by Valerie King
“Excellent,” she added.
All that remained now was to which of her sisters ought she assign the role of helping Alby learn better how to communicate with her mother. The best qualified was Augusta, who had a dozen times more patience than any of the others. Yet, she already understood the state of her youngest sister’s heart, and for that reason felt ill at ease about giving the task to her. On the other hand, Augusta would make the entire experience for both Mrs. Pamberley and Charles a pleasant one.
In the end, she chose to send Augusta, which brought a rush of pleasure to the young woman whose complexion immediately began to glow.
Constance shook her head as she watched the pair amble toward the stairs. What would be the end of this tendre? She wondered. At least she could count on Augusta’s sensible nature. Unlike Marianne, Augusta would never consent to an elopement.
She gathered her remaining three sisters together and discussed how best to tackle all the work that had piled up since Alby’s arrival three weeks earlier. None of her siblings showed much enthusiasm until she mentioned that she had persuaded Alby to assist them in their chores. A rainbow might as well have suddenly appeared over the table of the morning room in which they were situated, since each expression changed as though a cloudburst had just been followed by brilliant sunshine.
A general excitement ensued along with a lively discussion regarding which tasks Alby should help complete. Settling this complex problem, since there was so much work to be done, required arguing the matter out for a full forty-five minutes, something Constance was content to allow her sisters to do.
In the end, a list was drawn up so that when Alby returned to the morning room, rather subdued by his visit to Mrs. Pamberley’s sickroom, Marianne happily showed him his assignments.
Constance bit her lip as Alby stared at the list and paled. She wondered if perchance he was beginning to regret that he had agreed to offer his help. Perhaps once he had tasted of the rigorous regimen of manor life, his memory would return in full force and he would be more than content to resume his identity as Charles Kidmarsh, impoverished ward of Lord Ramsdell.
Well, only time would tell.
She couldn’t help but chuckle as her sisters swept him in a brotherly manner out of the morning room and toward the door to the terrace. Collecting honey was the first object of the day, and though Alby was obviously uneasy about the idea, she approved that he squared his shoulders and accepted his fate in a manly fashion.
Perhaps there was hope for him yet.
He stepped onto the terrace with all the ladies clustered about him supportively. They were busily instructing him on how to behave around the several beehives in the northeast field of clover. She watched them go and after shutting the door, she released a trill of laughter that had been trapped in her throat.
That evening Alby was quiet as the ladies sang their duets. He seemed very tired, and when Augusta quietly inquired whether he was feeling well, he smiled faintly and said, “Very much so. I’ve never known one could ache in so many odd places. Even my feet hurt.”
“Well, we did walk all the way to Hartfield, which was a full five miles—and back again.”
He chuckled faintly. “I thought we would never get there and then return. Good God, how do you do it every day?”
Augusta patted his shoulder. “We don’t. Sometimes we go to Farnbury, which is seven miles distant.”
Alby groaned and shook his head. “Not tomorrow, I hope.”
Augusta smiled sweetly. “No, not tomorrow.” She then blushed a trifle as she added, “You were very kind to those children, Alby. Most gentlemen would not have taken the time to play blind-man’s buff and tell them conundrums.”
Constance watched his face as he grew thoughtful. “I like children, to own the truth. I was an only child and I really didn’t get to play as other children did growing up, so today felt as though I were putting my childhood right.”
“How sad for you,” she blurted out sympathetically. “I’ve never known a moment without the company of my sisters. I don’t think I should have liked growing up alone.”
His face grew rather hard. “No one should have to. The expectations are really wearing on the—but what am I saying? I must be boring you to tears.”
Augusta was quite ready to protest, but Alby shook off his fatigue. “No, no, do not argue with me. I refuse to dwell on any of my supposed miseries and instead intend to see you and your sisters entertained.” He immediately gained his feet, and turned to Marianne, who was at the pianoforte. “Will you play us a country dance, Miss Marianne?”
Marianne agreed readily because dancing quickly followed and the result was a lively half hour that set a perfect end to a long day.
The next morning, Constance fully expected Alby to announce to the world he had miraculously regained his memory in the middle of the night. From what she knew of his upbringing, she would have supposed he would rather resume his identity as the much cosseted Charles Kidmarsh than wear himself to the bone aiding her sisters in their numerous chores.
But in this she was happily disappointed, for the first thing Alby said to her upon arriving at the morning room for breakfast was that he desired very much to read again to Mrs. Pamberley before engaging in the chores of the day, if that would suit her.
Constance was stunned by his noble attitude. “Mr. Kid—I mean, Alby, how very thoughtful of you. When I spoke with her yesterday afternoon, I asked how she enjoyed your reading ability and she fluttered her eyelashes. Her eyes were glowing with pleasure. You really do know how to make each of the characters so distinctive, so alive. I am indebted to you and—” here she hesitated, for she did not want to embarrass him, but decided to speak her mind anyway—“and I’m very proud of you for entering the spirit of our household with such a willingness to work.”
He seemed stunned at first, then a strange, almost sad expression came over his face. “I didn’t think a home could be like this. All of you help one another at every turn, and each has a share in the labors.”
“Yes, but only because we are as poor as church mice,” she responded almost gaily, for she didn’t want him to think more of her home than was seemly. “Had matters been different, I daresay we would have had servants a-plenty and lived lives of lavish self-indulgence.”
His expressive face twisted with scorn. “Indulgence is not necessarily all that one would believe it to be. Yesterday”—and here he straightened his shoulders—“was one of the happiest days of my life.”
He then dumbfounded her by asking if he could take Mrs. Pamberley’s breakfast to her.
Constance wasn’t certain just what to say. “I—I suppose so, but you must understand the care with which she must be fed.”
“I have had much experience having a spoon shoved down my throat,” he stated almost to himself, “but I believe I could do a better job than most . . . and I want to, if you would but let me try?’
“Come with me, then,” she said. “We’ll ask Mama.”
Mrs. Pamberley was clearly astonished and did not blink at first. But after a moment of gazing into Alby’s direct, unflinching stare, she acquiesced with a single, confident blink and a crooked smile. Constance stayed with him in order to make certain he could manage the awkward task. He fumbled a bit at first, but eventually found by supporting her properly with pillows and sliding his arm beneath her shoulders he could feed her with ease. After five minutes, he was in full command and performed the task with surprising gentleness, as though he had been doing it all his life.
Constance observed him, aware that more lay beneath the surface of this childlike man than she had at first supposed, and decided that fate, indeed, must have brought him to her door. His professed enjoyment of the preceding day, along with his desire to be of service to her mother, spoke of an awakening spirit and a growing maturity. Lady Brook, indeed, might just make a man of him.
When she returned to the morning room, she found that her sisters were nearly finished
with breakfast. She told them of Alby’s kindnesses toward their mother, and a brilliant silence filled the room.
Augusta spoke for them all. “He is an angel.”
“I am beginning to think so,” Constance said.
Celeste added her thoughts. “Even Sir Henry, who has a good heart, never offered to read to Mama or to . . . to feed her.”
Marianne said, “Alby is a strange man, isn’t he, Constance? I mean, he’s not like other men at all. I’ve begun to think there’s something wrong with him.”
These words brought Augusta to her feet. “How can you say such a disloyal, ungenerous thing, when he has kept you laughing and dancing for days on end?”
Marianne had the grace to blush. “I didn’t mean to disparage his character—” But she could not continue. So long as Alby appealed to her sense of what a gentleman ought to be, he was acceptable to her. But a man in a sickroom was apparently not her idea of manliness.
Constance said, “I think you are forgetting, Marianne, that from all that Alby has told us of his youth, he was frequently in the sickroom himself, as a patient. I think I understand his wish to help, because he knows how trying it is to be cared for by rough hands, overly loud voices, and clumsy fingers.”
Marianne blushed a little more. “He is being compassionate then.”
“Yes,” Augusta said softly. “He is defined by his compassion. For instance, I think he knew what we needed in our home more than anything was dancing and laughter. Don’t you remember, that after speaking of London and all the balls he attended, when you expressed your great longings to dance and have a great many beaus, he immediately suggested we dance? Why do you think he did so?”
Marianne stared at Augusta and blinked several times. “I see what you mean now. It was almost as though he had read my mind and set out to please me.”
The ladies then described a dozen ways in which Alby responded instantly to their wishes and longings, whether with the suggestion of a stroll about the rose garden, or an anecdote about London, or Bath or Brighton, or getting up a country dance.
It was therefore not surprising that when Alby returned to the morning room, he was greeted with at least a half dozen requests to know in what ways the young ladies could tend to him. The effect was extraordinary. Alby stared at them as though they had just come from the moon. “I—I don’t know what to say in the face of such kindness, except that truly nothing would please me more than to join you in your tasks today.”
As they set about reorganizing the day’s events, Constance left them to see to her mother.
Mrs. Pamberley expressed her deep gratitude for Alby’s presence in her room by blinking no to such comments as awkward, frightening, or barely endurable. She settled only for pleasurable.
Did she want him back on the morrow? A long, single blink.
She left her mother to begin her own day’s activities, which involved conferring with Cook about the week’s menus, and with Stively about the needs of the stable and the status of the wheat fields.
She did not get far, however. She nearly collided with Marchand, who left Ramsdell’s rooms in a state of extreme agitation. “What is it?” she said at once upon seeing his distress.
“I—I—” He could not get past this single word.
She nodded, trying to encourage him, but he couldn’t speak. “Come to the library,” she said at last, believing she understood the problems pressing the overwrought servant. “We’ll discuss the matter in private.”
After several minutes of plying him with questions, the truth came out. Ramsdell was insistent on leaving his bed, but Marchand feared for the weakness of his legs. “And I am not strong enough to support him,” he said. “If he falls, he could reinjure his arm, and what if the wound tore and became infected again—he is so stubborn.”
Constance saw the panic in his eyes and turned the matter over in her mind several times. “I would like to see him,” she announced at last.
“I shall wait here,” he stated, surprising even Constance. Marchand had previously been entirely disapproving of her presence in the sickroom once Ramsdell regained consciousness.
She made her way slowly to Ramsdell’s bedchamber, wondering just what she hoped to achieve by seeing the viscount. Six days had passed since her last encounter with him, and she knew very little of the nature of his progress except for the brief words exchanged with Marchand. Perhaps more than anything, however, she wanted to judge for herself the precise state of his health as well as his mind so that she would know better how to advise Marchand.
She scratched lightly on the door and heard a sharp, “Come,” barked from the other side. She was a little startled, but when she opened the door she saw the reason for Ramsdell’s irritation.
“Oh,” she murmured, then swiftly crossed the chamber to his bed. He was sitting on the side, his brow damp with perspiration. He was wearing breeches and stockings, which apparently he had put on by himself, but his shirt was hanging half off his back. His complexion was chalky from the effort of dressing himself.
“Good God, why are you here?” he snapped. “Where the devil is Marchand?”
“As to that,” she responded softly, drawing his shirt from behind his shoulder and draping it over his bandaged arm, “your valet is sitting quietly in the library, worrying himself to the point of illness over your health.”
He grunted. “It is time I left this room,” he stated belligerently.
Constance leaped back and looked him in the eye. “I couldn’t agree more,” she said firmly. She did not mistake the look of surprise that flashed across his face.
“Well, if that is so,” he said, “I wish you might tell my valet. He nearly swooned when I made known to him my intentions and then he refused to dress me.”
She smiled. “Do you believe I have the power to sway his opinions?”
Ramsdell scowled at her but did not answer her question. “Do stop playing the ogre,” she coaxed, “and try for a little reason, if you would.”
“A little reason,” he said. “How can I be reasonable, when I have been tied to this bed for weeks—”
“Less than a sennight since you regained consciousness,” she interjected.
He scowled a little more. “He is driving me to distraction with his constant fussing and tugging at the counterpane and asking me every quarter hour whether I am feeling too warm, or too cold, or in need of laudanum, or tea, or a pastille.”
Constance held the shirt-sleeve up and looked at it for a moment. At this last remark, however, she caught his eye, “He did not suggest burning pastilles, did he?” she queried.
“Yes, he did, not an hour past.”
Constance chuckled and reverted to studying the garment and his arm carefully.
He continued. “I couldn’t bear it a moment longer, the cosseting and fidgeting. I begin to understand even better why Charles keeps running away from my house. The only wonder is that he did not do so years ago. I vow had I been him, I would have long since signed aboard a twenty-gun sloop, as . . . as a cook or something, than to have endured—”
“Do you know how to cook?” she asked, glancing at him, then turning away to search for a pair of scissors. She found what she needed in the top drawer of the chest of drawers. She was a great believer in having a dozen pair scattered about the house for convenience’s sake. She returned to his side and to the dangling sleeve.
“No, I don’t cook,” he responded irritably. “That is not the point.”
“I realize that,” she retorted, “but I couldn’t help but be amused by the thought of you cooking for thirty or forty men in the confines of a warship—or would it be closer to a hundred? How many men are aboard a twenty-gun sloop?” She carefully began cutting the sleeve of his shirt along what would be the inside of his arm and separating the side seam as well.
“Whoa!” he said, catching her arm and preventing her from cutting farther. “What the devil—I mean, just what do you think you’re doing? Weston would be ast
onished to see that you had ruined one of his finely crafted shirts.”
She shook off his hand. “If you please, I’ll demonstrate for you.” She arranged the left front of his shirt over his chest and, buttoning it, lifted his heavily bandaged arm just a trifle. Her fingers brushed against the thick layer of hair covering his chest. She positively refused to feel anything but a detached interest in getting him dressed. Still, her fingers would tremble and her heart hammered away loudly.
“Weston?” she queried. “Yes, your London tailor. Well, I daresay he will not mind once he learns we had to accommodate your broken arm somehow and at the same time help you to present a proper appearance before the world.” Once the cut was completed, she laid the fabric over his bandaged arm, slid the cuff about his wrist, and fastened the buttons. She gently tucked the fabric around his arm. “Celeste will be able to fashion plackets on the inside with buttons or hooks as fasteners to give a better fit for you, that is, if you wish for it. She is an accomplished needlewoman. Your coat you might want to wear slung over your shoulder for the time being, until you heal a little more. Eventually you will be able to slide your arm into your coat-sleeves. But first, your waistcoat.”
She lifted it off the back of the chair and carefully guided his broken arm through the wide armholes. When she completed buttoning the vest, she asked, “Do you wish me to fetch your coat?”
She glanced at him and saw that he was staring at her in wonder.
“Yes, if you please.” His tone was almost pleasant.
She walked to the wardrobe and saw that Marchand had brought four coats with him. “Which one?” she inquired.
“The blue superfine will do.”
She took the finely made coat from the hanger and returned to him. She helped him slide on the right sleeve and carefully pulled the coat across his back, settling the left sleeve over his shoulder.
“Now then,” she said, stepping back from him. “You look very pale, and Marchand’s greatest concern was that you would be too weak to support yourself once you stood. Do you think you can stand?”