Finagled (8 page)

The concierge brought a cot for her, so that she could catch rest between changes, and had all of her belongings moved from the upper story to a room next door so that she could retire to attend to her toiletries when she needed to.

She found the most unnerving thing to be the fact that he did not move, except to breathe, his eyes were closed, his lids never even fluttered. The doctor said he had given him a sedative since sudden movement, as he was sure to make when waking up in such pain, would be bad for his condition.

 Briefly a Police Inspector, Charles Mibson, came to speak to Ramona, to go over with her the contents of George's pockets and discern what may be missing. He had a few scraps of paper there, notes about reservations in inns along the way to Loathewood, but Ramona was  sure that his pocket watch was missing. She could remember it fairly well, she had been aware of it before their bungled engagement, and just hours before in the carriage from the church, he had kept it pulled out in his lap, watching the hands move impatiently. It was gold, and had engraved some design of flowers, there were words but she had never looked closely at them. She did not know what else he had in his pocket, nothing had been left out on the table in their room and she had not gone through his bags. She presumed he carried a wallet of some sort. No cigarette case, she had never seen him smoke. He wore no jewelry, he left his cravat and pin and cuff links in the room.

The Police Inspector grimaced. There was not much to go on and it seemed to be a petty theft. Though it was surely a despicable crime to stab a Duke on his wedding night, it was unlikely that they would find the culprit. This sort of thing was too common and there were too many pawnbrokers in the city receiving too many stolen items every day to find the one who got the pocket watch and remembered who from. They were in the business of not remembering, anyway.

He thanked her and Ramona went back to her quiet vigilant watch over her new husband.

That night she felt her anxieties replaced by totally new ones. The previous became embarrassingly insignificant.  So her relationship with her husband was to be unconventional. If they were both aware of this, they could easily adjust and live a perfectly amiable life. If her husband died, she would never speak to him again. She had been guaranteed one thing the day before, she would have some tie to this man for the rest of their lives. She would be in some form his companion. She had not imagined that this life together could be so short or that she would be his nursemaid in mere hours.

She washed his wound, applied cool, wet  flannels to  his forehead, and waited. She felt so  tired and dishevelled. After spending most of the day with him, she had become moist with sweaty agitation, though she washed her hands in scalding water once an hour, she felt the smell of the sickroom permeating her clothing. She could hardly stand it anymore, her appetite had been severely weakened by the sight of George's injury, and she had merely nibbled on bits of bread. When a soft knock on the door alerted her to the presence of visitors she did not have a single thought for her own appearance. She simply opened the door like an automaton.

Her parents. They had heard about the accident in the evening paper, why had she not called for them?

"Poor child, you were so distraught, it did not occur to you that we could come and alleviate this burden for you!" Lady Havishamble said, "What are you doing here in the sickroom? Oh he looks ghastly, my dear. I do hope you have gotten pregnant before this, in case he does not make it."

"Mother!" Ramona felt the bile rising. "What a terrible thing to say. He will be fine. Don’t say otherwise."

"Well yes, yes of course he
will
be fine dear." Her mother gave her a pat. "But let us get out of this room. It smells atrocious, and oh, you look horrible darling." Lady Havishamble grimaced.

"I will be staying here." Ramona said, "I have been sitting with him, and attending to his bandages."

"You poor thing! We will find someone to do that for you. You will not change another bandage! Daddy," she addressed Lord Havishamble, "Daddy, do have someone called in. Aren't there... agencies or something, for nurses? Send for someone, at once!"

"No, mother. I have chosen to do this." Ramona said meekly.

"Well you look and smell disgusting and I will not have it, dearest." Her mother said. "I can't stand it another moment!" she left the room, trying to incite Ramona to follow.

She did not follow. She went back to her chair by George's bedside and sat straight up. She felt a renewed strength.

Her father stood between her and the door, in the hallway her mother looked at him archly. "I am sorry, dear," he said to Ramona, as he left the room. She heard her mother's voice in the hall, slightly raised, a word here and there.

"Do something!" her mother said shrilly. There was a softly mumbled reply.

Her father returned. "When do his bandages need attention?" he asked.

"Not for another hour or two," Ramona admitted.

"I can stay with him for that time. Your mother just wants you to take care of yourself. Take a bath, put on fresh clothes. Have you eaten anything today?" he asked.

"Not much," she said, "Fine. My room is next door. The concierge will call for the doctor if anything goes wrong, go to him first, and then come for me."

She paused by her father, said "Thank you," and smiled weakly, trying to find that renewed strength again, to face her mother.

She passed her in the hall. She did not address her with eye contact, "I am going to my room," she said. Her mother followed closely, of course, making little cooing noises and fluttering the feathers in her hat.

"Now dear, do tell me what happened!" Lady Havishamble pressed.

"He was pickpocketed this morning, they stabbed him. Took his pocket watch, perhaps his wallet. That is all there is to tell."

"Well! I will be speaking to my MP, that’s for certain, a Duke accosted on his wedding night, in the very heart of the city!" she exclaimed, "it should be illegal!"

"I rather think that it is," Ramona said, raising an eyebrow.

"Can you help me with my dress?" Ramona asked, lifting her loose hair from her neck.

"I will call for Melanie," her mother said, looking at the sweat stained collar with disdain.

"There is not time. I just want out of it so I can bathe." she exclaimed in exasperation.

"Oh fine!" her mother said, picking at the buttons somewhat ineffectively. It probably would have been quicker to call for Melanie, her mother made sure of it.

This new room was not as fine or intimately laid out as their bridal suite. Just a bed, a chair by the fireplace, a small table with one chair and, instead of a separate dressing room, a small cramped room with a bathtub and water closet. Blessed hot water came from the pipes and that was all that Ramona could ask for. She pulled off the rest of her clothes and ignored everything her mother tried to say to her. Scrubbed and pink she found a lighter dress from her traveling trunk, lamenting the fact that most of her things had been sent on to Loathewood. With grudging assistance from Lady Havishamble, she found herself dressed snugly just as a small dinner of cold meats and warm breads was arriving.

She ate it almost without tasting. It was a stark contrast to the sumptuous meal she had the night before, and she was in a rush to get back to George. It was almost time to change his bandages again, and she took the doctor’s order for promptness in the matter of staving off infection very seriously. If she could just see George's brown eyes again, hear his deep voice. She sighed wistfully.

After she had finally convinced her parents that she would not be changing her mind about caring for George herself, they left, her mother loudly protesting the whole time.

Ramona changed George's bandages and curled up on the small, uncomfortable cot once more, hoping to snag a bit of sleep, she asked that she be woken in 2 and a half hours. This is how she spent the night, snatching sleep in between fresh bandages, trips to the water closet, washing her hands, boiling more bandages, dreaming strange snippets that seemed to meld with the actual night and add to the surrealness of the situation.

George opened his eyes. The sun had not risen but the sky was beginning to lighten through an unfamiliar window. He felt absolutely terrible. He tried to sit up but the pain was overwhelming and he felt incredibly weak, far too weak to risk standing. He looked around the room, almost missing the cot so near him, with the softly sleeping young woman curled up on it.

"Ramona," he tried to say, but his voice was weak, his throat unbelievable parched.

She fidgeted in her sleep, a furrow to her brow before she awoke, she was sleeping too lightly to miss even this quiet sound of his voice.

It took her a moment to find herself, and when she did she was already standing beside George holding  a cool wet cloth to his forehead, saying, "Rest darling, rest."

"Water," he said, lifting his fingers weakly to his lips.

"Yes, of course, of course." she turned quickly and poured a glass from the pitcher near her cot. She helped him sit up enough to drink it. He gulped down the glass and asked for more, she gave it to him.

The second glass accomplished, she lay him back down on his pillow. He wanted to talk, to ask what had happened, but she did not want him to exert himself.

"You’ll be okay. Let me take care of you, there is nothing to worry about, if we are very careful you are in no danger. I promise that knowing what happened would only excite you to no purpose."

"I was outside, I was... stabbed?" he asked, trying to feel the wound, tightly wrapped, on his lower back.

"Yes, leave it alone. You lost a lot of blood." she said. "If you can't rest on your own, I will have to call the doctor in to sedate you again." she said, "and I would rather not. You slept so unnaturally deep... it frightened me."

"Of course I don’t want a damned sedative," he chuckled and it hurt, "yes. I will be good, my little nurse. I will be good." he felt the heaviness of his eyelids. He looked at her sweet and earnest face one last time before slipping back into sleep.

In some perverse way, things became more comfortable between them. Ramona found herself waking up with her head on the bed, holding onto George's hand, and she did not flush or retreat, she smiled and closed her eyes again.

George's wound was healing. He no longer needed the constant bandage changing regimen, and freed to spend  her time elsewhere, Ramona found herself reluctant. She spent more time at meals, she bathed with more thought, but she still spent every free moment in George's room watching him sleep or talking quietly with him. A week passed and the Doctor said they could transport George to his townhouse.

"The servants have all gone on to Loathewood to await us," he said, "it makes no sense to call them all back. Is it not safe for me to travel that distance, Doctor Loopy?"

"I would not recommend it. From the first I have been your physician in this matter and I do not recommend changing caretakers in the midst of a complaint. Secondly, I think you would find the bumpy roads exceedingly uncomfortable and they would endanger a reopening of the wound, which has only now closed and stopped seeping repulsive fluids."

"I hesitate to suggest..." Ramona began, "I am sure we could stay at my parents until you were well enough to travel... though..." she looked somewhat pained.

"Excuse us, Doctor," George said, sitting up against the white  pillows of his bed.

"Of course, Your Grace" Doctor Loopy made a slight bow and left the room.

"Your mother has clearly made you uncomfortable in the past week." George said, "I would rather we stay here if you would find her constant presence unenjoyable."

"I... I do not like to speak ill of her, but she has some very old fashioned ideas that do not quite agree with my current situation." Ramona admitted. They had not been married but a week, and yet her mother was constantly haranguing her to get with child. She made only small exceptions for George's invalid state. Ramona found herself blushing at her mother’s suggestions, "Just climb on top dear, and don't move too much, it won't hurt him at all."

"I understand. It’s not too much imposition for me to stay right where we are. I’m sure you would be more comfortable in our own household... as it is..." he found himself reluctant to say it, "I do not need you to sleep on the cot any more."

"But you can't reach the bell, what if you were to need something?" Ramona asked, "I would sleep much better in that cot, uncomfortable as it is, than in the next room thinking every moment that I heard some sound, that you needed something, even so small as a glass of water. And who would call for your valet should you need to relieve your bladder?" Ramona shook her head. "You are not quite as self sufficient as you would like me to believe. The cot stays."

"My valet could sleep in it," George said, "and then no one would have to send for him at all."

"I am used to it. I do not mind." Ramona said, quietly.

"Have it your way, Duchess." George chuckled. What George thought of as the sexual tension between them had been lessened by his injury, but he still at times wanted to pull little Ramona into the bed with him. He felt too weak to try, and this was fortuitous.

Ramona was a beautiful nurse. When the look of concern came upon her brow, and she pursed her lips in thought, wiping his forehead. She looked like an angel, his very own. She took her meals now at his side, a tray across her knees, and they talked again, like they had before any of this had happened. She was less inhibited than ever in her conversation, and he began to really know his new wife, to like what he learned of her.

George was a wonderful patient. Yes he teased her over her concern, but he never cried out when she dressed his wound or asked for anything, though he thanked her gratefully for what she brought him. The hours he spent sleeping lessened, but Ramona still had plenty of opportunities to study his face. As the color returned she no longer thought it swarthy or weather worn. She quite liked his coloring, actually. She found herself studying his lips especially, a little pale and dry at first, as the life returned to them she occasionally thought of their touch, but she did not let herself think of it too much.

She was just going to have to live without it.