Chapter 6 Competent Wife
Chapter six
Competent Wife
The night was endless.
Aubrey lay in the darkness, listening to the house settle around him, and waited for the click of his bedroom door that would signal Eleanor's return.
Eight o'clock had come and gone. She had appeared like a ghost, moving through the dim candlelight with quiet efficiency. Turned him. Checked his dressings. Left without speaking beyond the necessary instructions. Regardless of his resentment towards her, he couldn’t help but appreciate her quiet strength and competent demeanour that had him inadvertently trusting her with his care.
He trusted her to be thoughtful, considerate, and wise.
And these thoughts confused him. These were thoughts that warranted respect, not anger.
Was he willing to let go of his anger only after one day with the woman?
The door opened.
Midnight. Right on schedule.
Eleanor entered carrying a single candle, her hair loose around her shoulders now, dressed in a wrapper over her nightgown. She looked younger like this. More like the nervous girl he had married and less like the composed woman who had faced down his parents.
"Forgive me for waking you," she said quietly.
"I was not asleep." How could he sleep in this unfamiliar bed, with the pain, knowing she would come?
She set the candle on the bedside table and moved to the bed without hesitation. No awkwardness now. Just quiet efficiency born of necessity.
"This will hurt," she warned, as she had every time before.
"I know."
Her hands found his shoulder and hip—careful to avoid the worst of the bruising—and she pulled. Aubrey gasped, his vision greying at the edges, his fingers finding her wrist and gripping hard enough that he dimly realised he might be hurting her.
But Eleanor did not flinch, did not pull away. She simply held him steady while the worst of the pain subsided, her breath warm against his shoulder, her body close enough that he could smell lavender soap and something uniquely her.
"There," she whispered. "The worst is over."
She tucked pillows behind him with practiced movements, then slowly eased him back. Her hand moved to his forehead—checking for fever, he realised—and lingered there for just a moment.
"You are warm," she said, frowning. "Not feverish, I think, but warm. Are you in more pain than usual?"
"No." The word came out softer than he intended. "No worse than before."
Eleanor's grey eyes searched his face in the candlelight. "You would tell me if it worsened? If you suspected infection?"
Would he? Aubrey was not certain. Part of him wanted to suffer in silence rather than reveal any more weakness to this woman. But another part, a part he did not want to acknowledge, recognised that Eleanor's care was the only thing standing between him and serious complications.
"Yes," he said finally. "I would tell you."
She nodded, apparently satisfied. "I shall return at four. Try to rest."
"Wait."
The word escaped before he could stop it. Eleanor paused, her hand on the candle.
"Your wrist," Aubrey said. "Let me see it."
She stiffened. "My wrist is perfectly fine, my lord."
"It is not. I have been... when you turn me, I grip too hard. I know I do." He had felt it during the last turning—the way his fingers dug into her flesh, seeking purchase against the pain. "Please. Let me see."
"There is no need—"
"Eleanor." The name slipped out without permission. "Please."
She hesitated, then slowly—reluctantly—moved back to the bedside. She set down the candle and extended her arm.
Even in the dim light, Aubrey could see the marks. Dark bruises circling her slender wrist like a bracelet. The imprint of his fingers, clear and damning.
Something twisted in his chest.
"I did this," he stated quietly.
"It is nothing." Her voice was even.
"It is not nothing. I hurt you." He looked up at her face, saw the exhaustion there, the shadows under her eyes, the pale skin made paler by sleeplessness. "I am sorry. I did not mean to. I did not realise…"
He stopped because Eleanor was staring at him with the most peculiar expression. Perplexed. Almost... confused.
"What?" Aubrey asked. "What is it?"
She pulled her wrist back, tucking it against her body. "Nothing. It is nothing."
"Eleanor—"
"Try to rest, my lord." Her voice was more distant now.
She collected her candle and moved toward the door with quick, precise steps.
She paused at the threshold, her back to him.
For a moment, he thought she might say something.
But she simply shook her head and left, pulling the door closed behind her, leaving Aubrey alone in the darkness, wondering what he had done wrong.
Or perhaps, more terrifyingly, if he’d done something right.
The pattern repeated itself with merciless regularity.
Four o'clock in the morning. Eleanor appeared like clockwork, moving through the darkness with familiarity. Turn, adjust, check for fever. Gone again before he could speak.
Eight o'clock. Another turning. Another moment of her hands on his skin, her breath warm against his shoulder. The lavender scent that was becoming unbearably seductive.
Noon. The full bathing routine. Aubrey gritted his teeth through the humiliation of it.
She had developed a method now. Worked with swift, impersonal efficiency. Kept up a steady stream of neutral observations about the healing process, the weather, anything to fill the awful silence.
"The bruising is beginning to yellow at the edges," she noted on the third day, her voice studiedly calm as she cleaned one of the abrasions on his thigh. "Dr Fielding said that is a sign of healing."
Aubrey said nothing, his lips pressed firmly, staring at the ceiling.
"And your temperature remains normal. No sign of infection." Her hands moved higher, and he felt his entire body go rigid. "This will only take a moment."
It was the closest she came to acknowledging the profound awkwardness of what she was doing—washing his groin, areas that no wife should have to touch under such circumstances.
When she was finished, Eleanor pulled the sheet back up and turned away quickly. "There. It’s getting faster and easier."
"Wait."
She paused, not looking at him.
"You need rest," Aubrey said. "Real rest. Not these brief intervals between turnings. You are going to make yourself ill."
"I am perfectly well, my lord."
"You are not." He could see it in the increasing pallor of her face, the darkness under her eyes, the way her hands trembled when she thought he was not looking. "You cannot maintain this pace. Send for one of the maids to help with the night turnings at least. You need sleep."
“Thank you for your concern, my lord,” she replied, her voice strangely cool, “but I have not slept soundly for two years.”
She turned and left before he could respond, the door clicking shut with terrible finality.
Aubrey lay in the darkness, her statement echoing in his mind.
I have not slept soundly for two years.
Two years. The length of their marriage. The length of time he had spent in London, determinedly not thinking about the woman he had left behind in Hertfordshire.
Had she truly been suffering all this time? Lying awake in this house, alone, while he convinced himself she deserved his neglect? That she had a lover to keep her company?
No. She could not have been suffering. She had got what she wanted—a title, a home, comfort. What did it matter if her husband was absent? Surely that was preferable to having him here, a constant reminder of the lack of love between them?
Except... the hollowness in her voice when she spoke those words. The way she had looked when his parents dumped him on her doorstep—not triumphant, not satisfied, but weary. So desperately weary.
Guilt twisted in his chest, sharp and unwelcome.
Aubrey crushed it ruthlessly.
He remembered Rose's face the last time he had seen her—tear-stained, terrified, her hands clutching at his coat in desperation.
"Your betrothed has threatened to destroy us," she had sobbed.
"Her ladyship came to our house herself.
Said if I did not leave London, she would ruin Father's business, destroy our family.
She would tell everyone that I… that we…
" Rose's voice had broken. "She said she would claim I compromised myself with you. That I was a scheming servant trying to trap a viscount. No one would believe my word against hers, and I’ll never find a post again. "
He had held her while she cried on his shoulder, while she tried to get the words out. “It’s so unfair because she was the one who’s kept a lover since finishing school—a man named Steven, a friend close to her family. She said if I exposed her, she would expose me, and we both knew I’d lose."
Aubrey had been stunned and horrified that his gentle betrothed was capable of such calculated cruelty and of keeping a lover.
"I have no choice," Rose had wept. "I must go. Your family is offering money for my silence, and Lady Eleanor is offering threats. Between the two, I cannot… I cannot stay. Forgive me. Please forgive me."
He had not believed it at first. Had gone to his father, demanded answers. And his father had confirmed that yes, money had changed hands. That Rose's family was relocating to Lancashire. That the marriage to Eleanor would proceed as planned.
But his father had denied Eleanor's threats. He had never acknowledged her involvement, but he must have been lying. There was no other explanation.
No. He would not feel sorry for her. Would not let a few sleepless nights and competent nursing erase what she had done. She had been cruel to his helpless Rose. She was still the unwanted wife he had been forced to take. Still the reason Rose was gone.
A good nurse did not erase years of resentment, did not undo the fundamental wrong of their marriage.
He would not let it.
He could not let it.
Even as her words echoed in the darkness.
Even as he wondered, for the first time, what those years of neglect had truly cost her.