Chapter 13 Distance
Chapter thirteen
Distance
Aubrey woke to the familiar ache in his hip that signalled it was time to be turned. He squinted at the clock on his mantel—midnight. Right on schedule.
Eleanor had ensured he had everything he needed before she retired to bed, looking just as lovely as she had before dinner.
He’d readily agreed to delegating night turnings to Morrison as she needed her rest, but he missed her hands on him; her soft and competent hands efficiently rearranging the blanket and pillows around him, the gentle brush of her hands against his body.
Perhaps it would be best if Morrison attended to you starting midnight. You are mending well, and it seems appropriate, she'd said. What she meant was: I cannot bear to be in your presence more than absolutely necessary.
Aubrey couldn't blame her.
He reached for the bell pull and rang twice.
Morrison appeared within five minutes this time—a significant improvement over his first attempt. The valet was properly dressed, hair combed, looking alert if not entirely enthusiastic about his midnight duties.
"Good evening, my lord." Morrison's tone was resigned but professional. "Time for your turning, I presume?"
"Yes. Thank you for being prompt."
"I've been setting an alarm." Morrison moved to the bedside with the air of a man approaching a necessary but unpleasant task. "Mrs Williams kindly provided me with a small clock that chimes rather insistently every four hours. It's quite impossible to ignore."
"Very efficient."
"Quite." Morrison positioned himself on Aubrey's left side, studying the situation with what might have been actual competence. "Now then, you've been practicing pushing yourself up during the day, yes? Lady Madeley tells me you've regained some strength."
"Some," Aubrey confirmed. He could now shift his weight somewhat, could brace himself with his right arm. It wasn't much, but it was better than the dead weight he'd been that first week.
"Excellent. Then we shall attempt this as a cooperative effort." Morrison placed his hands with surprising precision—one on Aubrey's shoulder, one on his good hip. "On three, you push while I pull. Gently. No sudden movements. We learned that lesson rather painfully, didn't we?"
Despite everything, Aubrey felt his lips twitch. "We did indeed."
"Right then. One... two... three."
They moved together—Aubrey pushing, Morrison pulling with controlled strength. It was clumsy but effective. Aubrey rolled onto his right side with only moderate discomfort, his breathing only slightly laboured.
"There!" Morrison sounded genuinely pleased with himself. "Much better than last time. No screaming. No bloodshed. I consider that a victory."
"You're improving," Aubrey admitted.
"I've been practicing the motion with a sack of flour in my room." Morrison began tucking pillows behind Aubrey's back. "Mr Davies thinks I've gone mad, but I refuse to injure you again through sheer incompetence. It reflects poorly on my professional abilities."
"You practiced on a sack of flour?"
"A very heavy sack of flour. I named him Lord Wheatly. He was an excellent patient—never complained once." Morrison stepped back to assess his pillow arrangement. "How's that? Comfortable?"
"Yes, actually. Well done. However—"
"Yes, well. One does try to improve one's skills, however distasteful the task." Morrison beamed, then caught himself and returned to his usual composure.
"Morrison."
"Yes, my lord?"
"The bottom half of my body is feeling decidedly chilly." Aubrey could feel his shirt bunched around his waist.
"Oh, dear God," Morrison breathed, his eyes going wide. He immediately looked up at the ceiling, his face flushing scarlet. "My lord, your—you're—the nightshirt has—"
"I'm aware," Aubrey said through gritted teeth, acutely conscious of his state of undress. "Just pull it down."
"I can't—I mustn't—that would require me to look at—" Morrison kept his eyes firmly on the ceiling moulding. "Perhaps if you could reach it yourself?"
"If I could reach it myself, I would have already done so."
"Yes. Right. Of course." Morrison was breathing faster now, still staring at the ceiling. "It's simply fabric. Just cloth. Nothing untoward about cloth. Perfectly normal situation. Happens all the time, I'm sure."
"Morrison, for God's sake—"
"'Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!
'" Morrison began reciting, his voice slightly hysterical.
"'Or close the wall up with our English dead!
' It's Shakespeare. Henry V. I find it steadying in moments of crisis.
'In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility—'"
"This is not Agincourt!"
"'But when the blast of war blows in our ears—'" Morrison continued, his hands hovering uncertainly in the air, still not looking down. "'Then imitate the action of the tiger—'"
"Morrison, pull down the damned nightshirt!"
"'Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood—'" Morrison squeezed his eyes shut and made a wild grab for the nightshirt. His hand landed approximately six inches too far to the left. "Oh God, what is that—is that your—I think I've grabbed your—"
"That's my thigh, Morrison!"
"'Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage!'" Morrison's voice had gone up an octave. He tried again, this time grabbing air. "'Then lend the eye a terrible aspect—'"
"Stop reciting and use your eyes!"
"I cannot! My delicate constitution cannot withstand—"
The door burst open.
Eleanor stood in the doorway in her wrapper, her hair in a long braid over her shoulder, her expression shifting from alarm to exasperation in approximately two seconds.
"What," she said with dangerous calm, "is going on here?"
Morrison whirled around, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"My lady! Thank God you're here! His lordship's nightshirt has ridden up, and I've been attempting to preserve his modesty while maintaining my own sanity through the works of the Bard but I'm afraid I've been largely unsuccessful on both counts—"
"He won't look at me," Aubrey interjected, his face burning. "He's reciting Shakespeare instead of just pulling down the nightshirt like a normal person."
"I am trying to be respectful of your privacy—"
"My privacy is already compromised! Just pull down the nightshirt!"
"'But I can see the lady's face—'" Morrison began another quotation.
"Enough!" Eleanor's voice cracked through the room like a whip.
Both men fell silent immediately.
She moved forward with brisk efficiency, grabbed the bunched nightshirt, and yanked it down to cover Aubrey properly. The entire operation took approximately three seconds.
"There," she said, her voice icy. "Was that so difficult?"
"My lady, I was simply trying to maintain proper—" Morrison began.
"You were being ridiculous." Eleanor turned her sharp gaze on him. "Morrison, I understand you find this uncomfortable. Believe me, we all find this uncomfortable. But reciting Shakespeare while his lordship is lying exposed and twisted on the bed is not helpful. It's theatrical nonsense."
Morrison wilted under her glare.
"And you," Eleanor turned to Aubrey, and he suddenly understood why Mrs Williams had said his wife had a look that made grown women confess to embezzlement. "You've been steadily improving. You have enough strength to at least hold your nightshirt down while being turned. Why didn't you do so?"
"I was trying to help with the turning itself—"
"Then position yourself better before you start. Use your hands more effectively. Think ahead." Eleanor crossed her arms. "You're both intelligent men. Start acting like it instead of descending into theatrical hysteria every time something mildly awkward occurs."
She looked between them, her expression stern.
"I have been awake for ten days straight providing your care.
Ten days during which I have seen and touched parts of you, my lord, that no wife should see before ever sharing proper intimacy with her husband.
Ten days of exhaustion and awkwardness and professional detachment.
And now that I finally have a chance to get a full night's sleep, I'm awakened by shouting and Shakespeare because neither of you can manage a simple nightshirt adjustment. "
Aubrey had never heard her speak with such authority. Had never seen this side of her—commanding, direct, taking no nonsense from either of them.
It was, he realised with some surprise, rather magnificent.
"I'm sorry, my lady," Morrison said meekly. "You're quite right. I was being absurd."
"Yes, you were." Eleanor's voice softened slightly. "But I appreciate that you've been trying, Morrison. The sack of flour was a good idea."
Morrison looked surprised. "How did you know about Lord Wheatly?"
"Mr Davies told me. He thinks you're mad too, but he's also impressed by your dedication."
She moved toward the door, then swept out, her wrapper billowing behind her, leaving both men feeling thoroughly chastened.
Morrison and Aubrey looked at each other in the silence that followed.
"She's rather terrifying when angry," Morrison observed.
"Yes," Aubrey agreed. "Rather terrifying."
"Also, rather impressive."
"Yes."
Morrison made to leave, then paused at the door. "May I ask you something?"
Aubrey tensed. "If you must."
"You look like a man who's been denied something he wants rather desperately. What is it that you would like, my lord?"
The question hung between them. Aubrey looked away first.
"I want her to forgive me," Aubrey said stiffly. "That's all."
"Is it?"
"And she looks at me like..." Aubrey gestured vaguely. "Like she knows exactly who I am. All of it. The worst parts. And she's not impressed."
"Perhaps that's precisely what you need."
Aubrey laughed, short and humourless. "What I need is for her to stop being so damnably impressive while I'm trying to grovel properly."
"Ah." Morrison's expression softened with understanding. "I see."
"You see nothing."
"I see a man who's realised his wife is worth considerably more than he gave her credit for. And who's terrified she'll never give him the chance to prove he knows it now."
Aubrey said nothing. There was nothing to say that wouldn't confirm exactly what Morrison had just said.
"Get some rest, my lord," Morrison said quietly. "And tomorrow, apologise properly. With words. Explicit, clear words that leave no room for misunderstanding about how sorry you are."
"I'm trying—"
"Try harder, my lord."
Aubrey lay in the darkness thinking about Eleanor's face when she'd stood over them—exasperated, commanding, done with their nonsense.
And somehow, seeing her like that—fierce and uncompromising and absolutely right—made him want her more desperately than ever.
He had a lot of apologising to do.
And reciting Shakespeare was not going to cut it.