by Rye Hart
Cressida turned the doorknob and opened the door.
Lord Richard was sitting in front of his window. His room was crowded with furniture; a magnificent desk, an armoire, numerous tables, and an enormous four-poster bed with elaborate brocade bed curtains concealing the mattress within. The room was an untidy mess of discarded clothing, a tray with a half-eaten meal pushed to the side, and shoes and boots strewn without mates in corners. She suspected that the clutter revealed Lord Richard’s lack of patience as his valet attempted to tidy the bedchamber. Before she could possibly effect changes in the Viscount’s health, his surroundings needed a brisk cleaning.
“Who the hell are you?” Lord Richard demanded. “Put that down. Those are my belongings.”
“They should be either put away or laundered,” she replied evenly as she continued to pick up the garments.
“What are you doing in my bedchamber?” Lord Richard demanded.
“Just now, I am apparently your maid. Once the room is restored to order, I will be your nursemaid. My name is Cressida Lockwood.”
“Get out!” he ordered. He had a very handsome face, she noted dispassionately. A fine, noble forehead framed by thick dark hair showed a face that displayed what in better times would have been a man of refinement and charm. Now, lines of temper marred his lips and his eyes were narrowed in anger.
Cressida went on with her task. “We have much to accomplish if you are going to walk again, but we can do nothing as long as your bedchamber is in such disarray. How do you expect to move from one spot to the other if you are tripping over cravats and Hessian boots?”
“You are much ill-informed,” he told her. “I don’t expect to trip at all because I cannot walk.”
“Do you accept that?”
“My acceptance is irrelevant. Are you a fool?”
“I am not, fortunately for you.”
“Have the lunatic asylums emptied out? That is the only explanation for your presence in my room.”
“To the best of my knowledge,” she said, stepping over the heap of shoes in the middle of the room, “the asylums remain occupied. Let me introduce myself a second time, since you perhaps did not hear me the first. I am Cressida Lockwood, Lord Richard. I am to be your nursemaid.”
“I don’t need a nursemaid, Miss Lockwood.”
He was sitting down and she was standing. Clearly he felt himself at a disadvantage, having to look up to her. She sat down in the chair next to him.
“Do you not? Do you propose to heal yourself? You do not appear to be having much success. What have you been doing to restore your mobility?”
He stared at her. For a brief instant, she could see the heartbreaking despair visible in his dark, liquid brown eyes. Then his expression returned to its former indignation. “I pray daily, Miss Lockwood, for a miracle,” he said flippantly. “But God is not hearing my prayers.”
“Perhaps you should speak to the vicar. I cannot offer advice on that score. Is that the horse that threw you?”
“The vicar---what? Yes, that’s El Diablo.”
“Why do you watch him?”
“Because he’s a damned magnificent animal, of course; the finest horse I ever rode.”
“Do you suppose he remembers you?”
“I suppose that he chuckles into his oats every time he recalls the moment,” Lord Richard replied. “He’s an arrogant brute, but one must forgive him.”
“Why? I should think you would detest the sight of him.”
“You know very little about it. You are clearly not a rider.”
“Nothing to match you,” she agreed cheerfully. “But if you don’t hate him for the accident, I wonder that you do not go to him.”
“I beg his pardon for neglecting my social obligations to the equine class, but as you can see, I am bound to my room and I cannot go where I will.”
“Do you have a chair? If you had a chair with wheels, as many in your circumstances do, you could move more freely.”
“I could not make my way, even with a wheelchair, out of the house, down the stairs, and across the grounds.”
“In stages, you could do just that. You should consider it,” she said, surveying his face with a critical eye. “You are beginning to look pasty-skinned. If you continue to be inactive, you will become quite portly. You will commence to look older than your years.”
Clearly taken aback by her matter-of-fact recital of the physical flaws which awaited him, Lord Richard’s eyebrows raised. “The lunatic asylums have indeed emptied,” he said resignedly. “The chief lunatic has invaded my home. Tell me, are you Joan of Arc or Cleopatra?”
“If I were inclined to be delusional, I believe I might as well aspire to be Sekhmet.”
“Who?”
“The Egyptian goddess of healing,” she supplied.
He gave her a derisive look. “Oh, certainly; one might as well aim for deification.”
“Certainly. Joan of Arc and Cleopatra did not end well. Burned at the stake, a snake bite, no, I think that if I’m to be a lunatic, I should like to be a goddess.”
“Perhaps I should also count myself as a god,” he suggested. “Hephaestus and I have certain things in common. We’re both cripples. Of course, he could still walk.”
“He limped,” she agreed. “But that would be progress for you, would it not?”
Chapter Four
Her words were intended to prod him. But he said nothing in response. His gaze returned to the window. Outside, El Diablo stood, his proud head raised as if he were listening to the wind speak in his language.
“Yes, Miss Lockwood, limping would be progress. Please leave. I apologize for my rude behavior. But there is no courteous way to tell you that you are not welcome here and that your presence in my private quarters is an intrusion. You must leave.”
“Your father hired me.”
“Then he can sack you,” Lord Richard retorted, restored to ill temper.
“He would have to pay me for work I have not done,” she said amiably. “It would be a very bad business arrangement.”
“He’ll show you the door and damn your impudence!”
“My arrangement with all my clients is that I must be paid, once I am hired. Fortunately, I have been successful and after my patients finished their tantrums and had the courage to make an effort to restore themselves, they did not want me to leave until I had helped them achieve their goals. Are you less than they?”
“Miss Lockwood, I am weary of—“
“You are weary because you are lazy,” she said kindly. “Doing nothing of purpose all day is enervating.”
“You are insulting! How dare you speak so to me? You are a nobody and you have the audacity to address me in such a manner?”
“I am very much your equal in this, Lord Richard. I am as determined as you are defeated; as knowledgeable as you are ignorant; as skilled as you are untutored. I can help you if you will agree to help yourself instead of closeting yourself in your bedchamber to wallow in the self-pity that you inflict on your family and your household servants as if their affection and respect mean nothing. You have done nothing to deserve their regard and yet you expect to be permitted to berate them indiscriminately, when their only crime against you is that they can walk and you cannot. Is it not time that you conducted yourself in the manner of a former officer and demonstrate that you were worthy to wear the uniform?”
“You know nothing of a man’s life in the military,” he said wearily. He was not looking at her. Once again, his eyes were fixed on the sight of El Diablo outside the window.
“You are quite wrong. A number of my former patients were soldiers. They impressed me with their bravery when they were not facing guns or bayonets.” She stood up. “I will leave you for now, but I will return tomorrow morning and we will begin our work together. But first, I have something for you.”
From the inside of the cuff of her blouse, she pulled out a white feather. “I believe that you understand the meaning of this?”
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Lord Richard’s eyes blazed. “You importunate woman!” he said, his voice low, the syllables rumbling over a rough-hewn path of his angry words. “How dare you call me a coward?”
She was heading toward the door. “If you will not rise to the challenge before you, then I must regard you as a coward.”
“Don’t you dare leave before I dismiss you! You are a servant and you have the effrontery to leave before I have given you permission?”
“Then stop me,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
She was not surprised, hours later, when a servant came to tell her that the Earl would see her in the library. It was patently a command, and one that she had been expecting. Cressida put down the journal into which she had been recording her notes from her first meeting with Lord Richard and followed the servant down to the library.
The Earl was angry. At his side, his wife appeared worried.
“Miss Lockwood, I have just come from my son’s bedroom. I am offended that you would come into my home and insult my son. He has been horribly afflicted from his fall and you show him the white feather and term him a coward? By what right do you behave in such a manner?”
“My lord, you hired me to help your son. He has enough people who feel sorry for him. He needs someone who does not pity him. That someone is me. Is he angry at me? Good. Perhaps he will endeavor to prove me wrong. Please have his manservant go to his room and clean it. It has the appearance of an East End lodging room badly in need of attention. Then, please have some of your servants remove the furniture that is not needed. He needs a bed, and his desk, two chairs, one by the window, and the table. Everything else must go. It is impossible for him to exercise when all the space is taken up with furniture. One more thing: he will need a chair with wheels. He has isolated himself in his bedchamber and that is unhealthy. He needs stimulation. How soon can you procure one?”
The Earl had intended to deliver a stinging rebuke to Miss Lockwood, but her observations were sound. He saw that his wife was paying close attention to the conversation. She would never disagree with him in public, but he sensed that she perceived value in the young woman’s abilities.
“We will have the furniture removed,” Lady Constance said. “You are quite right. The room is not conducive to my son making any progress of any kind. My husband had a chair manufactured immediately after Lord Richard’s accident. He has refused to use it.”
“Splendid!” Cressida said, clapping her hands together as if she were applauding the couple for their actions. “We don’t have to wait. Your son and I will go down to the stables tomorrow morning. It’s high time that Lord Richard renewed his acquaintance with the horse that caused this injury.”
“Miss Lockwood,” the Earl began cautiously, realizing that this young woman, if challenged, could be a most worthy foe. “I wanted to have El Diablo put down after the accident, but my son would not let me. I am not at all sure that it would be wise to bring him into contact with that monstrous beast.”
“The horse represents an adversary who vanquished him,” Cressida said. “Adversaries must meet; often they are the only ones who truly understand each other.”
“Miss Lockwood,” Lady Constance began. “I agree with you that his chamber must be cleared of obstacles, and heaven knows it needs a good cleaning. But he will be most upset to have his possessions removed. He has a pistol.”
“He will not use it. Send servants with whom he does not customarily interact. He will likely resent their actions for some time and it would be unfair to inflict that burden on those servants who are caring for him daily. Send them in together, and under no circumstances are they to say anything to him other than what is necessary. They simply need to state that they are obeying their orders. He must be told why the furniture is being removed, and why the chamber is being cleaned: it is so that he will be able to walk. They have their orders. ”
“I fear that poor Rheims has a terrible time of it. He and my son were once very amiable together, but now he treats Rheims shabbily,” Lady Constance said sadly.
“That will change. The furniture must go, but the pistol can stay. He will not use it,” Cressida repeated.
The Earl visibly relaxed. Why, he could not say, but there was something about Miss Lockwood that inspired confidence. “If you are wrong, Miss Lockwood,” he said, “you can be sure that I will prosecute you for your error.”
“Understood, Your Lordship, but please keep in mind that, if I am wrong, I would be dead. If he were to shoot anyone, it would be me.”
“I am fearful that he will do harm to himself.”
“He will not. He is angry at his situation but he is not yet in despair. That is the situation which we intend to avert.”
“Thank you, Miss Lockwood,” said Lady Constance. “I have told Cook that you will take your meals with Nanny. I shall show you to the nursery.”
The discussion in the servants’ hall at supper that night was lively. Rheims’ disclosures to the staff were, just as Louis’ had been earlier, a revelation. Mr. Lincoln pursed his lips and was doubtful. It was not for him to gainsay what the Earl had decided, but it was obvious that the nursemaid did not understand how to deal with the gentry. Barbara, the maid who had been sent to clean Lord Richard’s room while two of the groundskeepers removed furniture, reported that Lord Richard had been in a proper pet when the men began moving out his belongings. He was so enraged that he had barely noticed her, and she’d been able to work quickly.
“It looks very peculiar now,” she said, “with almost nothing in the room. But if he really is going to walk again, I suppose the nurse must be right. He’d never be able to take a step with all of that still in there.”
Rheims was relieved that he hadn’t been given the assignment. “Miss Lockwood told me that he will need to be dressed for outside tomorrow,” he informed the others. “He’s going to be taken down to the stables to meet up with that horse.”
“The stables!” Mr. Lincoln exclaimed. “She must be mad!”
Rheims said nothing; it was not for him to dispute Mr. Lincoln’s verdict. But he privately thought that perhaps Miss Lockwood’s brand of madness was exactly what the Viscount needed.
Chapter Five
Lord Richard had too much pride to balk like a recalcitrant child in front of the grounds men and his nurse when she informed him that his wheelchair awaited him outside, and that the men were there to carry him to it so that they could go outside to take advantage of the lovely October day. She had counted on this reaction and maintained a sunny flow of chatter as he sat, sullen and stiff, in the makeshift chair the two men made with their hands as they bore him out of the manor house. Cressida thanked them once Lord Richard was outside and seated in his chair.
“I’ll wheel now, until Lord Richard is doing it on his own,” she told the grounds men sunnily before dismissing them.
“Might I ask where we’re going? Or is this an abduction?”
“Don’t you know? The stable lads have been instructed to bring out El Diablo. I expect that he has missed your company. Animals are very loyal, you know.”
“El Diablo is not loyal,” Lord Richard argued. “He is a horse. He threw me. It’s quite simple and only a prattling woman would decide that what’s needed to make me walk again is a reunion with the beast that threw me.”
“It’s not simple in the least. You will probably have to regain his respect. And perhaps allow him to apologize.”
Lord Richard turned in his chair to glare at her. “You ought to write children’s stories,” he told her, sneering. “Pennington and the Penitent Horse.”
“That’s splendid!” she announced. “Perhaps I will do so. I shall have to credit you with the idea. Or rather, I shall have to name you as the author; it’s very difficult, I hear, for a woman authoress to have a manuscript accepted for publication. Only think how well received a manuscript from Lord Richard Pennington would be. Do you draw at all? Someone will need to do the illustrations.”
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br /> “You’re mad,” he said with resignation, turning back around. “Quite barking mad.” But his tone was moderate and as she pushed him, he looked around, noticing the trees in the beauty of their autumn coloring. Cressida doubted that even the most bitter of men could be immune to the glory of fall in England and she detected that Lord Richard was no different. His head turned to note the flowing majesty of the maple’s brilliant leaves, the stately grandeur of the bright oak and its finery, the elegant, festive look of the trees arrayed like autumnal debutantes showing off their beauty to their swains.
Richard, his senses alive to the vitality of the world as they had not been since he’d immured himself in his quarters following the accident, consumed the sights with his eyes. This was beauty beyond anything he remembered; was it truly a unique autumn, or had he been too intent on the manufactured world of the Season to bother noticing anything that was not accompanied by a saddle or a petticoat? The outside air—how had he gone without it for so long?—was like wine, aromatic and heady. Why were there no landscapes of the Pennington grounds inside the manor house? Surely there were English artists capable of recreating the scene on canvas. He would speak to his father about it this very afternoon.
Then he saw the buildings emerge. The stables came into view where he had spent so much of his youth, endlessly astride a horse, mastering the skills needed to be a cavalry officer even in his boyhood. He saw the paddock, now occupied solely by one animal, one who truly deserved his own kingdom, for there was no horse that could match him.
Cressida could see his shoulders tense, even beneath his cloak, as they approached the paddock where El Diablo awaited. The horse had noticed that he had arrivals to his realm; he watched them draw nearer as if he had not decided whether he would grant them an audience.
“He’s rather massive, isn’t he?” Cressida said.
“Seventeen hands,” Lord Richard said proudly.
“It’s no wonder that you fear him,” Cressida commented.
“Fear him? I’ve never feared a horse in my life,” he scoffed. “Who said such a thing?”