“He’s with the group that just came in—those that were blinded in the explosion. Will you condemn this man to being a cripple as well?”
“I’ve little choice if he wishes to live,” the faceless doctor said.
“Wait, then,” she insisted. “Give me forty-eight hours with him to improve his condition. If I cannot, or if he worsens before then, you may operate.”
Theodore took another step, the pain shooting up his leg proof that it was still there. Miss Nightingale had performed the miracle—cleansing his wounds in a manner that made him wish for death again but that ultimately staved off the infection and saved his leg.
His next miracle had been the enterprising surgeon Dr. Hulke, who was able to repair the limb and even offered hope for a return of his sight. And the third blessing—being sent to the newer Renkioi Hospital, where conditions were greatly improved.
His initial recovery had been long and slow. For weeks, there’d been no escaping the pain. Theodore had clung to gratitude that he was alive—and to the memory of Violet and her letters, carried with him in his pocket and still in his possession when he’d been shot.
Theodore trudged forward, his arms bearing less of his weight. This afternoon, Miss Worthington had also reminded him of how thankful he ought to be, though he doubted that had been her intention. Hearing her story and imagining her loss and suffering at such a young age made him feel all the more ridiculous for his complaining. He’d seen men who had suffered severe burns, and he had always believed that to bethe most excruciating kind of pain. A bullet might be removed, a wound closed, a bone set. But when one’s flesh had been devoured by fire, there was no escaping the agony or the weeks of torturous treatments. It was one of many things he had witnessed that he knew he would never forget but wished that he could.
He took another step, this one more difficult. The doctor had suggested that if he were able to walk again, he would likely require the use of a cane the rest of his days. How was he supposed to hike the hills and moors he loved or hold Violet in his arms and dance with her when required to use a cane? How was he supposed to navigate the stairs in his house or climb into and out of a carriage or any other number of things? No, a cane would not do. Not if he could help it at all.
He took another step and then another. Beads of sweat sprang up along his forehead, though the room was cool. His left leg trembled. He forced it to move anyway.All the way to the end of the bars.To the window, then back again. That was his goal today. Perhaps a dozen steps each direction. That was all. Not so difficult.
Excruciating.His arms burned now too. He could not delay or he risked collapse. His right leg moved again. It was stronger than he had hoped. His left was far weaker. He lifted it anyway and set it down, wincing, then leaning his head back with a groan of pain.Move quickly.For the merest second, his left foot and leg carried the weight as he stepped with his right.
How many steps had he taken? He had to be nearly there. He tried picturing Violet in his mind, as he had so often during the ordeal of healing. He’d been doing this for her. He would walk for her. But her face blurred in his memory. He had none to replace it with but instead thought on the gentle voice of Miss Worthington as she had described the plants and flowers in his garden today. He doubted she cared for themthatmuch,but in those moments of his shame and frustration, as he’d hauled himself back into his chair, she had chosen to focus elsewhere. She had understood what it was to be embarrassed at not having one’s body perform as it ought. She had true empathy because she had experienced something similar herself.
It was then that he had decided to believe her. Before she’d answered all those questions about her past. Before he had realized that the telegram he’d sent to her uncle had probably been answered by her aunt instead. Before he’d realized what a life of loss and hardship she endured. He had believed her because her kindness had been too genuine—not dissimilar from Miss Nightingale’s—too thoughtful to have been anything but the absolute truth.
A mere hour later, he had done more than believe her. He had desired her company and wanted her to stay the summer, to be his friend, to pull him from his own bleak existence. It seemed they each could use a friend, and he’d thought the idea rather brilliant. He had not expected her refusal. It had stung and served to convince him even more how very wrong he’d been about her. She’d not committed some crime, getting rid of Violet and attempting to take her place. She’d been as innocent a bystander as he, perhaps more so for being stranded without any means to get home or so much as a change of clothes.
He was beginning to think Miss Worthington’s initial assessment was correct—he might be better off for Violet’s having left him if that was the kind of person she was.
Theodore managed four more steps and then bumped up against the edge of the windowsill.Thank you, Lord.Arms shaking, he lowered himself to the floor, too exhausted to feel victorious or to contemplate the return trip. He turned his body and slumped against the wall, sweaty and breathless, hisleft leg throbbing. He’d have to ring for help. There was no way he could make it back to his chair on his own.
Theodore rested a few minutes, gradually feeling at least some of his strength return and then suddenly realizing his grave error. The bell pull, beside his bed, might as well have been miles away. Even if he had been near it, the cord did not extend to the floor, and he would not have been able to reach it, sitting as he was.
Sighing with exasperation at his own stupidity and weakness, he tipped his head back against the wall. He was going to need to hire more help. Logan, Ian, Mrs. McNeil, and the few other servants he employed managed the estate just fine. But they could not be expected to manage him as well, to help with his recovery, to read and write correspondence for him, to be here to aid him when he was down—which he suspected was going to be a frequent occurrence, given this first shaky walk. Little wonder Mrs. McNeil had suggested Miss Worthington stay on as a companion—
A slow smile curved his lips.Miss Worthington.It was the perfect solution.
Tomorrow morning—once Ian found him and helped him off the floor and into his chair—Theodore was going to make some changes to the staff. Including thehiringof one Miss Worthington and giving Mrs. McNeil a well-deserved raise.
BEATRICE TURNED BACK for a last look at Broughleigh. This morning, the stately manse appeared even grander than when she’d arrived. The buff stone appeared white, sparkling almost, with the sun shining directly on it and the backdrop of its wild and colorful gardens all around. A quick glance up and she noted that the windows were bare, devoid of the face she’d hoped to glimpse one last time.It is better this way. Better that Lord Hughes had not come down to breakfast with her nor to say goodbye. Had he done so, she might not have had the courage to actually leave.
All night she’d tossed and turned, asking herself why she felt so compelled to protect a reputation that was already in tatters, thanks to her aunt. But though people believed her a murderess, they’d never actually had any proof. If she stayed the summer as a guest of Lord Hughes, her virtue would be beyond repair—a fact that could only hurt her uncle. She supposed she felt loyalty to him because he had cared for her mother. He cared for her as well, like a daughter, even if he wasn’t around much to show it. When she was younger, he’d often brought home sweets or ribbons or other small gifts—one for Violet and one for her, as if they were equals in his mind. Beatrice had never forgotten those small kindnesses. And his biggest one of all, granting her leave to accompany Violet this summer. Somehow, her uncle had persuaded AuntMargaret to allow it, and while time spent in Violet’s company was never pleasant, and Beatrice had worried greatly over meeting Lord Hughes, it had been a holiday to look forward to, nonetheless.
A very brief holiday.Beatrice faced the carriage, then accepted the footman’s hand and stepped up.
“Good morning, Miss Worthington.”
Her foot missed the floorboard, and she nearly fell backward out of the carriage. “Good—morning.” She regained her balance and took the seat across from Lord Hughes. “I did not expect you to accompany me to Inverness. It is not necessary.” Just when she’d thought to have mastered her emotions, here he was to jumble them once again. But she could not honestly say she regretted his presence. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“I could not miss the opportunity for an outing,” Lord Hughes said. “Though they are difficult for me at this stage of my recovery, they are also beneficial.”
“Of course,” Beatrice murmured.He did not come for me but for himself.Still, she now had the chance to study his face during their drive, to commit to memory the only man she had ever held feelings for.
The carriage door closed, and a minute later they were off, headed down the long drive. Beatrice did not allow her gaze to linger on the house. It was just a house, after all. It was the man in it who had affected her so.
Across from her, Lord Hughes reclined easily against the seat. His legs were stretched out in front of him. One hand lay palm up across his thigh, while the other rested on a basket on the seat beside him. “Forgive me if I fall asleep during our drive. I spent a fitful night without much rest.”
“I am sorry to hear that.” She did not share with him that she had experienced the same. “I hope your discomfort was not due to yesterday’s mishap in the garden.”
“If you are referring to the way my obstinate nature sent me vaulting from my chair, then no, it has had no lasting effects.” A wry grin curved his lips.
