On Bended Knee, page 8
part #6 of Wicked Worthingtons Series
Lysander supposed that people ought to speak to dogs, as he was certain that he used to do. However, the dog seem perfectly content to simply sit on its haunches with the end of its tail flipping methodically on the scruffy grass of the hill. The creature tilted its head at him curiously, but when he did not move toward it, the dog jumped up and scuttled awkwardly off a few feet away. Then it stopped and looked back at him intently.
It was exhausting enough trying to puzzle out the humans around him. Lysander had nothing left to give a dog tonight. He turned his back on it and continued on his way, albeit at a more leisurely pace than before. Perhaps it was the distraction of the animal, or the cool crisp night, or perhaps he'd merely worn the dream out in his furiously paced walk, but he felt much calmer now.
He tried to think seriously about what he ought to do next. Surely that was what sensible people did. They put some thought into what they ought to do next.
Lysander usually waited for someone in his family to indicate his direction. It was easier that way, for they became disturbed when he went off on his own, or reacted strangely. Since he woke in the hospital with his shoulder bandaged and his mind full of waking nightmares, Lysander had realized that there was something rather permanently wrong with him.
Even his own family were like strangers. When first he'd been brought home, he very nearly feared them, for they seem to know so much about him and he seemed to know nothing about them. He remembered them, of course. It wasn't as though he had his memories cleaned from his mind as some of the soldiers had. It was more as though his emotions had been wrested from his heart instead. There stood before him his mother and his father and his sisters and his brothers.
And he felt nothing.
That had passed finally, for one could not remain in the midst of all that generous outpouring of love and not absorb such a tutoring of the heart. His love was different now, however, fierce and mute and protective instead of gentle and laughing. Sometimes he almost thought it ran deeper than before. He'd been careless with that love at one time. He'd been careless with his friends, his brothers, his sisters, and most especially his parents. Someone named Lysander had grown up in that house so immersed in love that he breathed it in and considered it as little as he did the very air around him.
He'd sauntered fecklessly away from that love, donning a uniform as if it were yet another costume, a bit of family playacting, a merry bit of theater. He remembered that the other Lysander had done that but now he could not imagine he had ever felt that way himself. Careless, stupid man — to have no fear of what was to come.
"Hero" wasn't a word that Lysander believed in anymore. Neither was "Coward." He'd learned through harsh experience that there could come a dark place of fear so deep that one really had no choice about how one reacted to it.
A scuffling sound came from in front of him and Lysander look down, pausing in mid-step. The dog was in front of him, facing him with its head lowered. The bushy tail no longer whacked happily. Eyeing it warily, Lysander moved to step around it. The dog moved to match him and continue to block his way.
It is herding me.
Was he a sheep, to be so directed by this shaggy beast?
Lysander took a moment to seriously ponder the question. Now that he thought about it, it did seem sheep-foolish to be stalking around an unfamiliar landscape in the dark. The moon was dimming behind a thin sheen of clouds. The bit of light he had might soon be gone.
He lifted his head and looked about him. He could still see the vague line of the path he was on cutting through the grass but very little else was visible. Even if there were farmsteads within sight, likely they would have no lanterns lighted at this hour.
Lysander looked back down at the dog.
How is it that you are allowed to ride through England on your own?
Perhaps the lady doctor had a valid point, if this madly tufted shepherd dog had more sense than he did to be strolling about in the dark of night.
He turned around in place to face the opposite way. The dog came to his side and panted up at him happily. Apparently, this was the correct direction. His hand was hanging at his side and the dog shoved its cold damp nose into his palm. He let his fingers linger in the shaggy, silky fur and toyed with the ridiculously large ears for a moment.
Then he began to walk, with his new friend at his side. He had faith that the dog would take him where he needed to be.
Chapter 9
GEMMA AROSE AN HOUR after dawn. Her room was a small chamber on the first floor, not far from her stillroom. It was probably meant to be a housekeeper's room or lady's morning room but she managed to fit her bed into it after the mistress's chamber had developed a leak in the eaves. She had asked some of the village men to help patch it up and they had begun the work cheerfully enough, but had not been done before winter, and then lambing season had kept everyone so busy, and then there was planting to do.
Well, their livelihoods were certainly more important than fixing the damp and musty bedroom.
She'd liked her old room for the windows. She'd always risen effortlessly when that beautiful early light poured through the glass. Her current bedchamber remained dark far later and when she awoke, she tended to feel cross until she'd downed her first cup of tea.
Dressing herself was exasperating. She did up most of her buttons before she donned her gown. She'd never had a lady's maid, not being an actual lady, even when Edmund yet lived. The only full-time man had been Mr. Bing then, as now, but Edmund had provided cash employment for many other day workers.
Gemma grimaced at the memory of considering herself busy when her sole responsibility was supervising others and cooking only when she was in the mood.
Of course, she'd sometimes accompanied Edmund on his rounds but her role had been that of an assistant when he thought he might need an extra pair of hands.
Her wrist and shoulder twinged sharply as she slid her arm into the long sleeve of her gown. Heavens, if dressing was this onerous, how was she to manage all the work she had to do?
For a moment she allowed a spike of hopeless exhaustion to have its way with her. She could scarcely manage Yew Manor when she was well. She and Mr. Bing worked themselves to exhaustion every day and still the manor deteriorated around them!
When she became a widow, she'd considered herself fortunate when she learned that she might stay in her own house and that Edmund had put some investments in her name to maintain herself in comfort, if not style. It was not a large enough fortune for Edmund's relations to quibble over. None of them had any interest in residing in Yorkshire and the much more important entailed wealth and properties had moved seamlessly into the hands of Edmund's cousin, Galen Oakes. Gemma knew that Edmund's family bore her no ill will, with the possible exception of Galen, but neither did they hold her in esteem. They had cared nothing for Edmund and as Gemma had done them the great favor of remaining childless, they had likely already forgotten her existence.
This suited Gemma perfectly well. And when the populace of the Dale had continued to look to Yew Manor for medical assistance, she had set herself to learning everything she could to help them. The mission had occupied her lonely days as she adjusted to being the lady of her own house.
Then the investments had begun to fail. First one, then another, until all that came to Gemma was a fraction of her former income.
Gemma sat on the edge of her imperfectly made bed and sadly held her aching wrist in her lap. It was going to be difficult day, she feared.
Then she stood up, dabbed at her incipient tears with a handkerchief and looked her reflection in the eye. "There is only ever one task," she reminded herself. "Whatever you are doing at any given moment."
She let out a breath, bound her wrist with a wide length of stiff canvas and left her dark room. Just like every day, she would not see it again until very late.
In the kitchen she found that Mr. Bing had started the fire in the stove as always. There was a kettle full of heated water set to the back of it. What would she do without him?
Don't even think it!
Kneading dough was out of the question. Fortunately she'd expected to stay late at the fete and had baked a few extra loaves for this morning. She set the day-old bread to warm near the stove while she gathered eggs. Taking a large basket, she awkwardly threw on her oldest woolen shawl and made for the extensive coops behind the stables.
On her way she saw Mr. Bing limping toward the stables leading an extremely fine horse that looked rather familiar.
"So the mighty Icarus has finally come down from his flight?"
Mr. Bing rolled his eyes. "The things folks name their beasts." Yet he rubbed the horse's questing nose when it bumped into his shoulder. "But he's a fine, friendly creature. Spoilt as a baby, no doubt. He'll be wantin' me to fetch him carrots and the like, and be about lording it over t' goat and t' pony."
Gemma felt a tremor of unease. "Do you think he'll get on well with Bad Pony?" Her cart pony was a stubborn animal, and could be most ill-mannered at times. She felt sorry for the creature. It was a strange short-legged beast, heavy-bodied and strong, but it had never taken to her and barely tolerated Mr. Bing. Their fine carriage horse had perished along with the carriage, and Edmund himself on that night he'd been summoned to deliver twins in a storm. Bad Pony was all that remained. The creature had taken Edmund's fancy while they served on the Peninsula and for some unfounded reason he'd brought it home with him, although Gemma was certain Edmund had never meant to put it in the traces.
But Mr. Bing didn't seem to be too worried about that pony's churlish temperament. He thumped the tall, gleaming thoroughbred on the shoulder with rough affection. "Aye then, Icky's a fine boy, a proper horse. He likes everyone, don't you Icky?"
Encouraged, Gemma stepped forward and held her own hand out flat. She wished she had known to keep a carrot in her pocket. She would from now on. Still, the friendly horse nuzzled her palm and gave a hopeful waffle through his nose. Gemma smiled. "Do you think it says something about our visitor that he rides such a lovely horse?"
Mr. Bing shook his head. "Couldn't speak to that. I've known some real bastards who could pick out good horseflesh. But to that lad's credit, there's nowt sign that spurs have ever touched them glossy sides."
From Mr. Bing, that was practically a stamp of approval. Then he slid his gaze in her direction. "You know yon fellow went walkin' last night."
Gemma raised a brow. "Did he? I was quite certain I heard him shouting out in his sleep. I didn't want to go in to him unless it seemed he could not calm down, but then everything became very quiet after that."
"Aye, because he went straight out t' window and climbed down t' porch."
"Really?" Gemma considered that for a moment. "I cannot decide if that is alarming or considerate. It could be that he simply didn't want to wake anyone."
"It could be he thought he needed to run for his life. It could be he's as mad as a hatter, and there ain't a thing you can do for him."
Gemma waved that away with a slight swing of her basket. "Well, he's back in his room now. I looked in on him. He's in a sound sleep, fully dressed on top of the covers."
Mr. Bing bristled. "You are not to be alone with him, you hear me?"
Gemma sighed. Mr. Bing was only being protective. She was tempted to point out to him that should the very much larger and younger gentlemen in the upstairs room decide to do battle, it was not likely that Mr. Bing could do much about it. Then again, she'd seen Mr. Bing's wiry strength in managing Bad Pony and she had no doubt he would fight in a ferociously dirty gutter style that would do considerable damage, should it be necessary. She herself had kept a kitchen knife by her bedside last night, although she would never admit it to Mr. Bing.
"Mr. Bing, I shall remind you again that the gentleman didn't even hurt the ram."
Mr. Bing screwed his face into a frown that drew his bushy brows into a single spiky line. "Well, that's true enough. I still don't want you alone with him. It ain't proper. What would the doctor say?"
The same doctor who'd dragged his nineteen-year-old bride into battle? Gemma rather thought that Edmund would've handed her a fireplace poker and told her to watch his back, but she didn't bother trying to convince Mr. Bing any differently. She changed the subject. "I'm making eggs for breakfast," she said brightly, simply for the fun of teasing him.
Mr. Bing only scowled and stalked away, leading the horse to the stables and muttering under his breath. Gemma was quite sure the words were unfit for a lady's ears. She did not bother holding back her snicker as she continued around the barn to the coops.
She would make a fine plateful of eggs for the visitor, served with the toasted bread. In her experience, men always seemed to find large amounts of hot food to be quite mollifying.
"Food in belly," she growled in a primitive fashion. "Rowr."
THE BREAD WAS TOASTY and hot by the time their guest managed made his way down to the kitchen. Gemma heard his step in the hallway. She smiled to herself when she also heard Bing's boots thumping up the walk from the stables. The siren song of warm bread had struck once more.
"Won't you join us in the kitchen, sir?" she called out. "We don't stand on ceremony here, for there's no one to serve us but ourselves."
The shadowy form of her guest appeared just outside the door from the hall. He paused before he made his way into the kitchen.
Gemma had steeled herself against his fine looks. Yet she still found herself looking away when her troublesome responsiveness sent a tug through her lower belly.
Setting herself to industry as a means to fending off her inappropriate attraction, she set out a full dozen eggs to go into the bowl, then after a moment's thought, set out a half dozen more. Eggs were plentiful and her guest had not eaten in at least a day. She was able to smile calmly at him in welcome. "You may sit at the kitchen table with us, unless you'd rather eat in your room?"
He didn't quite flinch when she spoke to him but it was a near thing. Nevertheless, she could hear his stomach growling from where she was. She reached down her whisk from its hook on the wall and awkwardly carried over her big earthenware bowl. Oh dear. Whisking left-handed was going to be difficult. "Your horse has arrived safely," she went on. "He seems in good spirits."
The gentleman's gaze shot up to the back door. Goodness, he was eager to be on his way! Unfortunately, she could not allow that. He was strung as tightly as a wire and just as close to snapping. By taking him in, she'd made herself responsible for him. If she turned him loose on the world, she was quite certain that someone would come to harm, most probably him.
"You can't ride him out directly. He's exhausted and he's thrown a shoe. That hoof has gone a bit lame, I fear. Mr. Bing is giving him a rubdown and a hot porridge breakfast. Icarus is young and strong but he's had a very tiring few days." She gave him a stern glance and he relaxed his fixation on the back door. Gemma nodded toward the table again. "Sit down and keep me company while I cook."
She turned to her task and promptly fumbled the first egg onto the floor attempting to crack it with her left hand. Oh drat.
Suddenly, the dark form of her guest loomed at her side. He took the damp cloth from next to her pump and swiped the mess from the floor. Gemma bit back an objection to abusing one of her good tea towels for a job more suited to a rag. She was too fascinated to see what he would do next.
He took the bowl and whisk from her and began breaking the eggs with decent ease.
He was not solely accustomed to life in the upper classes, then. Of course, not every gentleman lived his life in fear of visiting the kitchen, especially those who'd had to fend for themselves in wartime. Edmund had been good with a knife and would sometimes chop the vegetables for her. Gemma thought twice about offering the same chore to her guest. Perhaps no knives, not quite yet.
Into the fray, then. "Did you enjoy your walk last night?"
He gave her a startled glance then looked away. She pressed on. "The dale is lovely by moonlight, is it not?"
He nodded shortly. She waited as he attacked the eggs with the whisk, holding it oddly, like a sword. She let herself examine him fully, forcing herself to look past the stunning exterior to see him as a healer would. He looked a little tired, but not as badly as she would have expected, especially regarding his night wanderings.
He had not responded to her words yet. She kept her eyes on him in friendly expectation. You will answer me.
He swallowed. Then nodded again. "The air is … clean."
Her smile became a bit fixed. Edmund had said that about the Dales. She understood that notion perfectly well, but the cleanliness and barrenness of the dales also meant loneliness and solitude. She found them beautiful, of course, but there ought to be more to life than seeking emptiness in lieu of tranquility.
She began again. "You walk a great deal in London, I imagine. Walking is very helpful. Calming, I would say. "
He neither agreed nor disagreed with her assumption of his origin. He looked down at the bowl and released it, the enemy eggs well and truly trounced by his lethal whisk. His fingers traced the wood grain of her table. He slowly spread his flat palms down on the well-sanded surface.
He did not seem agitated, however, so Gemma decided to push him a little. "Don't you think?"
The glance he gave her was positively hunted. But he lifted his chin and met her eyes. "Helps."
"What does it help with?"
"Sleep." He said it with finality and she knew she would get nothing more from him on that topic. Still, she felt the glow of triumph for luring him to admit that much. Onward.
"I am Mrs. Gemma Oaks. I'm a widow. My husband was Dr. Edmund Oakes, who served as physician for Swaledale and beyond."
He stared at her for a long moment. She tilted her head. "How long has it been since you've met someone new and had to tell them your name?"
His jaw dropped open a bit and he seemed about to speak. Just then Mr. Bing bustled into the room with the dog close behind.
