Chapter 4 The Worst Patient
Chapter four
The Worst Patient
Eleanor stood outside Aubrey's bedroom door, a basin of warm water balanced in her hands, and tried to remember how to breathe.
It had been four hours since Dr Fielding's examination. She’d used the hours to steel herself for what came next.
She couldn't do this.
She had to do this.
Taking a deep breath, Eleanor knocked softly and pushed open the door without waiting for an answer.
Aubrey's head snapped toward her, his expression immediately hardening. "There’s no need."
Eleanor set down the basin on the washstand with hands that trembled only slightly. "Dr Fielding said the wounds need cleaning twice daily. I've brought fresh water and bandages—"
"I will have someone else assist." Aubrey's voice was low, dangerous. "Neither of us need to be subjected to this humiliation."
"It's not humiliation, it's medical necessity—"
"It is both, and you know it." Aubrey struggled to push himself more upright, his face going grey with the effort. "You heard what he said. That you'll need to... to inspect..." He swallowed. "I refuse. Absolutely refuse."
Eleanor forced herself to move closer to the bed, even as every instinct screamed at her to flee. "The delay in treatment could result in infection. Dr Fielding was quite clear—"
"I don't care what that buffoon said." Aubrey's knuckles were white where he gripped the sheets. "I have already sent word to London. My valet Morrison will arrive by this evening. He will attend to my care."
Relief flooded through Eleanor so powerfully she nearly swayed. "Your valet?"
"Yes. A professional who can maintain proper discretion and dignity." Aubrey's jaw was set. "Thank you, but you need not concern yourself with my... intimate care. Morrison is perfectly capable."
Eleanor nodded, backing toward the door. "Of course. As you wish, my lord."
She escaped into the corridor, pressing her back against the wall, her heart hammering with something between relief and residual humiliation.
A valet. Thank heavens. She wouldn't have to—
The thought died unfinished, too mortifying to even complete in the privacy of her own mind.
Morrison arrived at half past six that evening, announced by Mr Davies with barely concealed concern.
"The valet from London has arrived, my lady. He is asking to see Lord Madeley immediately."
Eleanor found Morrison in the entrance hall, a slim man of perhaps thirty with an air of fastidious propriety that radiated from every carefully pressed seam of his traveling coat.
"Lady Madeley." He bowed with precision. "Morrison, my lord's valet. I came as quickly as I could upon receiving his urgent summons."
"Thank you for coming, Morrison. His lordship is upstairs."
"How severe are the injuries?" Morrison asked, his expression grave. "His letter was rather... vague about the particulars."
Eleanor felt heat creep up her neck. "Severe bruising to the hip, pelvis, and... and surrounding areas. Dr Fielding has prescribed regular cleaning and turning to prevent—"
"Surrounding areas," Morrison repeated slowly, his face paling slightly. "I see. And by that you mean..."
"The doctor was quite specific about which areas require daily attention," Eleanor said, unable to meet his eyes. "Perhaps his lordship should explain the details to you directly."
***
Ten minutes later, Eleanor heard the scream.
It was high-pitched, sustained, and came unmistakably from Aubrey's bedroom.
She picked up her skirts and ran.
Eleanor burst through the door to find Morrison swaying on his feet, one hand pressed to his forehead, the other clutching at the bedpost for support. Aubrey was sitting up in bed, the sheet pulled hastily over his lower half, looking somewhere between mortified and furious.
"Morrison, for God's sake—" Aubrey was saying.
Morrison made a small whimpering sound. "My lord, I... I cannot... the injuries are most..." He waved his hand in a vague gesture toward Aubrey's covered form, his face now completely bloodless. "This is beyond... I am not equipped... the delicacy of the situation..."
"You're my valet!" Aubrey snapped. "You dress me every morning!"
"That is entirely different! You are usually vertical! And I can easily avert my eyes!" Morrison's voice had risen to something approaching a squeak.
"Morrison," Aubrey said through gritted teeth, "I am paying you—"
"My lord, I must insist on hazard compensation!" Morrison pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. "The psychological toll alone... I may need smelling salts. Do you have smelling salts? I believe I'm about to swoon."
"You are not going to swoon—"
Morrison swayed more dramatically. "I am definitely going to swoon."
"Mr Davies!" Eleanor called into the corridor. "Fetch the smelling salts from my room. Quickly!"
The butler appeared with remarkable speed. Clearly, he and half the household staff had been listening from the hallway. He pressed a small vial into Eleanor's hand, then retreated with equal haste.
Eleanor moved to Morrison's side and waved the smelling salts under his nose. The valet gasped, his eyes watering, but his colour began returning.
"There," Eleanor said firmly. "You're fine. Now, Lord Madeley requires care, and you've been summoned to provide it."
Morrison looked at her with the expression of a man being led to his execution. "My lady, I don't believe you understand the... the extent of my hardship...” he lowered his voice to whisper, “his private anatomical features have sustained significant trauma."
Aubrey made a strangled sound. "Morrison!"
"Well, they have!" Morrison's voice rose again. "And you expect me to... to inspect them? Daily? My lord, I am a valet, not a... a... I don't even know what profession would willingly do this!"
"A wife," Eleanor said quietly.
The room went silent.
Morrison turned to her, his expression shifting from panic to desperate hope. "My lady, I’m glad—"
"No," Aubrey said immediately.
Morrison made another whimpering sound.
"You would prefer to risk infection, permanent damage, possibly death from your stubborn pride?" Eleanor crossed her arms, glaring at her husband.
Aubrey turned to his valet with something approaching desperation. "Morrison, you will attempt it. This is an order. And you will control yourself. Do you understand?"
The valet's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Yes, my lord. I shall... endeavour to compose myself."
The words carried about as much conviction as a man agreeing to his own demise.
Eleanor moved to the washstand. "I'll instruct you from here. Dr Fielding's directions were quite specific."
"You're staying?" Aubrey's voice rose.
"Someone needs to ensure it's done correctly." Eleanor kept her back turned, staring determinedly at the wall. "Morrison, the basin is on the side table. You'll need to remove the soiled bandaging from his lordship's left thigh first."
She heard Morrison moving with the enthusiastic clumsiness of someone trying to delay the inevitable. There was rustling of fabric. Then a sharp, strangled intake of breath.
"Oh my," the valet breathed. "That's quite... the bruising is remarkably... extensive..."
"Morrison," Aubrey warned.
"I beg your pardon, my lord." A pause. Then Morrison's voice, thin and strained: "My lady, where precisely should I begin?"
"At the knee, working upward in small circular motions," Eleanor said, her eyes fixed firmly on a water stain on the wallpaper. "Be gentle but thorough."
A longer pause. "And... and how far upward?"
"Until you reach the edge of the bruising."
"But my lady..." Morrison's voice had gone up an octave. "The bruising... that is, it goes rather... exceptionally high..."
"Then you'll need to clean rather high, Morrison."
An even longer silence. Eleanor could hear Morrison's rapid breathing, like a man preparing to jump off a cliff.
"Morrison?" Aubrey's voice was tight. "What are you waiting for?"
"I'm... I'm preparing myself mentally, my lord. Steeling my nerves. Building my fortitude."
"It's a washcloth, not a battlefield. Just—"
"I can't look," Morrison blurted out. "I've decided. I simply cannot look directly at... at the affected areas. It's too much. I'll close my eyes and work by feel. Yes. That's the solution."
"Morrison, you cannot possibly—" Aubrey began.
A tremendous crash cut him off. The sound of the basin hitting the floor, water splashing everywhere.
Eleanor spun around to find Morrison standing frozen, water spreading across the floorboards in an ever-widening pool, his face pale as death, his eyes still squeezed firmly shut, his hands trembling in mid-air.
"Morrison!" Aubrey barked.
"I'm sorry, my lord!" Morrison's eyes flew open, wild with panic.
"I closed them. I thought it would be easier, but then I couldn't see what I was doing and my hands started shaking worse and I reached for the basin but misjudged the distance and…
" He gestured helplessly at the spreading disaster. "I've failed. I've completely failed."
"You haven't even tried yet!"
"I tried! I tried very hard!" Morrison's voice was approaching hysteria. "I gave myself a mental speech about duty and professionalism! I reminded myself that you pay me generously! I thought of England! But then I saw how high the bruising extended and I just…I cannot, my lord. I simply cannot."
He pressed his hands to his face. "My nerves are not equal to the task.
My constitution is too delicate. I am not anyone remotely qualified to handle injuries of this.
.. this intimate and traumatic nature. I deal with wrinkled fabrics and occasionally challenging bootlaces, not.
.. not that area when it's covered in horrific bruising! "
"You're my valet—"
"And I shall valet admirably once you're healed!
" Morrison was nearly wailing now. "I'll tie your cravats!
I'll polish your boots! I'll organise your wardrobe by colour and season!
But this—" He gestured vaguely toward Aubrey's lower half.
"This requires someone with nerves of steel and no sense of impropriety whatsoever.
Someone like..." His eyes darted to Eleanor. "Like a wife."
"No," Aubrey said immediately, his face going grey.
"My lord, please."
"Absolutely not. I would rather take my chances with infection than subject myself to—" He stopped, his jaw clenching. "Fetch another valet. A footman. A stable boy. Anyone."
"The stable boy?" Morrison looked horrified. "My lord, he has manure under his fingernails!"
Eleanor felt something cold and hard settle in her chest. Anyone but her.
She looked at Morrison, who was still trembling, his face the colour of old parchment. Then at Aubrey, whose jaw was set with stubborn pride even as sweat beaded on his forehead from pain.
"Morrison," Eleanor said quietly, "fetch fresh water and more clean cloths from the kitchen."
"Yes, my lady." Morrison fled with obvious relief.
Eleanor moved to the bed, her expression betraying nothing despite the roiling mixture of humiliation and anger in her chest.
"I'm going to clean your wounds now," she said, her voice steady.
"No—"
"Morrison cannot do it. You just saw him drop the basin before he even touched you." Eleanor kept her hands at her sides.
"I'll hire someone. A professional nurse—"
"By the time you find someone suitable, infection could set in. Don’t be foolish.
" Eleanor met his eyes. "Trust me, I find this more distasteful and mortifying than you. You probably can’t imagine it because you’re a selfish man but do try.
Nevertheless, I will not have a dead man in the house just before Christmas.
So you can cooperate, or I can tie you down and force you. But it's happening regardless."
Aubrey's jaw worked, fury and humiliation warring on his face.
She took his silence as progress and reached for the sheet covering him, her hands steady through sheer force of will.
This was going to be the longest month of both their lives.