Memories

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

Anger burned through his gut. Anger at the man lying on the floor, anger at himself for agreeing to look after him, and raging anger at the damned woman and her damned money who had put him in this damned position. He batted away the tiny voice in his head that told him he could simply have said no. Who would say no with that kind of money on offer? He closed his eyes in an attempt to calm himself.

He stepped over the body on the floor to grab the kettle and swing it over the fire on the range. He was going to need a lot of hot water.

Stepping back, he looked at the figure on the floor. “Well, it’s just me and you now, you irresponsible little bastard,” he said. He bent and lifted the man’s limp arm, then let it drop. “Can you hear me?” Nothing. “Not such a flash cove now, are you?” Not a flicker of movement. He tried again, and nudged him with his foot. “Come on, you can wake up now.” Still nothing. Will bent down and pulled back an eyelid, but his eyes seemed to roll. He hesitated. He was going to have to get him clean and check for any wounds. He gave the fire a grudging poke to stir up the logs and then headed for the main house where he knew he would find the remainder of the housekeeper’s remedies, and some cloths he could cut up for bandages.

When he returned the man was in exactly the same place as when he left. He hadn’t moved at all. It was growing dark, so Will lit a couple of candles rather than his usual one, and set about looking at his scapegrace charge. When he peeled back the blanket and really looked, he was shocked.

This was Dearne? This was the great seducer, debaucher of women, gambler, and rakehell? He was nothing but a damned scrap of a lad. Will shook his arm again, but there was no response at all. He didn’t look very old, younger most certainly than his own three and thirty years. Will had imagined him to be much older. If memory served, Holbrook was over forty, so he had assumed Dearne was only a few years younger. He wasn’t very tall either. In his mind, Will had constructed a bruising military type. Tall, broad shouldered and narrow hipped, not some scrawny boy.

As the water warmed, Will assembled some linen strips, brandy from the house, salve, and some foul smelling ointment that, if he remembered rightly, worked wonders on wounds. As an afterthought he washed his hands with soap, recalling Mrs. Wellesby’s advice about keeping clean, and looked over at his patient as he did so. He looked thin, rather like his sister, but from memory, Holbrook was short, portly, and balding.

Will spooned some tea into the pot and poured boiling water onto it. He left it to brew and pulled down a cup, and then wondered if he might be able to get some tea into the man. His sister had said he had been unconscious for at least a day. Going without food wouldn’t kill him, but going without water might. He pulled out another cup and poured tea into both. He added sugar to one, thinking he really ought to make some effort at preserving his life. He put the cups on the table, side by side, and then rummaged in the knife drawer by the drainer and came up with the weaning spoon that looked like it had been there for donkey’s years. He smiled at it. A teaspoon with a cover, and a small hole in the end designed for getting liquid into babies, it would be just the job for spooning some sustenance into the flashy Dearne.

He rolled up his sleeves and tied on an old apron he used for chopping wood. “Right, Flash, my name is Will, and I am your excessively reluctant but highly paid nursemaid for a week. First job, clean you up and get rid of the stink, then we will doctor you, then you can have a cup of tea and wake up so I can tell you what I think of people like you,” he said in a conversational tone.

He started by pulling off the man’s boots and dropping them onto the tarpaulin covered floor with a grimace. They had no doubt once been terribly expensive but they were soaked in mud and filth. He dragged off the stockings to reveal wet, wrinkled feet that were oddly pale. The man’s breeches were torn, covered in mud and blood, so he quickly undid the buttons and then pulled them off, revealing slender, muscular legs lightly dusted with hair that, in the firelight, had an auburn cast. He hesitated a moment and then briskly stripped him of his soaking, filthy smalls. Grimacing, he held them at arm’s length between finger and thumb and dropped them onto the stone floor.

Will wiped his hands, and inspected the injuries. They were spectacular. There appeared to be older scars alongside the fresh wounds. The man had seemingly had more than one beating. He took a washcloth, dipped it in hot water, and rubbed the mud, blood, and the lord alone knew what else away to reveal several long nasty gashes clustered together on his left thigh. He cleaned them carefully, and worried they might need stitching. He doubted his nursemaid skills would be quite up to that. An inch to the left and…He looked at the man’s c**k. It sat shrivelled and small, tucked up as though trying to get out of harm’s way. He cleared his throat and spread the salve carefully, and then considered how best to bandage him to encourage the wounds to bind together and heal. It was tricky, given his patient was unconscious, but he managed to prop the leg up, covering the worst area of the wound with a pad of linen covered in ointment, squeezing the edges of the wound together, then used an old linen cravat as a makeshift bandage. Once finished, he covered the man’s legs with a clean sheet. He pulled Dearne up and propped him against his shoulder whilst he pulled off what remained of his coat, waistcoat, and shirt.

“God, what a mess,’ he muttered as Dearne’s torso was revealed. Scrapes, cuts, dark welts, and bruises covered him, so again Will cleaned him methodically, applied the salve, and bandaged him where he could. He pulled up the sheet to his chin to cover him, and then turned his attention to Dearne’s head.

Will sat on the floor, hauled him up, and settled the man’s shoulders on his lap so he could cradle his head. He dragged the warm, wet cloth across his face. It was a striking face, but with a livid purple bruise under one eye and a cut over the eyebrow to which he applied more of the salve. Will sighed and probed through the thick hair to find any contusions, but it was so matted it was hard to see what was dirt and what might be a wound. He laid him down gently, went and threw the old water out and refilled the bowl with clean water. He dragged him up onto his lap again, but this time let his head fall back over the bowl and used a mug to wet his hair and then rub soap into it. After a few applications and rinsing it felt cleaner even if it was far too long for a man. As he ran his fingers over his scalp he could see he had a nasty swelling by his left temple and a good few bumps at the back. It was as though he had been kicked repeatedly in the head, but there were no open wounds. He smoothed the hair back off his face and laid him back down and wondered if the man had been on the Continent. If he had, he may well have been with Wellington at Waterloo. It was a sobering thought. He certainly had enough old scars to suggest he had been active in the wars as well as gallivanting about Europe.

Once he was bandaged and clean, Will cleared away the clothes and water and then sat back on his heels and observed the man who has ruined his carefully crafted plans. Not overly tall, probably a similar height to himself, thin, dark red hair, and pale skin sprinkled with freckles. Will shook his head. He didn’t see scoundrels as having freckles. Freckles, in his mind, were associated with youth, sunshine, and innocence. The man lying on his kitchen floor was no innocent, but at least he was clean. He put the ruined boots on the back stoop, and hung what was left of his clothes beside them until he could tend to them.

He came back inside, but his charge was still motionless on the floor. He tested the temperature of the tea and then sat beside him so he could drag the man’s head and shoulders onto his lap again. He cradled his head, taking care to avoid the swollen areas.

“Right, let’s get this down you,” he muttered, and spooned some of the sweet tea up. It had cooled but Will tested the heat of the spoon against his own lip and, satisfied it wouldn’t burn, pushed it gently into Dearne’s unresponsive mouth. It dribbled, but with a little adjustment he managed to spoon the liquid in, tilt his head and get it down. The man coughed and spluttered, but then swallowed. He managed to get half a cup down him that satisfied his worry he might expire from thirst, and gave some encouragement he might wake before long. Will laid him back and then drank his own tea in a couple of huge mouthfuls. He rinsed the cups and put the used leaves in a dish, then put everything away and wiped the table.

He found an old nightshirt and managed to wrestle Dearne into it, and then wondered just how he was going to get him from the floor up onto the bed. He went to the bedroom and turned back the blankets, then returned and stood over the unconscious man scratching his head. He certainly couldn’t lift him as one would a woman, the man was too solid for that. Over the shoulder was probably his most likely option for success. He managed to get Dearne into a sitting position, got one shoulder under his arm, and heaved him up. Will staggered about and then stood, even though his knees almost buckled, but managed to make his way into the bedroom and drop the man onto his bed. He sat on the edge for a moment, trying to catch his breath. A sideways glance told him his charge hadn’t moved even so much as an eyelash. He sighed and dragged himself to his feet.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” he told the motionless man. “Just stay sleeping and we will be just fine. I will bring you something to eat shortly.” He stood over the body in his bed and then covered him up by tugging the sheet to his chin. He smoothed the damp hair back from his face and then snatched his hand back and left the room.

Will went back to the kitchen, carefully banishing the image of Dearne in his bed. He had hung a pot of stew over the fire earlier and had added more vegetables. He poked at it and stirred it, working on the notion he could skim the liquid broth off and feed it to Dearne using the spoon again. There wasn’t a lot of meat in it, but it would do. It smelled good, so Will spooned a healthy bowlful for himself and set a large cup of the broth to cool. When he had finished eating, he cleaned the bowl and spoon and put them away and then sat in his chair by the fire and rocked. The motion was soothing. He laid his head back and closed his eyes trying to gather himself enough to go and feed the man he really, really didn’t like.