Page 3 of Lady Maybe

That next afternoon, Dr. Parrish came in and sat at her bedside. “And how are you feeling today, my lady?”

“Better, I think.”

“Everyone treating you well?”

She nodded. “Mrs. Turrill is very kind.”

He beamed. “I am happy to hear it. Sally Turrill is my cousin, and I recommended her for the situation myself. Though not everyone was in favor of the arrangement.”

“I am grateful you did.”

“You don’t know how that pleases me. Men love to be right, you know.” He winked at her. He then went on to explain that Mrs. Turrill had prepared the house for their arrival and, after the accident, had offered to serve as her nurse and lady’s maid, as well as cook-housekeeper. He said, “Apparently, Sir John asked Edgar to engage minimal staff and planned to select the rest of the servants after you arrived. But, well, as it is...” He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “Sally has hired a young manservant and a kitchen maid. Otherwise, she has been making do.”

“I hope it isn’t too much for her,” she said.

“I’ve not heard a single word of complaint from her. Likes to be busy, Sally does.”

His smile dimmed. He clasped his hands over his knee and cleared his throat. “Now, um, there is something I need to tell you...”

A woman passed by the open door, and, seeing the two of them together, paused in its threshold. Sir John’s chamber nurse, she believed, although she wasn’t sure of her name.

The woman frowned at them. “It must be grand to sit and talk while others change bedding and bandages, and feed and tend to your patients. I’ve had more than enough for one day, Doctor. It’s your turn.”

The woman stalked away, her heels echoing down the corridor and clumping down the stairs.

When they were alone again, she asked, “Is that Sir John’s nurse?”

“Em, no.” He gave a lame little chuckle. “My wife.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. That is, I did not realize...”

He lifted a hand to stem her apology. “Understandable misapprehension,” he consoled. “Mrs. Parrish has, um, kindly agreed to act as chamber nurse. She tends Sir John during my absences, while I call on other patients. It’s only temporary, until the nurse I usually employ finishes with her current patient.”

“Ah, I see.”

He rose. “Well, I had better go and look in on Sir John. We shall finish our talk later, all right?”

After several minutes had passed, Mrs. Turrill entered, wearing an apron over a simple frock as usual and carrying a dinner tray. “Good afternoon, my lady. How are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you. Dr. Parrish and I were just speaking of you.”

“Were you indeed? That explains the itch in my ear. Well, George is a good man, but if he tells you any tales about my wild younger days, I shall have to return the favor!” She grinned. “Known him since he was a lad, I have. What a scamp he was, too.”

“But your accent is different than his ... and familiar.”

“You’ve a good ear, my lady! I was born in this parish, like George, but was in service in Bristol for many a year.”

“Ah. That explains it.”

Mrs. Turrill helped her sit up in bed, propped with pillows. She laid a linen cloth over the bedclothes and assisted her in eating soup and sipping tea.

Afterward, she reached into her apron pocket. “Edgar has been digging through the wreckage to see what might be salvaged.” Mrs. Turrill extracted a black glove and held it up.

“Probably Sir John’s,” she said, and instinctively reached for it. She laid it on her lap and smoothed the soft leather. Her cheeks warmed to see a man’s glove on her leg, even if that part of her was covered by bedclothes. Silly creature , she told herself. She held the glove instead and tried to remember if she’d ever held Sir John’s hand.

A memory flared in her mind. Sir John taking her hand, almost roughly. She blinked. That couldn’t be right. Oh, when would her brain cease its scattered state?

Mrs. Turrill searched in her pocket for another small object. “Do you recognize this?”

She held out a small piece of jewelry—a brooch. The pin bore a tiny painting of someone’s eye under glass and framed by gems.

Mrs. Turrill said, “It’s one of them lover’s eyes. Popular tokens, I understand. I thought it might be yours, seeing as it’s set in garnets—red for love and all that. Sir John’s eye, is it?”

Was it? She didn’t recall wearing it, yet she recalled so little. She had seen it before, she realized. The thickness of the eyebrow suggested a man’s eye, with a brown iris. She pressed her own eyes closed, trying to recall the color and shape of Sir John’s eyes. She’d thought they were a greyish blue. Was her memory still so faulty, or had the miniaturist got it wrong somehow? Or was this image not of Sir John’s eye at all, but rather a lover’s, as the name suggested?

Had she a lover? Was she that sort of woman? Heaven help her if her father found out.

“I ... don’t know,” she murmured, feeling frustrated and confused.

Mrs. Turrill patted her hand. “Don’t worry, my lady. It will all come back to you eventually.”

The housekeeper gathered up the dishes. “When I have time, I shall try to find a few more of your things. Might help you remember. And perhaps something of that poor girl’s to send to her family.”

“Yes ... poor girl,” she echoed sympathetically. The young woman’s smiling face shimmered in her mind a moment, then faded away. She was too embarrassed to admit that at the moment, she did not recall her name.

That evening, she was still sitting propped up in bed when Dr. Parrish returned to her room.

“How good to see you sitting up, my lady.” He smiled at her, then announced, “I have taken the liberty of borrowing a wheeled chair we might use. Edgar is waiting downstairs to help carry it up if you are willing to give it a go. I thought we might use it to convey you to Sir John’s room, as you are no doubt anxious to see him.”

“I...” She licked dry lips. “I should like to see him, yes.” She forced a smile for the kind man’s benefit, unsure why her stomach twisted at the thought.

A few minutes later, father and son returned to her door, a wicker-backed invalid chair between them. The doctor puffed at the exertion, while his strapping son looked unaffected.

She smiled at the young man. “Thank you, Edgar.”

“My lady.” He shyly tipped his hat and took his leave.

The doctor rolled the chair into the room and positioned it near the bed. Then he took her good arm and helped her rise. Again, the room swam and she leaned against him for support.

He looked at her in concern. “Still dizzy?”

She nodded, and settled with relief into the chair.

“Then we won’t stay long and tire you out.” He wheeled her through the door and across the paneled passageway. When they reached a door across the landing, Dr. Parrish stepped around the chair to open it, then eased her over the threshold.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn. An oil lamp burned on the side table.

Damp hands clasped in her lap, she looked toward the bed. Sir John lay there unnaturally still, fierce eyes closed, temple bruised, cheekbone swollen, mouth slack. So different than when she had last seen him, pugnaciously refusing to yield. He wore a simple nightshirt, open at the throat, instead of his usual elegantly tied cravat. His exposed neck lay bare, specked with new whiskers. How vulnerable he looked. How weak.

She whispered, “Will he live?”

The physician hesitated. “Only God knows. I have done all I can for him. Set and bandaged his broken ankle. Wrapped his cracked ribs. I pray there is no internal bleeding.” Dr. Parrish grimaced. “His head injury is what concerns me the most. I’ve sent for a surgeon from Barnstaple to give his opinion. He should be here tomorrow.”

She nodded her understanding. She felt pity for Sir John. Perhaps even grief. Beyond that, she wasn’t sure what she felt. Staring at the broken man before her, her emotions were a confusing jumble. Did she love him? He did not love her, she didn’t think. She pressed her eyes shut, willing herself to remember a wedding, or a wedding night. Nothing.

Then ... fragments of memory spotted her vision. Cool rain on her skin. Warm hands. A man sweeping her up into his arms. But in the memory, the man had no face. Was it Sir John? She couldn’t be sure.

The memory faded. A wedding would have pleased her father. Though it would have disappointed the other man. For there had been someone else, had there not? Again she winced and tried to remember, but could not.

Instead, she saw another scene in passing, as though she walked through a theatre and out again mid-performance....

There she was, sitting awkwardly in the morning room of the Bristol house.

Sir John stood, arms crossed, looking not at her but out the window. “So, what do you think of the arrangement?” he asked. “Are you willing?”

“Yes,” she replied, knowing her father would approve.

He winced and shook his head. “But ... should I agree to it?”

“Only if you wish to.”

“My wishes?” He barked a bitter little laugh. “God doesn’t often grant me what I wish for, I find.”

“Then perhaps you wish for the wrong things.”

He looked at her then, and his flinty gaze held hers. “You may be right. And what is it you wish for?”

The scene faded. Had it been real or mere fancy? She could not have said how she’d answered his question or even if she had. Nor did she recall the specifics of their arrangement.

She did remember what a tall, commanding presence he’d had. But the figure shrouded in bedclothes before her seemed sadly diminished. She wondered what Sir John had wished for so earnestly. It seemed unlikely that it would be granted now. For certainly no one would have wished for a fate like this.