Bonds of Earth (12 page)

Seward’s eyes grew round. “I have these imported from France,” he protested, as if that fact would spare them.

Michael only snorted. “No wonder they smell like shit. Hand them over.”

“Your hands are full,” Seward sneered.

Michael raised the glass to his lips and gulped down the contents. Dropping the empty tumbler on the table, he picked up the cigarette box. “Not anymore.”

The look that Seward turned on him then was pure, untrammeled hatred. Michael only smiled benignly. “I’ll see you this afternoon,” he said, saluting jauntily by raising the bottle to his temple before heading for the door.

“I’ll see you in hell first,” Seward shouted.

“Why not?” Michael fired back over his shoulder. “I hear it’s only a short walk from this bloody place.”

I
F
M
ICHAEL
had been a religious man, he would have seen the arrival of Doctor Parrish’s letter scarcely an hour later as the hand of Fate intervening on his behalf. As it was, he merely took the fat envelope and signed for it, ignoring the frankly speculative leer of the excessively pretty boy who delivered it.

Parrish’s letter was attached to a detailed therapy plan for building Seward’s strength and endurance, particularly in his atrophied right limbs. Even though he was intimately familiar with the doctor’s work, Michael couldn’t help but be impressed by the thorough and aggressive course of treatment. It was as though he’d sensed Michael’s mood as well as Seward’s physical tolerance and developed the plan accordingly.

My colleagues would no doubt blanch at the shortened timetable for this patient, but I believe that if Seward does not see results—and quickly—he will abandon the treatment.

Michael snorted; truer words had never been expressed.

For that reason, I also met with Mrs. Anderson this past Tuesday. A truly formidable woman. She was surprised when I vouched for your skills as a therapist, of course, since she only knows you as a gardener. However, by the time I was done listing your many virtues and accomplishments, she had quite fallen under your spell.

Michael laughed aloud at that, earning a strange look from Mary. The idea that Seward’s aunt could fall under anyone’s spell was ludicrous. If anyone could bewitch her, however, it would be Parrish.

I impressed upon her the importance of gymnastic equipment to her nephew’s recovery, and she willingly agreed once the benefits were explained to her. I believe she has her own reasons for wishing the boy hale and hearty, but as we are all working toward the same goal, I feel we need not delve too deeply into any of our motivations.

At any rate, I had already ordered most of the equipment before our meeting (I was, shall we say, confident of a positive result), and so it will be delivered to you on Monday morning. I have enclosed a sample floor plan based on a twenty-by-fifteen-foot room, but you of course may have to adjust for the dimensions. You know what to look for; it should be a well-lit space, preferably with southern exposure. As he is the only one inhabiting that cavernous house, I would imagine there must be a suitable room that could be converted.

I should be up for a visit in about a month’s time, unless you call for me sooner. I have absolute faith in your ability to implement my instructions. Feel free to adapt them where you see fit to suit the situation. Until then, all my best.

Michael folded the letter carefully and tucked it in his pocket, then spread the plan out before him and studied it. After a few moments, he felt Sarah come up behind him to stand at his shoulder.

“What’s that?”

“A plan for our new gymnasium,” he told her. “Here are the mats, and here are the parallel bars—those are bars about so high”—he placed a hand on top of her head—“that help you walk.” He pointed at the diagram again. “And here’s the shoulder wheel and the wrist rollers and the finger board. And you’ll see what all of those are on Monday.”

“Where are you going to put it all?” she asked, and Michael smiled, enjoying her open curiosity.

“I think I know just the spot. Would you like to come see it?” She nodded eagerly. “Good.” He rose to his feet, and she followed him.

From the moment Parrish had suggested the construction of a gymnasium, Michael had known that the room in which he’d first met Seward was perfect for their purpose. It once had been a ballroom of some sort but was now host only to a few dusty chairs and settees and the easels and painting supplies Michael had seen Seward and Sarah use. Huge glass doors and windows stretched from floor to ceiling, flooding the room with light.

“I don’t think he’ll like it if we use this room,” Sarah said uneasily. “This is where he paints.”

Michael inspected the artwork more closely. “I don’t think he’s done much painting since the last time you were here with him,” he said. “There should still be room for the easels over in one corner. And with the weather improving, I’m sure he’ll want to work outside.” Sarah looked at him skeptically but said nothing. Michael jerked his head. “Let’s get this furniture moved out, hm?” he said cheerfully, and she nodded and moved to obey.

He was backing his way through the ballroom door, the two of them carrying one of the settees between them, when Sarah’s eyes widened. He craned his neck and saw Seward standing directly behind him, his face livid.

“Would you mind telling me what you’re doing?” Seward demanded, voice tight.

Michael nodded at Sarah, and together they lowered the settee carefully to the floor. “I received a letter from Doctor Parrish. There’s a room full of exercise equipment on order in New York, and it should be here on Monday.”

“And you need this room, of all the rooms in this house?”

Michael nodded. “It’s the best choice.”

Seward’s gaze flickered from Michael to Sarah and back. “May I speak with you in the library, please?”

“Certainly,” Michael said, following Seward as he limped down the hall. The limp did seem a little less pronounced, he noted with some satisfaction. However, as soon as he stepped inside the library and shut the door, that feeling quickly evaporated.

“I’m not going to waste time explaining this to you,” Seward growled, “so I’ll get it over with quickly. I will no longer be requiring your services.”

While Michael hadn’t exactly seen that coming, he wasn’t shocked by it. Folding his arms, he said, “My services aren’t subject to your whims, Seward. I work for your aunt.”

“As a gardener!” Seward snapped. “I’m sure she has no notion you’ve completely switched professions to—”

Drawing Parrish’s letter from his pocket, Michael found the appropriate section, then handed it to Seward. “Fifth paragraph,” he said brightly.

Scowling, Seward scanned the letter. Michael could tell the exact instant he read the relevant passage, because his expression cycled through shock to fury to defeat and back to fury. He raised his eyes to Michael. “You’re brighter than I gave you credit for,” he snarled.

“Thank you,” Michael said, smiling. “You’re a much bigger pain in the ass than I gave you credit for.”

Seward flushed. “This is a new form of therapy,” he said hotly. “Insulting the patient—”

“Let’s get one thing clear,” Michael interrupted. “You’re not my patient, and I’m not a therapist any longer. I’m doing this because I care about those people, and they care about you, for some unfathomable reason. They’ve drowned you in kindness and compassion, and that’s gotten all of you precisely nowhere. Well, if you don’t want kindness and compassion, that’s fine, because the truth is, I’m fresh out of both. I’m perfectly happy to peel off the gentleman’s gloves and go bare-knuckles with you; it’s much more honest. And at least if you’re fighting me, you’ll get some exercise out of it.”

Seward stared at him. “You’re mad.”

Michael bared his teeth. “Then I’m in good company.” He walked to the door, turning as he reached for the knob. “I’ll be back later for your bath and massage. Three o’clock sharp. Be ready or I’ll strip you and throw you in the damned tub myself.”

When he returned to the ballroom, he found Sarah perched on the settee. She rose to her feet when she saw him approach and looked up at him with wide, apprehensive eyes.

Michael winked at her. “Still lots of work to do,” he said as he picked up his end of the settee, “but we’re getting there.”

Sarah hesitated for a moment, then leaped over to the opposite arm and hoisted it as high as she could. Michael grinned, pleased to have at least one staunch ally at his side.

8

T
HE
truck loaded with the promised equipment arrived at noon on Monday, and Michael spent the rest of the day securing the finger ladder, shoulder wheel, and stall bars to the wall, setting up the pulleys and weights, and affixing the metal supports for the parallel bars to the floor. He doubted Seward’s aunt had envisioned the conversion of her country estate’s ballroom to a gymnasium, but he couldn’t muster up any sympathy for her plight.

Seward grumbled all the way down to the gymnasium the next day, though he did seem slightly surprised at the extent of the transformation and the variety of equipment. Michael introduced him to each machine and activity over the next couple of days, then swiftly started him on a routine that addressed the weaknesses in his atrophied muscles without overtaxing them.

Seward’s attitude had taken an about-face. Where before their argument he had been quiet to the point of stoicism, now he complained at every possible opportunity. Michael much preferred this new attitude, because silence told him nothing, and he quickly learned to distinguish when Seward was honestly in pain as opposed to merely enjoying the sound of his own rebellion. He matched him insult for insult, pushed him and prodded him, and Seward responded, shoving back with all his might. As the days rolled into weeks, the strength of that shove grew by leaps and bounds.

“All right, try it again.”

Sweating profusely and sprawled on the mat where he’d fallen, Seward lifted his head and glared at him. “You must be joking.”

Michael smiled and squatted down in front of him. “Come now. You know me better than that.”

Groaning, Seward rolled to his side and pushed himself to a sitting position. He began to rise, transferring his weight to his left hip and leg.

“How many times do I have to tell you? Use your right side, your right!” Michael lunged forward and slapped Seward on his right hip. “This side.”

“I know my right from my left, thank you,” Seward gritted.

“You don’t act like it,” Michael shot back. “Get up properly.”

Seward’s expression would have burned poor little Nurse Emma to ash. Michael only glared back until the other man looked away and shifted his weight onto his other hip. Michael’s feeling of triumph was tempered by the flash of genuine pain that swept across Seward’s features when he taxed his weaker side as Michael had insisted. The thought that he was demanding too much of Seward nagged at him for the hundredth time since they had started, but he pushed it away. Although he knew it defied everything he’d ever been taught, it was better to risk pushing him too far than not far enough. Parrish was right; if Seward didn’t begin to see concrete results, he would give up completely, and Michael would be unable to fulfill his promise.

“That’s enough for today,” he said, purposefully keeping his voice harsh. “Time for your rubdown.”

Seward said nothing, but the slight sag in his shoulders told Michael everything he needed to know. He had reached his limit for the day, and once again Michael had shoved at him until he was leaning over the precipice. His hands itching to offer support, he allowed Seward to walk out of the gymnasium ahead of him while he automatically catalogued the minute but visible improvements to his gait. Those observations would later be recorded in the journal he was keeping for the purpose of chronicling Seward’s therapy, but for now he only found himself savoring the small yet astonishing feeling of satisfaction it gave him.

Michael remained in the gymnasium, straightening up equipment that didn’t require straightening, until he was certain Seward would be ready for him. When he entered the bedroom, however, Seward was just removing the last of his clothing. Even though he’d seen Seward’s naked body a dozen times by now, there was an intimacy to walking in on him when he was unprepared, as if by crossing the threshold he’d overstepped the bounds of their fragile working relationship.

Evidently Seward felt it as well, for he turned and stared at Michael, his face and upper torso flushing with embarrassment, his expression strangely vulnerable. Recovering swiftly, he turned his back to Michael and reached for a towel, hastily wrapping it around himself. They came together in silence, Seward moving stiffly to lie facedown on the bed, Michael pulling up the stool and reaching for the jar of lotion, feeling the greasy stuff coat his palms and cool his fingers.

He started in with gentle strokings, but even after progressing to a deeper massage, Seward’s muscles were still knotted and unyielding. When he felt the frustration begin to dictate the movement of his hands, he stopped immediately. Otherwise he would risk doing Seward an injury.