Perhaps it would be best if Morrison attended to you starting midnight. You are mending well, and it seems appropriate, she'd said. What she meant was: I cannot bear to be in your presence more than absolutely necessary.
Aubrey couldn't blame her.
He reached for the bell pull and rang twice.
Morrison appeared within five minutes this time—a significant improvement over his first attempt. The valet was properly dressed, haircombed, looking alert if not entirely enthusiastic about his midnight duties.
"Good evening, my lord." Morrison's tone was resigned but professional. "Time for your turning, I presume?"
"Yes. Thank you for being prompt."
"I've been setting an alarm." Morrison moved to the bedside with the air of a man approaching a necessary but unpleasant task. "Mrs Williams kindly provided me with a small clock that chimes rather insistently every four hours. It's quite impossible to ignore."
"Very efficient."
"Quite." Morrison positioned himself on Aubrey's left side, studying the situation with what might have been actual competence. "Now then, you've been practicing pushing yourself up during the day, yes? Lady Madeley tells me you've regained some strength."
"Some," Aubrey confirmed. He could now shift his weight somewhat, could brace himself with his right arm. It wasn't much, but it was better than the dead weight he'd been that first week.
"Excellent. Then we shall attempt this as a cooperative effort." Morrison placed his hands with surprising precision—one on Aubrey's shoulder, one on his good hip. "On three, you push while I pull. Gently. No sudden movements. We learned that lesson rather painfully, didn't we?"
Despite everything, Aubrey felt his lips twitch. "We did indeed."
"Right then. One... two... three."
They moved together—Aubrey pushing, Morrison pulling with controlled strength. It was clumsy but effective. Aubrey rolled onto his right side with only moderate discomfort, his breathing only slightly laboured.
"There!" Morrison sounded genuinely pleased with himself. "Much better than last time. No screaming. No bloodshed. I consider that a victory."
"You're improving," Aubrey admitted.
"I've been practicing the motion with a sack of flour in my room." Morrison began tucking pillows behind Aubrey's back. "Mr Davies thinks I've gone mad, but I refuse to injure you again through sheer incompetence. It reflects poorly on my professional abilities."
"You practiced on a sack of flour?"
"A very heavy sack of flour. I named him Lord Wheatly. He was an excellent patient—never complained once." Morrison stepped back to assess his pillow arrangement. "How's that? Comfortable?"
"Yes, actually. Well done. However—"
"Yes, well. One does try to improve one's skills, however distasteful the task." Morrison beamed, then caught himself and returned to his usual composure.
"Morrison."
"Yes, my lord?"
"The bottom half of my body is feeling decidedly chilly." Aubrey could feel his shirt bunched around his waist.
"Oh, dear God," Morrison breathed, his eyes going wide. He immediately looked up at the ceiling, his face flushing scarlet. "My lord, your—you're—the nightshirt has—"
"I'm aware," Aubrey said through gritted teeth, acutely conscious of his state of undress. "Just pull it down."
"I can't—I mustn't—that would require me to look at—" Morrison kept his eyes firmly on the ceiling moulding. "Perhaps if you could reach it yourself?"
"If I could reachit myself, I would have already done so."
"Yes. Right. Of course." Morrison was breathing faster now, still staring at the ceiling. "It's simply fabric. Just cloth. Nothing untoward about cloth. Perfectly normal situation. Happens all the time, I'm sure."
"Morrison, for God's sake—"
