The Duke's Bidding

Chapter 17

Would it be arrogant if one considered oneself intelligent and practical? Unlike other women of her rank, Elizabeth's father gave her an extensive education and a myriad of opportunities to interact with men from different social classes. Granted, this was achieved as part of the day-to-day running of their estates, however, she was confident in her abilities. She knew how to deal with peers, gentry, farmers and craftsmen alike, and was armed with a wealth of knowledge on the subjects of discourse with them. Nevertheless, to say she was unprepared for what happened earlier would be an understatement of great proportions. One could try and blame the situation as it was, or the man's charming features. Nonetheless, as the daughter of an earl she was forever plagued with the attentions of handsome gentlemen. In fact, she detested the prospect of being converged upon by said gentlemen at balls or soirees. So, it was quite disconcerting to have spent the morning gawking, then flirting—no, she hated that word—observing and conversing with the man in her bed.

This was different and you know it. In your bed for heaven's sake.

"It was the fever. It must have addled my mind." Inwardly, she cringed at the utter lie. The way she reacted to his teasing was out of character, if she was to admit, even brazen. And yet she looked forward to another round of playful banter with the man. John. No! This is madness.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and tried to forget her own unabashed behavior, only to end up picturing him again. Tousled strands of hair fallen on his sun-kissed skin, and those sensuous lips. He had been awake for god knows how long and had teased her mercilessly. It was embarrassing and yet intimate. Aghast, she ducked her head under the covers. So much for ladylike behavior.

***

There was a gentle tap at the door. Before she could bid her guest enter, the doors swung back and Mrs. Watson marched in, all pomp and bustle. Trepidation filled Elizabeth as she watched the woman scan the room for John's presence. Once she determined all was proper, she got to work. The housekeeper went to the long drapes and parted them with gusto. The room flooded with bright light as she marched from one window to the next, opening the panes and letting the breeze in.

"Good morning, Miss. Afternoon actually, but that can't be helped. Did you sleep well? We should let fresh air in this room. It's good for getting you better, that it is. Are ya hungry with the small supper and all? His lordship has ordered breakfast for ya, but we have to wait for cook. Why don't we get ya all cleaned up? A good wash will make you feel much better--" Mrs. Watson pushed the last set of drapes apart. "You are in for a treat. Cook is fixing up a batch of her famous butter scones, she is. I asked her to send up some, with fresh cream and her famous rose petal jam."

With the curtains now open, the room was bright and cheery. The breeze wafted the scent of roses through the chamber, reminding Elizabeth of the rose garden visits her and mama made when she was a child.

Mrs. Watson hurried around the bedchamber, moving the basin and picking up the pile of used cravats. John had soiled quite a few the night before. Elizabeth marveled at the way the woman straightened the room and maintained her monologue without skipping a beat. Her voice had a rhythmic cadence to it, almost calming in its own way. Some minutes passed before Elizabeth realized what the housekeeper was doing. She was removing any signs of John's presence from the room before the rest of the servants arrived. Elizabeth flushed in utter mortification.

Throughout her search, Emma Watson had been wary of finding any indication that the girl had been ruined. When she failed to find any such evidence, the older woman exhaled in relief. Mr. Watson, her husband, was an overbearing and paranoid arse. Suspecting the poor boy—the man deserved a sound scolding, aye that he did. In her own heart she was glad he had been wrong. Thank the good Lord for small mercies.

"Miss?" Emma repeated, "Can you get up Miss? Or does it hurt too much?"

Elizabeth shifted to the edge of the mattress and felt a sharp pain in her torso as she pulled back the covers. She took a deep breath and swung her legs over the side of the bed with some difficulty. The housekeeper was quick to assist her on her feet. Elizabeth was sore and the ache in her rib cage caused her discomfort as she placed her full weight on the floor. A few specs of blood had smeared the sheets and her thin nightgown. The slight pull of the stitches reminded her of the ever-present gash and the bruising. Fredrick! That bloody bastard would get his, just wait. She would pay him back, tenfold, if it was last thing she would do. He'll pay for this.

"Can you sit on this stool, child? Let's see, how can we clean ya up some without getting your wounds wet?" Without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Watson continued, "His lordship was quite adamant about that, no baths."

Elizabeth was unsure whom the housekeeper referred to but "lordship" was a word used to substitute for a given title. Did that mean John was a peer of the realm? Or was she talking about another man? The doctor mayhap? That couldn't be. Peers did not take up professions. That much she knew.

Mrs. Watson opened the dresser and took out clean towels. With a flurry of movement, she retrieved the basin and filled it with warm water. She lathered her hands with lavender scented soap and washed Elizabeth's hair. All the while, she entertained with tales of her nieces and nephews and all their escapades. Mrs. Watson had just returned from visiting them this past week, so the stories were all fresh in her mind.


Next, she rinsed Elizabeth's hands and feet, and helped remove the chemise. The housekeeper's hand stilled as she noticed the bruising and extent of the wounds on the young woman's body. Mortified, Elizabeth reached for the wash cloth with one hand while trying to cover herself with the other. She wiped her own neck and shoulders, careful to avoid the now pinkish red gash along her collar bone. A feeling of shame filled her, as the silence continued.

A few moments passed before the housekeeper composed her own reaction to Elizabeth's injuries. There was not much she could do for the girl beyond continuing her monologue. "My sister is younger than I, not by much mind ya, and she has four little babes that one. She married a tailor in our hometown and helps as a seamstress in her husband's shop."

By the time Elizabeth was clean, dry and dressed in a new shift, she knew about every member of the housekeeper's extended kin.

"Is there a hairbrush, Mrs. Watson?"

The woman left the room briefly and returned with an ornate silver brush. The horse hair gleamed in the light.

Elizabeth felt her strength ebb as she brushed her own hair. Her muscles ached in protest as she reached for each stroke. Noticing the girl's discomfort, Mrs. Watson slipped the brush from her hand. She went on, "I grew up in a small hamlet mind ya. There are a few nice manor homes nearby and believe me, them gentry help keep the town folk busy," she continued.

Halfheartedly, Elizabeth tried to focus on the tales the older woman shared. How small-town life was, how most of the younger folks had moved to bigger cities to find jobs, and of apple orchards extending as far as the eye could see. She shared her own reasons for leaving and how she had ended up working as a maid for her employer. Elizabeth listened to the lilt of her voice and let her mind wander. Somewhere along the way, she stopped listening entirely and was lost in memories of her own family. Memories of her mother's constant chatter and games of chess with her father brought her a sense of overwhelming sorrow. They are gone, and I am alone. With this realization came a torrent of emotions and soon her tears became uncontrollable sobs.

Emma Watson sat next to Elizabeth and wrapped her arms gently around the younger woman. She had been talking about mundane nonsensical topics this entire time, deliberately prying down the girl's defenses. She knew how skittish people could become after they had been through trauma, and how much effort it took for a person to trust others after that. It was not over yet but at least now the girl could start the process of healing.

 *** 

John dusted off his hands, disposing the last few crumbs of the most delicious scones known to man. At least known to him. The cook had outdone herself. Baked halibut steaks, fried whiting, stewed figs, pheasant legs, sausages with fried bread, eggs and pork chops. She had even brought him a bowl of fresh cream and honey for the scones—his absolute favorite as a child. He had missed the ducal English breakfasts the most!

"I am rather impressed with the amount of food you devoured," Robert said.

John shrugged, "I was famished. Caring for patients is quite draining, as I am sure you know."

To his chagrin, his friend had challenged his skills as a doctor throughout the entire meal, complaining that his patient had suffered yet another fever. It then occurred to him, the devil was in the details. He grinned, "Would you have rather I slept in her bed?"

"Not unless you plan on naming your Second," John retorted.

"Isn't that a bit ostentatious?" Rob asked.

"damned if I know. All my responses are extreme at the moment," John admitted.

Rob laughed, "I hadn't noticed."

In all seriousness Robert offered, "Would you prefer that I stay and administer to her tonight? In case the fever returns of course?"

"No!" John looked away, smiling. He relished thinking about having the opportunity to tease her again. It would be most enjoyable. "I can manage, thank you."

Robert thought about the wolfish smile and the vehement objection exhibited by his friend. If memory served him right, the man was up to something. Before he could probe for more details, a light knock sounded at the door and Watson walked into the room. He carried a small platter over to John.

"There is a man waiting for your reply, my lord."

***

Sometime later Elizabeth regained her composure, an emotional ebbing of sorts.

"I am fine now." She wiped at her swollen eyes and took a deep breath, feeling an extraordinary sense of freedom. It was strange, but she recognized that to an extent this woman reminded her of her own mother, always chattering. At last, she could smile again.

"Your breakfast should be ready by now, Miss." Just as the women spoke, a light rap sounded at the door bringing with it the most divine and mouthwatering scent of scones in England.