The Model Master

by Sorcha MacMurrough

  She stared at him again. He really didn’t despise her for being poor and homeless? "I'd like to tell you some time. You deserve the truth. But not now. Now I need to-"

  "Yes, quite. Off you go, Madam."

  With a final nod she scurried to do as he had instructed.

  Michael didn’t waste any time trying to salvage the children’s clothing. A pair of shears soon had the chesty child Darren’s shirt off, and he began to work on getting his sodden trousers removed. He did the same with young Gavin, and threw a blanket over them both.

  He began to peer through the small glass panels of the medicine cabinet to see what he needed. A pity there wasn’t a key. Blake had taken it with him, attached to his watch chain as always, and he was miles away at Jerome Manor. He could try to pick the lock, or he could simply break the doors. It was an emergency, after all. Blake would understand.

  He began to work at the lock with the poker from the hearth first. When that failed, he shielded his eyes and smashed the glass. He ran the poker round the window frame to removed any jagged shards, and began to help himself to the medicines. With a shudder he looked at the bottle of laudanum as if it were a coiled snake.

  He could still… No, not when there were children in the house, and this poor young woman needed him. Not when he had been given a sign.

  The woman came running into the room a few moments later, her eyes wide with alarm. She had changed into one of his shirts, but had not fastened it fully. Her shoulders slumped in relief, baring her cleavage and stomach down to her navel. "I’m sorry. I heard glass smashing. I didn’t know what to think."

  "I needed to get into the medicine cabinet, but had no key," he managed to say, his mouth so dry he thought his tongue had shriveled. "Watch the broken glass."

  He stared at her like a man worshipping a goddess. For indeed she was divine. There was no other word to describe the creamy valleys of her body, which despite her thinness reminded him of a lushly rolling hillside.

  He swallowed hard past the lump of desire lodged in his throat and asked, "What’s you name? Unless your want me to keep calling you Madam, of course."

  "Bryony," she said truthfully, not wanting to tell more lies than absolutely necessary to this man who had been so kind to her thus far.

  "Very well, Bryony. I’m Michael. Michael Avenel. You aren’t squeamish, are you?"

  "No, but I don’t think I’m very good at nursing. I mean, we had servants for that sort of thing, and the children are hardly ever sick, and-"

  "Don’t start to blub now," he said harshly, trying to take his mind off the fact that she was completely naked under his shirt. He could see a shadow at the apex of her thighs which filled him with all sorts of wild desires and imaginings. It had been so long… And she was exquisite.

  "It will be all right, Bryony. We’ll both do the best we can, lass. Tie back your sopping hair with a towel or something, and go off to get the brandy."

  She came back a short time later with her hair wrapped as though she were wearing a nun’s veil, with two bottles of brandy and the decanter.

  "Good. Now fetch some hot water, some cotton cloths, peppermint, and the mustard and bread. Then come back here to build up the fire until it’s blazing."

  He stared at her as she paused to fasten the garment around her curvaceous body. For a moment she almost shimmered in front of him, like a mirage in the desert. Or a spirit? A vision of heaven?

  Damn. He could feel himself growing more and more fanciful and sleepy from the laudanum and wine he had consumed. "And make me some coffee, please. I need to stay awake and alert."

  "So do I," she said numbly.

  He nodded. "You can rest soon, I promise. You just have to hold yourself together for a little while longer. You’ve been very brave, Bryony. A good mother. You just need to be brave for a short time more, help me assist them. We can do this together, without the doctor, all right?"

  Her terrified trembling began to subside. "Thank you, Mr. Avenel. You’re very kind."

  He stared at her. Kind? He had been a magnificent bringer of death in his day. The very thought of him saving a life would have been absurd. Yet he had helped his brother and his mess mates when they had been ill…

  "Go get those things now, there’s a good girl."

  She nodded. With one small hiccoughing sob she left.

  He busied himself measuring out some quinine for fever and some calamine lotion for their skin. He almost reached for the laudanum, but dragged his hand back and got out the valerian instead.

  He even resisted the small empty phials he could have used to pour off some of the powerful narcotic. He had been a fool. The Avenels were no cowards. Nor would he be now.

  "Get thee behind me, Satan," he muttered as he wheeled away from the drug cabinet, putting his back to it.

  Bryony needed him now. He wasn't much of a knight in shining armor, but he was all she had. He'd never been a very religious man, but he was sure her arrival was no coincidence. That her stopping him from committing suicide had to be a sign.

  Fate had taken a hand. Michael would just have to wait to see what cards he'd been dealt, for good or ill. He would help the luckless children with the little ability he possessed, and try to keep his hands off their stunningly beautiful mother.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Michael's resolve to keep his distance from the gorgeous Bryony was easier said than done when she returned a short time later with her booty from the kitchen, including some steaming coffee.

  Most people were standoffish because of his wheelchair, as if what was wrong with him might infect them too.

  But she came right up to him to hand him his coffee, and waited patiently while he took the first sip.

  "All right?"

  "Perfect."

  She nodded shyly, pleased, and patted his shoulder.

  The warmth of her little fingers coursed through him, and she looked surprised and even mildly alarmed at the solid, bunched muscles under his jacket.

  She tiptoed away from him like a timid mouse, and began to lay out her supplies. He took another sip of the coffee, and watched her graceful movements as she worked.

  "Very good. Let's get started."

  "Yes, sir."

  Michael had her wrap the bread in cloth, soak it, then wet the powdered mustard seed, spread it on the bread, and slap the whole onto Darren’s chest.

  The boy grizzled at the contact with the hot poultice, but Michael trapped his thin wrists with one hand so he could not try to haul it off himself. Michael flattened it so it covered nearly all of the lad’s chest, and told him to breath deeply.

  "Now the peppermint, into this small basin," Michael instructed. "Turn his face this way, and drape a thick towel over his head and the basin, sealing the steam in. Usually he would sit up for this, but he’s far too weak at the minute. Just make sure he doesn’t choke on his own sputum. You can keep his windpipe clear by pulling up on his neck with one hand, pushing his forehead to tilt it with your other, and turning the head to the basin."

  "Like this?" she asked, meeting his gaze as he observed her working with her small hands.

  "Very good. Now drape him. We’ll need to change the water about every ten minutes to keep up the steam effect."

  He picked up one of the bottles she had brought. "In the meantime we’re going to bathe him with the brandy from head to toe to get the fever down. You do that whilst I have a look at young Gavin here."

  He examined him and ordered, "Cucumber if you can find any, honey and water, and cabbage leaves for his eyes. Wash the vegetables well. We also need to get his fever down. I’ll consult with Blake’s herbals on the blindness."

  "Blake?"

  "Dr. Blake Sanderson, the doctor who lives here with his wife Arabella."

  "I see. And you’re his friend?"

  He nodded. "That’s right."

  "Why is my son blind?" she asked quietly.

  "A complication of the measles, I fear. It’s rare, but I have heard of it
. His vision should return eventually. But the poor little mite must be terrified. Just keep talking to him, soothing him. He’ll know your voice even if he doesn’t understand the words or what’s happened to him."

  She nodded. "I will."

  She came back a short time later with the cucumber, cut into inch-thick slices which she had immersed in a bowl full of cool water.

  "Very good," he said, looking up from the book and satisfied he was doing all he could for both boys for the moment.

  "I remembered this from when I was a child."

  She applied the compresses and bathed Gavin with the brandy. As she did so she spoke to both boys.

  "We’re safe now. No more nasty storm. We’re safe and warm, with nice Mr. Avenel here to help us. We won’t let anything bad happen to you. We’re going to be dry, and warm and clean. We’re going to have something to eat, milk and bread. Maybe even an egg, or some broth or gruel if we’re really lucky.

  "And we’re going to have a nice place to live, and warm clothes. Maybe a little room somewhere, with a small bed for the three of us. Also a hearth, and wood for a lovely roaring fire. Perhaps if we’re really lucky we might have a book or two."

  "And a puppy?" Darren asked faintly.

  "Yes, even a puppy, though you would both have to help Mummy look after him. I would have to have work to support all of us, you see, and so you would need to be quiet and still, and not cry."

  "We would still have to hide so no one found us," Darren sighed. "We couldn’t stay at the nice little room."

  She tried to sound bright and cheerful. "We could try. Even if we couldn’t, we would just move on again like we always have. Take the puppy with us. We might find a better place."

  "All the places been bad, Mummy. Bad men."

  "I know, love."

  "Bad men mean to Mummy."

  "I know. But they’re not going to be mean to you."

  "Father mean to Mummy. I remember," Darren revealed.

  She felt herself flush, and did her best to avert her gaze from Michael’s glittering pale blue one.

  "Yes, but Father is dead now. Now it’s Uncle Derek and Grandmother who are mean. So we’re here."

  "In the woods," little Gavin piped up. "But it’s so cold. I liked summer, but cold now. Nasty. Muddy. Rain. Wind. Tunda."

  "That’s right, love. Thunder. But we’re safe now. Mr. Avenel has helped us, taken us in. We can stay here tonight."

  "You no be mean to my Mummy?" Darren asked plaintively.

  "No, lad, I wouldn’t dream of being mean to your Mummy," Michael said gently, not daring to look up for fear she might see the tears in his eyes.

  Bryony watched him as his huge hands stroked the cool cloth down her son’s brow, neck and chest. How could anyone so enormous be so gentle?

  She shivered at the thought of his hands upon her. Her husband had been a large man, but this one was a giant by comparison, easily over six foot five if she had to guess. One of his hands was enough to cradle both of her own with plenty of room to spare. Why, he could curve them to span her waist around and never even touch it.

  She looked at Michael openly now, no longer attempting to shield her gaze. "Thank you. This is more than I deserve."

  "Deserving doesn’t come into it, Bryony. You need my help. I’m happy to give it. I’m sorry if I was churlish before. I’m just not accustomed to company, least of all a lady’s."

  She stared at him in puzzlement. "I thought you said Blake is married, to Arabella, I think you said. Does she not count as a lady?"

  He scowled. "Yes, of course. But she’s a married woman. You I take to be a lone widow, and therefore in need of my protection and respect. I ought not to take my, my pain out on you."

  "I don’t mind. I’m used to it. My husband had no such scruples. Nor his brother either, should I be foolish enough to agree to marry him."

  "I see. So you ran away? Have been living off the land in the forest, trying to find work?" he guessed.

  "Yes."

  "And the men have seen a desperate and, if I may say so, lovely young widow, and sought to take advantage?"

  "Just so," she said with quiet dignity.

  "Are you hurt, injured?"

  "Not now, no. I was when my husband died, and shortly thereafter. A couple of times since. Not raped, no," she said, observing his alarm. "Mauled a few times. Hence the woods. Most of the time I can beg some bread or supplies from a housewife who feels sorry for the boys. Occasionally I run into a man or two, though."

  He looked completely outraged. "Not to mention the fact that the woods here were the favourite haunt of a band of highwaymen not all that long ago," he said with a shake of his head. "Good Lord, child, you have no idea how fortunate you’ve been. I’m amazed you’ve survived as long as you have unmolested."

  She shrugged. "The locals hereabouts are superstitious. There are the ruins of the old monastery not too far away. Few people ever go there. If they happen to, we can usually convince them there’s a ghost or something nasty."

  She gave a small smile. "If they chance to get really curious, there are several places we can hide. I’ve made a sort of frame of wattle and leaves. It looks like the forest floor. We all lie under it and play the quiet game, don’t we, boys?"

  "What about food, warmth?" Michael asked, shocked.

  "Rabbit snares and whatever I can manage to dig up. I’m not proud of stealing, but I’ve tried to earn a living decently. All anyone wants is temporary labour, or me to earn an indecent one. I have a tinder box, an old cooking pot. We manage."

  Michael scowled, furious at the indignities this delicate little blossom had had to suffer. "We can talk about your future when Blake and Arabella get back. I give you my word, we’re not going to cast you out now that you’ve found us."

  "Thank you. I believe you. Plenty of other men have said it, but they lied."

  He frowned. "You’re just saying that because you know I could never-"

  "I’m sorry to hear it," she said, looking at him so warmly that he blushed. "But there are other ways to give a woman pleasure, and receive it, you know. You shouldn’t feel like your life is over."

  "And what would you know about it, Madam?" he hissed angrily.

  "Were you married when it happened? Or are you married now?" she asked, calm in the face of his anger, but wondering why the thought gave her such a pang.

  "No, never. And never likely to be," he snapped.

  "I would have given anything to have had my husband leave me alone," she admitted quietly with a shake of her head. "Or anything for just one tiny bit of kindness, holding my hand, kissing me like he cared about me."

  She shook her head again, freeing herself once more from the gloomy thoughts which threatened to drag her down.

  He gazed at her in disbelief, finding it hard to imagine that any man in his right mind would not simply worship the ground this sable-haired goddess walked upon. For she was nothing if not heavenly. Her face, her figure, the sound of her voice…

  "There’s great pleasure in the little things. At least my grandad always said so. He had a bad fall off a horse. My grandmother was very devoted to him. Affectionate." Bryony reached over and took his hand for a brief moment, until he panicked and yanked it away.

  "I’m sorry," she said, shaking her head as if in a daze. "I shouldn’t have done that. I just wanted to thank you for helping us."

  He could smell the blood, hear the screams, the bang of the guns….

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Michael sat up straight, forcing the painful memories of the war to return to the dark recesses of his mind before they took him over completely.

  "I’ve told you, Bryony, I don’t want you on your back. You can stop acting like I’m interested in you in that way. And I would appreciate you not flirting with me either. It’s too bad of you to make a mockery of a cripple in such a shocking manner."

  She laughed then, a musical sound which lifted his heart as well as increased his anger. Was she actually mock
ing him!

  "Flirting. Hmm. I can’t recall the last time I was in a social situation either. The opportunity to attend balls and soirees around Millcote Forest is rather lacking."

  He shuddered, thinking what the poor young woman had had to endure amongst the gloomy old ruins, and sighed.

  "I do apologise. I was being harsh and churlish again. I’m really not myself at the moment. The storm has made me feel so unsettled," he excused himself.