Chapter Thirty-One
Persephone’s abigail arrived in the next moment.
“Boiling water,” Adam commanded. “Several cans of it.”
Staring openmouthed at the bloodied mess that was Persephone’s right leg, the abigail managed a nod.
Long, deep cuts ran down her leg, bleeding and swelling. None ran parallel to one another, however, and Adam felt immediate relief. If she had been bitten, there would have been a pattern.
“And the strongest brandy Barton can find,” Adam added, taking another look at the mud and dirt and rocks.
Adam took off his greatcoat, laying it over the back of a nearby chair, and set to unlacing Persephone’s boot. Her leg continued to swell, further tightening the boot. It wouldn’t tug loose.
“Help me, Harry.”
Persephone moaned in pain as both Adam and Harry attempted to pull the boot free.
“You’ll have to cut it,” Harry said.
“Scissors, Persephone,” Adam said. “Do you have scissors in here?”
“Sewing room.” She kept her eyes shut, tears streaming down her face.
“Mother—” But she was sobbing in the corner.
“I’ll get them,” Harry said.
“You don’t even know where the sewing room is. Adam touched Persephone’s face, leaving a streak of blood there as he did. “I’ll be right back.”
She nodded mutely.
“Help Mother to the settee in Persephone’s sitting room, will you, Harry?”
Adam ran to the sewing room next door. Several needleworks in various stages of completion were laid neatly on a table. Adam wiped his bloodstained hands on the sides of his breeches as he looked around the room. The tiny scissors on the table would be no match for leather.
He muttered an oath. The longer this took, the more swollen Persephone’s foot would become, increasing the chances that he would cut her in his attempt to free her foot.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, catching sight of a pair of sheers at the top of a box of fabric scraps.
Adam grabbed them. Harry stood beside Persephone’s bed, holding her hand when Adam returned.
“Mother?
“Lying down,” Harry answered. “Just kept saying she was sorry.”
Adam undressed to his shirtsleeves, needing the freedom of movement.
“Hold her still.” Adam motioned to Persephone’s leg. “I don’t want to accidentally cut her.”
Harry nodded and pinned Persephone’s leg to the mattress with his hands. She cried out at the pain.
“Sorry,” Harry said.
Adam slipped the tip of the silver scissors beneath the taut edge of her boot and cut. An inch at a time he carefully peeled back the leather. Blood had seeped inside, but the wounds did not continue. Her boots had proven something of a shield.
Adam breathed a sigh of relief when her foot finally came free. He hadn’t cut her or hurt her further. A great deal of the pain in her foot and leg would subside just from being freed of the confines of the boot.
“Will you bring over the washbasin, Harry?” Adam heard the weariness return to his voice.
“You do realize that’s the third time you’ve asked me to do something in the past few minutes.” Harry crossed the room to Persephone’s washstand.
“Forgive me, Harry.” Sarcasm dripped from his words as he pulled a washcloth from the table. “Seeing as there is no one else to help, I assumed—”
“I wasn’t complaining about the workload.” Harry set the basin down on the bedside table and poured water from the pitcher. “You just don’t usually ask. You command.”
“You would rather I commanded?” Adam dipped the cloth in the ice-cold water.
“No, actually.”
Was he usually so dictatorial? He was. The realization bothered him. Adam couldn’t say why, but it did. He put the thought out of his mind and set about cleaning as much blood from Persephone’s foot as he could. She winced at the first swipe.
“I am sorry. I know the water is cold. It will be some time before the kitchen can send up hot water.”
Persephone didn’t reply but kept quite still, eyes closed against the pain. Adam continued cleaning. Her ankle was swollen, a sprain at the least, perhaps a slight break. Still she’d walked on it, without complaint, without a single tear. To think he’d once thought her a coward.
“Harry—” Adam stopped the instructions that came immediately to mind. For reasons he had no desire to evaluate, he shifted his words into a request. “Will you see if Mother is in need of anything?”
“Absolutely.” Harry produced something of a smile and left the bedchamber, just as the abigail entered.
“First can of hot water, Your Grace.” She set the can on the table beside the washbasin.
“Empty the cold water, if you will.”
He’d cleaned nearly all the blood off Persephone’s foot, and set himself to doing the same for her ankle. Persephone whimpered almost inaudibly.
“I will try to be gentle,” he said.
Adam sat on the bed, holding her foot in one hand and washing it with the other. The ministrations were oddly calming, reassuring. He hated feeling useless and knew, in that moment, that he was helping. Not just helping in a general sense. Helping her. Somehow that distinction was important to him.
“I can do that, Your Grace.” The abigail apparently expected him to relinquish his duties.
Adam silently shook his head, softly rubbing more blood from her ankle.
“It is not seemly for a duke to be acting as a lady’s maid or a physician, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps not.” Adam didn’t take his eyes from his task. “But a husband is charged with keeping his wife in sickness, is he not?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The maid sounded more confused than anything else.
“Then I would venture that tending to my wife is perfectly seemly.”
Lud, her ankle was terribly swollen, and tender, if her continued grimace were any indication.
“It is highly unusual.”
“And when has the Duke of Kielder cared what was usual?”
The bones didn’t feel out of place. If anything, there might be a small crack. Persephone was fortunate in that, at least.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The abigail quit her lecture after that, contenting herself with retrieving needles and tweezers to help Adam clean the debris from Persephone’s wound and providing fresh cloths until a second maid arrived with the next can of water from the kitchen.
In silence the two of them worked, Adam cleaning gashes and washing Persephone’s leg and foot, the abigail tending to her bleeding head and swollen eye.
Persephone didn’t say a word.
Adam personally cleaned every drop of blood off Persephone’s leg, from knee to toe. He counted four deep gashes, each measuring several inches in length, some two dozen more superficial wounds. Her ankle worried him most, especially as he knew he could do nothing about it.
Two footmen were enlisted to hold Persephone still while Adam poured nearly an entire bottle of brandy over the cuts in her leg. She broke her silence for the first time in over thirty minutes. No words escaped her tongue, only a heart-wrenching cry of agony.
By the time he’d finished cleaning her wounds, Adam was spent.
Hearing her obvious suffering and knowing he’d caused it—no matter how necessary the infliction—proved nearly too much for him.
He placed his hands, shoulder length apart on the bed, hunched over, and hung his head.
He could not continue. He hadn’t the willpower.
“I will stitch up her leg, Your Grace.” For the first time in the months since she had been employed, Persephone’s abigail spoke to Adam with entirely unfeigned kindness and respect.
Before, she’d seemed more awed and impressed by his title and, perhaps, his reputation.
In that moment, she seemed most impressed with Adam himself.
It was an unprecedented experience for him.
Adam turned his head enough to look at her. She offered a small smile, something he might once have disapproved of from a servant. But Adam only nodded and moved away enough to allow her to finish tending to Persephone.
An upstairs maid, the same who’d assisted their ministrations, cleared away a large pile of wet, bloodied linens. She, too, smiled empathetically at him. Adam couldn’t remember ever being the recipient of so many smiles. It was unnerving.
“She’s lookin’ better, a’ready,” the maid said. “Not quite so pale.”
Adam glanced at Persephone and knew in an instant it wasn’t true. She had grown paler than before the brandy, more still and quiet. Lies, however white or well-meaning, had never been permissible in his mind. Until that moment. He needed the lies.
The little maid, one he’d seen around the castle dozens of times, was offering him comfort. She generally bobbed a nervous curtsy then scurried away. All the staff did. But there she stood, unafraid, unquaking, offering him what reassurance she could.
“Thank you,” Adam muttered.
She held a clean cloth out to him. “’Tis fresh water.” She nodded toward the basin. “So you can wash your hands clean.”
Adam looked at his hands then. Every inch was stained, the shade varying from pink to nearly black. He could do nothing but stare at them.
“You’ll feel better cleanin’ it off, Your Grace,” the maid told him gently. “’Twould ache any man’s heart to have to see his wife’s blood that way.”
He nodded, mutely crossing to the washbasin. Adam thrust his hands into the warm, still water. Wisps of red began to swirl and cloud the clearness. The water alone wouldn’t be enough. Adam took the cloth—the only clean one left in the entire house, he’d guess—and began to scrub.
’Twould ache any man’s heart. Adam couldn’t imagine the sensation being described in any other way. He had escaped their ordeal physically unscathed, and yet he was in pain—an internal, aching pain.
Adam glanced at Persephone. She wore a look of utter anguish on her face.
Tiny moans of pain escaped her throat as her abigail painstakingly sewed closed her wounds.
Adam remembered that pain, the feeling of being sewn together.
It was pain added onto pain. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of those times in years, of the brutal surgeries and long, difficult recoveries.
Adam rinsed and scrubbed, again and again, until his hands were no longer red from blood but from scrubbing.
Still, every crease, every wrinkle remained unnaturally darkened and residue remained under his fingernails.
It would take time to clear the remainder away entirely, although Adam didn’t believe he would ever get the images of the last few hours out of his mind.
“Adam” reached him as a choked whimper.
He quickly dried his hands and abandoned the basin of salmon-colored water. He sat beside Persephone and wrapped his fingers around hers. A tear trickled down the length of Persephone’s nose. Adam gently brushed it away.
“Is she almost done?” Persephone struggled to get the words out.
“Very nearly,” Adam whispered.
She looked relieved, if only a little. Adam didn’t imagine she could see very much through her badly swollen eye. Her pain must have been nearly unbearable.
“Adam?”
“Yes, dear?” Dear? Adam sat stunned for a moment that such a word had come so naturally to his lips.
“Please stay with me,” Persephone whispered.
He didn’t know what brought on the impulse, but he leaned over and kissed her lightly on the forehead, lingering a moment longer than necessary. “If you will stay with me,” he answered silently.
He remained at her side until the abigail tied off the last stitch and Persephone’s leg was wrapped in clean strips of linen.
A few minutes later, he sat on the bench at the foot of her bed, Persephone curled up beside him, leaning against the side of his chest, his arm wrapped around her.
The maids were changing the linens on her bed, those that had been there having been destroyed by blood, water, and brandy.
She could just as easily have lain on the settee in her sitting room, but Adam had insisted.
In the short few minutes he’d held her, Persephone had fallen asleep
Watching her sleep had become a hobby of his over the past two months. But never had he watched her with the level of intensity he did just then.
She was pale and bruised and in such obvious pain. Until the surgeon in Hawick or the apothecary in Sifton arrived, they could not know if her ankle was broken. Only time would bring down the swelling in her face.
Suppose her leg became infected? Wounds could turn septic quickly.
No, Adam shook his head. He’d used enough brandy to cleanse the wounds of an entire army regiment.
But would it be enough? He was not a medical man.
“Your Grace?”
He looked up at the abigail.
“Her Grace really ought to be changed into a fresh nightdress.”
“Of course.” Adam leaned toward his wife. “Persephone.” A slight nudge and she roused. “Persephone?”
She looked up at him, exhaustion and confusion clouding her eyes.
“Your ladies’ maid is going to change you now. It would help if you were awake.”
She nodded but still seemed distant, half asleep.
Adam glanced at his blood- and mud-splattered clothing. “I should change as well.”
Persephone sat up a little more and offered a shaky smile. Obviously her pain lingered. Adam touched her gently on the cheek.
“We’ll take care of her, Your Grace,” the abigail said. Adam caught the other maids nodding out of the corner of his eye.
“You’ll send for me if she needs anything?”
“Of course,” was the reply.
The maids were all looking at him with that look one gives a calfling who is quite unmistakably enamored: overly emotive eyes and sentimental smiles. Adam grew suddenly terribly uncomfortable.
“Try to rest,” he said to Persephone, watching the other women with a wary eye, then he left as quickly as his dignity would allow.