by Abigail Agar
He slept only with the bandaging covering his chest; the rest of his torso was bare. He seemed prone to tossing his bedding off during the night. Vera wondered about the nature of the dreams that created such frenetic night-time movement.
Breathing softly, she reached out her hand to touch him, but she pulled it away, thinking better of it. As she did, his hand shot up and grabbed her wrist.
‘Don’t stop now,’ he said, opening his eyes. ‘You were going in an interesting direction.’
Vera felt herself gasp. ‘You feign sleep well, My Lord,’ she said.
He kept his grip on her wrist. ‘Perhaps you were distracted. Is that right?’ he asked.
Her cheeks flushed, and she smiled. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘No?’ A mischievous glint was in his eye. Before Vera knew what was happening, the muscles in his arm flexed, and he’d pulled her onto the bed.
Vera dissolved into laughter. Careful not to strike his injured shoulder, she playfully took his hands in hers and pressed them down onto the bed gently.
‘I’d say you’ve found yourself to be in the compromised position now,’ Vera said breathlessly.
Lord Stanley smiled up at her, making no attempt to escape her hold. ‘I trust you’ll have mercy.’
Vera became aware of the pressure between their bodies and quickly tried to regain composure. ‘I apologise. I’ve overstepped,’ she said. She climbed off and got to her feet. The game had suddenly made her feel too many things at once.
He looked disappointed at her dismount. ‘No, I thought you were stepping in just the right direction,’ he said.
Vera’s cheeks felt hot. She took a breath and tried to remember her duties. ‘I have your breakfast for you,’ she said.
Lord Stanley pushed himself up onto his pillows. ‘Not what I was longing for most, but I suppose it will do. Just as long as it’s not more milky porridge.’
Vera smiled ruefully and held up the large bowl of porridge thinned with rich milk. ‘I’m afraid it is.’
Lord Stanley made a disgusted face. ‘No, I’ve been asking for something of substance for days. A piece of bacon, a sausage, or something I can chew at least.’ He sighed. ‘If I even have to look at another bowl of broth or porridge, I will die.’
Vera sat down at his bedside. ‘You know the doctor advised that you allow your body to focus on healing by keeping your foods simple.’ She scooped a spoonful of the hot mush. Steam twirled from the substance and put Vera in mind of clouds on a summer day.
He sighed. ‘Very well.’
Vera raised the spoon and blew on it lightly.
Lord Stanley leaned forward. ‘You do realise I can do this myself?’ he said, parting his lips.
Vera laughed. ‘It’s more fun this way, wouldn’t you agree?’
He swallowed his mouthful. ‘Maybe for one of us. Perhaps you’ve developed a taste for having me helpless.’
Vera lifted another spoonful. ‘I have no illusions that you are helpless, My Lord,’ she said. ‘Only that the more tasks I can do for you, the better you can heal.’
He swallowed again. ‘Don’t give me ideas.’
Vera bit her lip and looked away.
‘Come now, I need my third bite,’ he said, pleased to have made her blush again.
‘You are definitely regaining your strength,’ said Vera, delivering the next bite.
Lord Stanley leaned back and evaluated her. ‘I love your voice,’ he said. ‘It suits you more than that common boy’s voice you pretend with.
‘I should hope so,’ said Vera. She had found great relief in speaking to Lord Stanley in her own, female voice. It made the time she spent with him also time she could let her guard down and be herself.
He tilted his head, still soaking her in. ‘It’s more than the womanly tone. Your wit comes out with it, I’ve noticed.’
Vera laughed. ‘Are you saying that I am not witty as Fidel?’
He allowed her to give him another mouthful. ‘Not so much that. I suppose it was a constant tax on your mind, remaining in male register that is. Without that effort I see more of you. There’s a spark.’
‘Well now, I know you’re delirious,’ she said. ‘I’m only myself.’
‘Don’t underestimate the power of that.’ He glanced at her next spoonful. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake.’ He took the bowl from her. ‘It’s so thin a mixture I can drink it.’ With a slurping sound he finished the bowl in a few seconds.
Vera sighed and smiled. ‘You do realise you’ve made my presence here unjustifiable?’
Lord Stanley placed the bowl down, revealing a milky moustache the porridge had left. ‘I’m sure I can think of another task for you to undertake.’
Vera began to laugh at his creamy lip.
‘Do you doubt my ability to set tasks for you?’ Lord Stanley said, faux-mockingly.
Still overcome with giggles, Vera traced her finger across her upper lip, trying to show him the issue.
‘I can place something on your lips if needed, but you will have to come closer,’ he said, misconstruing her gesture.
Finally able to form words, Vera spoke. ‘No, no, you have a white milk moustache. You look somewhat like an elderly man. Possibly like Father Christmas.’ She stifled a final giggle.
Lord Stanley brushed his lip and looked at his hand. He began laughing too, but the action prompted him to wince.
Vera’s mirth turned to concern. ‘My Lord, I am sorry. I did not mean to make you exert yourself.’
He steadied himself. ‘You do make me want to exert myself,’ he said, a cheeky grin making its way across his face despite the pain. ‘I have a task for you.’
She leaned closer. ‘Of course.’
‘The painkilling tea the doctor left –be a good lass and go make some? It’s been left in the kitchen for some unfathomable reason.’ Pain was in his eyes despite the steadiness of his words.
She nodded and rose up. ‘Yes, of course.’
He leaned back. ‘Thank you.’
As Vera made her way through the halls, she tried to reassemble herself as Fidel. Walk like a boy, talk like a boy, breathe like a boy, she reminded herself with each step. Somehow the task of disguising her sex had been easier when she couldn’t ever break character. Now that she could switch into femininity with Lord Stanley, her body and mind were beginning to confuse how to act at any one time. At least before, the challenge was simply to be boyish in front of everyone. Now, the water was muddied.
When she arrived in the kitchen, she saw Helen polishing spoons.
‘How is Lord Stanley today?’ Helen asked, somewhat over-formally.
‘He’s improving,’ said Vera, consciously remembering to use her lowered male voice.
Helen’s eyes rested on Vera’s face. ‘You look flushed, Fidel. Are you well?’
Vera covered her cheek in a gesture she realised was too girlish. ‘I feel fine,’ she said, looking away.
Helen peered closer. ‘You definitely look warm. Are you certain you are not neglecting your own health to take care of Lord Stanley’s?’ Helen placed down her spoon and came closer.
Vera’s heart raced. Now that she switched so much between male and female identities, she felt certain Helen would perceive the female Vera had left unhidden moments before. It seemed as though her feminine identity had left a residue on her skin.
Helen was close to Vera now. ‘You seem different today, Fidel. You would tell me if you weren’t feeling well? Someone else could attend to Lord Stanley.’
‘I truly feel fit as a lamb in spring, Helen,’ Vera tried to insist.
‘Would you let me check your temperature?’ asked Helen.
Vera cringed. Even if Helen couldn’t see through the disguise, surely her lingering hand would feel it on Vera’s skin.
She couldn’t think of a way to refuse without seeming more suspicious. ‘If it will quiet your concerns, then by all means.’ Vera hesitantly braced herself for the touch of Helen’s hand.
Helen nodded approvingly and placed her palm on Vera’s forehead. After a painful number of seconds, Helen drew her hand away. ‘You do feel the correct temperature. But there’s dampness on your skin.’
Vera took a breath, realising nervousness had likely made her sweat. ‘I’ve just been moving swiftly all morning.’
Still standing close, Helen pursed her lips. ‘If you’re sure …’
‘I am,’ interrupted Vera. ‘Your tender female concern is appreciated, but really there’s nothing to make a fuss about.’
Helen stepped back, now seeming slightly embarrassed. ‘I apologise.’
Vera saw the hurt on Helen’s face and recalled that the pain of rejection might still be lingering in her. ‘It’s just fine, Helen. I consider myself lucky to have a friend like you to care whether or not I am ill.’
Helen brightened slightly at this. ‘Well, as long as you remember to take care of yourself,’ she said, picking up another spoon. ‘I’d hate to see you end up bedridden for days. Lord Stanley must be getting weary of it.’
Relief washed over Vera. The return of Helen’s cheery gossip seemed to be a good sign that any oddness about Vera had been dismissed. ‘I’d say he is. He continues begging for substantial foods, but the doctor urged us to give him only broths and porridge.’
‘Maybe sneak him a little bread,’ said Helen, a rebellious twinkle in her eye. ‘Surely no doctor would forbid a bite or two of bread?’
Vera nodded in agreement. ‘I’ll bring him some.’ Then she remembered her mission and the fact that she’d left Lord Stanley in pain. ‘Do you recall where the doctor’s painkilling tea was placed?’ asked Vera. ‘Lord Stanley is asking for it.’
Helen gestured to the highest cupboard. ‘It’s in the top one there. I think there was some concern that portions of it might be nicked.’
Vera nodded and stood on her tippy toes to reach the tin of medicinal tea.
‘News has come of the boy he nearly killed,’ said Helen a little sourly. ‘His wound went gangrenous. He’s still in a lot of pain, probably going to have to lose his arm, if the rot doesn’t carry him off.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Don’t make fun,’ Helen snapped.
Vera realised she had used her normal voice which Helen took to be mocking the boy.
‘No, of course not. Sorry, Helen,’ she said careful to get the voice correct.
With love and care in each step, she made Lord Stanley his tea and laid it on a tray with a modest slice of bread. The brewed tea smelled bitter with sweet undertones. Vera thought the scent was oddly compelling, but she did not try it.
As she walked back to Lord Stanley’s room with the offering, she felt herself transform once again into her female-identity. She couldn’t help wanting to be her true self with him, but the pressure of transitioning back and forth depleted her.
She knew that sooner or later the ruse would prove unsustainable. The act of posing as a boy had taught her much, and it had left her with an inner boldness that belonged to neither gender, but herself alone.
Vera felt no doubt, though, that in the end she wanted to be free to be herself, with Lord Stanley by her side.
Chapter 13
The lines between Vera and her role as Fidel, which were so soft and blurred by the acceptance of Lord Stanley, were thrown back into sharp relief again when Mr Fielding paid a visit to his nephew. He came with astonishing news.
The day had started for Vera with what was now routine; she became Fidel. Fidel then took up a double portion of breakfast to Lord Stanley, transformed into Vera and ate breakfast with her Lord.
Then she became Fidel again and went down to the kitchen where she had a cup of lemon and tea with Caruthers. Normally what followed was the general work of the day, but this time, tea was interrupted by Mr Fielding hammering on the knocker of the servants’ entrance.
‘Fidel, my boy,’ he said to Vera, once Caruthers had shown him through to the kitchen. ‘Let’s go somewhere we can have a nice private chat about business matters. Please excuse me, Mr Caruthers, I will catch up with you once I’ve had a word in the shell-like of my young nephew here. I think he’s in dire need of a wise old uncle’s advice.’
With some embarrassment, Vera led Mr Fielding to her quarters where, in the narrow confines of her private space they sat and spoke, Fielding on the edge of the bed, Vera on a three legged stool opposite him.
Fielding began with a long speech on how Mrs Plimpton worried about Vera living like this under the thumb of ‘that Stanley reprobate’, which rankled with Vera even when ‘with all respect due to a Lord of his birth’ was repeatedly asserted.
Once Mrs Plimpton’s concerns were thoroughly laid out, in an at times highly graphic series of vignettes, Fielding settled into the matter that had brought him to Avonside in the most uncomfortable form of transport: the back of a swine cart.
‘I almost caught the bugger.’
‘Who?’ Vera asked. ‘The man with the sideburns?’
‘I saw him at a distance not much greater than that between one end of this room of yours and the other. I saw the bastard, just as you described him, mess of white hair, sideburns jutting out all tatterdemalion-like and a frock coat that would have looked out of date on my grandfather, if me old grand pater would ever have earned enough to afford a winter covering, God rest his frozen body and his pauper’s grave.’
‘You did? How? Where was he?’ Excitement filled Vera’s chest. They almost had the killer!
‘Well, I started out checking the place we were pointed to. A little subtle enquiry with one or two of the girls and a little business …’ Vera’s quick glance to Mrs Plimpton must have shown because he quickly added, ‘… not in their usual line of business, of course, my dear. Merely the acquisition of a better sort of cloth and a few trinkets to go with their informant’s fees.’
Vera relaxed a little and smiled at how easily she was still shocked by such things even when her beloved was hardly a figure without flaws. .
‘Well, what they had to say was most interesting. Not only of comings and goings and meetings held at all times of the night, but of one or two known cutthroats spending the wages he paid them on a little fun with the girls. Your friend keeps some mighty interesting company, lass. Mighty interesting indeed.’
‘So can we have the constables take him in?’
‘There’s the rub, girl. He’s no longer Bathcombe’s problem. Whatever he was dealing with all up and down the West Country, he is done now. Overnight he cleared out of his rooms and hasn’t been seen since.’
Vera’s heart sank. ‘But, Mr Fielding, we could have had him!’ She felt all that hope draining away and was a little surprised to find that she was more upset at the prospect of not being able to be with Lord Stanley as herself, without all this hanging over her, than avenging her parents.
Have I become so shallow? she wondered.
She might never be able to fully shed the Fidel-skin she had to wear. A bitter tear began to burn at the corner of her eye, the sting of its salt turning the gently smiling face of Mr Fielding to a smeary blur.
Will I ever be able to claim back a real life? For the first time, she saw her disguise as more than just a way of hiding until the coast was clear. Could I live the rest of my life like this?