Mending Him (2 page)

Worthington yelped. “Damnation! I’ve killed you. Are you hurt?”

Robbie wiggled and shouted, ready to bite the idiot if he didn’t get that weight off his shoulder, but the man on top of him didn’t stand up. Oh, that’s right, Robbie finally recalled. He couldn’t.

Worthington dragged his great weight off by crawling, then settled with a rattle and crunch on the gravel next to Robbie.

“’S your shoulder, boy. I hurt your shoulder,” Worthington said, sounding as if he was about to burst into tears. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No of course you didn’t,” gasped Robbie. He closed his eyes and wondered if he might use an awful word to express his own vile pain.

“Here, now, wait a moment. Wait now! I have it! I do. You, my own Forrester.” The drunk man’s shouts seemed to pierce Robbie’s already aching head. “You hold his body. Just there. Hold him tight. And I’ll just give a bit of a pull. Not a yank, no indeed.”

“What the devil do you think you are doing?” Uncle Phillip came forward and entered the fray.

“His shoulder. Poor mite’s got it dissslocolated. Located. I did that, sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to, I assure you. Lost my balance. Mr. Forrester, my man. Yes. Hold him still. That’s the way.”

Forrester seemed to be taking orders from the man who reeked of brandy, for large arms in gray homespun suddenly wrapped around Robbie’s body.

“That’s it,” the drunken fool cheered. “That’s the way.” He grabbed Robbie’s arm and, ignoring both Robbie’s cry of pain and Uncle Phillip’s shouts, pulled up and out and…

Click.
The agony ceased.

Robbie could breathe again. Forrester let go of him a bit too soon, and he landed on his arse, but the pain had ended.

Worthington, also on his bottom on the gravel, beamed at him. “All better, my boy? Here, now, you’re not a boy, though, are you? You are a man. With a relocated shoulder. Indeed.” He sounded absolutely delighted. “But don’t use that arm too much, all right? Alllll right. Maybe even a sling. Yes. That’s the very ticket. Get my friend Mr. Forrester to get you a sling.”

Robbie took his time standing up. He grabbed hold of the carriage with his good arm to haul himself along.

Uncle Phillip suddenly appeared to help, but by then, Robbie had regained his feet and had his cane again.

Worthington smiled up at them both, a glorious white-toothed broad grin. He waved at Phillip. “So you must be my cousin Phillip! It has been a great many years. And this is your boy, young Bertie, or was it Samuel? Not yours, I think, for isn’t he too old? But never mind. Never mind. I say, I didn’t mean to injure your sons the moment I arrived.”

“Cousin Charles, you are the worse for drink,” Phillip said coolly.

“Why do you think they call it the worse?” Worthington turned to Robbie and asked conversationally, almost sounding sober. “I’d say it was the better. Except for you, poor Bertie. I landed on you because, yes, I am drunk.” His grin reappeared, then vanished. “But it isn’t merely that I imbibed too freely. I also am used to bracing myself just so with my feet. I raced in curricles and braced with my feet. You know? And I can’t. No indeed, I cannot. And so I fell. Boom. On top of you, poor, poor Bertie.”

“I am Robert.”

“Don’t like to be called Bertie, then?”

Forrester had gotten the behemoth of a chair out of the carriage.

“Ah, my miserable steed awaits,” Charles said. “Lend me a hand, Bertie?”

“I am Robbie Grayson, Mrs. Chester’s nephew.” He wondered why it was so important that this singing drunken man know who he was. He reached down to help haul up Charles.

“No, oh no! We forgot your arm.” He rolled his eyes, which were brown and large and remarkably clear. “Forget my own name next. You never mind. Forgive me. Cousin Phillip and my beloved Forrester, I shall have to beg for your help. Haul me onto the cursed chair, please. I might manage with those sticks, my crutches, but another time when the world is less spinning and dipping.”

“Drunk,” Uncle Phillip muttered.

“We can all agree that is my condition,” Charles said happily. “And I should apologize for appearing in such a state, but you see, I can’t walk.” As he settled into the chair, he hiccupped gently. “I drink to forget,” he said and then gave a hoot of laughter. “And then when I forget too much, I fall right over, boom, on poor unsuspecting boys. I mean men. Not boys, men, who are simply coming to my aid. Such a punishment for such chivalry, Bertie.”

“I am Rob—”

“Oh yes. I recall, and furthermore, I shall never again forget that you are Robbie, like our own dear Rabbie Burns. Robbie. I know you’re Robbie. Robbie, Robbie…” He sang out the name over and over. And then he started reciting a strange version of Burns’s poetry in that thick, drunk, magnificent voice. “A wee sleekit timorous Robbie mouse.”

Robbie, arm aching and head a little thick, fully aware that his Uncle Phillip was in a foul temper, still found himself smiling at the strange new guest.

“Perhaps that’s enough of a poetry recitation for now, Mr. Worthington. I’ll show him to his room, Uncle Phillip.” Robbie glanced at the big-eyed footman, Stewart, who was helping Forrester unload the luggage from the cart. Oh, they’d be talking below-stairs about this grand entrance for months to come.

“Very well. And I’ll make certain your aunt isn’t too overcome.” Phillip glowered at his drunken cousin. “This will not do at all, Charles, if you intend to stay here. I have opened my home to you and am glad to do so, but such outrageous behavior is unacceptable.”

“Yes, sir.” The chastened reply was punctuated by a loud hiccup that somewhat detracted from any sense of earnestness.

Robbie ducked his head to hide his face while he struggled to fend off inappropriate laughter. He couldn’t push the chair one-handed, so Stewart took on that task, hard work over the lawn. Two footmen and Forrester had to haul the invalid up the several stairs into the house.

Robbie led the way to the library where Worthington was to be installed for the duration of his recovery. “I’m sure you’ll find this much more comfortable than any of the bedrooms on the second floor. It can get a bit cold and drafty upstairs.” He spoke to cover the sudden silence of the sodden Charles, who, it appeared, might have passed out. At any rate, his chin rested on his chest and his hands were slack in his lap.

“Thank you, Stewart,” Robbie said. “Will you be needing additional aid in dressing or getting in and out of bed, Mr. Worthington? I’m sure Stewart could help with anything you might need.”

“Happy to, sir,” the footman piped up, probably hoping this might be a stepping stone to acting as a gentleman’s gentleman someday.

Worthington lifted his head and squinted. “No. I’m able to get in and out of the chair and hobble around a bit by myself—when I’m not in my cups. Dashed foolish way to arrive on my cousin’s doorstep, cap in hand and squiffed.”

Robbie lowered himself so his gaze was level with Worthington’s. “You mustn’t feel that way, you know, as if you had come begging. Uncle Phillip and Aunt Lenore are happy to have you. Truly. We all are. For as long as you should need or want to stay. You’ll find this is a comfortable home with a loving family.
Your
family, after all. So don’t hesitate to ask for anything you need.”

There. He’d done his part, hopefully made poor drunken Charles feel a little more welcome. He felt odd making the speech he knew wasn’t really his place to give, but the man needed some sort of reassurance.

Robbie awkwardly squatted in a cantilevered stance, fighting to keep his balance. His gaze locked with Worthington’s, and the man’s eyes appeared rather less bleary and unfocused. He frowned as he stared back at Robbie with eyes as brown as a polished teak desk. So dark and intent that Robbie dropped his gaze lest the other man see his sudden flare of attraction.

“Thank you for that, Bertie,” Worthington said in a deep voice that scraped across Robbie’s nerves like gravel. “Or, no, damn. Cousin Robert, I should call you.”

“No. Not cousin. I am Lenore’s nephew,” Robbie reminded him. “And you are Phillip’s cousin. So we are no real relations at all, except perhaps by marriage.” Again he felt the need to stress that. But why? What did it matter if Charles Worthington lumped him together with the rest of his second cousins in his mind?

“Right,” Worthington said in the overly emphatic tone drunks used. “I do appreciate your kindness, Robert, but I don’t need or want a family looking after me as if I were a child. What I
need
is to regain the use of my legs and be able to stand on my own again. I need to be a man and not a charity case.”

“Of course. I understand.” Robbie rose stiffly to his feet, doing his damnedest not to wobble. “Very well, then, Mr. Worthington. I shall see you at dinner I suppose. Have a nice rest and see if you can’t collect yourself by then.”

Charity case.
Just like Robbie Grayson. He turned and walked out of the room with his back as erect as he could make it. Those scornful words might have been a punch in the gut, and the ache in his shoulder was nothing in comparison.

Chapter Two

Damn his foolish drunken tongue. Charles suddenly felt as sober as he’d been before the start of this long day’s journey to hell and the flask of whisky he’d sipped along the way. He’d just insulted poor, lame Cousin Robbie, who might have been a good ally to have here.

“Not a cousin,” he reminded himself aloud. “And I do remember what Phillip told me about him now.”

He hadn’t really paid close attention to the details of the Chester family. He supposed he hadn’t really wanted to know, as thinking of the family as individual people would make them a reality. And he’d wanted to avoid truth as often as possible and for as long as he could.

Reality meant facing the fact that all of his money was gone. He’d had to let go his staff first, then the paintings and family heirlooms, then the furniture, sold by McNair, who’d turned into the final remaining surly retainer. McNair took a percentage in lieu of back wages. At last the empty house went on the market. Only when he teetered on the edge of relying on some charitable institution did Charles ask his Cousin Phillip for help. He simply couldn’t take care of himself, and he was out of options. The niggling fear that he might never recover his mobility, or his ability to earn for himself, hovered at the edge of his consciousness all the time. Fear, like little white larvae wiggling in rotten fruit.

He’d lied to that nice cripple, Robbie, telling him he didn’t need the footman’s help. The truth was Charles couldn’t hobble around at all. He might possibly be able to heave himself from the chair onto the bed, but even that was doubtful. And he certainly couldn’t unpack his luggage or change his clothes.

McNair. How he missed the old sod who’d acted as his valet for most of his adult life. The man used to drive Charles insane with his attention to detail, but he’d give anything to have him back now. And the money. God, how he missed having money with which he could hire people to perform the tasks he needed until he was on his feet again.

But since he was being honest with himself at last, the money had been depleting long before too many years of unpaid bills drained him dry, and then with the illness, he had no way to fight the creditors or find a way to make income. He’d lived high and fast for too long on the thin remnants of his family fortune and was lucky to have had enough to pay for the physicians he’d needed.

Charles saw his life laid out behind him—a wastrel spending money as if it would regenerate, and his dreary future spread before him—locked in a wheelchair and forced to rely on charity at least for the near future, and who knew if he would ever truly recover. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to keep back the tears that threatened to ooze out yet again. Christ, he’d cried more over the past month than he had in his entire life.

You have no one to blame but yourself.
The cool yet loving voice was one he ascribed to his mother, though in reality he’d never known the woman. She’d died when he was only six months old, but the little whispering voice of conscience that haunted him when he was doing wrong things always sounded like a woman. That was what a mother was for, wasn’t it? To keep one on the straight and narrow.

Too bad he hadn’t heeded those imaginary warnings, or he wouldn’t be in the mess he was today. If he’d bothered to work at something, anything. If he’d learned to save and judiciously invest, instead of toss money down the black hole of a gaming table… If he’d not spent so much on beautiful clothes and wine… If only… What stupid and annoying words they were.

“Pouting does not become you, Charles.” He quoted one very dear man he’d had had the pleasure to know for the better part of a year, Paul Martin. What was Paul doing right this second? If Charles were to send him a telegram, would he respond? Probably not. That particular friendship had ended on less than amicable terms.

Come to think of it, most of his very special friendships had. He was built for brief encounters rather than long relationships. And now, without any money to ease the way, he would be hard pressed to manage any dalliances at all. What was life going to be like here in this backwater with nothing to do except recover his ability to walk? He had no one to talk to, although that Robbie didn’t seem like a bad sort. At the very least, he might find a chess partner in him.

Charles pushed the big wheels on either side of him with all his strength and was able to roll closer to the bed. He braced his hands on the support for the arms. One, two, three, and he lifted his body up on arms that shook from the effort. Sweat rolled down his face, and shooting pains radiated from his broken legs like flashes of lightning. He supposed he should be grateful there
was
pain, since his spinal cord or some other even more necessary part of him could been damaged in the accident. As for those symptoms that had begun
before
the accident, the odd tingling and loss of control in his muscles which had, in fact, led to the crash, they were passing slowly. Most days he almost felt normal again.

Now, up on his feet. Charles balanced for two whole seconds before falling across the narrow bed. The frame groaned under his weight and the soft mattress swallowed him. Too soft. He preferred a harder bed, but then beggars couldn’t be choosers. Charles laughed into the coverlet that nearly smothered him. A beggar. He was little more than that now.

He lay half on and half off the bed, helpless as an infant, unable to even remove his tight shoes or strip off the coat that bound him like a straitjacket. Unable to make it to the water closet and relieve himself—if they even had modern facilities in this old place, and damn, he had to piss like a horse after all he’d drunk. He truly had reached bottom. For a man who’d never experienced hopelessness or despair in his life, it was quite a shock to discover the debilitating power of such feelings.

“No pouting, Charles,” he reminded himself again. “It will make lines on your handsome face.” Foolish, stupid man. He’d been so focused on fashionable clothing and the beautiful things money could buy, on winning at cards and fun to be had and places to see. But when all those things were stripped away, who was he underneath? A figure molded from ash and air.

He flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling, while time crawled or perhaps sped by. He wasn’t sure which, for the bed was spinning along with his brain, and time was immeasurable. To stop the nauseating motion, he stared at an orange water stain scrawled across the ceiling like cryptic writing. If he could read the message, what would it say, something intriguing or earth shaking? No. Not in this staid and unpretentious house. No secret assignations had taken place on this narrow bed. No epic love story unfolded or unrequited passion consummated at last beneath such a humdrum ceiling.

Charles examined the stain and wished again that he hadn’t sent that footman away so quickly. Or that non-cousin, Robbie Grayson. There was a light of intelligence in his sympathetic eyes, a character who might be interesting to know. Besides, Charles could’ve asked him questions about what life was like here at the Chester house. How did Robbie feel about the Chester family and his place in it? He’d lived here since boyhood, as Charles now recalled. So, did wee Robbie with the lame leg feel a part of the family or permanently outside of it?

Charles’s stomach churned, and his need to piss became painful. He must find a chamber pot. Muzzy-headed, but still uncomfortably aware that most of his body seemed composed of a bottomless well of piss and self-pity, he at last managed to drag himself back off the bed. No chamber pot lay under the bed.

He looked about the room, a library built by a man who wanted to impress visitors with his wealth. Charles had had such a room on the second story of his London house.

Yes, there was standard dark paneling and the opulent Sienna marble fireplace and mantel. He craned his neck and saw that through the door was another room that was likely a billiard room. Not a water closet, more’s the pity.

He spotted a tall brass vase full of a strange arrangement of dried and glass flowers, and he set off across the polished parquet floor, using a motion more like swimming than crawling. Really, one might congratulate oneself for remembering to pull out the arrangement before using the vase.

He finished relieving himself, carefully replaced the vase on the floor and, with familiar despair, realized the bed was too far away. He could not drag himself back.

Even rolling onto his side was more than he could manage, so he pitched forward, sprawled on his stomach, face pressed against the rough wool of a Persian carpet.

He passed out.

He awoke minutes later—or perhaps it was hours—with the horrible knowledge that he was going to be sick. He could barely summon the strength to heave. This is the moment, he thought as he lay too near the stinking vomit.
This is when I change or die.

“Oh good Christ. What a mess.” An unfamiliar male voice spoke with utter disgust. A servant, perhaps the footman who’d helped him in.

Charles agreed with the evaluation, but he wouldn’t turn his head or open his eyes. Maybe if he concentrated, he could will himself to die.

“Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it,” he muttered into the rug.

“That would create an even greater mess,” said another very quiet, gently amused voice near his head. “You would fall upon your sword and leave some poor servant to clean up the mess.”

The non-cousin, Robbie Grayson.

A rustle of cloth and a thump. In a louder voice, Grayson said, “Never mind, leave the bucket here, and I shall take care of it.” There was a swish of water and the thump of some sort of wooden bucket.

Was the man ever not cheerful?

“It’s disgusting. Showing up like a drunkard and—good lord, what has he done with Mrs. Chester’s vase? Has he…? Is that vomit?” A woman’s voice, low and quiet. Another servant. Apparently the servants didn’t mind complaining in front of Robbie Grayson.

Grayson interrupted, still calm. “I’ll attend to it. Please do take the vase with you, Mrs. Jackson. Clean it out and return it, and I’ll put the arrangement back together.”

“Of course, Master Robbie,” she said. “I’ll fetch another pail. Best to use cold water in these cases. The smell.”

“So I remember from Gemma’s illness,” Robbie said. “I have an iron stomach, and I’m aware you don’t.”

“You are an angel. I’d send one of the girls, but they don’t need to see this…this sort of thing.”

“No indeed. Thank you, Mrs. Jackson. Stewart, please wait outside. I’ll call if I need you.”

The door closed softly. For a long moment, Charles thought he was alone. Then he heard the soft inhalation of a man stifling a sigh or a yawn. Which was it? And why was Robert Grayson sent to do this sort of task?

He almost wished they’d sent Forrester. For some reason, he’d hoped to make a good impression on Grayson. Too late for that now. Ah well, he’d be the drunken sot who puked on the good library carpet and pissed in the vase.

“I know you’re awake, Mr. Worthington. Shall we bend to the task before us?”

Charles made a small protesting noise.

“We have three arms and one useful leg between us, so I think we shall manage. Don’t you?” The soft thump and drag of the man’s halting step told Charles he moved about the room again.

“We have a simple goal—to undress you, clean you up a bit and shovel you into the bed once more.”

“You sound appallingly cheerful.”

“Yes, I have been accused of that offense before.” Robbie’s smile was obvious in his voice. “Can you sit up?”

Charles rolled onto his side and then wished he hadn’t. “God, I am mortified, Mr. Grayson. I feel… Oh no…”

Robbie was there at once with some sort of a container, a bucket.

When he was done, Charles groaned and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I am sorrier than I can express. I wish I knew what I could do, what I ought…” He wasn’t sure how he could finish that sentence without sounding even more pitiful.

“Ah, but I know what you ought to do.”

Tell me. Please. Tell me how to recover my legs and my dignity.

“You should rinse out the taste,” Robbie said, calm as ever.

Charles opened his dry, grainy eyes to see a glass of water, held by a hand with square, close-cut nails. Did Robbie Grayson bite his nails?

“Thank you.” He wanted to say more but wasn’t sure he trusted his voice. He took the glass.

“Spit there.” Robbie pointed at the bucket.

He obeyed, then drank some of the cool, sweet water.

“Here you go.” Robbie handed him a cloth that had been dipped in water and something that smelled of mint.

The rotten taste in his mouth banished, the cool cloth on his nape—gradually Charles could feel something other than abject misery. The embarrassment remained, despite Robbie’s easy manner.

Robbie squatted near him, cleaning the rug. He rose carefully and carried the tin buckets to the door.

Charles dragged himself up to sit, propped against the cabinet where the vase had been.

“You are very kind,” he said as he concentrated on unbuttoning his waistcoat with trembling fingers.

“Not at all,” said Robbie. “Hardly worth mentioning.”

Charles knew otherwise. Robbie Grayson could have been scornful or appalled or simply left him to the servants, but he had come in and taken charge and treated Charles with simple friendliness.

Charles glanced over at him. Robbie stood in only his shirtsleeves and some poorly tailored trousers. He’d hooked his thumbs in the braces and leaned a hip against a low bookshelf, the picture of a gentleman at leisure.

“Let me know if you require my aid,” he said when their eyes met. He looked away; Charles didn’t. Enough alcohol still swirled through his system that he allowed himself a thorough perusal.

Grayson’s shoulders weren’t broad, but he was pleasingly proportioned, and the lines of muscle in his forearms demonstrated hidden strength, Charles fancied. The dark hair on Robbie’s arms showed him to be an adult male, not the youth he seemed at first.

Grayson straightened and shuffled near, reaching down to the more-or-less clean, damp spot on the carpet. He grimaced.