12. 1812

12

1812

Fisticuffs Go Solo

At his mother’s behest, in January Warrick visited with her maggot-brain of a doctor. Or should he say, the man visited him? Rather than hauling his wrecked body to Bath, Warrick agreed to an exorbitant sum he could ill afford so the codger would travel to his London townhouse.

Only to tell Warrick, after a cursory glance, that his injuries were severe enough, and still fresh enough, not yet a full year since, that he shouldn’t expect miracles. Well, what in blazes was he going to waste his time for, then?

“I don’t need a miracle ,” he told the man with thick silver hair and kind eyes. Eyes that turned hard when Warrick finished with, “What I need is for my damn legs to work again.”

Silas Arbuckle then evaluated him so thoroughly Warrick grew uncomfortable, awkward heat running through him until it took everything he had not to show the fidgets. To halt the doomed endeavor ere it began.

Finally, the man stepped away, allowed Warrick privacy to redress himself before they spoke again.

Giving him an indecipherable look, Arbuckle cleared his throat. Then again. “The majority of fellows I have worked with thus far are not of your station. Not titled.” There was naught to say, so Warrick just held his breath, his muscles taut, and waited.

“Are you willing to do all I request for a chance at that? For your ‘damn legs’ to work?” the surgeon wanted to know.

“A chance?” Air and frustration burst forth. “Can you promise me I will walk again? Ride?” A horse. A woman . But he couldn’t say that. “ Dance? ”

“No, sir, I will not. I will tell you that I can give your legs more strength than they possess now and teach you how to do that yourself. Once any lingering inflammation has waned, and your nerves have time to recover, we just might— might , mind—be able to get you up and on your feet. Beyond that? It is entirely too soon to say.”

“Then be away with you.” He flicked his hand toward the exit. “For I do not have time to waste piddling about.”

With a tight nod, the man was gone. And to Warrick’s way of thinking, not a moment too soon.

Despite his mother’s disappointment, he refused to reconsider or to visit her and his half-siblings in Thropmoor. Better to remain here, to keep his bachelor door barred to most visitors, and his heart barred to hope.

In March, he ignored Mama’s two letters, asking if he felt well enough to vacation in Brighton with her and her husband and their boisterous brood.

The letter about Warrick making an effort to meet “suitable” brides he might find in London as the season commenced?

That one, he answered.

Briefly:

Not yet.

–W

As to the “spy”, Giles, his mother had hired as valet?

No quarter wages had seen the annoyance on his way soon enough, leaving Warrick to make do with Shieldings, whom he preferred anyhow.

Nearly thirty years his senior and in his employ as long as he could recall, Shieldings was the son of a soldier and a former enlisted man himself. Stationed at the Warrick London townhouse as butler a good many years, Shieldings understood an employer’s right to crank about in his own home. Didn’t go reporting every little (or not so little) mishap, spilled beverage or spat with a surgeon to a man’s mama.

For 1812 had brought nothing to look forward to, thanks to Arbuckle’s disheartening January pronouncements, and as the date of Albuera approached, only a rousing need to not look back motivated Warrick.

Ample drinking helped accomplish that.

During May, both Warrick’s mother and Ed’s came to London. For a visit.

Oh, capital.

Thank heavens and his filthy home she’d sent round a note ahead of their arrival. The scant few days provided the necessary time to have his butler/footman/valet/and everything else (the only male servant Warrick had retained in town as the months went on and he chose not to go out) confer with his likely overpaid housekeeper/cook/laundress (the only female he still employed, and the wife to his butler). Gave the two, Shieldings and his missus, the opportunity to hire and oversee additional staff to give his townhouse a thorough cleaning—and his self as well.

After his home was tamed, Warrick suffered his man’s serious scrub down, shaving of the heavy beard he’d grown since winter, trimming of his nails, his hair and—a slight—trimming of his liquor consumption.

So that by the time his mother and Lady Redford were handed down from Ed’s borrowed travel carriage and entered his domain, Lady Redford gave him a joyous smile and remarked how much better he looked. Not as pale as she’d expected. (He owed his housekeeper a thanks for shoving his lazy arse out into the small vegetable garden in the back—and the sun—while she commanded the cleaning efforts.)

Even his mama complimented how well he controlled the newer chair he’d scraped down one account to purchase. “Why, if one did not know any better, they might think you enjoyed skittering from one room to the next.”

Likely he’d given her that erroneous impression when he’d accompanied his spins and rolls with utterances of pretended glee and, “Weeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Of course he acted as though everything were absolutely ripping. He couldn’t walk, by damn, had no idea if he would ever swive again. He already railed at himself to a sufficient degree, he didn’t need anyone else bleeding for him.

I know not whether you will ever leave the Merlin’s chair, but you are alive, man. Take heart from that. Per Frost, one night when Warrick had turned overly maudlin about the future.

“Oh, my sweet boy, you remain the light of my life,” said his keenly optimistic mother now, during their visit on the one-year anniversary of the battle. May 16 th . “And will remain so.”

My sweet boy.

Was it selfish, that some part of him reveled, hearing that? Warmed. Even knowing she’d left her other, younger children home with their father so much this last year, so she could travel to London and be with him during the early days?

’Twas late. Lady Redford had retired, his servants as well (both Shieldings and his wife, and the ones recently brought in), so it was just he and his persevering, always-smiling mama.

“Boy?” He felt one side of his mouth quirk—his attempt to match her happy expression, but falling short, landing somewhere between sardonic and self-pitying. “We both know that appellation has not applied for some decades.”

She reached across the table to cover his hand—the one holding several cards—with hers. He suspected she’d dealt herself a ruinous hand this last round, hence the slightly solemn turn to the night. “You are, you know. It matters not that I have two more I love dearly as well. It matters not if I were to have two hundred more. You are my first, my eldest—the one who let me practice and fail and learn how to be a mother, the one who turned out beautifully despite all my mistakes.”

“Beautiful?” He all but snorted at that. “Do you not mean brash?” She knew of his bent for spouting whatever licentious remark came to mind, whether in suitable company or not.

Tut-tutting at him, she slid from her chair to come round the table. She leaned down and hugged his neck, giving him a chance to inhale her always familiar, always welcome scent, some floral mix or other. He never knew what it was; it didn’t seem to matter. Whatever fragrance she wore, she always simply smelled like Mama to him. “You are, Richard. My beautiful boy. The laughter of my life. The light of my empty lantern sputtering about?—”

“I am sure that is not how it goes,” he told her, chuckling now, thinking she sought to quote some poet or another. “But I appreciate the sentiment even so.”

She released his neck, but kept one hand on his shoulder as she leaned back to meet his eyes, her deep blue ones, so like his own, looking more tired than he liked to see. “Give yourself, your limbs, more time to recover. Do not abandon all hope,” she advised. “They’ve had a blow?—”

“You believe so?” he responded with brutal sarcasm, ignoring how she flinched.

How quickly she forgave and continued on, that soft smile lighting her features as always. “—and just as with any injury—to head, heart or body—’twill no doubt take a measure of time before you are ready to heal. But I have no doubt that you will, my love. For you still have grandbabies to dawdle about upon my waiting lap. And at the end of your foot, hmm—just like your father did. Once it’s stronger, of course.”

The last part wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A fact. She expected his foot to get stronger, ergo, it would.

He wanted to believe in her belief—of him. Wanted to trust in her faith. But he knew better. Doubted, after a year, anything would improve beyond where it already had. But still…

Still…

The imagery she created, despite his resolve not to buckle beneath her hopes, made him long for that as well: for children, a babe and a wife. A family of his own.

Because he did remember how his father used to cross his legs at the knee, place a toddling Warrick upon his top foot, angled upward to create a cradle at his ankle. Whereupon Papa would bob his leg up and down, holding on to his small son as they both made—very undignified, very loud—neighs, whinnies and snuffled snorts, more than sufficient to do any self-respecting horse proud.

In June, the surgeon dared reach out again, offering to meet with him once more, but only if Warrick traveled to him . Not hardly.

Not when, by now, he had given up the inapt life of a hermit, had begun inviting a few mates around and was indulging in his love of cards. His love of decanters. His love of wallowing.

By August, knowing that the swelling had long since receded, that the scarring was as good as it would ever be, and that to further delay only made him feel weaker than he already knew he was, he stopped avoiding the injuries.

Started exploring the damaged skin low on his back. Swallowed down bile and let his hands and fingers reach where they could, survey along either side of his spine, and behind and over his shoulders, where some of the canister shot had fragmented and embedded itself below the surface.

Much of it had been removed early on—especially the pieces that trapped fabric, pinning his clothing into flesh beneath the metal. Leaving small hollows where things had been pried out or worked free.

One ugsome little crater behind his left shoulder—the deepest—poked at him and bothered him more than most (well, more than everything except the destruction of his damned legs).

Every time he took off his shirt or ran a wet cloth over his body or just felt like berating himself for something other than an inopportunely broken penis, it was that particular crater that suffered his rough treatment more than the others. He had a habit of digging the tips of two fingers into that one, to test not only the ridged, scarred-over skin beneath his fingertips, but to experience the dulled bite of his nails…

To remind himself that he could no longer feel as much as he used to. Not his legs. Not through the burnt, thickened skin. Not with his heart.

He worried that spot, pricked it over and over with his nails to remind himself of all that was missing beyond his flesh.

In autumn, he made an effort to move past the malaise keeping him mired in London. Knowing that continued denial, and avoidance, would only make the realities he must eventually face worse, he dragged himself back to the estate.

’Twas past time to assess losses and damages—and, he discovered, thefts —thanks to his extended absence abroad and the ill management of the steward he’d not supervised sufficiently.

But the rare visit north proved a boon (of sorts), for upon hearing the prodigal Lord Warrick had returned to the area, Ed stopped by on his way to London.

Only to find Warrick more disheveled than any self-respecting peer had a right to be—and morosely deep into his cups. Due certainly, to the rachitic ruin his estate had become, but even more so to the latest—and most unexpected—letter from his mother.

His friend set himself the task of sobering Warrick up with hearty food (that he brought) and copious, if not overly welcome, tea. Gallons of it, it seemed. Ed also set about a loquacious trattle informing Warrick of every little thing he might have missed since Christmas last.

He shared that his mama, now the “elder Lady Redford”, delighted in her new status as dowager ever since Ed had married, his widowed mother relocating to the guest wing (to give the new couple more privacy), and often to Bath, where she visited a friend (that Ed suspicioned might be male).

The jolious Ed had spoken of everyone—his lovely wife, Anne; the outrageous Harri. He talked of his new parents-in-law; of Lord Ballenger’s convivial, stalwart presence and how he—Ed—surmised that Lady Harri had inherited her loud and lively side from her zestful father (who had learned to mitigate it as warranted). He spoke of Ballenger’s clamorous wife, who sometimes shrilled overly much at their youngest (he said this last in an aside, though no one else was around to hear).

But Ed uttered not a word about Lady Harriet’s governess.

By now, the gin-induced euphoria—and escape—had waned, such that Warrick was, regrettably, clearheaded enough to ponder… To yearn to inquire…

Should he? Ask? At the notion, his breath quickened, upper body leaned forward?—

But nay.

He leaned back. Pinched his lips shut to prevent them from uttering a syllable of curiosity over Miss Primrose.

What had become of her?

The governess he was forbidden to see? To even think about.

Since when do your contrary thoughts cooperate?

That had been his bargain with Lord Ballenger, once the Great Hall had cleared and Lady Ballenger’s piercing screaks had faded to grumbles: Warrick would take himself off, never to return, if Miss Primrose would suffer naught.

“Miss Primrose was in no way at fault,” Frost had gritted from his tightly held mouth—aiming extra scowdering toward Warrick since Frostwood had returned from the stables just in time to see the mistletoe-induced mischief.

“Correct,” Warrick had concurred, swift to stand with Frost (metaphorically speaking), as earnestly as he could manage given how his crazed lips were still buzzing at the all-too-brief contact with hers. “My inflated masculine honor was at stake, being prodded by the others. Blame me , the abundant mistletoe and revelrous males all tippled into ill-judgment, not Lady Harriet’s governess.” I implore you.

That last part went unsaid. No need to appear desperate. Or smitten.

“Never has Miss Primrose given any indication of loose behavior,” Lord Ballenger mused, drumming his fingers over the waistcoat concealing his growing paunch. He stared down at Warrick, even though he seemed to be angling toward and addressing Frost, the only other male currently within hearing distance.

“Hmm. Hm.” The man rocked back on his heels, released Warrick’s gaze to glance toward the hallway where his wife had harried and hustled all the other ladies like kippers in a jar, then he turned toward the stairway where Miss Prim—oh, Warrick regretted how she must hate him—had flown.

“I see no reason to doubt her now.” Lord Ballenger pinned him again, as though evaluating the truth and Warrick’s sincerity. Made him feel smaller than he was already—thanks to his useless legs. “Especially if…”

“If we were to remove ourselves posthaste? Say… tonight ?” he proposed quickly, because Lord Ballenger, miraculously it seemed, appeared to be leaning toward leniency. And perhaps the lack of Warrick’s presence might mollify Lady Ballenger? “Not to return?” he threw out hastily, sober enough to recognize how his rash action might penalize her unduly.

“Aye,” Frost chimed in, coming up behind him to curve his hands about Warrick’s shoulders—tight enough to pinch, as though ready to push him through the closed door and right down the front steps. “We could be off in moments, would it…ah… Assist in calming Lady Ballenger’s chagrin.”

Their host tsked . “Regardless of any soothing actions we might take, Lady Ballenger’s vexed feathers are likely to remain in a ruffled state.” Lord Ballenger grunted, but mirth shone in his eyes. “Thanks to Harriet, a calm Lady Ballenger, my friends, is a rare occurrence indeed.”

He sighed now, admitting defeat and letting the agreed-upon constraints go unchallenged. He would not ask after her. He would not inquire. He would attempt not to remember…

Miss Prim, how he wished his memory of her would dim.

Ed was the closest thing to a non-blood brother he had and he wouldn’t risk damaging their relationship by pursuing his inane fascination. So he stretched his arms out to the sides, shook the tension loose. Unclamped his lips. Told his fiercely beating heart to slack, his breaths to even.

He swilled more tea. Enjoyed more stories.

And tried…to forget.

As the hour grew late, so dwindled their reticence to converse over more solemn matters.

Soon things turned more honest than comfortable.

What followed were stark confessions, honest admissions of pain and fears. Both of theirs.

Ed confided that his wife had recently lost a babe from her womb. How that had shaken both he and Anne, had made the time they spent with each other more precious.

Seeing the grief on his comrade’s face, hearing it in his voice, a close mate who had suffered—both physically and emotionally—but who was not rolling around in his misery as Warrick had been wont to do these many months proved the kick to the arse he needed. I hereby promise to honor your visit, your loss and sorrow, Warrick vowed to himself while holding Ed’s craggy yet wholesome face in view, I vow to reduce my liquor indulgences from bottles per night to mere glasses.

A single nod as though his earnest, silent pledge had been heard, accepted.

And before Warrick knew what he was about, he was babbling aloud his deepest fear; the one he usually compressed into a box so small it fit in a thimble’s dimple, never to see dawn’s—or drunkard’s—light…

“What female, of child-bearing age, with a father who possesses enough blunt to buy her a title would settle for mine?” He gestured first at his run-down surroundings, the sparse furnishings, pale squares on the walls where art had been sold, and then he pounded his lap with his fist. “Would settle for this ? Would shackle herself to an invalid with four children yet to provide and care for, to see raised well into adultage, yet without any hope of her own?”

That wasn’t entirely fair. Nor completely accurate.

As the parent, one might say the responsibility for his siblings fell upon his mama’s slender shoulders. But nay. She had already done so much. Suffered so much…

He was the one resisting his mother’s attempts to foster a relationship with his half-siblings, and she was the one who cared for them, all of them, now…

But Warrick knew his duty.

As the title holder, the elder sibling (no more of this “half” rimble-ramble), it fell to him to ensure the rest of his family flourished.

Then why are you not doing that, man? Why are you lolling about, either as a recluse or idling your time with soused shirkers?

“Warrick!”

Why are you thrashing your helpless groin?

Was he? Still?

He felt nothing.

Stared down at the blur of his clenched hands hitting his lap and couldn’t feel a damn thing. So after shoving the vertical controls aside, he hit himself harder, bringing the full thrust of his arms and fists down on his useless prick. “How in blazes can I expect some wealthy, young female to tolerate this? This flaccid, unresponsive lump of flesh? She wouldn’t . Of course she wouldn’t. No one will…”

And then to his great bewilderment and shame, he broke.

Heaved tears like a baby. His shoulders quaked. Breath stuttered in ragged gasps. His wobbling, quivering lips became slick with salty tears as he finally released, not anger, not mocking irreverence, but the gut-wrenching truth that scared him more than facing Frogs on the battlefield: the soul-shriveling terror of facing the future alone .

“Rich! Stop that!” As Ed wrenched Warrick’s hands away from their assault and scrambled past the metal rods to haul Warrick upright, to embrace him fully and hard, holding him up while pounding his back with comfort and shared grief, Warrick allowed the months of stifled and suppressed tears freedom. He cried at losing his father as a mere lad. He cried at the state of his coffers, thanks to the debts his father inherited before him, compounded by that swindling steward.

He cried for his defeated body.

For his half-siblings who had just lost their own father to a tragic accident. He cried for his mother, who had now buried two husbands.

He cried because he could. And because he hadn’t.

And he cried because he knew he would never do so again.