His Saving Grace

by Sharon Cullen

  “And now? Can you button your shirts now?”

  He smiled. “Yes. Now I can button my shirts.”

  “Then Tarik must have done something right.”

  “I don’t deserve him. He was there for me through it all when he didn’t need to be, and he has earned my undying loyalty. Whatever he wants, he just needs to ask.”

  “He doesn’t seem to want much. He told me he wanted to come to England. To be free of the Russians.”

  “He has that and he knows it.” Michael stood. “Shall we finish looking at the displays?”

  They strolled side by side. No one approached them. There were no more soldiers who recognized Michael, although the same couldn’t be said for some of the people strolling through the palace. Grace intercepted a few looks and nodded back to a few acquaintances, but no one attempted to speak to them.

  As the sun went down on the Crystal Palace, they were back in their carriage and on their way home. Like the ride there, this one was silent, but the silence wasn’t as easy. Michael had put his head back and fallen asleep almost immediately. Another sign that he had overexerted himself, but she would never tell him that, for he would vehemently deny it.

  She thought of their day. Of waking up next to him feeling content and happy. Of strolling through the displays and remarking on one thing or another. Of being comfortable with him and foolishly believing that the old Michael was back, possibly for good.

  She had read the newspaper articles on the Crimean War, had followed the war daily, but she had not allowed herself to really think what all of that meant for Michael. Maybe it was a way for her to shield herself from the terror of reality. Even asking Tarik about it had not brought it home to her that the clarity of meeting Trumbull had. Why Trumbull was different, she didn’t know. After all, he hadn’t gone into details of the battle. But he had been there, with Michael, in ways that Tarik had not, and that made all the difference in the world.

  She couldn’t erase the image of Michael trying to button his shirt. How devastating it would be to be aware and not know where you were, what had happened to you, or why you couldn’t perform such mundane tasks as buttoning a shirt. He had said he was ungracious, but was he frightened?

  She watched him sleep, her gaze going to the even rise and fall of his chest, then to the way his legs were splayed across the length of the carriage, his hands resting loosely over his stomach.

  He was injured.

  Far more injured than she had originally thought.

  There were no more or fewer indications than there had been before, but she was more aware of it.

  Last night at the ball, he had been able to mask his injury, but that was all it had been. They had both hoped it was more, but she realized now that Michael was merely learning to hide it.

  Chapter Twenty

  Grace drew in a deep breath and ran her hands down the skirts of her violet sprigged gown. She smoothed a strand of hair as she peered in the mirror and admitted to herself that she was wasting time, putting off what needed to be done.

  But the butterflies in her stomach would not go away. In fact, the longer she waited, the harder their wings beat against her rib cage.

  And still she waited, picking off an invisible piece of lint here, adjusting a cuff there, pointing her toe out of the bottom of her skirts to make certain she was wearing the right shoes. She was lucky that her modiste had been able to get her a few gowns on such short notice. It was nice to be able to wear something other than black and gray.

  “You have procrastinated long enough,” she scolded her mirrored image.

  She turned on her heel and went downstairs. The weather had turned warm, although it was a bit dreary, with heavy clouds moving in.

  She knocked on Michael’s door. It was opened by Tarik, who smiled and stepped aside to let her enter.

  “You are looking lovely,” Michael said from across the room.

  “As are you.” He had also been able to procure some up-to-date clothing from his tailor and was wearing a somber colored frock and trousers.

  She smiled nervously at Tarik, who shut the door behind him but first with a warm smile of encouragement.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit? You look like you’re about to go out,” Michael said.

  “I am. Or rather, we are.”

  “We are? On another adventure like yesterday?”

  “Not precisely.” Those butterflies were making a racket inside her stomach. “Before we left for London, I wrote a letter and made an appointment that I would like for you to attend with me.”

  His mild expression of interest turned to a frown of worry. “Is everything all right? This sounds ominous.”

  “Everything is fine. I made an appointment with Dr. Ridley.” Michael’s frown became deeper, and she spoke quickly. “He studied under a man named Jean-Pierre Gama. Gama made it his life work to study the brain, and I want to talk to this Ridley.”

  “No.”

  “Please, Michael. What if he can help us?”

  “I’ve been to enough doctors to last me a lifetime, Grace. None of them has anything of interest to say.”

  “But what if this one does? I have so many theories and questions that I would like to ask him. For instance, your leg. What if your weakness in your leg has something to do with your head injury? I notice it only gives out in large crowds or when the noise level is high. That has to mean something.”

  “And if it does mean something, Grace? Then what? What can he do to fix it?”

  “I don’t know, but we can find out.”

  Michael sighed and shook his head, but she could see he was weakening. Or maybe she hoped he was weakening. “This is pointless. I’ve been to some of the best doctors on the continent.”

  “I know. Just one more.”

  “It means that much to you?”

  “It means that much to us.”

  “I can’t be fixed, Grace.”

  “I’m not asking for that. I’m asking for ways in which we can cope and learn about your injury.”

  “I suppose I have no choice.”

  “Of course you have a choice.”

  Michael was silent for several moments during which Grace held her breath. If he did not go, she would go alone in the hope that Dr. Ridley could answer some of her questions.

  “Very well,” he finally said. “For you, but only because you asked me to.”

  “Oh, thank you, Michael.” She rushed over and hugged him. He was stiff and unbending, but he had agreed to go. That was something, at least.

  Dr. Ridley’s office was located in Beckenham, a fashionable area, yet not ostentatious. His office was actually in his home. They were admitted by the housekeeper, who led them to a first-floor room that seemed to be a combination drawing room, sitting room, and office. In one corner sat a large desk strewn with papers. At the other end was a sitting area with a settee and two chairs flanked by small tables covered with books and periodicals. The room was far too small for the amount of furniture crammed into it, and yet it had a cozy, lived-in feel that immediately relaxed Grace.

  The housekeeper told them that the doctor would be in momentarily. The doctor. That was what she called him, as if there were no other title, or all other titles were inconsequential.

  Grace settled onto the settee and tried not to fidget. Michael prowled the room like a caged lion. His energy and nervousness were almost too large for the small space. She felt a spark of guilt for coercing him into coming, but she also felt excitement at the prospect of talking to such an esteemed doctor about Michael’s injury.

  Dr. Ridley entered. Grace could tell right away that the room reflected the man. He was tall, with broad shoulders and longish blond hair that appeared to have had his fingers through it just recently. His brown eyes were piercing and intelligent. He seemed far too young to be a doctor, but there was a charismatic air about him. He appeared disheveled but also in control, as if more important matters occupied his time than decluttering his
home.

  “My lord, my lady. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He referred to them by their title but there was no obsequiousness about it, as if he was very confident and knew who was in charge here. And it wasn’t Grace and Michael. He waved his hand toward the settee Grace was sitting on. “Won’t you sit, my lord?”

  Michael obliged, and Dr. Ridley sat in one of the chairs across from them. “I like to chat a bit before we get into the reason why you are here. How are you enjoying your stay in London? From what I understand, you spend most of your time in the country?”

  “Yes,” Michael said. “We live in Hadley Springs but occasionally make it to London.”

  “For pleasure or business?” Dr. Ridley asked.

  “Business, mostly,” Michael said.

  Dr. Ridley nodded. Those intelligent eyes missed nothing, and yet with all the intelligence there was also a warmth, as if Michael was not just a patient but a person.

  They talked of Blackbourne Manor, answering Dr. Ridley’s questions about the house and the people who lived in the town. He asked about their current visit and, more specifically, about their visit to the Crystal Palace. He quizzed Michael on what exhibits they saw, and Grace felt Michael’s hesitation, but he covered it well, listing off a few exhibits. She noted that he did not mention the Byzantine exhibit.

  Dr. Ridley was listening intently, his attention focused on Michael as he spoke. It wouldn’t be until later that Grace would realize the examination had begun the moment Dr. Ridley entered the room. His pretext of being social was nothing more than an excuse to study Michael without him knowing it. How very clever.

  The doctor asked them about their past, how they met, when they married. Michael visibly relaxed, regaling the doctor with stories. Here Michael was more confident. And he didn’t forget words or hesitate when speaking.

  The housekeeper served tea. Dr. Ridley poured, asking Michael how he took his tea. They talked a bit more about general things, the weather, politics, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert.

  Eventually, Dr. Ridley stood and addressed Grace. “If you don’t mind, my lady, I would like to examine Lord Blackbourne privately.”

  “Of course.” Grace’s stomach knotted in a bundle of nerves. She and Michael shared a quick look.

  “There are magazines on the tables,” Dr. Ridley said. “I try to keep reading material for the ladies as well as the gentlemen. Mrs. Hopps, the housekeeper, is never far. If you need anything, just ring for her and she will be happy to oblige.”

  The two men disappeared through a side door, leaving Grace to her own devices. She located the fashion magazines. While she liked her new gowns and was happy to be out of her mourning attire, fashion had never overly appealed to her, so she quickly flipped through them. She did find a recent copy of Harper’s and reread a few articles she had read before. Then she prowled around the room, steering clear of the doctor’s desk for fear that he had sensitive papers on it.

  Mrs. Hopps came to remove the tea. “Is there anything I can get you, my lady?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Hopps.”

  Mrs. Hopps picked up the tray and stopped to look at Grace. “If I may, my lady?”

  “Of course.”

  “Dr. Ridley is a good man and a fine doctor. He’ll fix his lordship up in no time.”

  Grace smiled, warmed by Mrs. Hopps’s solid belief in her employer. It was just what she needed to hear, because she was feeling awfully guilty about dragging Michael here. Perhaps she’d made the right choice. “Thank you, Mrs. Hopps. That means a lot to me.”

  The housekeeper dipped her head. “I can see your worry. The doctor will make it right. I ain’t seen him not make it right for no one. He’s kind, too.”

  “Yes, I saw that earlier. He seems a very nice man.”

  “Smart, too. Ain’t seen a smarter man in me life.”

  It was as if Mrs. Hopps were trying to sell Dr. Ridley to Grace, when she didn’t have to. Grace was already sold. “He appeared very smart.”

  Mrs. Hopps hesitated a bit longer, as if she wanted to say more. “I heard about his lordship. It was in all the papers and such.” She shrugged. “People talk when something big like that happens. I just wanted to say I sure am glad he came back to you.”

  Grace’s eyes teared up, and her heart did a slow roll for this woman who didn’t have to say anything at all but chose to. “Thank you, Mrs. Hopps. I’m very glad he came back to me, too.”

  Appearing embarrassed, Mrs. Hopps took the tray and left the room, but her words stayed behind.

  Grace made her way to the window and looked out but didn’t see past her own reflection. I sure am glad he came back to you.

  Grace closed her eyes to keep the welling tears from falling. They had both been so wrapped up in Michael’s return to society, in finding ways to cope with his injury, in moving back into the manor house and learning to find each other again, that there were times when she forgot that Michael had returned to her.

  It was an odd thought. An even odder concept. Of course he had returned to her. Not the same man, but still Michael. Whatever happened next, whatever Dr. Ridley told them, they were together. They had weathered so much. They could do this.

  She had been in the drawing room for so long that she feared the men had moved the appointment to a gentleman’s club and completely forgotten about her. Mrs. Hopps checked on her a few times but left quickly, with no more words of encouragement.

  Finally, after nearly three hours, the men returned. Michael’s face was pinched. He was pale, his eyes flat. She recognized the signs right away. He was tired and his brain had, for all intents and purposes, shut down. Good Lord, what had she done to him?

  They all took their seats. Grace’s back was rigid, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Michael sat beside her but looked blankly into the distance.

  Dr. Ridley settled into his chair and contemplated Grace and Michael, drawing out the suspense until Grace wanted to yell at him to please tell her.

  “The brain is a complex organ,” Dr. Ridley began. “It wasn’t until recently, say the past thirty years or so, that we have come to understand that the brain controls certain functions and that certain parts of the brain control certain functions.” He tapped his finger to his forehead. “This part of the brain controls speech. This part”—he tapped the side of his head—“memory and language. From speaking at length to his lordship, I’ve determined that the left part of his brain was injured. Mysteriously, the left section of the brain controls the right side of the body. Which is the reason his knee gives out on him occasionally.” He paused and appeared to be in thought.

  Grace glanced at Michael, who was looking at Dr. Ridley with little expression. So she had been correct that his knee problems were associated with his head injury.

  “Michael’s injury also affected his speech and his short-term memory, while leaving long-term memory, or his older memories, intact. This is quite common.”

  “So what does all of this mean?” Grace asked, too anxious to wait for the prognosis.

  “Like I said, my lady, the brain is complex, and while we have learned much about it in the last several decades, there is so much more we don’t know. But I have seen my share of injuries.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees to look intently at Michael. “It has been over a year since your injury, and in my estimation, most, if not all, of your healing has already been done.”

  The air left Grace and she sat back, stunned. Michael showed no expression. He had barely blinked at the prognosis. I have made a mistake. I should have honored his request and left it be. She was devastated and angry and so guilty that she felt sick. “What does this mean?” she asked.

  “It means that the effects you see now are what you will see a year from now, two years from now, and five years from now. It’s doubtful his lordship will overly improve or improve with any significance.”

  Grace hid her shaking hands in the folds of her gown and tried to appear as if her world had not just b
een turned upside down.

  “There are ways to compensate,” Dr. Ridley was saying. “For instance, his lordship was telling me how you encouraged him to write things down during his meetings with his steward and solicitors. That was a splendid idea, and I’m quite impressed with your resourcefulness, my lady. As you’ve probably noticed, he will also tire easily. Rest is recommended. Preferably in a quiet room. Avoiding crowded events is preferable as well, but I understand that might not be feasible. Have you noticed an increase in his anger?”

  She looked at Michael, reluctant to answer when they had been concealing all of this for so long. But Michael seemed to be in his own world, locked in a brain that would never fully heal.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Dr. Ridley nodded. “That’s common. Sometimes it’s difficult for patients with injuries to their brains to control their anger.”

  Grace bristled at the word “patient.” “Excuse me, Doctor, but his lordship is not a patient. He is a man, an earl.” She wasn’t one to throw their titles around or demand respect because of their role in society. She’d always felt respect was earned by actions and not birthright. Michael had definitely earned his title, if that was the case. But she wanted the doctor to remember that Michael was still a man, even if his brain didn’t function like it used to.

  “Of course, my lady, I didn’t mean to imply he wasn’t. I was referring to other patients.” He didn’t seem intimidated or even appear remorseful.

  “So there is no hope for a full recovery?” she asked.

  “There is always hope, my lady. Every person is different, and everyone heals differently, but based on my research and on past patients, I have not encountered anyone who has fully recovered from an injury to the brain.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Michael walked into the townhouse, but before he could head straight to his rooms, Grace stopped him on the steps with a hand on his arm. “Michael.”

  He paused but didn’t turn around.