"The hip joint itself seems stable. No signs of infection or complications," Dr Fielding murmured as he straightened. "You're in remarkably good physical condition, my lord. Better than most men your age, certainly. That's worked in your favour."
"So it's possible?" Aubrey tried to keep the eagerness from his voice and failed. "I can stand today? Walk in two days?"
"It's pushing it considerably." Dr Fielding's expression was stern. "But given your excellent recovery and your apparent determination, yes. With conditions."
Aubrey sat forward. "What conditions?"
"Two canes. Not one. Two. For proper balance and weight distribution." Dr Fielding held up a hand when Aubrey started to protest. "Non-negotiable. You need support on both sides to avoid putting too much weight on the injured hip. And you sit frequently. Every ten minutes at minimum. No prolonged standing. No stairs unless absolutely necessary. And certainly no dancing beyond perhaps swaying in place."
"I can work with that." Aubrey's mind was already racing ahead, planning. "Two canes. Frequent sitting. Minimal movement."
"And if you feel any sharp pain—not discomfort, but actual pain—you stop immediately." Dr Fielding's voice was grave. "Promise me, Lord Madeley. No amount of romantic gesture is worth crippling yourself."
"I promise." Aubrey met his eyes. "I won't be foolish. Not after coming this far."
Dr Fielding turned to Morrison, who had been standing silently by the door. "Fetch two walking canes. And prepare to assist his lordship with standing exercises. We'll start slowly and build up his endurance over the course of the day."
Morrison bowed and disappeared, returning minutes later with two elegant canes; dark wood with silver handles, clearly retrieved from somewhere in the house's depths.
"Excellent." Dr Fielding positioned himself on Aubrey's left side. "Morrison, take his right. We'll help him stand, let him get his bearings, and then see how much weight he can bear on each leg. Ready, my lord?"
Aubrey gripped both canes, his heart hammering with a mixture of anticipation and fear. "Ready."
"On three. One... two... three."
They lifted him carefully, and Aubrey found himself standing for the first time in three weeks. The world tilted alarmingly for a moment, his left leg screaming in protest, but he gripped the canes and held steady.
"How does it feel?" Dr Fielding asked.
"Like my hip is on fire," Aubrey admitted through gritted teeth. "But bearable."
"Good. Now try putting more weight on the canes. Let them support you rather than forcing your legs to bear it all."
Aubrey adjusted his grip, leaning more heavily on the canes. The burning sensation in his hip lessened slightly.
"Better," he managed.
"Excellent. Now, very carefully, try taking a step with your right foot. Just one step. Use the canes for balance."
Aubreyslid his right foot forward, keeping most of his weight on the canes. It was clumsy, awkward, nothing like his usual confident stride. But it was movement.
"Good! Very good. Now rest for a moment before we try the left."
They practiced for the next half an hour. Standing. Resting. Taking small, careful steps with the canes bearing most of his weight. By the end, Aubrey could manage perhaps ten steps before the pain became too intense, but it was progress.
Remarkable progress.
"This should suffice for standing during the luncheon," Dr Fielding said, helping Aubrey back to bed. "And by Christmas, you should be able to manage short distances. But remember—frequent rests. No heroics. And Morrison—" He turned to the valet. "You're responsible for ensuring he doesn't overdo it. If he collapses, it's on your head."
Morrison's expression suggested he considered this deeply unfair. "I shall do my best, sir. Though my master has proven remarkably resistant to common sense where Lady Madeley is concerned."
"So things are going well with Lady Madeley then?" Dr Fielding asked with barely concealed amusement as he packed his medical bag.
Morrison's pained expression deepened. "Going well is perhaps an understatement, sir. My master has become sickeningly sweet. It's quite alarming, really."
Aubrey glared at his valet. "Sweet? I am not—"
"You asked me to procure her mother’s pearls, fresh flowers for her breakfast table, string quartet for Christmas dinner," Morrison interrupted, ticking items off on his fingers with the precision of a man cataloguingdisasters. "You've been sighing. My lord, you've been sighing. Like a character in a Gothic novel."
