his hip at the moment of contact and moment of release. And then the other foot with a focus on the other hip.
Before attempting to walk with eyes closed, he tried a few more moves. He feigned a step forward with a foot hover, as though he missed contact with the floor. Stomping his foot, as though the floor were closer than he anticipated, his attention narrowed to the feel of the hip’s reaction to the movement. He tried stepping side-to-side, backwards, at an angle, and of course, forward.
Not entirely confident yet, he rolled each foot from heel to ball and back several more times, marched in place, balanced on the balls of his feet, lifting and lowering, all while concentrating on the feel of the hips. He balanced on the heels, and after that bit of fun, he tried swinging each leg forward as if to take a step, trying to gauge by feel alone how far his leg might be swinging. There was nothing pleasant about taking a step too wide or too narrow, after all.
To the hearth and back seemed a reasonable goal.
He stared down at his feet as he had been doing, but his focus remained on the feel of the hips. As he took one step after another, he thought about what his pelvis was doing—remaining level but tilting and twisting ever so slightly with each step. A series of intentional missteps helped gauge the inappropriate hip and pelvis reactions. He tried forcing a knee buckle and hyperextension, as well as dragging his toe and slapping his foot—both issues he suffered nearly every time he tried walking without looking.
Finally, he was ready to test his theory.
Thinking a silent prayer that he did not sprain the ankle this time, he closed his eyes and took a step. It was not a brave step. It was a gauged step, one in which he felt for the floor with the hip, the leg lowering inch by inch until he could feel the upwards shift, tilt, and contraction in the hip. Following that step came another. He moved one foot after the other in measured time, slow-motion walking to the hearth with eyes closed. While his feet could not feel the floor beneath them, his hips told him everything he needed to know. Holding a hand out in front of him, he waited to open his eyes until he felt the cold marble of the mantel in his palm.
He had walked across the room without looking down.
A run through the fields might not be his next move, but by Jove, he had walked across a room unassisted. With eyes open but refusing to look down at his feet, he walked back to the escritoire, taking great care with his steps and focusing on nothing but his hips. It would not do to lose his concentration or move sloppily. At this point, he doubted he could walk confidently enough to fool anyone, much less walk and talk at the same time, but he did not see why he could not achieve those goals with more practice. If he could only regain sensation, he would be back to normal.
Seated again, he returned to the letter, striking through the last few sentences and adding in what he had just accomplished.
One evening to practice this so he could walk with a little more speed and confidence, and he would reveal all to his parents. Did he want to reveal this to Mary now? He did not see why not. It did not seem false hope when he was able to achieve so much now. Yes, it was time to show Mary.
Good heavens. It had not even been a full week since he stood for the first time. Five days. In five days, he had gone from standing to walking. Miraculous. There seemed little in this world he could not accomplish!
After sanding the ink and addressing and sealing the letter, he set it in the mail bin for Mr. Lowand. A new goal was in order. By Sunday, he would make it to church and back.
He reached for the bell pull then recalled the letter in his coat pocket. In seconds, he broke the seal, unfolded it out before him, and began to read. Before a full minute passed, he ripped the letter in half, ripped it again, then crumpled it in his fist and hurled it across the room to the fire, missing by less than a foot. His frustration unsatisfied, he pounded a fist against the desk.
Now hereby discharged.
Chapter 15
The needle moved in and out of the silk, shaping the blue thread into a bird. Stilling the needle, Mary pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
A rustle of paper distracted her attention.
Settled at her brother’s feet lay Theodore, prone on his stomach, stockinged feet saluting the air, pages covered in the dark lines of charcoal spread before him. Theo sat up and held out a page for his father.
“My son’s an artist,” Drake declared between puffs of his cheroot.
Theo shook his head and pointed to the drawing. “Head’s too big.”
Squinting, Drake stared at the paper. He tilted his head, his br
ows furrowing. When satisfied with his examination, he leaned back and said, “Looks brilliant to me.”
Theo harrumphed and waved the paper for Mary to see.
She set the embroidery in her lap to study the artistry. Two well-proportioned, charcoal figures stared back at her. So carefully sketched were they, she would never have guessed this drawn by a toddler. Mind, the bodies were square, the hair nothing more than lines, and the smiles a lopsided and sideways letter D, but it was nevertheless quite good. She saw nothing alarming about the sizes of the heads.
Her nephew looked up at her with expectant eyes.
Pointing, she said, “You’re right, of course. The head on the left is too big.”
Satisfied that she agreed with him when his father was clearly too daft to see the discrepancy, Theo nodded and returned to work, his tongue inching to the corner of his mouth as charcoal met paper once more.
Mary had only just put needle to silk to finish the bird’s breast when the parlor door opened to a breathy wind of chatter.
“I thought Mama Catherine would never relent. On she talked about who I should have invited to the foxhunt and shooting party and who I shouldn’t have. If I hear one more sigh of exasperation, I’ll scream.” Charlotte bustled into the room with her cockatoo perched on her arm.
“Why you insist on consulting her is beyond my comprehension,” Mary said to her sister-in-law.
“I value her opinion. She may seem abrasive, but she means well.”
Mary mumbled to herself, “My mother never means well. She’s a crusty bat.”
Returning the cockatoo to his tree, Charlotte stepped over to kiss the top of her son’s head and her husband’s temple. She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t smoke that filthy thing in the parlor, darling.” With a sweep of her hand, she stole the cheroot from his grasp and smothered it into a silver ashtray. “Has no one taught you it’s poor etiquette to smoke in front of ladies?”
Drake sputtered in protest. “But, but how else am I to relax after a long day of being a duke?”
When she leaned over to whisper into his ear, he chuckled throatily. Mary’s cheeks heated. Head bowed, she focused her attention on her embroidery, curious to think what she might have whispered to Duncan in a similar situation.
As though reading Mary’s thoughts of Duncan, Charlotte said as soon as she took a seat, “If one more bouquet arrives, we’ll run out of space in the parlor and have to use one of the drawing rooms.”
Not that Mary had forgotten, given the multitude of flower bouquets decorating the room, but she surveyed the room nonetheless, admiring the lavished attention from Duncan. Every surface and tabletop was adorned by an array of reds, pinks, and blues. At least three times per day for several days, a messenger from Cois Greta Park brought a bouquet or five for Mary’s pleasure, each accompanied by a one to two-line verse penned for her eyes only. How his mother’s hothouse had any flowers remaining was anyone’s guess.
“It is kind of him,” was all Mary could say, her memory lingering on her most recent visit and their heated moment.
Drake barked a laugh. “Kind? No, this is an ardent suitor preparing to propose. I expect him to call on me any day.” Tapping a forefinger to his lips, he said, “I’ve not decided if I’ll turn him away the first time or not.”
Charlotte gasped. “You wouldn’t!”
Drake grinned in reply.
Mary glanced between them, not at all comfortable with the turn in conversation. “You’re being silly. He’s in no condition to call on anyone. And why would he propose now when we need first to become better acquainted after such a long separation?”
“Better acquainted?” Drake scoffed. “Nonsense. I’m a man; thus, I know how men think. He’ll want to secure the betrothal and move into the hall. The Starretts, though good people, are likely driving the poor man insane.”
“You forget his affliction” Mary defended. “He’ll be in no rush while he’s chair-bound.”
Returning to her work, she ignored her brother’s arrogant chuckle and insistence of knowing a man’s mind better than she. Propose indeed. Fiddlesticks. She knew Duncan better than anyone, and he would not want to marry until he could either walk or come to terms with the permanency of his condition.
Not that she would mind if he proposed sooner rather than later. The sooner she had freedom from her mother and the sooner she had her own home, the better. There was a world of accomplishments singing for her, all to the tune of marriage. With the right marriage, she would be set free.
“Tell me,” her brother said, “were you intentionally aggravating Mother at dinner or do you really want to breed horses?”
She looked up at Drake, needle poised above silk. “I’m in earnest. That does not mean I wasn’t also antagonizing her, but yes, I do want a stud farm.”
“Why am I only hearing about this now?” He slapped his leg and leaned forward, all that was enthusiastic. “This shall be a grand adventure! I can have a stud and mare in your possession before the month is out. We rarely use the rear stables anymore. Why not have those for your own purposes? Are you thinking thoroughbreds? I’ll send a letter to my man straight away.”
Waving her needle, she said, “Oh, please don’t. Not yet, at least. It may come to that, but I would like to do this on my own.”
Drake frowned. “You don’t want my help?”
“It’s not that I don’t. But this is my dream, and as such, I want a hand in fulfilling it, not have my brother do it for me. What part do I play if you do all the work on my behalf?”
“I see,” he said, his tone implying he did not at all see her rationale. “In that case, send a letter to Tattersall’s son, request whatever you’d like, and have him send the charges to me. You have carte blanche, of course.”
Pursing her lips at the mention of Mr. Edmund Tattersall, she said, “Thank you. I will consider the offer, and I may come to you with questions, but for now, I’m handling everything myself.”
Or rather, she was handling nothing, as empty handed now as she had been from the start. Perhaps she was being too stubborn. It would be so easy for Drake to take care of the details.
“Does a certain colonel know of your ungenteel pursuits?” Drake asked. “I should think if he got wind of this, he would request the return of his flowers to send to someone staid.”
Mary laughed so heartily, the cockatoo joined in, both parties receiving a scowl from Theodore, his concentration on the art broken. Charlotte chided her husband but soon joined in the mirth. The thought of Duncan being under the impression that Mary was of a gentle constitution was too absurd not to laugh.
“‘A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps,’” Quinn was saying, his horse in step with Duncan’s.
“For once, we’re in agreement.” Duncan loosened the reins to prompt Caesar to quicken his pace ahead of Quinn.
Though he did not yet confess to his brother, he was leading them to the lake. Some things could not be dissuaded, and so, it was in everyone’s best interest not to broach the subject until necessary.
“I thought you wanted to return to service?” Quinn’s horse trotted to catch up.
“I did. I do. It doesn’t make it the right choice.”
“If you see God’s plan is greater than your own, why the initial hostility?”
Duncan delayed answering, transfixed by the feel of his calves rubbing against his boots with each flex. If he could find a way to live atop Caesar, he would. Each ride brought new sensations, even a tenderness along his inner thighs so pronounced he could almost feel Caesar’s movements, almost discern the heat from the horseflesh. Would he ever regain feeling when dismounted?
“I’m angrier the decision was taken from me than I am to be medically discharged. I can’t say if I would have chosen to return. It’s likely I wouldn’t have; but I wanted that to be my choice. What
am I to do now? I’m a leader, Quinn, a natural born leader, and now I’ve nothing to lead. I’ll throw myself into running the estate, I suppose.”
He did look forward to his estate. It was not the type of leadership he craved, but he would do the best he could. The hall was, after all, a symbol of his military skill.
Quinn continued to keep pace as Duncan attempted to gain ground again. “And you’ve not told Lady Mary yet?”
“Not about either, no. I want to tell her while standing on my own two feet and able to walk to her. I want her to see the miracle. I’ve not sorted how to tell her about the letter, however. Does she need to know? She can assume I sold out.”
“Don’t ask Miranda. She’ll rain fire and brimstone about lying. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years of marriage, it’s never to lie, even by omission. Women are curious creatures. They always know when you lie.”
Another spur with Quinn on his heels, Duncan said, “Right, then. Tell her, I must. May her relief outweigh her perceptiveness. It would do no good for her to think I’d rather be in the Army than by her side. I wouldn’t, of course. If I could have both, I would, but never could I put her at risk, not when I know what life in the camp is like. That’s no place for a lady.”
“Not to change the subject, but is there a reason you’re determined to outpace me? And for that matter, why are we going in the direction of Lyonn Manor rather than home?” Quinn searched the rolling fields for clues.
“Only one way to find out, brother.” With those words, Duncan moved Caesar into a canter.
The weather was far too cold for what he had in mind, but nothing would deter him. Once decided, he was determined. Cresting the hill to the west of the lake, he slowed, relishing the final moments of lower body sensations before he was to try the impossible.
Quinn caught up to him just as the lake came into view. “The lake? Why would you want to come here?”
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