Chapter 3 Tone Deaf Physician
Chapter three
Tone Deaf Physician
Eleanor stood in her morning room, hands wrapped around a cup of tea gone cold, staring at nothing.
She had administered the laudanum, prepared his tea, arranged his pillows, and then fled to this room like a coward, her heart hammering so violently she thought it might crack her ribs.
He looked just as he had on their wedding day.
No—that was not quite true. On their wedding day, Aubrey had been beautiful in his fury, his jaw tight with resentment as he spoke his vows.
Now he was beautiful in his suffering, grey-faced and vulnerable, his dark eyes fever-bright and something that looked almost like curiosity when he looked at her.
She should hate him. Should revel in his suffering.
Instead, she had found herself smoothing pillows and remembering how he took his tea.
Fool. Sentimental fool.
"My lady?" Mrs Williams appeared in the doorway, her expression concerned. "Are you quite well? You've been standing there this quarter hour."
Eleanor blinked, setting down the cold tea. "Yes. Yes, I'm perfectly well." She straightened her shoulders. "Has the guest wing been prepared for my sister's arrival?"
"Yes, my lady. The nursery is aired and warmed, and—" Mrs Williams hesitated. "Forgive me, but should we inform Lady Dartrey of... of Lord Madeley's presence? It may come as something of a shock."
Eleanor had not thought of that. Liz knew of the estrangement, of course. The entire county knew but to arrive expecting a quiet visit and find Eleanor nursing her husband...
"I’ll send a note in the morning," Eleanor decided. "If Liz wishes to alter her plans, she may do so without embarrassment."
Though please, she thought desperately, please do not alter them. I need you. I need the children's laughter and your practical conversation and something, anything, to remind me that there is a world beyond this house and the man lying upstairs in what should have been our bed.
"Very good, my lady. And... his lordship? Does he require anything further this evening?"
"No." The word came out too sharp. Eleanor softened her tone. "No, Mrs Williams. I've given him laudanum. He should sleep. I shall... I shall check on him before retiring."
The housekeeper nodded and withdrew.
Eleanor remained standing in the darkening room, watching the last light fade from the winter sky.
Tomorrow the doctor would call, and she would learn precisely what "intimate care" entailed. She would have to face Aubrey in daylight and decide whether she was strong enough to nurse a man who despised her.
A man who did not know—could not know—that on their wedding day, when he had fled the breakfast, she had sat alone at the table for another hour, watching his untouched plate grow cold, and memorised every detail about him she could gather from the servants' whispered conversations.
How he took his tea. How he preferred his eggs. How he liked to ride soon after dawn.
All the pathetic preparations of a girl who had believed, despite everything, that perhaps she might find some way to make him happy.
She had been such a fool.
Eleanor closed her eyes. Just until Boxing Day, and she could leave all of this—the memories, the loneliness, the husband who hated her—behind forever.
The next morning dawned grey and cold. Eleanor rose early, dressed in her plainest gown—dark blue wool, high-necked, eminently practical—and forced herself to eat breakfast though her stomach churned with nerves.
Dr Fielding was expected at ten o'clock. Which meant Eleanor had precisely two hours to prepare herself for whatever embarrassment the day would bring.
She checked on Aubrey at half past eight. He was asleep, his face less grey than yesterday, his breathing steady. The laudanum had done its work. She did not wake him.
At precisely ten o'clock, Mr Davies announced Dr Fielding.
Eleanor received him in the drawing room—the same drawing room where Aubrey's parents had deposited him yesterday. The ribbons and dried arrangements she had hung with such desperate optimism now seemed absurd, frivolous decorations for a house with so much tension and resentment.
Dr Fielding was a man of perhaps sixty, with a perpetually cheerful expression and an air of professional competence that might have been reassuring if he weren't smiling quite so broadly given the circumstances.
"Lady Madeley!" He bowed with unnecessary enthusiasm. "Delighted to meet you properly. Your in-laws speak very highly of your... fortitude. Not every wife would agree to nurse a husband she hasn't seen since their wedding vows!"
He chuckled as though this was amusing rather than mortifying.
Eleanor's spine stiffened. "Many wives in my particular situation do not have my in-laws."
"Ha! Yes, quite right. Lord and Lady Egerton are rather.
.. forceful in their persuasions." Dr Fielding seemed entirely unbothered by the tension in the room.
"Still, it's for the best. Can't have a viscount recovering alone.
Bad for morale. Bad for healing. And the intimate nature of the care required…
Well, only a wife can provide that sort of thing without scandal, eh? "
The way he said "intimate" made Eleanor's stomach clench.
"Now then!" Dr Fielding clapped his hands together. "I should like to examine the patient and explain the care regimen to you both. Best if you're present. You'll need to see what you're dealing with. No point being squeamish about it."
Eleanor's stomach dropped. "I... perhaps I should wait outside while you—"
"Nonsense! You're his wife. Nothing to be embarrassed about." Dr Fielding was already heading toward the stairs. "You'll need to know exactly what needs washing, how to check for infection in the more... delicate areas. Can't do that from the corridor!"
He said it loudly enough that Tom the footman, fixing a lamp nearby, turned bright red.
Eleanor felt her face burn. "Of course. He is upstairs. I shall show you."
"Excellent! Lead the way, my lady." Dr Fielding followed her with continued cheer.
"Your husband is quite fortunate, you know.
Many men with injuries of this nature end up with far worse complications.
Though I suppose we won't know the full extent for some time.
These groin injuries can be tricky—never quite sure what's been affected until everything heals. Or doesn't heal, as the case may be!"
He laughed.
Eleanor climbed the stairs, her dread mounting with each step. This was going to be even worse than she'd imagined.
She knocked softly on the bedroom door, then entered.
Aubrey was awake, propped against the pillows, his eyes darkening with something that might have been dread when he saw them both.
"Good morning, my lord!" Dr Fielding said with entirely too much cheer. "I trust you passed a comfortable night?"
"Tolerably," Aubrey said, his voice rough. His eyes cut to Eleanor. "Though I would prefer to recover at my house in London rather than... here. With a proper physician attending me privately."
"Nonsense! Can't be moved." Dr Fielding set down his bag with a decisive thump. "Lady Madeley, if you'd position yourself here—yes, perfect—you'll want a clear view of the injuries."
Dr Fielding rubbed his hands together. "Now then, my lord, let's have a look at the damage, shall we?"
He pulled back the bedclothes without ceremony.
Aubrey's entire body went rigid. "Doctor, perhaps Lady Madeley could step out while—"
"Bet you regret your separation, eh?" Dr Fielding chuckled. "Quite the scandal. Still, you're married, so let's not be missish about it."
Eleanor's face burned. Aubrey's knuckles went white as he gripped the sheets.
Dr Fielding lifted the nightshirt and peered in. "Ah yes. Quite spectacular bruising. Purple and black—always impressive, these riding accidents. Lady Madeley, come closer. Don't be shy."
Eleanor took one reluctant step forward, keeping her eyes firmly on the doctor's face.
"The hip and thigh took the worst of it," Dr Fielding continued, prodding at the purple blooms spreading across Aubrey's skin. Aubrey hissed in pain.
"Yes, quite tender, I imagine. Now then, let's see the really interesting bit..."
His hand moved higher, and Aubrey made a strangled sound of protest.
"Doctor, I must insist Lady Madeley leave the room—"
"We’re all adults here, my lord." Dr Fielding lifted the nightshirt higher, exposing bruising that spread across Aubrey's inner thighs and disappeared into his groin.
"Lady Madeley, observe here—the bruising extends quite significantly to the genital area. One testicle in particular has taken quite a beating. Nearly black, actually. Fascinating from a medical perspective."
Eleanor made a small choking sound. Aubrey had closed his eyes, his jaw clenched so tightly she feared he might crack his teeth.
"Now, the delicate matter," Dr Fielding continued with the same cheerful tone one might use to discuss the dinner menu. "My lord, Lady Madeley, given the severity of the bruising in this particular area, there's a distinct possibility of damage to your reproductive capacity."
Silence.
"I'm sorry, what?" Aubrey's eyes flew open.
"Your ability to father children may be compromised.
" Dr Fielding said it as though announcing the soup was cold.
"The impact was quite severe, you see. Testicular trauma of this magnitude can affect fertility.
We won't know for certain for several weeks, of course, but.
.." He shrugged. "Best to prepare yourselves for the possibility. "
Eleanor couldn't breathe. The room tilted slightly.
"You're saying I might be..." Aubrey’s wide eyes stared at the doctor.
"Infertile? Possibly. Or your reproductive function could be perfectly fine! Won't know until you try, really."
Dr Fielding let the nightshirt drop back down, entirely oblivious to the devastation on both Madeley’s faces.
"Nature of these injuries, I'm afraid. Rather unfortunate timing, given you've only just been reunited with your wife and now this!" He chuckled. "The irony isn't lost on me."
Aubrey's face had gone grey. "This isn't amusing, Doctor."
"No, no, quite right. Serious matter." But Dr Fielding was still smiling. "Could be worse. Could have lost the whole apparatus entirely. Count your blessings, eh?"
Eleanor felt tears burning behind her eyes. She couldn't—she couldn't do this. Couldn't stand here while this man made jokes about her husband's injuries, about their non-existent marriage, about children they might never have.
"Now then, daily care," Dr Fielding continued briskly.
"Lady Madeley, you'll need to inspect these areas every day.
Clean them thoroughly. Check for signs of infection—redness, swelling, unusual discharge.
I know it's delicate, but it must be done.
The groin area is particularly susceptible to complications. "
"I want a male attendant," Aubrey said, his voice strained. "I'll pay whatever—"
"It’s too late now. Should have thought of that before. You can’t be moved now without risking you tumbling down the stairs."
Dr Fielding closed his bag with a decisive snap. "Besides, your wife is perfectly capable. I'm sure she can manage washing her own husband. Better watch she doesn’t drown you though!” He guffawed at his own joke.
Eleanor wanted to sink through the floor.
"And you'll need to be turned every three to four hours," Dr Fielding continued, addressing Aubrey.
"Day and night. To prevent bedsores. Your wife will need to help you.
You can't manage it alone. I know it's uncomfortable, but there we are.
Marriage, eh? For better or worse, in sickness and health, and all that. "
He beamed at them both as though he'd said something tremendously clever.
"How long?" Aubrey's voice was hollow. "How long must this... arrangement... continue?"
"Oh, three weeks at minimum. Probably six before you're walking properly.
The intimate care will be necessary throughout.
" Dr Fielding moved toward the door. "But chin up, my lord!
You're young, strong, excellent physical condition—well, before the accident, at least. You should make a full recovery.
Or mostly full. Can't promise anything about the fertility issue, of course, but as I said, won't know until you try! "
Another inappropriate chuckle.
"I'll return in three days to check your progress. Lady Madeley, send word if there's fever or if the pain becomes unmanageable. And don't be squeamish about the daily inspections! All perfectly natural between husband and wife."
He tipped his hat and left, whistling cheerfully.
The silence that followed was crushing.
Eleanor stood frozen by the door, unable to look at Aubrey, unable to move, her face burning so hot she thought she might combust.
"You may leave." Aubrey's voice was low and tight with humiliation and rage.
Eleanor fled.
She made it to her own bedroom before the shaking started. Before the tears came. Before the full weight of what had just happened crashed over her.
No children.
She pressed her hands to her mouth, trying to muffle the sob that wanted to escape.
She'd accepted being unwanted. Had accepted the loneliness, the public humiliation, the empty marriage. But some desperate part of her had clung to the hope that someday—somehow—there might be children. That even if she couldn't have her husband's love, she might have a family.
Now even that fragile hope was shattered.
And worse, so much worse, she'd had to stand there while a doctor examined her husband's most private injuries. While he made jokes about fertility and marriage and washing her husband's...
Eleanor pressed her face into her pillow and tried not to scream.
Three weeks of "daily inspections" and "thorough cleaning" and turning him every few hours through the night.
Three weeks of the most intimate care imaginable for a man who despised her.
A man who might never be able to give her children.
A man she would leave the moment Christmas was over.