Mending Him (7 page)

“No. There’s nothing. Please, go have your tea. Go on.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“Thank you for that.” Charles blinked. His eyes stung, and he wasn’t sure if it was from tears or resumption of the blasted symptoms. He wanted to escape into sleep or indulge in frustrated anger, but Robbie wouldn’t go away. Frustration and gratitude warred in Charles.

Robbie didn’t appear to notice. “We will go together to tea. It is only tea, so you might escape after one cup and, say, a finger sandwich.”

“Robbie. It’s not a good idea.”

The stubborn man had hold of the handles of his chair and pushed him toward the library door. “You’ll see, it will be fine.”

“Robbie. Damn it!”

He must have heard the desperation in Charles’s voice, because he came to a stop and walked around from the back of the chair to stare down at him. Charles said, “At the very worst times, my symptoms included incontinence. I will not, I
can’t
allow that. Not in front of witnesses.”

That hadn’t been so very difficult to admit after all.

“Oh.” Robbie drew up a chair and sat across from him again. “I see. And you think that might happen again?”

“How the hell should I know? That particular mortification took place two months, no, at least three months ago. But I know nothing. I thought I’d improved, and now I am all over tingling and in pain.”

“You’re worried about a total relapse?”

The thought brought a wave of nausea with it, but he managed to respond calmly enough. “I can’t predict any of it.”

Robbie went to the back of the room, where a single trunk had been stashed under a bookshelf of encyclopedias. He returned with a blanket, which he put over Charles’s lap.

“This will disguise any sort of, ah, problem. And if the worst has happened, then send me a signal of some sort, and I’ll wheel you back here as if we were running a race.”

“A signal. What? Do you want me to whistle? Or perhaps I might employ naval semaphore flags?”

“Speak a phrase. Something only I shall understand.”

Charles rubbed his face. His hands still tingled worse than ever, but the strange fatigue had lifted somewhat. He shook his head. “You are a strange man, Grayson. What do you have in mind? How about ‘I hear the sunflowers are especially pretty this year’?”

Robbie guffawed. “I left a deck of cards in my trunk?”

“Mr. Grayson, I am partial to purple flowers.”

“I should like to see a rabbit.” Robbie’s laughter made it difficult to understand him, and it was utterly contagious.

“Is that a rooster I hear crowing?”

By the time they’d stopped laughing at their own absurdities—wiping their eyes and still erupting with occasional chuckles—Charles had forgotten his fear of the creeping, silent illness with no name. Or rather, he hadn’t forgotten it; his body wouldn’t allow that. He’d simply let go of the fear again. Robbie Grayson wouldn’t allow him to hang on to it.

This man was good for him in so many ways. He challenged and offered friendship and encouragement. Charles simply couldn’t do without him. And then it really struck him that, with Samuel back, Robbie would be leaving, maybe not in the next few days but surely within a month. What would he do without the presence of this kind, witty man? Charles couldn’t believe he’d initially written Robbie off as a nonentity. The man was absolutely vital—at least to him, and he couldn’t stomach the idea of convalescence without Robbie beside him.

All the more reason to fight against his mysterious debilitating illness while he still had Robbie to help him.

“All right, then.
Forward the Light Brigade. Charge for the guns,
” Charles quoted.

And his good friend took hold of the wheelchair and pushed him in to tea.

Chapter Seven

Tea was usually an informal meal in the drawing room, but today they gathered at the dining table that was laid with the best china and the finest lacy linens in honor of Samuel’s return. Lenore had put on a rose gown with even more ruffles and gathers and tucks than usual. Her gold-and-garnet earrings clashed with the pink, but her wide smile made up for any fashionable shortcomings.

Bertie had been allowed to attend tea but he’d been stuffed into a light blue velvet sailor suit several years too young for him. Red-cheeked and scowling, he met Robbie’s eye with such a look of horrified anger that Robbie wanted to laugh—and soothe the poor boy.

“So delightful to have you home again, my darling.” Aunt Lenore reiterated the refrain to her son for perhaps the sixth time since they’d sat down to tea. She reached out to pat Samuel’s hand. “I’m pleased you came home early. I was not at all comfortable with the idea of you gallivanting around Europe with that fast crowd.”

Samuel pulled away, his irritation evident. “They’re not ‘fast’, Mother. They’re simply not the parochial types you’re used to. My friends from university are educated, worldly and clever. They’re not bumpkins.”

“They’re also spoiled sots, relying on family names and fortunes to carry them through life,” Uncle Phillip chimed in. “These are not the young men I would wish you to emulate, Samuel.”

“No. You would wish me to be more like our beloved Cousin Robbie.” Samuel made his name a sneer, and Robbie took this cue to push back his chair and stand. Let father and son have it out without an audience.

“Mr. Worthington, you seem as if you could use a rest,” he said to Charles. “Shall I accompany you back to your room?”

“You mean the library,” Samuel muttered, but no one bothered to respond.

“Yes, please.” The fact that two words were all the talkative Charles could manage alerted Robbie to his exhausted state. Throughout tea, he’d monitored Charles’s color, his breathing and the long pauses in his speech. Now, he felt the invalid had reached his limit.

By the time he’d helped Charles use the lavatory, an intimate act from which Robbie averted his eyes, and gotten him tucked into bed, the man’s complexion was paper white.

“Shall I send someone for the doctor? You appear quite ill.” Robbie rested his hand on his cool forehead. No fever, then, but Charles’s skin was clammy to the touch.

“No. I just need rest. Sleep. There’s nothing a doctor can do. Believe me. I’ve been examined by the best of them.”

Thick eyelashes brushed the man’s pale cheeks. Robbie noted that his lashes were nearly as coppery as his hair, and a sprinkling of freckles stood out in sharp relief across his nose.

“All right, then.” Robbie stroked locks of hair away from that high brow, then smoothed his hand over Charles’s head for a moment. He remembered how nice a soothing hand could feel when one was ill. But he quickly ended his touch as it aroused feelings in him he was doing his damndest to squelch.

Robbie left the dim room and went to check in with Mr. Todd. The bailiff was about to visit some tenants who were in arrears. Robbie offered to check on some late-season fields due for harvesting.

Uncle Phillip entered the office just then. “Put it off until tomorrow. And take Samuel with you, if you can find the lad. I know you’ll have more patience educating him about his duties than I would.”

Robbie wanted to say he wasn’t so sure about that, but he bit his tongue.

And so the next morning after breakfast, he located Samuel lounging on a stone bench in the garden, smoking a cheroot and blowing rings through the low-hanging branches of an ornamental cherry tree, much to the delight of Gemma and Bertie.

“Let me try,” Bertie begged. “Show me how, and I’m sure I can do it too.”

“Afraid not,
mon frère.
Smoking is a bit beyond your years,” Samuel drawled. It seemed he drawled everything these days in an affected tone Robbie found utterly annoying.

Gemma spotted Robbie and ran down the flagstone path to cling to his hand and lead him toward the bench. “Samuel’s back to stay. Isn’t that lovely? And he can blow smoke rings!”

“So I see. A clever skill to learn at university.” Robbie forced a smile. “It’s good to have your brother home, isn’t it? But I’m afraid I must take Samuel away for a little while.” He addressed his oldest cousin. “Your father asked me to take you along to the north fields with me. We’re to see how harvesting is going for Mr. Fulbright.”

“Farmer Not-so-bright is still alive?” Samuel exclaimed. “He must be a hundred and ten years old.”

“Fulbright junior, not senior,” Robbie corrected. “So, if you’ll change into something less formal…”

“Let’s hope Junior is a more competent man than his pater. If not, perhaps it’s time to replace them with tenants who can turn a profit.”

For a young man who hadn’t been around the place in years other than holidays, Samuel had strong opinions. Robbie didn’t bother to respond that the Fulbrights had occupied their bit of land for nearly as long as the Chesters had been their landlords. One didn’t just casually remove tenants.

Robbie stood by, arms folded, waiting while Samuel took his time stubbing out his slim cigar and putting the holder away in his smoking pouch, all the while chatting with his eager younger brother. It was obvious Bert idolized his sophisticated brother, and Robbie prayed again that the little lad wouldn’t follow in Samuel’s patent leather footsteps.

It took nearly another forty minutes for Samuel to change into what he dubbed “work attire”, even though the boots were polished to a reflecting shine and his jacket was a fine woolen one. At last, the two men mounted a pair of chestnut horses outside the stable and headed across country to the Fulbrights’.

Robbie had never sat easily in the saddle, though he muddled through. Samuel, on the other hand, rode erect and elegant. Robbie couldn’t help but admire his cousin’s athleticism as he always had. He pushed away his slight jealousy. So Samuel was a fine physical specimen. At least Robbie had a head for business.

They approached the fields of barley, where threshing machines pulled by horses were slowly cutting their way along the rows. Robbie reined in and simply appreciated the sight of the rippling golden grain under an achingly blue sky, and the men toiling to bring in the crop. So simple and elemental, and yet so beautiful.

“Lord, it truly is dreary here, isn’t it?” Samuel exclaimed. “I don’t know how I shall be able to stand it.”

Robbie looked toward him, taken aback by the statement. “I thought you would be eager to take the reins from your father. I thought running the estate was what you wanted.”

“
Owning
the estate is what I want. But, really, can’t that Mr. Todd take care of the day-to-day on his own? Isn’t that why we hire a bailiff? I can’t be expected to live out here in the middle of nowhere all year round, can I? Everyone I know spends the Season in London. It’s the way most civilized gentlemen behave, but not my father. He fancies himself a man of the land year round. He’s a simpleton.”

Robbie was struck speechless. Last time he’d talked to Samuel, his cousin had made it clear he resented Robbie for acting as his father’s right hand. Now that the prime spot was his for the taking, he didn’t want it? What was the matter with that spinning weathercock?

Nonplussed, Robbie changed the subject. “There’s Mr. Fulbright.” He pointed out the farmer laboring with the threshing team. “His father died only a few months ago, so you might remember to offer your condolences.”

Robbie dismounted and tied his horse to a fencepost, then made his way across the rough ground and broken stalks, his cane poking holes in the loose earth. He had to concentrate to keep his balance, and when he looked up, Samuel had passed him and was already speaking to Fulbright.

“So sorry to hear about your father’s passing, my good man. Tragic loss. How are you bearing up?” Samuel clapped a hand on the farmer’s shoulder.

“Well enough.” Fulbright pulled out a red handkerchief and wiped his face. He darted a questioning glance at Robbie as if asking who Samuel was. He apparently didn’t recognize the rarely seen elder son of the house.

“Mr. Fulbright, you remember Mr. Samuel Chester. He’ll soon be helping in the management of the estate.”

Fulbright tucked away the cloth into his trousers pocket and nodded. “Ah, young Master Samuel. It’s good to see you home.”

“How’s the harvest coming along?” Samuel stooped to pick up a shorn head of barley and studied it as if he knew good grain from bad.

“Well enough.” Fulbright repeated his stock answer.

Robbie pulled out his small notebook and asked the farmer a few questions about the yield per acre and the quality of the grain. He took notes and estimated the profit if the barley sold at current market price, carefully writing the estimates in the book to show Mr. Todd later.

“Indeed, it is a good season.” Robbie glanced up at the blue sky. “And you’ve beaten the rain they say is coming. Well done.”

Fulbright cast a glance at the harvesters, and it was clear he was eager to get back to work, so Robbie bid him good day and headed toward his grazing horse.

“That’s it? We rode all the way out here to ask a few questions?” Samuel said.

“That and to make the family’s presence felt. It’s important the farmers understand the Chesters are on their team, so to speak, invested in their success.” Robbie hauled himself into the saddle with a grunt and some squirming, wishing he could perform the task more gracefully, particularly in front of Samuel. “Anyway, it’s a lovely day for a ride.”

“I suppose there’s little else to do here,” Samuel agreed glumly.

They were in sight of the familiar gables and dormers of the family homestead before Samuel spoke again. He’d been riding in front of Robbie, but now he dropped back to trot beside him. “I say, how about a bit of entertainment tonight?”

“What did you have in mind?” Robbie couldn’t begin to think what an exuberant young man like Samuel might find entertaining here. Somehow he doubted a game of Snap with Gemma would satisfy him.

“After dinner, we’ll go to the pub and rub elbows with the locals. You can reintroduce me around. If I’m eventually to become squire, I suppose I ought to at least have a refresher course on all the names and families in the district.”

Robbie couldn’t think of anything he’d less rather do than spend an entire evening in his cousin’s company when Samuel was in this sort of mood, but Samuel seemed to be trying to fulfill his purpose here, which was a good thing. “All right.”

“We’ll bring that poor cripple along. He must be bored out of his mind after being cooped up here for days. I understand Worthington was quite the gay blade prior to his accident, the sort who’s the life of any party. I’m sure he misses that social whirl. We’ll give him a good airing out.”

Gay blade. Life of the party.
Robbie was taken aback at hearing Samuel talk about Charles that way. Not to mention “airing out” made him sound as if Charles was a set of musty sheets. He’d come to think of Charles as
his
personal friend, and as someone like himself who enjoyed quieter pursuits such as an evening spent reading. He’d almost forgotten that Charles had lived a full social life before he came to the Chesters. If he had the opportunity, no doubt he’d return to that “social whirl”. Charles’s friendship and even his attraction to Robbie were very temporary—an important thing to remember.

“He’s in a wheelchair,” Robbie pointed out.

“We’ll have the footmen load him into the carriage at our end, and some beefy farmers can carry him into the pub.” Samuel blithely solved the problem.

“I suppose we could ask him,” Robbie said uncertainly.

“We can and we shall.
Lord,
don’t worry, Cousin, a merry time will be had by all.”

Loaded onto the back of the open pony cart like so much luggage, jolted over rough roads, then carried into the local brewing establishment and plunked onto a chair. Charles wanted nothing more than to drink himself flat. How far he had fallen. His dignity was nonexistent, and fear of another attack of the debilitating tingles loomed over him.

The yeasty smell of hops was rich in the air and soaked into the very patina of the wood floor in the dimly lit pub. Charles had expected Samuel to go through to the saloon bar, but they settled in the public room. Men with slouched shoulders, their elbows on tables, hunkered over large glasses of ale. A soft muttering of voices and the clink of glasses against wood made a companionable, familiar sound that soothed Charles’s spirit. This was the first time he’d been outside the house and gardens of the Chester estate since he’d arrived. It felt good to see other places and other people, though he didn’t care for everyone staring back at him.

He’d missed Robbie far too much today. The thought of his friend roaming the countryside on horseback had made Charles impatient and filled with ridiculous longing. He wanted ride next to Robbie, breathing the sweet, dusty air of late summer. Once he recovered from that bout of self-pity, he decided the best thing to do was attempt to strengthen his weakened body with exercise.

He’d practiced standing on his own, falling back onto the bed over and over, and ended frustrated and trembling. When Stewart at last showed up to announce lunch, he’d begged off, pleading a headache. That was certainly true enough, and he wasn’t sure he could face his relations without the buffer of Robbie.

Now he had to share Robbie with the insufferable Samuel. Ah well, at least he’d had a glimpse of the evening sky, and now he could stare at something other than the walls of that library. Anyway, he’d made a promise to himself not to overimbibe, so he would go easy on the ale tonight.

They’d set him in a chair with padding and arms, a bit better than most of the plain wood chairs and benches that surrounded the tables of this public house. The place was dim, dingy and older than the hills, but quaint in a country sort of way.

The rafters near the fireplace were dark with the smoke of decades. The flagstone floor had probably been covered with reeds not so very long ago but was now swept fairly clean. The windows with the tiny diamond panes of wrinkled glass probably hadn’t been cleaned since the last century.