Chapter 17
Christopher found Oliver to be astonishingly compliant, though perhaps resigned was a more accurate description. His wound was healing without issue and Dr Higgins was pleasantly surprised by his lack of fever. The bruising, though still significant, was fading from a violent red to an equally disturbing purple. Still painful, however, if Oliver’s grunts as he refused the dog cart and trudged along the winding path to the cabin were any indication. Upon arrival, Oliver strode directly for the bedroom.
“I’ll sleep on the settee in case you—” The door slammed shut. “Need me.” Kicking off his shoes, Christopher stretched out the best he could, grateful for his smaller stature when he pictured Hamish trying to find comfort here. He flipped open a novel, attempting to lose himself within its pages.
Christopher awoke with the corner of his book squashed against his cheek. Outside the window, it was still dark, but a hazy pink had begun to diffuse the blackness along the tree line. He rubbed the stinging imprint of the book and pulled the blanket back to his chin, pausing when he noted the sudden absence of snoring. Tossing the blanket to the side, he stood and listened at Oliver’s door. Oliver groaned.
He cracked open the door. “Oliver?”
“Go the fuck away.”
Christopher ignored him and entered, feeling about for the candle that he knew would be on the bedside table. He lit it, then sat down in a chair well beyond Oliver’s substantial reach.
Oliver’s lip lifted in a snarl. “Figured you wouldn’t be the sort to listen if you’ve stuck around long enough for my sister to fancy you.” His grumbling was interrupted by a wince, then he pressed his fingers into his temples.
Christopher found a length of flannel bandaging and moistened it with water from the pewter pitcher. “Hit me and I will dump the entire contents of this over your head,” he warned, pressing the cool cloth onto Oliver’s forehead.
With a groan, Oliver took the cloth and then stilled.
Returning to the rickety chair, Christopher stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “To save time, perhaps we can skip past the part where you bluster and break things and get to the bit where you realise there’s nothing you can do to run me off, and that I’m not such a terrible fellow to have around anyway.”
Oliver grunted, which could translate in any number of ways. None of them particularly warm or polite.
Christopher ignored that as well. “Your sister stocked the cabinets with willow bark tea. That should help at least a little.”
“If my head hasn’t split in two before the pot comes to boil.” Oliver’s declaration proceeded a string of what Christopher guessed was Italian profanity. Clearly, Oliver had received more than his fair share of the dramatics in the family.
With the stifling summer air hanging thick inside the tiny cabin, and without the convenience of a kitchen range, Christopher retreated out of doors to heat water. Working as swiftly as possible, he prepared the tea and returned to his prickly patient. He half expected Oliver to have squeezed through the open window in search of a drink, but he remained largely unmoved. A sheen of sweat had collected on his neck and bare chest.
Christopher’s surprise at finding Oliver still abed must have been evident on his face.
Oliver shot him an irritated look. “I told Sofia I would stay. I’m not going to skulk out the door and into the wine cellar at the first twinge of discomfort.”
Christopher didn’t bother pretending that wasn’t precisely what he had been thinking. “Good, because I don’t fancy chasing after you. Here.” He handed Oliver the tea, then shifted closer to help the massive man sit upright when it became clear he was not up to the task on his own.
“It’s just a headache, but it will get worse. I’ve stopped before.” Christopher checked his expression at the unexpected bout of honesty and nodded.
“She’s scared of me. I fucking hate it.” Oliver took a sip, bearing the bitter flavour without expression, then took another.
“Understandable. Hell, I’m scared of you and I have significantly more meat on my bones than your sister.”
Oliver sputtered into his mug of tea, then laughed. For the first time, Christopher could see a glimmer of why Sofia fought so ferociously for this man.
“That hardly signifies. You’re pint-sized.” Oliver followed the jab with a pitying look.
“It’s rather a skewed comparison around here. This estate has a preternatural number of massive men, but even you will feel petite next to Hamish.
Oliver’s eyebrows raised incrementally.
“Nevertheless,” Christopher continued, “if you’re attempting to goad me into stomping away, you’ll have to be more imaginative than pointing out that I can’t reach the tallest shelf in the kitchen. I’m afraid you’re about twenty years too late for me to care. There was one summer when my baby sister was several centimetres taller than me, and, I admit, that was lowering, but I eventually reclaimed my title as the tallest Keene child. I’m also below average at cricket and your sister annihilated me at fencing, so perhaps that will provide better ammunition.”
“Sofia beats everyone at fencing and cricket is a stupid sport.”
“Finally, something to build a friendship on.” Christopher grinned.
“I don’t want to be your friend.”
“Because you have so many better ones to rely upon? Come now. I’m quite set on marrying your sister, so you might as well relent and learn to love me.”
“You’re cracked in the head.”
“And you smell like a stagnant cow pond. See how easy I am to converse with? This is practically a conversation we’re having. An important quality in any friendship.”
Oliver sniffed the air and then wrinkled his nose. “I do smell.”
“And you see, if you had friends, you would understand that’s exactly why you need them. Who else will point out your unappealing aroma? That’s at the top of the list of important things one friend does for another.”
“There’s a list? You’ve been spending too much time in my sister’s company. Sofi loves to write lists.”
“There is no such thing as too much time in Sofia’s company, but yes, of course there is a list.
“Number one has already been addressed. Number two: when your breakneck riding catapults you over your horse’s neck and into the river, your friend will laugh, but then he’ll leap into the water beside you so you aren’t the only soggy idiot returning home. Number three: a good friend knows the difference between a truly terrible day and when you are just whining. If it’s the former, he’ll fix it if he can. If it’s the latter, he’ll remind you that you missed luncheon, shove a biscuit in your mouth, and tell you to stop droning on like a spoiled lout.”
Christopher stood and filled an ancient tin cup with water, offering it to Oliver. “There’s more, but you have to be part of the secret club to know the rest.”
Oliver took the drink and stared thoughtfully at the contents. He watched it as though longing alone could transform water into wine. As though he knew this was a thirst that would never be quenched again and was unwilling to take that first sip of its paltry substitute. Oliver lowered the cup without drinking. “Exactly how long do you plan to be stuck to me like a barnacle on a boat?”
Christopher shrugged. “Until my presence feels more like company than a barricade standing between you and a drink.”
Two morningsafter Oliver’s arrival at the cabin, they received an unlikely visitor—Davies, the head gardener, who did little in the way of actual gardening these days due to his creaking knees and a shortness of breath that often struck without warning. Instead, he toddled around the estate from dawn to dusk, wispy grey hair falling over his eyes as he listed against his walking stick to run his fingers across the plants he passed.
Christopher noticed Davies paused in the shade of an old oak tree, but he was too distracted by one of his and Oliver’s regular squabbles to pay him much mind at first. Davies remained nearby for a long while, bushy brows furrowed at the dramatic scene unfolding before him. Oliver had lost his balance reaching in to test the temperature of the hip bath. Apparently, he preferred head trauma to accepting a steadying hand from Christopher.
“Yes, do be stubborn about it, because what this bath really needs is a pint of your blood added to it,” Christopher said.
“Maybe then it would actually be warm.”
“I’m a valet, not a footman. If you want more than a kettle’s worth of hot water, you will have to let me fetch Jeremy.”
“He annoys me.”
“Everyone annoys you, so I can’t see why that matters.”
Preoccupied with their row, Christopher failed to notice Davies’s quiet approach. “Cool water is good for the root system. Activates the circulation of nutrients down to the roots. Your roots appear to be lacking, son.”
Christopher stepped between the pair as if the physical barrier of his body could absorb Oliver’s inevitable barbed response. It would at least save the old man from a splash of frigid bath water if Oliver determined that Davies’s root system required “nourishment” more than his. But neither of those things occurred.
Oliver just looked at Davies, his lips pressed together in a frown, and then he turned away, dropped his trousers, and climbed into the tub.
Davies nodded once. “Good lad. It will help. And in a week, I will need you to dig some holes for me. Twelve of them, two feet deep, in a semicircle just there, east-facing next to the cabin.” He lifted a bony finger to indicate the exact placement. “The chestnut saplings we planted last year aren’t getting enough sun. This change is what they need to thrive, even if they complain a bit about the new scenery at first.”
Before Christopher could invent an excuse for why that was impossible, Oliver nodded. “Si, all right.”
The moment the gardener stepped away, Oliver went back to being bull-headed, and Christopher was left to question whether the compliant man who had agreed to dig holes was nothing more than a figment of his imagination.
The hours that followed became increasingly difficult. Oliver’s resigned surliness shifted into debilitating headaches and tremors so violent that, at times, he could not hold his own cup without splashing the contents onto his trousers. Then the headaches receded, leaving dizziness and nausea in their place, which, while difficult to watch, did offer a reprieve from insults and the occasional hurled object.
Hamish and Jeremy provided some much-needed relief after a particularly trying evening wherein Oliver took a wildly inaccurate swing at Christopher’s jaw, threatened to set fire to the cabin, and then threw Christopher’s boots into a barrel of stagnant rain water. In general, however, Christopher was reluctant to foist responsibility for Oliver onto his friends for any longer than absolutely necessary.
And so, the first week passed in a steady rhythm of indignation and colourful Italian blasphemy. Christopher had quadrupled his Italian vocabulary… unfortunately with words he couldn’t repeat to Sofia. Well, perhaps one day, in the bedchamber and under the right circumstances.
He swapped places with Hamish or Jeremy only long enough to attend Gabriel in the mornings and update Sofia, who was barred from entry but frequently delivered breakfast and supper. More often than not, it went untouched by Oliver, who had dropped an alarming amount of weight. Christopher had taken to eating at least some of Oliver’s portion to avoid the worried expression that crept over Sofia’s face when she stopped by to retrieve the plates.
After that brief introduction, Davies came by every day. He brought some kind of tea that came with complicated instructions and the insistence that Christopher prepare it for Oliver four times a day. No one argued with old Davies, so naturally, Christopher did as he was told. Davies also brought horticulture books and sometimes sat beside Oliver’s bed, simply watching him with a peculiar expression. Each time the gardener arrived, Oliver became a respectful man for the period that he remained, then lapsed back into his natural state upon the gardener’s exit.
Exactly seven days after Oliver’s first encounter with Davies, Christopher woke to shuffling noises in the bedroom beyond the closed door. A moment later, Oliver stepped out on unsteady legs, dressed in shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow and wrinkled trousers which would have fallen under the force of gravity if not for a set of bracers.
“You’re not serious.”
Oliver shrugged, then crossed the room to pour himself a glass of water.
“With all due respect to Davies and his 327 years of wisdom, he has no idea what you are going through. You’ll topple onto the blade of your shovel and all my efforts at helping you become hale and hearty will be for naught. Then I’ll have to explain to Sofia how her brother came to be exsanguinating in the front garden. The only favourable part of this series of events will be the blessed brevity of her tongue lashing, mostly because she will be too busy clobbering me over the head with that same shovel to yell at me. No, Oliver. Go back to bed.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you are dramatic.” Oliver shook his head at Christopher and stepped into his boots. “I think that old man knows exactly what I’m going through. He brought me that revolting tea, and it helped. And he knows that if I stay sedentary for even a moment past the point where I feel I can feasibly lift a bottle to my lips, I’ll go mad. If he says what I need is to dig twelve holes, I’m going to pick up the fucking spade and start digging.” Then the irritating man grinned at Christopher. “Just think… if I kick the bucket, I’ll have saved you the trouble of starting the hole.” And then he walked out the door.
Grabbing his boots, Christopher followed without pausing to slip them on, grimacing as the moisture of the dew-covered grass seeped into the fabric of his stockings. “Wait up. If you’re going to work yourself into a swoon, I should at least be close enough to catch you before you hit the ground.”
Oliver stopped mid-stride and looked meaningfully down at Christopher.
“All right, more like slow your plummet to the ground.”
Oliver’s progress was slow. He paused often as he dug, resting his forehead on the end of the shovel when dizziness returned. Christopher thought it was as much from hunger as sobriety.
Within thirty minutes, Oliver’s shirt was soaked. By the conclusion of the first hour, his panting was continuous and accompanied by a painful wheezing sound. Still, he carried on digging like a bottle of his favourite drink waited for him at the bottom of that hole. He accepted water, but any further argument from Christopher was met with stony silence. So, Christopher sat in the shade with a book, waiting for the stubborn arse to collapse under his own weight.
Sofia arrived with lunch just as Christopher turned the page to chapter seven. At the sight of her dirt-splattered, rumpled brother, she froze, uncertainty etched into the lines of her face. Christopher clambered to his feet, ready to intervene if required. Oliver, still shockingly vertical, stopped his determined stabbing of the ground and looked up. The shovel fell from his fingers with a clatter and he took a step in her direction. Still, Sofia remained rooted in place, her fingertips white where she gripped the tray. Oliver extended one hand. “Piccola pulce.”
Sofia deposited the tray hastily onto the ground and launched into her brother’s arms. Oliver clung to her like she was the only thing keeping him sober and standing. Whispers in Italian flew back and forth between them before he let her feet slide to the ground with obvious reluctance.
Sofia reverted to English, clearly for Christopher’s benefit. “Go clean up at the pump, for all the good it will do.” A genuine smile lit Oliver’s face for the first time in days as he moved to obey his sister, a lightness in his step despite his obvious exhaustion. Oliver had needed this. Needed Sofia as much as she had clearly needed him. Their mutual joy made the difficult hours of the past week feel suddenly insignificant. Sofi crossed to Christopher, tipped onto her toes, and pressed her lips to his cheek. She lingered there, and by the time she pulled away, his heart was skittering enthusiastically.
“Come, walk with me,” she said, taking his hand. She remained silent until they were out of earshot. “He looks terrible, but wonderful.”
“And me? How do you find me?” Christopher teased.
She turned to face him, pressing her hand flat against his chest. Warmth spread from the skin beneath her palm, suffusing his body. His time with Sofia over the past week had consisted of brief conversations during which Christopher had been careful to limit their physical contact, certain that if his touch escalated beyond a brief caress of her cheek, he would be away from Oliver for longer than advisable.
She pressed him back into a beech tree, pinning his body between the rough bark and her warm, lush curves. “I find you… dear.” She scarcely got the words out before she was climbing him to kiss his mouth, his cheek, his neck. Her fingers pulled at the hem of his shirt, then flattened against the bare skin at the small of his back.
“Sofia, we don’t have time.” Christopher hissed out a breath as she sucked at the tender skin above his open collar, reducing him to a state of single-minded hunger in a matter of seconds.
“Any moment now, I’ll forget that you even have a brother.”
She snorted a laugh against his neck, and even that was arousing.
“All right, you two. Keene, I’m starving, but if I have to watch you manhandling my sister for another minute, my appetite is going to wither to dust.”
Christopher jolted backwards at the unexpected voice, but managed only to bump his head. With nowhere to go except into the tree, their relative positions remained largely unchanged. Sofia seemed entirely unconcerned by the location of her hand beneath his untucked shirt.
“You’re being a pest, brother. I do not require a chaperone.”
“You may not, but poor Christopher appears to be seconds away from having his skirts thrown over his head and being thoroughly compromised. Look at the poor lad. He’s gone red as a strawberry.”
He had. His cheeks were burning. But despite the twinge of embarrassment at being caught panting like an amorous adolescent, he experienced an odd sort of satisfaction from Oliver’s friendly ribbing. Upon further consideration, it occurred to Christopher that in recent days, Oliver’s anger seemed to be more a generalised frustration than a specific dislike of him.
“Yes, well, let’s get you that food,” Christopher said, tucking his hands into his pockets and following behind the siblings.