What could be worse than a worthless Wynchester?
“How is the temperature in the room?” Miss Oak queried. “Do you need help opening the windows? The sash sometimes sticks.”
For the love of God, Elizabeth could open her own damn windows. Usually.
“The windows are fine!” she called back.Please go away.
Elizabeth had not told Miss Oak that the carriage had rattled her joints out of their sockets and set her stiff back to spasming as though her muscles had been replaced with pointy springs.
She didn’t tell anyone. Not anymore. Her body was nobody’s business but her own. When she was a child, the adults in her life hadn’t believed her. Accused her of lying about the pain. Forced her to do more, rather than less, in punishment.
Years later, when she’d finally seen a doctor, they weren’t much more helpful. Baron Vanderbean had taken her to as many specialists as he could find. The ones who actually listened to her had been sympathetic, but baffled. No one could fix a problem they didn’t understand. The best the doctors could do was dose her with bitter laudanum until she was barely conscious. And if that was the best they could do, she’d rather drink something she enjoyed.
She reached for her flask, hesitated, then dropped it into her open valise beside the bed. She’d stopped drinking as soon as she’d fallen into a dreamless slumber the night before. Gin was tricky. She needed just enough to fall asleep, but not so much that she felt worse the next day instead of better.
“If you need anything…” came Miss Oak’s tentative voice through the wall.
“I don’t need anything!” Elizabeth yelled through the pillows.
She needed a new back, new hips, and new legs. These were not things one could order from a warehouse. Elizabeth was saddled with what she had. At least she was starting to feel better. If she could get decent rest, it would at least be a sixty percent day—which would feelmiraculous after suffering through a fifteen percent night. Her fingers dug into the blanket.
Was it so terrible to want to be the heroine on her own terms? Her swords were right there, in their own trunk, waiting for her. And waiting. And waiting.
Go to Dorset, Graham had said.
It’ll be fun, Tommy had said.
Maybe you’ll meet someone, Marjorie had said.
And fill a nursery with babies, Chloe had said.
Ha! Comedians, all of them. A regular family of court jesters.
If Elizabeth could get out of this bed, then yes, she’d absolutely be willing to climb back up into it with the right partner. She was far from prudish—or even a virgin. She’d have followed any of the Balcovian warriors back into their cabin, if her family hadn’t been aboard the same ship to tease her about it.
But as for stumbling into a real romance… Whom were they bamming?
The only people in her family not to have found the person they were meant to spend forever with were Elizabeth and Jacob. Her brother would no doubt be next to fall in love. He was handsome and warm and sweet and romantic and cuddly and poetic—none of which applied to Elizabeth.
Smitten women regularly threw themselves at her soulful brother. If he ever set down his snakes and raptors, he could find a match within seconds. Elizabeth secretlywanteda match and had had no luck.
Jacob was a poet. He was in tune with his feelings. Expressive. Eloquent.
Elizabeth was a lifelong curmudgeon who would rather hurl herself on the knife of despair than expose any vulnerability.
Perchance because she suspected the real problem was not thatshehated other people so much asElizabethbeing the unlovable one. Ifshe was a heroine, it was of the unlikeable variety. And so she reacted in the only way she could: by going on the attack before others could strike first.
“If you want tea…” Miss Oak began on the opposite side of the door.
Elizabeth dug her fists into the pile of pillows on her face to block out her scream.
“… there are biscuits in the oven,” Miss Oak finished.
Biscuits. Elizabeth flung the pillows from her face and sniffed the air. The cottage indeed smelled like biscuits. Warm and sugary. Her stomach growled in anticipation.
With great care, she tested the suppleness of each joint and muscle one by one. Forcing her body into action before it was ready was the easiest way to exacerbate the problem. Contrarily, stretches and light exercise actually helped the recovery process.
Definitely at forty percent. Maybe even rising to forty-five.
