Finagled

  Four-thirty. They were supposed to be riding to Loathewood now. She rang the bell. She tried to ring it casually, not frantically, but she was shaking. She waited. In a few minutes there was a knock on the door.

  "The door is locked," she said, "from the outside, my husband took the key." Her voice shook a little.

  "One moment, ma'am," came a quiet female voice from the other side.

  Ramona sat back down. She heard slightly quick steps returning, two sets. The key turned in the lock, and another knock came. Ramona answered the door.

  "Thank you," she said quietly. A young woman in a uniform stood to the side and a man, probably the concierge, stood before her with the key. "Have you..." she looked up to the man, "have you had any word from my husband, we were supposed to be leaving this morning, within the past half hour..." her voice cracked a little, "but he... went out, while I was sleeping, and he has not come back."

  "I am sorry, Your Grace. I will have someone ask your driver." he bowed slightly.

  "Would you like something?" the young woman asked, "breakfast, tea, or assistance packing?" she asked.

  "Yes. Tea." she replied, "and my maid, Melanie, could you send for her?"

  "Of course, I will be right back."

  "Thank you."

  Ramona went back into the lonely, dark room and sat on the edge of the bed. The next knock on the door was her maid.

  "Melanie," she said, "I... I had to dress myself this morning. I..." she smiled slightly, "I am afraid I did a poor job of it,"

  "Of course, Your Grace," Melanie deftly finished doing up Ramona's buttons.

  "Shall I pack up your things?"

  "I think I got it all taken care of... thank you."

  Then tea was brought, hot breakfast, with toast and butter. She made herself eat something. It was still so dark out, the inky fog that covered the city meant she could barely see pinpoints of light here and there out of the window.

  The next knock on the door was the concierge again, with a serious look on his face. "Your Grace. We have located your husband,"

  "Where is he?" she looked past the concierge, almost expecting to see George looking sheepish.

  "There has been an accident."

  "My God, where is he?" Ramona's voice became shrill.

  "He is downstairs, we have summoned a doctor. One of the men found him a half hour ago. He has been stabbed."

  "Stabbed?" she exclaimed, "who would do such a thing?" she rushed forward.

  "A street person, most likely. He was on the street. He may have been mugged."

  "I would like to see him." she said, shaking.

  "Of course I understand, Your Grace, but he does not look himself."

  "I don't care. For God's sake, take me to him."

  "Yes, of course."

  She followed the concierge out and down the two flights of steps to the ground floor.

  "We took him to the nearest empty room, Your Grace," the concierge explained on the way.

  George’s hair was mussed, he was so pale, with sweat shining on his brow. He no longer looked hale, hearty, or swarthy, just a little sallow and sick. His eyes were closed, the lids looked bruised and dark. His shirt had been taken off and a sheet wrapped tightly around his waist. He had a curl across his brow. It was the most unlike him, the thing that made her heart clench slightly, a hair out of place.

  She ran to his side, started to reach for his hand and then held herself back. Did she have the right, as his wife, had he offered her his hand before? She thought of holding tightly to him the night that they had kissed, she took his hand in hers.

  "George," she said, quietly. She sat down in a chair someone, she didn’t see who, had pulled over for her. She held his hand tightly. She waited.

  When the doctor came he made her wait in the hall. She tore herself away from George. The concierge offered her something to eat in the dining area. She looked at him with wild eyes. "I have to stay here," she said. "He... he is... he is my husband," it felt somehow natural to say it, suddenly. "He is my husband."

  "Of course, Your Grace. Please let me bring you a chair,"

  She sat down. She sat down across from the doorway and stared at the paneling, every line in the wood, the swirls of knotholes and rings. She counted them, she looked at the space between the carpet and the wall, she saw the shapes of flowers and fruit on the ceiling panels. She remembered every detail of the hallway, when the door opened, changing the scene perversely, she tried to peer inside and see the Doctor leaned over the bed. Someone took in water and bandages. She heard a clock somewhere strike six in the morning. She felt herself breathe when she felt like she was about to forget how.

  The door finally opened and the doctor stood before her. "He has lost a lot of blood, but no vital organs were damaged. He was bleeding for a couple of hours before the valet found him."

  "Is he okay?" she asked, "Is he going to be okay?" like a frantic little bird.

  "I think so, but it is hard to say at this stage. The blood loss has weakened him and if the wound becomes infected, it could be very bad. It must be kept clean. I can send for an agency nurse to attend to it."

  "Is it something I could do?" she asked.

  "Yes, if you felt comfortable. You may not realize how unpleasant a job it will be. The wound or sight of blood may unhinge you."

  "I would like to feel like I was helping him." Ramona said. "I think I can stand it."

  "I will take you in and show you what would need to be done, but it is very important that you do it regularly."

  "I understand."

  "And he should not be moved for the time being. This would, I am sure, all be much easier in your own home, but until the crisis has passed, he should stay right where he is."

  "Of course," Ramona said.

  The sight of the wound was shocking, it was not large, it had been stitched up, but still seeped a clearish pink liquid. There was a dressing which that had to be changed every few hours, the wound washed with soap and water and cleaned with alcohol before another, fresh bandage could be applied. The bandages themselves required preparation, to be sterilized she would have to have access to boiling water, and keep the bandages stored cleanly afterward.

  The concierge brought a cot for her, so that she could catch rest between changes, and had all of her belongings moved from the upper story to a room next door so that she could retire to attend to her toiletries when she needed to.

  She found the most unnerving thing to be the fact that he did not move, except to breathe, his eyes were closed, his lids never even fluttered. The doctor said he had given him a sedative since sudden movement, as he was sure to make when waking up in such pain, would be bad for his condition.

  Briefly a Police Inspector, Charles Mibson, came to speak to Ramona, to go over with her the contents of George's pockets and discern what may be missing. He had a few scraps of paper there, notes about reservations in inns along the way to Loathewood, but Ramona was sure that his pocket watch was missing. She could remember it fairly well, she had been aware of it before their bungled engagement, and just hours before in the carriage from the church, he had kept it pulled out in his lap, watching the hands move impatiently. It was gold, and had engraved some design of flowers, there were words but she had never looked closely at them. She did not know what else he had in his pocket, nothing had been left out on the table in their room and she had not gone through his bags. She presumed he carried a wallet of some sort. No cigarette case, she had never seen him smoke. He wore no jewelry, he left his cravat and pin and cuff links in the room.

  The Police Inspector grimaced. There was not much to go on and it seemed to be a petty theft. Though it was surely a despicable crime to stab a Duke on his wedding night, it was unlikely that they would find the culprit. This sort of thing was too common and there were too many pawnbrokers in the city receiving too many stolen items every day to find the one who got the pocket watch and remembered who from. They were in the business of not remembering, anyw
ay.

  He thanked her and Ramona went back to her quiet vigilant watch over her new husband.

  Chapter Seven

  That night she felt her anxieties replaced by totally new ones. The previous became embarrassingly insignificant. So her relationship with her husband was to be unconventional. If they were both aware of this, they could easily adjust and live a perfectly amiable life. If her husband died, she would never speak to him again. She had been guaranteed one thing the day before, she would have some tie to this man for the rest of their lives. She would be in some form his companion. She had not imagined that this life together could be so short or that she would be his nursemaid in mere hours.

  She washed his wound, applied cool, wet flannels to his forehead, and waited. She felt so tired and dishevelled. After spending most of the day with him, she had become moist with sweaty agitation, though she washed her hands in scalding water once an hour, she felt the smell of the sickroom permeating her clothing. She could hardly stand it anymore, her appetite had been severely weakened by the sight of George's injury, and she had merely nibbled on bits of bread. When a soft knock on the door alerted her to the presence of visitors she did not have a single thought for her own appearance. She simply opened the door like an automaton.

  Her parents. They had heard about the accident in the evening paper, why had she not called for them?

  "Poor child, you were so distraught, it did not occur to you that we could come and alleviate this burden for you!" Lady Havishamble said, "What are you doing here in the sickroom? Oh he looks ghastly, my dear. I do hope you have gotten pregnant before this, in case he does not make it."

  "Mother!" Ramona felt the bile rising. "What a terrible thing to say. He will be fine. Don’t say otherwise."

  "Well yes, yes of course he will be fine dear." Her mother gave her a pat. "But let us get out of this room. It smells atrocious, and oh, you look horrible darling." Lady Havishamble grimaced.

  "I will be staying here." Ramona said, "I have been sitting with him, and attending to his bandages."

  "You poor thing! We will find someone to do that for you. You will not change another bandage! Daddy," she addressed Lord Havishamble, "Daddy, do have someone called in. Aren't there... agencies or something, for nurses? Send for someone, at once!"

  "No, mother. I have chosen to do this." Ramona said meekly.

  "Well you look and smell disgusting and I will not have it, dearest." Her mother said. "I can't stand it another moment!" she left the room, trying to incite Ramona to follow.

  She did not follow. She went back to her chair by George's bedside and sat straight up. She felt a renewed strength.

  Her father stood between her and the door, in the hallway her mother looked at him archly. "I am sorry, dear," he said to Ramona, as he left the room. She heard her mother's voice in the hall, slightly raised, a word here and there.

  "Do something!" her mother said shrilly. There was a softly mumbled reply.

  Her father returned. "When do his bandages need attention?" he asked.

  "Not for another hour or two," Ramona admitted.

  "I can stay with him for that time. Your mother just wants you to take care of yourself. Take a bath, put on fresh clothes. Have you eaten anything today?" he asked.

  "Not much," she said, "Fine. My room is next door. The concierge will call for the doctor if anything goes wrong, go to him first, and then come for me."

  She paused by her father, said "Thank you," and smiled weakly, trying to find that renewed strength again, to face her mother.

  She passed her in the hall. She did not address her with eye contact, "I am going to my room," she said. Her mother followed closely, of course, making little cooing noises and fluttering the feathers in her hat.

  "Now dear, do tell me what happened!" Lady Havishamble pressed.

  "He was pickpocketed this morning, they stabbed him. Took his pocket watch, perhaps his wallet. That is all there is to tell."

  "Well! I will be speaking to my MP, that’s for certain, a Duke accosted on his wedding night, in the very heart of the city!" she exclaimed, "it should be illegal!"

  "I rather think that it is," Ramona said, raising an eyebrow.

  "Can you help me with my dress?" Ramona asked, lifting her loose hair from her neck.

  "I will call for Melanie," her mother said, looking at the sweat stained collar with disdain.

  "There is not time. I just want out of it so I can bathe." she exclaimed in exasperation.

  "Oh fine!" her mother said, picking at the buttons somewhat ineffectively. It probably would have been quicker to call for Melanie, her mother made sure of it.

  This new room was not as fine or intimately laid out as their bridal suite. Just a bed, a chair by the fireplace, a small table with one chair and, instead of a separate dressing room, a small cramped room with a bathtub and water closet. Blessed hot water came from the pipes and that was all that Ramona could ask for. She pulled off the rest of her clothes and ignored everything her mother tried to say to her. Scrubbed and pink she found a lighter dress from her traveling trunk, lamenting the fact that most of her things had been sent on to Loathewood. With grudging assistance from Lady Havishamble, she found herself dressed snugly just as a small dinner of cold meats and warm breads was arriving.

  She ate it almost without tasting. It was a stark contrast to the sumptuous meal she had the night before, and she was in a rush to get back to George. It was almost time to change his bandages again, and she took the doctor’s order for promptness in the matter of staving off infection very seriously. If she could just see George's brown eyes again, hear his deep voice. She sighed wistfully.

  After she had finally convinced her parents that she would not be changing her mind about caring for George herself, they left, her mother loudly protesting the whole time.

  Ramona changed George's bandages and curled up on the small, uncomfortable cot once more, hoping to snag a bit of sleep, she asked that she be woken in 2 and a half hours. This is how she spent the night, snatching sleep in between fresh bandages, trips to the water closet, washing her hands, boiling more bandages, dreaming strange snippets that seemed to meld with the actual night and add to the surrealness of the situation.

  Chapter Eight

  George opened his eyes. The sun had not risen but the sky was beginning to lighten through an unfamiliar window. He felt absolutely terrible. He tried to sit up but the pain was overwhelming and he felt incredibly weak, far too weak to risk standing. He looked around the room, almost missing the cot so near him, with the softly sleeping young woman curled up on it.

  "Ramona," he tried to say, but his voice was weak, his throat unbelievable parched.

  She fidgeted in her sleep, a furrow to her brow before she awoke, she was sleeping too lightly to miss even this quiet sound of his voice.

  It took her a moment to find herself, and when she did she was already standing beside George holding a cool wet cloth to his forehead, saying, "Rest darling, rest."

  "Water," he said, lifting his fingers weakly to his lips.

  "Yes, of course, of course." she turned quickly and poured a glass from the pitcher near her cot. She helped him sit up enough to drink it. He gulped down the glass and asked for more, she gave it to him.

  The second glass accomplished, she lay him back down on his pillow. He wanted to talk, to ask what had happened, but she did not want him to exert himself.

  "You’ll be okay. Let me take care of you, there is nothing to worry about, if we are very careful you are in no danger. I promise that knowing what happened would only excite you to no purpose."

  "I was outside, I was... stabbed?" he asked, trying to feel the wound, tightly wrapped, on his lower back.

  "Yes, leave it alone. You lost a lot of blood." she said. "If you can't rest on your own, I will have to call the doctor in to sedate you again." she said, "and I would rather not. You slept so unnaturally deep... it frightened me."

  "Of course I don’t want a dam
ned sedative," he chuckled and it hurt, "yes. I will be good, my little nurse. I will be good." he felt the heaviness of his eyelids. He looked at her sweet and earnest face one last time before slipping back into sleep.

  In some perverse way, things became more comfortable between them. Ramona found herself waking up with her head on the bed, holding onto George's hand, and she did not flush or retreat, she smiled and closed her eyes again.