Chapter 5 Useless Valet
Chapter five
Useless Valet
Eleanor had yet to see Morrison anywhere near Aubrey's injuries since his arrival yesterday evening.
He appeared promptly at dawn to lay out Aubrey's clothes, clothes the man couldn't wear.
He materialized at teatime to discuss the morning's correspondence.
He hovered nearby during meals, ready to adjust pillows or fetch reading materials.
But the moment Eleanor arrived with bandages and water basins, Morrison developed a remarkable talent for urgent business elsewhere.
"His lordship requires fresh cravats pressed."
"I must inventory the wardrobe."
Eleanor had given up on the man-child. Both of them.
She knocked softly, then entered without waiting for permission.
Behind her, Mary carried fresh linens and bandages. Mrs Williams had offered to assist, but Eleanor had refused. This was humiliating enough without witnesses.
Aubrey was exactly where she had left him at four in the morning, propped against the pillows, except now, he was staring at the ceiling. He glanced in her direction, and his jaw tightened when he saw her, but he said nothing.
"I've brought water for bathing," Eleanor said, her voice admirably steady. "And fresh bandages for your dressings."
Still nothing.
Mary set down the linens and fled with the haste of someone escaping a firing squad. The door clicked shut behind her.
Eleanor set the basin on the bedside table and arranged her supplies with meticulous care. Soap. Flannel cloths. Towelling. Bandages. Salve. Each item gave her a few more seconds to steel herself for what came next.
"I suppose," Aubrey said finally, his voice tight, "there is no point in arguing for a male attendant."
"No servant can be trusted not to gossip." Eleanor kept her eyes on her preparations. "And I’ve seen everything already. I shouldn’t have been so nervous the first time. It’s quite… unremarkable."
"Unremarkable," he repeated, his face unreadable. "I suppose you’d know the difference."
Eleanor turned to face him despite heat rushing to her neck. She folded her hands behind her back to hide their trembling. "I’m uncertain what you mean but trust me. I see it as nothing but an appendage."
Aubrey’s eyes met hers intently. She internally crumbled at the disgust she saw there but refused to react. Whatever he felt, whatever he was thinking, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hurting her more than he already had.
She moved to the bedside, willing herself to meet his eyes. "I shall endeavour to cause you as little pain and embarrassment as possible. I would ask that you extend me the same courtesy."
A muscle in his jaw ticked before he closed his eyes, lying perfectly still.
Eleanor picked up one of the cloths and dampened it. Her hands trembled predictably as she lifted the blanket off his lower body.
She drew a breath, steeling herself for what had to be asked. "Before we begin... do you require the chamber pot?"
"No." The word came out sharp. Aubrey's face flushed. "I rang for a footman earlier."
Relief flooded through Eleanor so powerfully she nearly swayed. "I see. That is... that is good."
A beat of awkward silence.
"Your nightshirt," Eleanor said, forcing herself back to the task at hand. "Can you... or shall I...?"
Aubrey's face flushed. "I can manage the upper portion."
He tried to pull himself up. Failed. Gasped with pain and fell back against the pillows, breathing hard.
Eleanor did not ask permission. She simply leaned forward, slipped her hands beneath his shoulders, and stuffed more pillows behind him until she could lift him more easily.
Her face was perhaps six inches from his, close enough to feel his heat and smell the laudanum on his breath mixed with something distinctly masculine.
She looked away quickly, focusing on helping him work the nightshirt over his head.
His chest was bare now. Broad shoulders, well-muscled as she had suspected. Dark hair scattered across his sternum. A body that might have belonged to a Greek statue, if Greek statues came with spectacular bruising down the left side.
Eleanor dipped the cloth in warm water and began to wash his face and neck with brisk, impersonal movements. Like washing a child, she told herself. Like caring for one of the orphans at St. Catherine's. Nothing intimate. Nothing personal.
Except it was personal. Devastatingly so.
This was her husband's skin beneath her hands. His throat moving as he swallowed. His breathing quickening when the cloth moved across his collarbone.
She worked in silence, washing his arms, his chest, his abdomen, keeping her touch clinical and her eyes downcast. Aubrey remained rigid, not helping but not resisting either, his hands fisted in the sheets.
"Your back," Eleanor said quietly. "I shall need to turn you slightly."
"No—"
"Yes." Her voice was firm. "Dr Fielding said you must be turned regularly. And your back needs washing."
"Eleanor—"
"Lady Madeley," she corrected automatically. "Or Mrs. Hartwick, if you prefer. We are not familiar enough for Christian names."
He clenched his teeth. "You cannot possibly… the pain when I move—"
"I know." She did know. She had seen his face when Dr Fielding examined him. "But it must be done."
For a long moment, he simply stared at her. Then, with obvious reluctance: "Very well."
Eleanor positioned herself carefully, placing one hand on his shoulder and one on his hip—the right hip, the uninjured side. "On three. One... two... three."
She pulled gently, rolling him toward her. Aubrey made a sound that was half gasp, half groan, his fingers clutching at her forearm hard enough to bruise.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I know it hurts—"
"Just—finish it—"
She worked as quickly as she could, washing his back with efficient strokes, then easing him back down onto fresh linens she had somehow managed to slide beneath him. Aubrey was breathing hard, his face grey, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Eleanor dampened a fresh cloth and wiped his brow. "The worst is over. Just the dressings now, and—" She paused. "And the lower portion."
Aubrey's eyes flew open. "No."
"I assure you, my lord, I take no pleasure in this,” her voice was filled with bitterness, “and I’m frankly tired of having this argument with you. Stop being a child and do as you’re told. It’s for your own wellbeing."
"You do not understand what you are asking." His voice cracked.
"I understand perfectly." Eleanor's hands were shaking now. "But there is no one else. There is only me, and if I’m willing to care for you while you glare at me with hatred, then surely you can lie still for a few minutes."
The silence stretched between them, taut as a wire.
Finally, Aubrey closed his eyes. "I beg your pardon."
Eleanor's hands trembled as she reached for the sheet covering his lower half. She folded it back with careful precision, exposing his legs while keeping his groin area covered as much as possible with a towel.
The bruising was worse here. Terrible blooms of purple and black spreading across his left thigh, disappearing upward in ways that made her stomach clench.
She dampened the cloth again and began to wash his legs, starting at his feet and working upward. Clinical. Impersonal. She was a nurse. Nothing more.
When she reached his upper thigh, Aubrey's entire body went rigid.
"My lord," Eleanor said softly, "I need you to... the towel must be moved. Just for a moment."
Eleanor reached for the sheet with trembling hands. She pulled it back slowly, forcing herself to look as a mature married woman would. At least she would die knowing what a male member looked like, no matter how discoloured or disfigured.
When she really looked, the bruising was worse than she'd glimpsed before.
Eleanor forced herself to look properly, to assess what needed tending.
The bruising extended into his groin, mottled purple and black against pale skin.
She could see the worst of it—one testicle nearly black, exactly as Dr Fielding had said, swollen to almost double the size as the other one and clearly painful.
The other bore lighter bruising but was equally vulnerable in its exposure.
Her face burned. This was her husband's body, laid bare before her not in passion or intimacy, but in humiliation and necessity. She could see everything—the dark hair, the vulnerable flesh, the evidence of his masculinity reduced to a medical problem that needed cleaning.
Aubrey had gone completely rigid, every muscle in his body tense. His hands were fisted in the sheets beside him, his knuckles white. She could hear his breathing—harsh, rapid, fighting for control.
"I'm sorry," Eleanor whispered, though she wasn't sure if she was apologising for looking or for what she was about to do.
She dampened a cloth in fresh soapy water and began with the abrasions on his inner thigh, several inches below the worst of it.
The skin was scraped raw in places, the surrounding flesh swollen and hot to the touch.
She worked with swift efficiency, keeping her touch as light and clinical as possible.
But there was no way to make this anything but intimate.
Her hands were inches from the most private parts of him.
She could feel the heat of his skin, could see the way his stomach muscles clenched when her fingers moved closer to the truly delicate areas.
When she had to clean near the bruised testicle, her knuckles accidentally brushed against his inner thigh, and Aubrey made a sound—half gasp, half groan—that might have been pain or might have been something worse.
Eleanor kept her eyes fixed on the wounds, nothing else, working as quickly as possible.
But she couldn't help seeing everything in her peripheral vision.
His manhood limp except for the occasional twitching.
The vulnerability of his position. The terrible intimacy of touching her husband in this awful way.
She applied the salve with shaking fingers, trying to ignore how his breathing quickened when she had to work around the worst of the bruising. Trying not to think about how other women must have seen her husband in health and desire.
"Almost done," she murmured, her voice unsteady.
She cleaned the final abrasion and then quickly, gratefully, pulled the sheet back up.
They were both trembling.
Eleanor turned away immediately, busying herself with disposing of the soiled cloths, giving them both a moment to recover some semblance of dignity.
"There," she said to the wall, unable to look at him. "Dr Fielding said once daily is sufficient unless there are signs of infection."
Behind her, Aubrey said nothing. She could hear his ragged breathing slowly returning to normal.
"I'll return in four hours to help you turn," Eleanor continued, still not turning around. "Try to rest, my lord."
She fled before he could respond, before the tears burning behind her eyes could fall. Was this the extent of their marriage? This clinical necessity and mutual humiliation were worse than when they’d been complete strangers.
This was one way to end their marriage irrevocably.
Worse, this was just the beginning.
This was going to destroy them both.
The afternoon stretched endlessly. Eleanor kept to her room, claiming a headache to Mrs Williams, though in truth she simply could not face the thought of going downstairs and pretending everything was normal.
Nothing about this situation was normal.
She tried to read but could not focus on the words. Tried to write letters but could think of nothing to say. Finally, she simply sat by the window and watched the grey December sky darken toward evening, counting the hours until she would have to return to Aubrey's room.
Which meant she would have to touch him again. Roll him onto his side. Press her hands against his skin. Feel the heat of him, the solid reality of his body beneath her palms.
The clock on her mantel chimed four.
Too soon. Far too soon.
Eleanor stood, smoothed her dress, and forced steel into her spine.
When she entered Aubrey's bedroom, he was staring at nothing, expression as hard as a stone. He did not acknowledge her entrance.
"I need to turn you," Eleanor said quietly.
His nostrils flared. Eleanor moved to the bedside, her heart hammering. "I shall try to be gentle."
"It will hurt regardless of your efforts." His voice was flat. "Just do it."
She positioned herself, one hand on his shoulder, one on his hip.
She pulled, and Aubrey gasped—a sound of pure agony that made her stomach clench. His fingers found her wrist, gripping hard enough to bruise, and for a moment they stayed frozen like that, him on his side, breathing hard, while she braced him with shaking hands.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry—"
"Don't." The word came out harsh. "Don't apologise. Just... finish it."
She settled him more comfortably on his side, tucked pillows behind his back to support him, then slowly—carefully—rolled him back. His face was ashen, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow despite the cool room.
Eleanor reached for a cloth and wiped his forehead without thinking. The gesture was instinctive, tender, and she saw his eyes fly open in surprise.
She pulled her hand back quickly. "I shall return in four hours. Try to rest."
"Eleanor—" He stopped and corrected himself. "Lady Madeley."
She paused at the door, not turning around.
"You need not... that is..." He sounded uncertain for the first time. "If you require sleep, you could send a servant to turn me through the night. I would not... I would understand."
Eleanor looked back at him. His eyes were dark in the dim light, his expression unreadable.
"The servants," she said quietly. "They need their rest more than I do. I shall be back."
Something flickered across his face. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you doing this? Truly?" His voice was rough with pain and confusion, perhaps.
"You have every reason to let me suffer.
To do the bare minimum and watch me deteriorate.
Instead you..." He gestured vaguely at the room, at himself.
"You tend me as though you actually care whether I live or die. "
Eleanor's throat tightened. "I made vows, my lord. Before God and witnesses. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. I will honour them even though you have not."
She left before he could respond, closing the door softly behind her.
Two weeks until her sister arrived.
Three weeks until she could leave this all behind.
She would count every single hour.