23. ’Tis Morning and Memories Continue…

23

’Tis Morning and Memories Continue…

The following day, after a deep and lengthy sleep that had rejuvenated both mind and body, the conversation that should have brought clarity, only confounded instead. For when Warrick roused not long after dawn, scrubbed his face with the plain cloth and tepid water from the basin, both found upon the dresser, and wheeled himself through the tidy home, navigating around furnishings not meant for ambulatory chairs, seeking his host…

The startling sight of a trio of bulging bags stationed in front of the door greeted him. That and Arbuckle himself. Already wearing a heavy cloak.

“Good. You awoke. I was beginning to wonder if I would need to leave a note.”

“A note?” Warrick’s mouth asked, as his brain struggled to comprehend what his eyes were starting to shout.

“I’m off.”

“Off?” The shouting grew louder. “To where?”

Arbuckle was leaving? With packed bags?

The man tsked . “And what makes you think my personal business is any sort of yours? You realize you are not my only patient, correct? That would be foolish of me and conceited of you.”

“But off ? I only arrived?—”

“And you agreed to stay for three weeks.”

“Two.” Uncomfortable angling his neck to keep the tall man in focus, Warrick rolled backward a pace or two. Noticed how the muscles in his thighs tensed (at least he thought they did), as though just being near Arbuckle primed them for work. “Two weeks.”

“Three. Mercury will need?—”

“Who?”

“My dog. You met him last night, lest you forget. You two will take care of each other, and I shall see you upon the new year. The week after Epiphany or thereabouts.”

The week after Epiphany, which was the sixth. So… January thirteenth ? Or thereabouts ? This old fool truly expected him to remain here—by himself (dogs did not count)—for three blasted weeks? “Here now,” Warrick began, “stop this bout of ludicrousness. That is impossible.”

As if he had protested not, the man continued. “Mercury, now… Keep an eye on your belongings. He’s a pilferer at heart. Blind as can be but still quite active.” The dog, ever present at the doctor’s side tipped his greyed muzzle up in a semblance of agreement.

“Given half a chance, he’ll make off with your breeches, even if they are attached to your ballocks.” Arbuckle rummaged a hook on the wall and tossed something into Warrick’s lap. “Here’s his lead. Take him out four or five times a day to?—”

“Four or five times? ” The protest reverberated off the walls. “As in outside ? When I can barely stand? Arbuckle, your wits have not just gone begging, they have scattered to the ether.”

“To take care of things.” The surgeon continued as though Warrick had remained silent. “And three of those times, for at least twenty minutes.” The man with ballocks for brains (mayhap his dog had made away with those too?) behaved as though he were deaf to legitimate protests, simply drew a long, dirt-brown scarf over his coat and wound it around his neck. Warrick beheld a sudden image of wrapping his hands about the edges and p-u-l-l-i-n-g …

“Keep any valuables beyond his reach, do your muscle drills and, if you at all can, simply sit—or stand—with your thoughts.”

“Stop!” His voice whipped across the space. “What do you mean you’re not staying ? Was not the entire point of me traveling here to continue our work together ? To hasten my healing?”

“And that is exactly what you shall do, my lord. Only on your own. Continue to regain your strength and independence.”

“You cannot leave .” And if his voice became a bit strident toward the end, a bit panicked? Not at all the tone a titled peer should engage? Well, that could be understood, given the untenable circumstances.

“Of course I can.”

“You cannot leave me here. Alone! I forbid it.”

“Oh?” The doctor glanced down at Warrick’s slippered feet, lolling idle between the wheels upon the horizontal support of the chair he’d been confined to for the better part of two and a half years. “Can I not? I do not see you exerting yourself to stop me.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means, my lord ”—the healer made a mockery of his status—“that in order for you to truly get better, to the extent that I now believe possible, you must take pains to apply yourself more than you have thus far. You and Merc shall maintain things here whilst I take myself off.”

“N-nay! You are not abandoning me to go g-gadding about,” Warrick all but sputtered, his hands fisting helplessly in his lap. “I refuse to allow it.”

“My lord…” Both the tone and sardonic smile mocked, damn the insolent man. “Perhaps you have not examined your accounts of late, but you have yet to pay a single invoice these last sixteen weeks. Not a single one.” Another tsk-tsk . “That is suitably long enough for me to either cease assisting you or consider debtors’ prison.”

“As if you would dare?—”

His words went unheeded.

“And as we have been working together for twice that long, I say you will remain here. You will feed Mercury, see that he is exercised thrice daily?—”

As the impotence of his entire situation came crashing down, his temper flared. “Thrice? How in blazes do you expect me to walk a damn dog?”

The surgeon gave an indifferent, one-shoulder shrug. “I have no doubt you will manage, for this is how you will satisfy your account.

“In addition to caring for my sweet boy”—Arbuckle paused to rub the slobbering cur under the chin and around one ear—“you will take suitable care of yourself as well. You will bathe. You will dress each day as though expecting company. No wasting about like a drunkard in your nightclothes.

“And after your reminder last eve how I have been remiss, I have left some ribbons and candles and such on the kitchen table. Please see that they are strewn about in honor of the season. My only excuse for neglecting the task this year was that I invited my niece to join me as she always has, but alas, work kept her away.”

What manner of work would a surgeon’s niece be engaging in that would refuse her time off for the holidays? Blasted woman, he thought irrationally, but with no small amount of gleeful irritation—thankful to have a target for his ire. ’Twas all her blame fault. If she were here now, Warrick certainly wouldn’t be.

“Regardless of her absence, we cannot let the season go unremarked, and so it shall fall to you, my lord , to attire my home appropriately, so that you will enjoy it while I am away, and I may upon my return. Christmas services are Saturday, should you choose to attend and?—”

“Attend services? When I’m not even sure I can fasten my falls?” Of course he could. Had been since waking, finally sensible, in London. But his growing wrath toward the tyrant proved boundless. “You had me abandon my girls?—”

“Fasten your falls?” the doctor repeated with an embarrassed cough. “Well now, Lord Warrick. That does seem the perplexing conundrum. One would think a man of your mature years would know how to secure his pants, whether that be breeches, pantaloons or trousers and without assistance.”

Warrick’s snarl rivaled that of the best fighting dog.

Arbuckle only smiled—this one with true humor, the contrarious surgeon.

The older man looped the strap of one traveling case over his shoulder and picked up the others. He turned and reached for the doorknob. “I shall see you?—”

Warrick thrust upward. His chair clomped into the wall behind him. His palm slapped the door the moment the other man edged it open, the momentum from his body slamming it shut. “What the bloody blazes?”

He’d traveled well over 200 miles to come for: “‘Private, frequent treatments. The healing waters of Bath.’” His voice dragged over the words like they were jagged gravel. “That’s what you claimed when you proposed this hash.”

The hand flush against the door helped him remain upright though his worse leg had started to shake. So he shook his opposite arm in the air, hoping somehow to fling the frustration out his body. And if he flattened the deceitful doctor or scared the thieving dog, so much the better. “I did not travel all this way to be a bloody, glorified bitch minder.”

At that, Arbuckle frowned, took one step forward and got right in Warrick’s face. “Mercury is male. And you are an arse. An arrogant, pious lordling who has done little to bear the right to the title you hold. You?—”

“You shall not speak to me that way,” Warrick protested more as a matter of habit, pride piqued more than out of real angst. But as it was, now even his better leg quivered. Neither should be trembling about, not this soon after waking. He blamed being cooped up in a carriage the last few days.

If he didn’t end this soon, his slowly healing, but exhausted-from-the-journey muscles would end it for him. And he would end up a heap on the floor. “Do not forget whom you address.”

The doctor’s eyes, normally full of patience and perseverance, lit with a flash of indignation. “And do not forget within whose home you stand.”

“I have yet to meet your servants.” The words shot out from between gritted teeth.

“No servants. You will get along just fine without them. I do.”

“I will not!” Warrick yelled, completely at the end of any resolve, control or courtesy. “I bloody well will not go on the next three damn weeks without a bloody servant to assist where?—”

“You can bloody walk!” For the first time in their months-long acquaintance, Arbuckle placed his hand on Warrick in anger, clutching his shoulder in a strong pinch and jerking the muscles to and fro. “You can ! If you will only concentrate your efforts that direction without allowing others to coddle you. To keep you from gaining strength and confidence on your own!”

Warrick jerked back, both hands falling limply to his sides. Never before had he heard the surgeon raise his voice. Never had he seen the doctor tremble with rage—and it was all directed his way. Unfamiliar with feeling the force of another’s wrath (battle opponents notwithstanding), he stood there in silence, heart thrumming, beating hard against his ribs, as he clenched every muscle he could manage to remain upright, on his weakening legs, his exhausted feet.

As though surprised at his own outburst, Arbuckle ran one hand over his face, cupping his chin a few seconds before lowering it and resuming the calm nature Warrick had become accustomed to. “My lord.

“Have you walked unaided? At all?”

“Unaided? You mean without a cane?”

“No, I mean have you been able to take more than a step without your hands gripping furniture or a wall? There’s no shame in a cane or walking stick, none at all.”

“I know that,” he said sharper than intended. “And nay, I have not. Look at my limbs. Do they not tremble before you even now?”

A level of understanding that had been heretofore missing entered the other man’s gaze. “As your doctor, I am instructing you the best way I know how. Stay here. Care for Mercury—and yourself. Give your body time to regain strength, and give your mind time to calm.”

In seconds, the man opened the door a few inches and slipped through, with only a couple clunks and weaves, maneuvering himself and his trio of cases until he snapped the door shut behind him.

Leaving a stunned, sweating, sore-in-body, weary-in-spirit man clutching the closest wall for support—and crumpling to the floor regardless.

Bloody hell.

The moment he was beyond sight of the door, Silas Arbuckle paused. Turned a corner and rested his back against his trusty abode.

His heart hammered painfully, making deep breaths a chore, one that might have scared another man—made him fear obliteration.

But nothing was wrong with his panter, he knew. His heart was as strong as an ox. As stubborn as a mule, much like the man he’d just left. Nay, it was confronting the confounding man now occupying his house that unnerved.

Was he doing the right thing? Badgering the earnest lordling so?

Warrick might have been an angry annoyance when they first met, a true tinder-box with unreasonable expectations, but time—and his mother’s death—had matured the determined peer swift enough.

He wasn’t nearly so irksome anymore. But still, ’twas a risk Silas took now.

If anything happened to dear Merc while in Lord Warrick’s care?—

Nay. He mustn’t think thus.

Silas shrugged his heaviest bag up higher over his shoulder, firmed his grip on the other two as he firmed his resolve.

Had he not promised the ingrate’s mother, Lady Warrick, the last time he’d seen her (mere weeks before the kind woman breathed her last) that he would do all within his power to help “her boy” if, Silas had stressed at the time, “the boy will agree to be helped”?

And while Silas had never considered himself a performer of miracles, he had witnessed near bodily miracles a time or two. Enough to trust. To pray. To hope.

Hope. Pray. Trust.

An inhale of crisp air to fortify both body and mind. “I hope you do not harm my dog,” he muttered, starting off again, as his destination beckoned. “For if you do, lordling, I trust you cannot pray my wrath away…”

The brisk December wind buffeted his cheeks and forehead.

Ugh. “Forgot my hat.”

His scalp tingled. For did not the lady he was on his way to see love running her fingers through his still-thick, now silvered hair?

She did, indeed.

And the anticipation of being with her again, if even in secret thus far, lent wings to his feet (Hermes and Mercury would be so proud) as he sped the scant distance toward the female awaiting his arrival.

Three days later, Warrick wasn’t sure whether to laugh or yell. Rolling along the blame floor, embarrassingly slow at navigating the geegaw-laden abode, chasing a blind-arse dog who carried the sash of his robe between his teeth and growled anytime Warrick came close.

But though tired, as the antics continued, he was laughing, lighter in spirit than he expected, especially given how he’d felt this morning—or should he say come nooning?—after yesterday, feeling overly maudlin and missing his family, turning himself into a bingo boy with his host’s brandy.

But as the hours and days had worn on and Warrick occupied himself with the dog, it seemed as though Arbuckle’s unorthodox treatment had some merit. For the games betwixt him and the dog, their own versions of hide-and-seek and tug of war (once he located the noisy barker), along with the cessation of all his other responsibilities, had truly allowed his mind to do as ordered: to simply be, for the first time since Albuera. Mayhap for the first time in years.

And if he’d contemplated the ancient harpsichord occupying a rather prominent place in the drawing room a time or two? Wondered how poorly tuned it might be (dwelling with The Tyrant, as it were), then… He had yet to appease his idle curiosity.

Hadn’t touched it. Not once.

Because playing whilst he was here did not at all fit his memories of the bawdry revelry, the evenings he would play whenever he and his mates could escape school for a wild night of fun and dancing. Lewd songs always upon his lips…

In this nearly silent abode, if one discounted the hound’s clattering toenails and entertaining snarls, the slight squeak of Warrick’s chair or its wheels, or the occasional gasp he made when he approached the end of his hundreds’ count, forcing his body up and down, angling his toes or ankles (more like simply trying to and not accomplishing anything there)… In the charming if somewhat crowded cottage of his piously persistent host, touching the keyboard for the first time since the accident prickled at something in him. Made him decidedly uncomfortable.

So he strove to ignore it. Angled his chair and therefore his back to the instrument and wheeled out of the formal room and toward the kitchen. Time to wrap the twine he’d discovered—after poking his nose into Arbuckle’s cabinets—around the dog’s front legs and chest, sit at the doorway while the barker romped and pissed to his content.

Silas Arbuckle nudged the heavy curtain aside, wiped condensation from the glass and focused his hand telescope beyond the one window that managed a glimpse toward the back, kitchen exit of his home. If he stood upon his toes, balancing most of his weight on his right foot and angling his head just so, he could glimpse the upper half of the doorway and a good portion of his rocked-in yard.

“Is he there?” The feminine voice behind him preceded two arms wrapping around his middle and a chin just barely reaching his shoulder and looking over.

“Not yet. It’s past time. Mercury has to be howling by now.”

Behind him, and her, the room exuded warmth, and no, it wasn’t just from the past hours of exertion, but from the hearth that burned merrily. In front of him? The chill strode in from the glass now that the thick curtains no longer helped keep it contained.

Dawn was long since past. And, aye, Arbuckle had stood vigil practically since dark.

’Twas the first morning since he’d abandoned his cherished pup into the other man’s questionable care that he’d woken early enough to keep watch, knowing his dog’s bladder as well as his own.

He’d meant to check long before now, but had been, admittedly—and aroused-ly (real word or not, that’s what came to mind, with a pleasurable, highly satisfied tingle near his groin)—distracted.

His distraction hugged his waist. “Give him time yet. He’ll rise to the challenge, never you fear.”

“I pray, with everything in me, that you have the right of it.” His feet and calves tiring, he came down off his toes to rest on his heels. When his arms came down as well, bringing the telescope with it, his companion released her hold, took up the looking glass and scooted around in front of him, now standing on her toes to peer forth as well. “If not, too easily can I imagine either him—or my dog—destroying my entire home.”

She made a soothing hmmm that managed to comfort, if not entirely vanquish his concerns.

He stretched his neck, his eyes glancing over the rumpled bedclothes in the small room they inhabited. ’Twas attached to an even smaller kitchen and not much else, in this, the tiny home where they met.

About the only compliments he could give it (aside from his companion’s warm-and-welcome presence) was cleanliness and conveniency. When he first visited her here, after she leased it, he hadn’t even realized the location of the tiny abode would afford him such a boon as to look toward his own.

“Wait! Is he coming out now?” Her voice held excitement as she scrambled to return the spyglass to his hands and move aside so he could look out.

And aye, the door that led into his kitchen had swung inward.

“Vi, bless you.” He couldn’t help the relief that breathed out on a sigh. “You have much more faith in him than I— Wait. ’Tis not him emerging.” Every muscle tensed in surprise. Dismay. “But Mercury, alone!”

The coarse brown fuzz atop his dog’s head, two floppy ears on either side, bounced out into the cold.

Silas watched with dawning horror as his blind, aged dog nosed his way right into the yard. No tall, lumbering man followed; no seated gentleman, within a jerkily moving Merlin’s chair followed either. Nothing!

His hands clenched so tightly around his late father’s spyglass the poor metal squeaked. “I will give him five seconds to join Merc and then I’m going over there…”

In silence, five seconds elapsed. Her soft but strong touch splayed across his upper back. Soothing, bidding him to patience.

But then seven more. And his dog was still alone—outside!

He shrugged out of her loose hold and tossed the hand telescope down on the bed. “I apologize, but nay. I cannot wait any longer.”

While he found his outerwear and sat on the mattress to tug on first his trousers and then his boots, his actions harried and hurried, she had taken up his vigil at the window.

Standing, he reached for his overcoat, beyond ready to give that selfish, inconsiderate lord a scathing for the ages. Coat in place, he looked for his hat, only then recalling he had forgotten it.

“Silas. Leave off your inpatient retreat and return.” She spoke quietly but firmly, that gentle tone full of strength. Convincing strength, did she but know it. Else, how could she have convinced him to sacrifice his home—and canine companion—for this trial?

“He’s there. He’s come.” For the first time in nearly a minute, his chest didn’t hurt when he drew breath. “Haltingly.” She continued sharing what she saw. “Appears to be swearing up and down at the dog”—she dared to chuckle at that, which lightened his strain even more—“and cursing his legs, too, but he’s there. Just lured Mercury back to him, with… With something in his hand.”

Just as he was ready to rip the spyglass from her, she handed it over. “Ham?” she surmised. “I cannot tell.”

But Silas could. He could tell that Lord Warrick remained on his seat, in one of the kitchen chairs he had dragged over. After yelling (seen, not heard), Lord Warrick used fingers wrapped around the door jambs to haul himself to his feet. Scowling, he leaned against the frame and held his hand out toward the circling dog. A hand holding a definite clump of ham. “Good God, that’s too much for my boy. Mercury will choke on it going down.”

“He shall be fine, Silas,” she soothed, liberating the telescope from his grasp and turning him away from the window with a tug on his coat sleeve. “Both man and dog will be fine, I assure you. Now, what shall we do today? Because hours spent at that window, one of us practically falling on our side to see that sliver of yard will not suffice. I cannot let my monthly trip to Bath to see you elapse without some form of entertainment that doesn’t involve being stript to skin and wrapped in your arms. No matter how enjoyable that might be.”

Time passed and the harpsichord still tempted. Drew Warrick like times expired.

Though it was an older machine, with polished, gleaming burled wood about the casing, ’twas not entirely in its principal condition. At some point, someone had severed its original legs from its body and lowered it upon a base either meant for another instrument or made, perhaps, specifically for this one, but the wood that supported the body was different both in type, garnishment and stain.

Not nearly as ornate as the original. Much plainer, more serviceable. Not as visually alluring.

The black and white paint was worn in places over the slim, wooden keys. Someone had loved and played this instrument once upon a time

But now it sat, abandoned.

Warrick hated that he noticed such detail. Churned inside at the similarities he felt with the ignored instrument. Dust coated the exterior and the horizontal bench tucked beneath the manuals. A serviceable bench but not fanciful like what hovered above it.

With care, the masterpiece would have been stunning, but instead was dulled with age and time. Yet he could not stop his thoughts from rumbling over how someone, at some point, had taken time to take the instrument intended to be played while standing and lowered it, like the more popular pianofortes of today, enabling it to be played while seated .

It was a double manual, with one keyboard stacked atop another. Three choirs. Three. That was notable. Three separate strings per note…not simply the more common and frugal single string.

He knew because on his fifth day here, he had lifted the closed lid, propped it up and looked . But naught else.

The night of the sixth, found him staring at the instrument from across the room. Thoughts of plying his fingers to the aged instrument had him clenching them tight and he closed them into a fist that didn’t unfurl until Mercury wandered into the room, sniffing…finding…and making his way over to Warrick’s side. Panting softly, the dog nosed his legs and shifted, sat down upon his haunches and leaned against Warrick’s right leg.

He closed his eyes, let his right arm drift down to sift the tips of his fingers through the coarse fur. Tried to determine if he really felt the pressure of the warm body resting against the side of his calf.

Or if he only imagined it.