Eleanor moved to Morrison's side and waved the smelling salts under his nose. The valet gasped, his eyes watering, but his colour began returning.
"There," Eleanor said firmly. "You're fine. Now, Lord Madeley requires care, and you've been summoned to provide it."
Morrison looked at her with the expression of a man being led to his execution. "My lady, I don't believe you understand the... theextentof my hardship...” he lowered his voice to whisper, “his private anatomical features have sustained significanttrauma."
Aubrey made a strangled sound. "Morrison!"
"Well, they have!" Morrison's voice rose again. "And you expect me to... toinspectthem? Daily? My lord, I am a valet, not a... a... I don't even know what profession would willingly do this!"
"A wife," Eleanor said quietly.
The room went silent.
Morrison turned to her, his expression shifting from panic to desperate hope. "My lady, I’m glad—"
"No," Aubrey said immediately.
Morrison made another whimpering sound.
"You would prefer to risk infection, permanent damage, possibly death from your stubborn pride?" Eleanor crossed her arms, glaring at her husband.
Aubrey turned to his valet with something approaching desperation. "Morrison, you will attempt it. This is an order. And you will control yourself. Do you understand?"
The valet's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Yes, my lord. I shall... endeavour to compose myself."
The words carried about as much conviction as a man agreeing to his own demise.
Eleanor moved to the washstand. "I'll instruct you from here. Dr Fielding's directions were quite specific."
"You're staying?" Aubrey's voice rose.
"Someone needs to ensure it's done correctly." Eleanor kept her back turned, staring determinedly at the wall. "Morrison, the basin is on the side table. You'll need to remove the soiled bandaging from his lordship's left thigh first."
She heard Morrison moving with the enthusiastic clumsiness of someone trying to delay the inevitable. There was rustling of fabric. Then a sharp, strangled intake of breath.
"Oh my," the valet breathed. "That's quite... the bruising is remarkably... extensive..."
"Morrison," Aubrey warned.
"I beg your pardon, my lord." A pause. Then Morrison's voice, thin and strained: "My lady, where precisely should I begin?"
"At the knee, working upward in small circular motions," Eleanor said, her eyes fixed firmly on a water stain on the wallpaper. "Be gentle but thorough."
A longer pause. "And... and how far upward?"
"Until you reach the edge of the bruising."
"But my lady..." Morrison's voice had gone up an octave. "The bruising... that is, it goes rather... exceptionally high..."
"Then you'll need to clean rather high, Morrison."
An even longer silence. Eleanor could hear Morrison's rapid breathing, like a man preparing to jump off a cliff.
"Morrison?" Aubrey's voice was tight. "What are you waiting for?"
"I'm... I'm preparing myself mentally, my lord. Steeling my nerves. Building my fortitude."
"It's a washcloth, not a battlefield. Just—"
