Chapter 6 Competent Wife #2
The sky was still dark when Aubrey reached for the bell pull beside his bed. He'd been awake for hours—pain made sleep elusive at best—but more than that, he'd been thinking.
Thinking about how she never complained. Never showed frustration when he couldn't help, when his body was dead weight in her arms. She simply did what needed to be done and left, her face carefully blank.
But he'd seen the shadows under her eyes deepening. Had noticed the way her hands trembled more with each passing day. Had heard the catch in her breath when she thought he wasn't listening, the sound of someone running on fumes and determination alone.
She was destroying herself caring for him.
The least he could do was spare her the night turnings.
Morrison would learn. He'd have to learn. Aubrey would make him learn.
He rang the bell twice—the signal for urgency—and waited.
And waited.
After what felt like an eternity, his bedroom door creaked open. Morrison shuffled in wearing a nightshirt and cap, one eye still firmly closed, moving with all the urgency of a man walking through treacle.
"M'lord?" Morrison's voice was thick with sleep. "Wha' time is it?"
"Almost four," Aubrey said. "I need you to learn how to turn me. Lady Madeley has been doing it through the night, and she needs rest."
Morrison's other eye opened slightly. "Turn you?"
"Yes. Dr Fielding said I must be turned every four hours. You're going to do the night turnings from now on."
"The night... turnings..." Morrison repeated slowly, as though the words were in a foreign language. "My lord, I'm not certain I'm qualified—"
"You're going to become qualified. Now. Pay attention."
Aubrey explained the process as best he could from memory—how Eleanor positioned her hands, where she braced herself, the angle at which she rolled him. Morrison nodded along, though his eyes had a glazed quality that suggested he was still at least partially asleep.
"Do you understand?" Aubrey asked.
"Yes, my lord. Perfectly clear. Hands here—" Morrison gestured vaguely. "Roll there. Simple."
It was not, Aubrey reflected grimly, simple. But surely even Morrison could manage it with instruction.
"All right. Let's attempt it. I need to be rolled onto my right side—the uninjured side. You'll need to position yourself on my left."
Morrison moved to the left side of the bed with the coordination of a sleepwalker. He stood there for a moment, swaying slightly, staring down at Aubrey with the confused expression of a man who'd forgotten why he'd entered a room.
"Morrison?"
"Yes. Yes, of course. Turning." Morrison rubbed his face with both hands. "Where do I put my hands again?"
"One on my shoulder, one on my hip. The right hip, Morrison. The uninjured one."
Morrison reached down, his movements uncertain. His hands hovered over Aubrey for a moment before landing—one on Aubrey's chest, the other somewhere near his knee.
"Morrison, that's not—"
"Right, right, shoulder and hip." Morrison adjusted, but now both hands were on Aubrey's injured left side.
"The other side, Morrison!"
"Sorry, m'lord, still rather foggy—there we are." Morrison finally positioned his hands correctly. "Now I just... roll you?"
"Gently. On three. One... two... three."
Morrison pulled.
Or rather, Morrison yanked.
Instead of the smooth, controlled roll Eleanor achieved, Morrison hauled Aubrey toward him with all the grace of a man pulling a sack of potatoes.
Aubrey's body twisted at entirely the wrong angle, his injured hip grinding against the mattress, his left leg caught beneath him at a position that sent white-hot agony shooting through his entire lower body.
Aubrey's cry of pain was involuntary and loud.
"Oh God, oh God, I'm sorry!" Morrison tried to correct his mistake by pushing Aubrey back the other direction, but that only made it worse.
Aubrey was now half-twisted, his weight on his injured hip, his leg still trapped, pain radiating through him in waves so intense his vision greyed at the edges.
"Stop—don't—" Aubrey gasped, but Morrison was panicking now, trying to lift and push and pull all at once, making everything catastrophically worse.
The bedroom door burst open.
Eleanor flew into the room, her wrapper billowing behind her, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders. She took in the scene—Morrison flailing, Aubrey twisted at an agonising angle, grey-faced and gasping—and moved with decisive speed.
"Get away from him!" She shoved Morrison aside with surprising force. "What have you done?"
"I was trying to turn him! He said to roll him but then I pulled and he twisted, and I tried to fix it but—"
"Out!" Eleanor commanded. "Out, now!"
Morrison fled.
Eleanor positioned herself beside Aubrey, her hands finding exactly the right places on his shoulder and hip. "This is going to hurt," she warned. "I need to straighten you out first before I can get you into position properly."
Aubrey managed a nod, his jaw clenched tight.
"One... two... three."
She pulled him toward her with smooth, controlled strength, straightening his trapped leg in one fluid movement before rolling him fully onto his right side.
The pain was excruciating for a moment—bright and sharp—but then it was over, and Aubrey was in position with pillows being tucked behind his back to support him.
He lay there gasping, sweat beading on his forehead, while Eleanor's hands moved over him, checking for new damage.
"Nothing's reopened," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "Thank God. Though you'll have additional bruising from... whatever that was."
Aubrey's breathing slowly returned to something approaching normal. The worst of the pain was fading to the familiar, constant ache he'd grown accustomed to.
Eleanor straightened, her hair falling forward over her shoulder in a cascade of chestnut waves. In the pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains, with her face flushed from exertion and concern, she looked...
Aubrey looked away quickly.
"Where," Eleanor asked, her voice sharp with exasperation, "did you find such an incompetent valet?"
The question hung in the air between them.
Aubrey was quiet for a long moment, his hand pressed against his aching hip. Then: "Newgate Prison."
Eleanor's eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?"
"Morrison was in Newgate when I found him.
Seven years ago." Aubrey kept his gaze fixed on the window, watching the sky lighten gradually.
"Awaiting trial for theft. He'd been a valet in a gentleman's household—a good one, apparently—but the gentleman's son had a gambling problem and couldn't pay his debts.
He blamed Morrison for stealing to cover his losses. "
"Didn’t he have proof of any kind?"
"No." Aubrey shifted slightly, wincing. "Morrison had no proof, no defence, and no funds for a barrister. He was going to hang."
Eleanor sank slowly into the chair beside the bed, her expression intent.
"I was at Newgate on behalf of a friend whose brother had been arrested—minor matter, quickly resolved.
But as I was leaving, I passed Morrison's cell.
He was..." Aubrey paused, remembering. "He was reciting Shakespeare.
Hamlet, I think. Perfect diction, perfect delivery, as though he were performing at Drury Lane rather than awaiting execution in a filthy cell. "
"Why was he reciting Shakespeare?"
"I asked him the same thing." A ghost of a smile touched Aubrey's lips.
"He said if he was going to die, he wanted to die with beautiful words in his mouth rather than pleas for mercy that wouldn't come.
That seemed..." Aubrey searched for the word.
"Brave. Dignified. The kind of grace under pressure I'd been taught to value but had never actually seen demonstrated. "
Eleanor was very still, listening.
"So I asked about his case. When he told me the truth of it, I investigated. Took me three days to find evidence that the son was lying—pawnshop receipts, testimonies from other servants. I hired a barrister, had Morrison released, and the real thief was charged instead."
"And then you hired him as your valet?"
"He had nowhere to go." Aubrey finally looked at her. "He's loyal, discreet, and genuinely grateful. And in matters of clothing and grooming, he's actually quite talented."
"But not in matters of turning injured lords."
"No," Aubrey admitted. "Definitely not that."
Eleanor was quiet for a moment, studying his face in the growing light. "That was a kind thing you did. Saving him."
"It was the right thing." Aubrey shifted again, trying to ease the ache in his hip. "Kindness had nothing to do with it."
"No matter the circumstance, he's still useless at turning you," Eleanor said, but there was no bite in it now. "Why did you summon him? Were you in pain?"
"No, I was trying to spare you the night turnings."
Eleanor blinked. Surprise flickered across her face and perhaps something more complicated. "That was... considerate although unnecessary."
They stilled in awkward silence, the intimacy of the moment—her in her wrapper with her hair down, him laid bare both literally and figuratively—suddenly very present between them.
"You should rest," Eleanor said while straightening out the counterpane around Aubrey.
He watched her precise movements as she filled his water glass and fixed the pillows supporting his back.
Her seemingly selfless care of him was so incongruent with the woman Rose had described.
He believed Rose, of course, but a small corner of him began to wonder if there had been a misunderstanding of sort.
Rose had leaned toward the dramatics after all.
Or was it possible that Rose had… No, she wouldn’t. Could she?
Before he could finish his thoughts, she left with the door closing softly behind her.
Aubrey lay in the darkness, his hip throbbing, his mind churning.
The thought sat heavy in his chest as the sun rose and Morrison crept back in with a tea tray, still looking mortified by his spectacular failure.
"My lord, I am profoundly sorry…"
"It's fine, Morrison." Aubrey accepted the teacup. "You're better with cravats than with injured viscounts. We all have our strengths."
"My lady was quite fierce." Morrison shuddered. "I've never seen a lady move so quickly. Or shove quite so effectively."
Despite everything, Aubrey found himself almost smiling with pride.
"Yes," he said quietly. "She was, wasn't she?"