"'Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!'" Morrison began reciting, his voice slightly hysterical. "'Or close the wall up with our English dead!' It's Shakespeare. Henry V. I find it steadying in moments of crisis. 'In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility—'"
"This is not Agincourt!"
"'But when the blast of war blows in our ears—'" Morrison continued, his hands hovering uncertainly in the air, still not looking down. "'Then imitate the action of the tiger—'"
"Morrison, pull down the damned nightshirt!"
"'Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood—'" Morrison squeezed his eyes shut and made a wild grab for the nightshirt. His hand landed approximately six inches too far to the left. "Oh God, what is that—is that your—I think I've grabbed your—"
"That's my thigh, Morrison!"
"'Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage!'" Morrison's voice had gone up an octave. He tried again, this time grabbing air. "'Then lend the eye a terrible aspect—'"
"Stop reciting and use your eyes!"
"I cannot! My delicate constitution cannot withstand—"
The door burst open.
Eleanor stood in the doorway in her wrapper, her hair in a long braid over her shoulder, her expression shifting from alarm to exasperation in approximately two seconds.
"What," she said with dangerous calm, "is going on here?"
Morrison whirled around, nearly tripping over his own feet. "My lady! Thank God you're here! His lordship's nightshirt has ridden up, and I've been attempting to preserve his modesty while maintaining my own sanity through the works of the Bard but I'm afraid I've been largely unsuccessful on both counts—"
"He won't look at me," Aubrey interjected, his face burning. "He's reciting Shakespeare instead of just pulling down the nightshirt like a normal person."
"I am trying to be respectful of your privacy—"
"My privacy is already compromised! Just pull down the nightshirt!"
"'But I can see the lady's face—'" Morrison began another quotation.
"Enough!" Eleanor's voice cracked through the room like a whip.
Both men fell silent immediately.
She moved forward with brisk efficiency, grabbed the bunched nightshirt, and yanked it down to cover Aubrey properly. The entire operation took approximately three seconds.
"There," she said, her voice icy. "Was that so difficult?"
"My lady, I was simply trying to maintain proper—" Morrison began.
"You were being ridiculous." Eleanor turned her sharp gaze on him. "Morrison, I understand you find this uncomfortable. Believe me, we all find this uncomfortable. But reciting Shakespeare while his lordship is lying exposed and twisted on the bed is not helpful. It's theatrical nonsense."
Morrison wilted under her glare.
"And you," Eleanor turned to Aubrey, and he suddenly understood why Mrs Williams had said his wife had a look that made grown women confess to embezzlement. "You've been steadily improving. You have enough strength to at least hold your nightshirt down while being turned. Why didn't you do so?"
"I was trying to help with the turning itself—"
"Then position yourself better before you start. Use your hands more effectively. Think ahead." Eleanor crossed her arms. "You're both intelligent men. Start acting like it instead of descending into theatrical hysteria every time something mildly awkward occurs."
She looked between them, her expression stern. "I have been awake for ten days straight providing your care. Ten days during which I have seen and touched parts of you, my lord, that no wife should see before ever sharing proper intimacy with her husband. Ten days of exhaustion and awkwardness and professional detachment. And now that I finally have a chance to get a full night's sleep, I'm awakened by shouting and Shakespeare because neither of you can manage a simple nightshirt adjustment."
Aubrey had never heard her speak with such authority. Had never seen this side of her—commanding, direct, taking no nonsense from either of them.
It was, he realised with some surprise, rather magnificent.
