by Diana Quincy
Griff kept his focus on his food, partridges in white sauce. “What do you mean?”
“You are up to something. I know you too well. Is there more to this business with the bonesetter than you are saying?”
Griff paused, eager to divert the conversation. “The bonesetter is rather . . . appealing.”
Norman’s eyes widened. “You want to bed her.”
“She is rather comely.” It wasn’t a lie. The bonesetter was extraordinarily attractive, but the main thing Griff wanted from her was answers.
“Your carnal interests run toward the exotic, do they?” Norman lounged back in his chair, an amused expression lighting his face. “Where did she examine your injury? In her bedchamber?”
“In an examination room.”
“Were you alone together?”
“Yes.”
Norman barked a laugh. “Not exactly respectable, is she? I am beginning to see the full picture. By all means, swive her if you like. That’s what those sorts of women are for.”
Griff’s forehead puckered. “‘Those sorts of women’?”
“The laboring classes. She’s a Levantine as I understand it. Comes from a family of Arab cotton traders who operate out of Manchester.” Norman interlocked his fingers and rested his joined hands on his chest. “Enjoy her charms, son, just don’t allow her to treat your shoulder. God only knows what damage she could cause.”
Griff couldn’t imagine being in worse agony than he was at the moment. He felt like an invading army was slowly taking over his body. With each passing day, it became harder to remember a life free of physical pain.
He pushed away from the table. “I’m for my bed.” He contemplated how many glasses of brandy it would take to blunt the throbbing in his shoulder long enough for him to fall asleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night.
“So early? But we haven’t even had our port yet.”
“It’s been a long day.”
“Is it your shoulder? Let me give you a dose of laudanum to ease your discomfort,” Norman offered, not for the first time.
“The last thing I need is to become an opium eater. I’ve seen what it can do to a man.” More than one of his fellow soldiers had turned to opium to dull their pain. As a result, too many became insensible and dependent on the substance.
“Drinking yourself to sleep is better?” Norman asked.
“Not better. Just more manageable.”
Griff slept in the bedchamber that had been his ever since Norman became his guardian.
Haven House, the family townhome on Cavendish Square, had been shuttered immediately after the murders and remained so, except for a skeletal staff that maintained the residence. Griff spent most of his time at Bell Cottage, a minor family property in Devon that he’d never visited before the murders. The modest house suited him primarily because it held no happy or tragic family memories. On the rare occasion he came to London, Griff stayed with his former guardian.
Climbing into bed, Griff poured a generous amount of brandy down his throat and thought of the bonesetter. Her eyes were remarkable, as black as coal, her hair a beguiling, matching shiny sable. Her hands were precise and confident, her unadorned fingers topped by clean, trim nails. Remembering the feel of those clever fingers gliding over his skin, he slipped his good arm under the counterpane. Closing his eyes, he pictured the woman taking him in hand and stroking him with determined but gentle strength.
He drifted off but awoke sometime later to the sound of barking. Griff leaped up to protect himself, fear slicing through him like a guillotine. A pack of snarling bulldogs charged him. He tried to beat them off with a club, his left arm hanging useless by his side. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard that it hurt. The wild beasts closed in, growling and salivating. One of the animals suddenly developed the head of a snake. The creature whipped forward and latched its fangs into Griff’s useless arm.
Griff came awake with a start, his nightshirt damp, his heart beating wildly. It took him a moment to orient himself, to realize he’d had another of the frightful dreams that plagued him almost nightly.
Forcing himself to relax back against the feather pillow, his mind raced with the same thoughts that often consumed him on sleepless evenings. Would Mother and Father still be alive if it weren’t for him? His sisters’ continued absence spoke volumes about what they thought. Maria, Winifred and Dorcas must believe the rumors. Nothing else could explain their silence. Like everyone else, they didn’t believe he’d slept through the violent and noisy murders of their parents.
Because he hadn’t.
The agony in Griff’s left arm ratcheted up. He gritted his teeth to keep from making a sound. He was accustomed to suffering quietly, retreating to his bedchamber when the torment became almost too much to bear. He rarely accepted invitations. Not only because of the rumors of his involvement in the murders but also because he preferred to deal with his affliction in private.
Griff closed his eyes. The lids burned against his eyeballs. The result of too many sleepless nights. This wasn’t much of a life. For the first time in two years, Griff seriously contemplated taking extreme measures to ease his suffering. More than one doctor had suggested amputation, but Griff hadn’t seriously contemplated such drastic action. Maybe it was time to face reality. His arm was of no use to him. It was nothing but a source of torment.
He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind of dark thoughts. Surely his situation would not appear as grim in the morning.
She was going to kill him. The bonesetter spent the initial half hour of Griff’s first scheduled appointment rubbing an embrocation into his shoulder and massaging the injury with the strength of a stevedore.
She stretched. She pulled. She twisted.
Seated shirtless on a three-legged round wooden stool, Griff bit his lip to keep from crying out. Yet, despite the torment, his body still noted her nearness. Her lemon scent, combined with the slightest note of exertion, washed over him. “Are you certain you should rub so hard?”
“Quite certain.” Her focus remained on her task as her hands roamed purposefully over his muscles. Her hands were not thin and delicate. They were strong and determined. Capable. “The tissues around your shoulder have lost their natural softness and flexibility.”
Beneath a pristine white apron, she wore another modest gown. The garment was yellow and square-necked, with a plain white scarf tucked into her décolletage. On any other woman the ensemble might appear dowdy. But not on the bonesetter.
They were not alone this time. A young servant girl stood quietly by the door.
“Before I can mobilize the joint,” the bonesetter continued, “the tissue that’s keeping the joint from being properly aligned must be loosened.”
“At this rate, you’ll loosen the muscle right off my shoulder,” he muttered mostly to himself.
She attacked his poor flesh again, edging around his seated body as she worked. Her skirts brushed against his arm, and he got a fleeting sense of the curve of her hip hidden beneath. The world swirled a little. Griff couldn’t discern whether the pain or the bonesetter’s proximity made him dizzy.
She dropped her hands. “Now, raise your arm as if you are a pupil in class waiting to be called on.”
“I have been told to keep my arm still while it healed.”
She scoffed. “Not moving your arm worsens the injury.” Her words were brisk. A strand of glistening dark hair had escaped its pins, sweeping enticingly over one kohled eye. “Disfunction, pain and stiffness are the result of keeping your arm still.”
He attempted to do as she asked. To Griff’s surprise, he managed to lift his arm higher than usual before the discomfort became unbearable. “That’s the best I can do.”
“Very well.” Her warm hand settled on his bare shoulder, while the other gently cradled his elbow. “Now let’s pull your arm in front of you, across your chest.”
“That’s impossible. I told—” He clenched
his teeth as she moved his arm across his chest. She repeated both motions a few times, first raising his arm and then gently crossing it over his chest while Griff tried not to black out.
After a few minutes, she spoke again. “You are ready.”
He tensed. “Ready for what?”
She dug her thumb into his shoulder joint. “Does this hurt?”
“Yes.” Griff’s gaze followed the V in her hairline down to the angle of her cheek and farther still to her plump mouth. She bit the corner of that plush lower lip when she concentrated. “It hurts so much so that I’m fairly close to calling out for my mama.”
Her mouth quirked. Satisfaction rippled through him at having almost drawn a smile from the stern taskmaster. Without a word of warning, she gave his arm two turns and twisted it around in its socket.
Pain exploded in his shoulder. Griff blurted out a string of colorful curses no gentleman should ever utter in the presence of a female. “Goddammit, woman! Are you trying to kill me?”
“No, indeed.” She stepped away, her cheeks flushed, a satisfied smile adorning her striking face. “How is your shoulder?”
“How do you expect?” he snapped. Griff’s ire was mostly directed at himself. He’d been too busy ogling the bonesetter to worry about her doing damage to his arm. “You’ve likely caused irreversible harm.” He gingerly moved his shoulder, afraid to discover just how seriously she’d mangled it.
To his surprise, his arm moved easily in the socket. He blinked, momentarily disoriented. Then he dared raise his arm as she had a short while ago. It took him a moment to register the near absence of pain in the joint. He crossed his arm over his chest. His elbow and wrist still throbbed. But his shoulder, although sore, was blissfully quiet.
“What did you just do?” he asked. “Surely, it’s not possible—”
“It certainly is possible.” The bonesetter was at the porcelain bowl rinsing her hands. “Your shoulder was out of joint. I put it back in.”
“I cannot believe it.” He circled his arm above his head and behind him. Some discomfort remained, the joint felt stiff, but it had been forever since he’d been able to move his arm from the shoulder with such ease.
“The shoulder joint will be somewhat rigid for the next fortnight or so. I shall suggest some gentle exercises for you to do on your own.”
She continued with the instructions, but Griff barely heard her. What had just happened? He shook his head, unable to process the absence of agonizing shoulder pain that had plagued him for two years.
“Extraordinary. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Payment in full once all services are rendered will be all the thanks I need.”
Still in partial disbelief, Griff stood and reached for his shirt, pulling it over his head. He caught her gaze moving over his torso before she blinked away. She liked what she saw. Griff forced himself to remember that the bonesetter was married and he had a serious purpose for being here. He needed to keep his thoughts out of his trousers.
“How did you manage to repair my shoulder?” he asked to distract from any indecent thoughts.
“The art of bonesetting might not be taught in schools,” she said briskly, “but it is as old as Hippocrates.”
“Where did you learn the . . . erm . . . art?”
“From my father.” She reached for a cloth to dry her hands. “The rest of our relatives are in textiles. Both sides of the family, the Zaydans and the Atwans, are prominent cotton merchants in Manchester. Our primary enterprise is exporting cotton to the Levant.”
“But not you.”
“Nor my father nor his father before him. Beginning with my great-grandfather, I come from a long line of bonesetters.” She lifted her chin. “I practice an art as old as civilization itself.”
“I hadn’t realized.” He’d assumed that bonesetting was one grand swindle.
She settled behind her desk. “Next, we shall work on your wrist. And after that, your elbow.”
“And in the meantime?” he asked, trying to manufacture a reason to prolong their conversation.
“Rub neatsfoot oil into your wrist just as you did for your shoulder. When you return next week, I shall put your wrist back in as well.” She reached for her pencil, opened her ledger and began scribbling some notes on the page. “Good day, Mr. Thomas.”
Disappointment flooded him. He wanted to stay and talk to her. The bonesetter had succeeded in eliminating the blinding pain that racked his shoulder for two years. But she did not appear to be in any mood to celebrate. Or to have anything further to do with him.
Griff paused. “Just a few days ago, I seriously considered having my arm removed. Now, thanks to you . . .” His throat swelled, making it difficult for him to complete the sentence.
She looked up, her face softening when she registered his emotional state. “Mr. Thomas, I am a healer.” Compassion lit her eyes. “You owe me no further thanks for doing what I am trained to do. I help people. It is my work and my duty.”
He took in the full extent of the bonesetter’s beauty. Smooth skin draped over magnificent cheekbones flushed from exerting herself on his behalf. He could stare at her forever. Her husband was a fortunate bastard. “I just didn’t imagine for a moment—”
“That I could help you?” She smiled. It was the first time he’d witnessed a true smile from her, and it animated her entire face. Her eyes came alive, throwing aside the curtain that normally shielded her true emotions.
“You’re not offended?” he asked.
“I am well aware that many people view bonesetters as charlatans.”
“I should think you’d resent that.”
“Physicians and surgeons put themselves above people such as myself. I have no formal institutional training. As a woman, that avenue remains closed to me. The skills I’ve acquired were handed down through the generations.”
“You could help so many. If only they knew.” If only Norman understood.
“I do help them now.” A muscle ticked in her jaw. “But I confess it is not easy when the traditional medical community does its best to frighten patients away from bonesetters.”
Frustration rippled through Griff. If he’d come to her directly after the accident, he might have avoided two years of misery. “I will recommend your services to those of my acquaintance.”
“As you wish,” she said, but he saw that his words pleased her.
Her eyes met his. And caught. Her pupils widened. Electricity arced between them. The jolt struck Griff like a thunderclap. Need, potent and unexpected, exploded in his veins.
Alarm glinted the healer’s gaze. She felt it, too. This buzz of seductive energy zipping between them. She hastily blinked away. Putting her back to him, she returned to the protection of her desk. Picking up her pencil with a trembling hand, she resumed writing her notes. “Until next week, then, Mr. Thomas.”
She did not look up while Griff followed the servant out of her examining room.
Chapter Four
“What use would I be on the hospital board of governors?” Griff asked Norman. “I don’t know the first thing about managing a hospital.”
“Most governors don’t. You wouldn’t be expected to do much.” Norman watched Griff massage neatsfoot oil into his wrist. “What the devil are you doing?”
“What does it look like? I’m rubbing this ointment into my wrist.”
“Whatever for?”
“It relieves some of the pain.” Given Norman’s disapproval of the bonesetter and her techniques, Griff refrained from mentioning Mrs. Zaydan.
“Laudanum would be more effective.”
“You know I don’t want to use opium. I prefer to keep my wits about me.”
“Suit yourself,” Norman said mildly.
Griff longed to illuminate his former guardian. To shout from the rooftops that the bonesetter had essentially saved his life. Miraculously, at night he could sleep a few hours at a time now. His shoulder no longer felt like an enemy combatant att
ached to his body. But Griff intended to wait and see if the bonesetter could repair the rest of his arm before telling Norman the truth.
The doctor filled two glasses of port. They were having after-supper drinks in the parlor rather than the dining room. It was a ritual they’d established soon after Griff had moved in and now continued whenever he was in London.
“As I was saying, having a nobleman on the hospital’s board of governors could mean a great deal. It would certainly assist with fundraising.” He handed a glass to Griff. “We are a charity hospital. We depend upon the generosity of our benefactors.”
“What would I have to do?”
“Attend board meetings four or five times a year, and host the occasional fundraiser.” He sipped his port. “Your father was on the board.”
Griff flinched. “You and I both know that I do not deserve to take his place.”
Dismay flooded Norman’s face. “I told you back then, and I am telling you now, you are not to blame.”
“We’ll never truly know, will we?”
“Yes, we damn well do. You did not wield the knife that killed your parents.”
“If only it were that simple.”
“It absolutely is. You were young. Boys get up to mischief. That is all.” It was a familiar refrain that Griff had heard repeatedly since confessing the truth to his guardian shortly after the crime.
“We weren’t even supposed to be there, Mother and I.” His fists clenched. “Father had to make an unexpected visit to the country house. I convinced Mother that we should go, too.”
“It was a terrible twist of fate. You are not to blame for any of it.”
Griff gulped a generous amount of port to ease the ache in his throat. “How deeply involved was Father in the running of the hospital?”
“Very. More than most governors. He paid careful attention to finances and cared deeply about patient care. Joining the board would be a way for you to honor your father’s legacy.”
Unlike his father, Griff didn’t sit on any boards. He mostly ignored his position and the influence that came with it. He’d acquired the title as a result of an unspeakable tragedy. One Griff blamed himself for. Any donations Griff made were given quietly. But maybe it was time to put his title to use to help people on a wider scale.