Loving Lucy (13 page)

“But now, I need to be your nurse,” he reminded her. “I’m keeping the wounds clean and applying ointment, that’s all.”

She looked at him apprehensively. “I suppose you’ve seen everything.” She looked at him, tried to think of him as the brother she had never had, but she couldn’t quite achieve this. The best she could do was put him in the category of ‘friend.’ Even that wasn’t enough.

“I’m trying very hard not to notice.” He gave her a lopsided grin.

“I don’t think I can be modest now.” Without further words she lay down and turned on to her stomach. She felt him pull the covers down and then her night dress up. She shivered, despite her best efforts to keep still.

“I know,” he soothed, “but there’s no one else to do it, and it has to be done, otherwise there might be infection. Believe me, my - dear, there’s no need to fear me.”

“I know that now,” she said, trying to keep her voice level.

He brought some warm water in a bowl over to the bed and laid it on the floor. She heard the sound of a cloth being wrung out and then felt the warmth on her back. “Will you tell me what it looks like? Please keep talking. Don’t let me think.”

Her voice nearly broke, but he spoke to her as though he hadn’t heard it. “The marks on your shoulders didn’t cut the skin - they’re healing nicely. His tone was steady. Lucy found listening made her forget the intimate nature of his ministrations, and she breathed deeply to regain her composure. “He’s cut through lower down,” he continued. “But there’s no infection, it’s all healing well. In a day or two you won’t need this any more.” His hands were gentle but sure, and he didn’t hurt her once.

“Will it scar?”

“I don’t know. But if it does, none of them will show when you’re dressed.” He was attending to the wounds on her bottom and thighs now, and she could feel by the soreness that this was where the marks were at their worst. His touch was the same as it had been higher up. Then she felt him dry her, with gentle pats from a soft towel. “Nearly done now.”

He had a pot of ointment, and he applied it where it was needed with great care. “All done.” He immediately drew her night dress down again.

She lay on her stomach for a moment, and then turned back on her side and met his steady gaze. “Thank you.”

He pulled the covers over her. “I tried to find another way of doing it, but Potter had to go back to the house and she can’t get away regularly enough to attend to you.”

“Potter?”

“Didn’t I say? She’s your mother’s head chambermaid. I gave her some money to look after your interests and to tell me if there was anything amiss. I was very worried about you, but I couldn’t find out for myself. I didn’t trust Sir Geoffrey, you see. As long as he treated you with respect, I was content. Edward - Lord Wenlock - was worried too, you know. He knows what Geoffrey Sanders is capable of.”

“Did you never think of telling my mother?” she asked.

He sighed and took her hand, which lay over the covers, holding it lightly in his. “I don’t think that would have made much difference, coming from the direction it did. It would have been put down to jealousy, or a desire to prevent your marriage.”

Lucy sighed. “Yes, it would.” She could see the justice of that remark, but she couldn’t believe her mother would have allowed her to be treated in that way. Surely her mother knew nothing of Sir Geoffrey’s vicious tendencies, she could not. “May I go home?”

He caught his breath. “Yes of course, if you wish it. But I would advise against it. If you go back now, I’m sure your mother will insist the marriage goes ahead.”

“Even if she sees the marks, and tell her what he’s done?” It was the first reference she made to the other thing he had done to her. That was the worst of it.

“Even then. But if you feel in the least uncertain, if you don’t trust me - and why should you? - you should go and find out for yourself.”

She struggled to sit up, and he put an arm around her and helped her. When she was settled against the pillows, he released her, only to take both her hands in his. “Lucy, this is your life. You are over twenty one now, and no one can tell you what to do. Your decisions are your own. Believe that I’ll support you, whatever you decide to do, but make the decisions yourself.”

She stared at him in silence for a moment, her hands resting in his. “Yes,” she said. “You’re right. I suppose I’ve become used to doing as I’m bid, and society expects a girl to obey her parents. But I don’t want to marry Geoffrey.”

“Then you shall not. Now all we have to do is devise a way to prevent it, and do it without scandal.”

Dinner was brought upstairs to them and again the jovial landlady declared her pleasure in seeing Mrs. Stanley so much better. “I’ve seen these chills carry a person off, but I’m sure you’re in no danger of that now, madam.” The maids bustled around her setting up a table and laying a substantial repast upon it. “And now you should do your best to recover by having as good a meal as you may. Feed a cold and starve a fever, madam.” She smiled benevolently at Lucy, who did her best to smile back. “A pity your maid had to leave you like that.” she commented, evidently fishing.

“Yes, Potter was needed elsewhere. Her mother is very ill.” She glanced across at Philip and saw his infinitesimal nod, confirming she had her story right.

“I could find another maid for you, madam,” said Mrs. Tilson. “Thompsons is just around the corner. The best agency in
London
, they can get anything for you in very short order.”

Philip stepped forward. “I think we’ll go on as we are for now. It’s very kind of you to think of us, but my wife is used to my help and she prefers me to look after her. Isn’t that so my love?”

Lucy smiled at him. “Yes,” she agreed docilely.

When the mistress and maids had left the room, he showed her an apprehensive face. “Thompsons. Half my staff is drawn from there. If they should find out we’re here someone would be bound to recognise us.” He shook his head. “The sooner we can get out of this inn the better.” He picked up a robe from the chair. “Not as grand as the ones you usually wear, I’ll be bound, but it will serve.”

He turned his back while she put it on, which, considering how much he had seen of her already was very thoughtful of him. Lucy smiled as she fastened the buttons on the soft blue woollen garment. “Where did this come from?” She swung her feet out of bed and stood up. He heard her get out of bed and turned to see her put her hand down again to support herself. Quickly he came forward and put an arm about her waist, holding her until she regained her equilibrium. “The inestimable Potter went and bought you some garments such as a provincial lady might expect to have. We needed it for respectability, you see, otherwise the landlady here would have suspected us even more than she does now. The things they packed for you were too fine, and your brushes and so on all monogrammed. They’re at my house, as I can hardly send them back.”

“Do you think the landlady suspects us?” Lucy asked anxiously.

He released her and went to the table, drawing a chair back for her. “I think she suspects something, but not the truth. With your permission, I’ll tell her another lie.”

“What’s one more lie?” She noticed someone had put a soft cushion on the hard wooden chair and was very grateful for it.

He drew up the chair opposite her and sat down. “I’ll tell her we’re newly married. Then she’ll understand why we don’t want any attendants.”

“Oh.” Lucy surprised herself by blushing a little. Then she looked up at him and smiled. “I suppose that would help.” She looked at the dishes on the table. “Is that pigeon pie? May I have some?”

They helped themselves to the food; the first time in her life Lucy had ever done such a thing. The informality amused her, and the contrast with all the other meals she had ever had. It was usual to take what was wanted from the buffet at breakfast, and at informal suppers, but she had never before eaten dinner without a number of footmen to refill her glass or help her to a dish. “Do people often do this?”

The question made him laugh, a genuine delightful laugh. “Ordinary people, you mean?” She shook her head, joining in his gentle laughter. “Many people do, yes. Why, do you need help?”

“No, of course not. And it - it is pleasant to converse without knowing the servant behind you will be entertaining the servants’ hall with your remarks later.”

“Yes - we couldn’t possibly have that, could we?” he said and she laughed again.

She cut the laugh short, shocked that she could find anything amusing so soon after that dreadful thing had happened to her, and stared at him, wide eyed. “Philip?”

“Yes?”

“Oh - nothing.” She fell to eating, grateful her appetite, as well as her sense of humour had returned.

The pigeon pie was very good, as was the peppered steak, the apple tart and the orange cheese cakes. Conversation over the meal was light, and punctuated by “Pass the beetroot, please,” and, “Have you got the trifle?” It did a lot to lighten Lucy’s mood, help to release some of the tension coiled up inside her. Like being on holiday. Philip smiled more too, and seemed happy to see her in a better frame of mind. The ogre Lord Royston, the image her mother had built up for her in the last few years finally fell away, leaving the reality for her to study.

He was a handsome man. His hair and eyes were the same colour as hers, dark, almost black hair and brilliant blue eyes, but his face was fuller and his features more definite than hers. He was tall, not so tall as Geoffrey perhaps, but well filled out. In shirt sleeves, she saw his shoulders needed no extra buckram to fill his coat and he moved with a grace that spoke of the athlete. His face habitually had a look of good humour, one she found refreshing after her betrothed’s stern handsomeness. No, she would never think of Geoffrey like that again, she decided. Not her betrothed.

After supper Lucy and Philip sat and chatted over the remains of the wine. The maid came to clear the mess away and did her best not to disturb them. She took away the dishes and swung the trestles back under the table, taking it back to its former place by the window.

They talked about mutual acquaintances, places they knew and finally, their childhood, partly shared.

“I loved the Grange,” he told her, “As Bernard never did. He was always mad to be a soldier.”

“I remember. He even tried to make me one of his troops. Drilled me on the terrace for hours before Miss Hampson found me.”

“Your governess.” He paused, frowning in thought and then his brow cleared. “I remember her. Beetle faced woman, wasn’t she? What happened to her?”

She laughed at this description of her formidable governess, but remembered her as she hadn’t done for years. “She went to the Duchess of Bedford’s household when I made my come-out. Mama said she and Aunt Honoria would be my companions from then on. I was glad to see her go, but I think she did me good. I know far more than I would otherwise do about the globes, and French and suchlike. She put more emphasis on that than my being able to sew a fine seam.”

“Quite right too. From what I remember of your seams they were never that straight; and it is of far more use to know where
St Petersburg
is.”

“Why?” she demanded, quick on the uptake. “I might never visit
St. Petersburg
.” His look showed her she had fallen into error, and he was joking with her. She smiled back, and felt more at her ease than she had for a long time.

Recollecting where she was that was passing strange. Dressed as informally as it was possible to be dressed, sitting alone with a member of that sex which had used her so terribly a matter of days before, it was the last thing she should be feeling, but she felt comfortable and safe here. Perhaps it was because she knew him well, - or perhaps not. There was something new now, a new awareness, now she had been pushed into that world she should have learned about in a very different way. “Well at least you got the Grange. Did that make you happy?”

“In a way.”

She could have bitten her tongue out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean - Bernard - “

He shook his head. “Don’t worry. That wasn’t what I meant. Bernard and I were never very close you know.” He regarded her speculatively then went on, “To tell you the truth, we didn’t really like each other very much.”

She stared at him. “I never guessed - “

He shook his head. “There was never any breach, we just didn’t get on. But neither of us was inclined to argument, so we went our own ways, that’s all. Nothing dramatic, nothing to concern yourself with. I was sorry when he died, but not heartbroken.”

“Oh.” She paused as the maid brought in a tray with tea and a decanter on it. When she left he said, “I asked for some port to be sent up. Would you like some? There’s no one to see.”

She accepted, and he poured them both a measure. She sipped it, and immediately smiled. “I haven’t tasted this for years. My Papa used to give me little tastes of it, when there was no one else around. I would sit on his knee and have a taste of his port, after dinner when he went to the library. I couldn’t have been more than seven. My goodness.”

He let her alone with her memories, watching her face relax, pleased to see the tension slowly leaving. When her glass was empty he refilled it, only commenting, “It will help you to sleep. Tea next, though.”