Regency Christmas Gifts. Carla Kelly
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of Wellington’s retreat from Burgos, the progress of the campaign in general, and carefully avoided any further exchanges about the coming nuptials. If banns were to be cried the following Sunday, no one mentioned it.
The doctor arrived around eleven o’clock and was immediately shown upstairs. Alex had not yet met the man, but was anxious to speak with him about Amalie. He folded the newspaper and laid it aside when he heard voices on the stairs.
Michael made the introductions when Lady Harlowe herself brought Dr. Raine into the library where they were waiting. As might be expected, Amalie’s mother cut up stiff, just as she had done the night before, after she’d recovered from her swoon. She left without even making an excuse.
“So you are the betrothed,” Raine said with a merry grin. Short, rotund and energetic described him. Laugh lines creased his entire face and a smooth bald pate reflected the light from the window. Alex put him near fifty. “I must say Miss Amalie is all atwitter about the engagement.”
“Yes, well,” Alex growled. “We are all atwitter, sir.”
Michael grabbed the back of Alex’s chair and shoved him toward the door. “This way, Doc,” he said. “We’ve a new patient for you today. Alex is also a medical man, y’know. Says those army surgeons are crack-brained know-nothings. Takes one to know one, I expect.” He laughed, chattering on incessantly, making light of the diagnosis Alex had received.
Raine followed and they were soon ensconced in the modest little chamber just off the hallway to the kitchens. “Off with you, my boy,” he ordered Michael, who left reluctantly.
“Now then,” Raine said, turning serious. “Let’s get those pantaloons off you and see what damage was done.”
“Not necessary,” Alex protested. “But I would like to speak with you about Miss Amalie since she is to be my wife.”
“No secret there anyway. She’s got the idea embedded in her mind that she can’t walk since the bones healed. Or it may be fear of pain. Does hurt, I know, getting back up on her pins. Nothing wrong with ‘em now.” He tapped his head. “Mind over body but not in the good sense if you see what I mean. Now about you…”
“I’ll be fine,” Alex said. “That nurse you assigned Miss Amalie. She’s to prevent atrophying?”
“Therapeutic manipulation of the musculature often does wonders. Let’s see the leg, Captain.”
“No.”
The doctor stood there with his pudgy hands grasping his hips. “I’m waiting. Don’t think you’ll foist me off now. Curiosity and all that.”
“I will walk,” Alex said emphatically.
“We’ll see.” He helped Alex to stand and shed his pantaloons, then assisted him to the bed.
“Hmm,” Raine said as he examined the scar, then moved the leg about as he expertly palpated tendons and ligaments. He wasn’t quite so loquacious now, limiting his remarks to that same wordless sound all doctors make. Alex recalled making it himself more times than he could count. Usually when he didn’t want to say what he was thinking.
After a few pertinent questions regarding the treatment, both by the doctors and what Alex had attempted since, Raine stood away. “Well, that’s that.”
“That’s what?” He made himself ask, knowing the answer.
The doctor ran a hand over his balding pate and shook his head. “You have read all the ancient texts, I’ll wager. And while some insist positive thoughts can affect the outcome of infirmities, no amount of wishful thinking will let you flex that knee at will. It’ll buckle on you every time you put weight on it. I don’t need to tell you that.”
“I will walk,” Alex said mulishly as he grabbed his pants to dress.
“Never said you wouldn’t do that,” Raine argued. “Only that the knee won’t work. It is fair wrecked and nothing can fix it.”
Alex managed to push himself to a standing position and held on to the metal footboard. “Thank you for the opinion,” he said with no sincerity and held out his hand.
Raine shook it firmly. “Good luck to you, son.” He hesitated a second, then asked, “Where were you trained?”
“Royal College of Physicians at Edinburgh.”
“Excellent training then. War is hell, eh? May I ask why you went and why, when there is so much to be learned from battle wounds, you did not practice your art there?”
“Personal reasons.”
“You Scots are a dour lot and that’s a fact. You be good to that girl,” he said, and waited for Alex to nod. Then he was gone.
Alex glared down at his leg. He supposed he had accepted the truth somewhere inside him long before now.
He spent the better part of half an hour struggling to get his boots back on. One success at a time, he decided. He sat there on the bed in sartorial splendor until Michael came to fetch him.
Alex refused to get in the chair. “Find me two forked tree limbs, anything to serve, will you? I have got to be on my feet.” The compulsion was so great it wouldn’t be denied.
Michael rushed out, so eager to please it made Alex dizzy. He was gone for quite a while and was running when he returned. “Look!” he exclaimed, holding out a pair of crutches. “Amalie’s idea! I went to get her unused ones to make a pattern, but I think we can use these. See what she suggested? Won’t they work for now?”
Alex considered the odd-looking things. They obviously were made for a woman. The fittings for the armpits were quite small and very heavily padded with soft pink fabric. On the bottom tip of each, Michael had extended the length at least a foot by forcing on two long metal pipes.
“I dismantled the waterflow from the roof cistern,” Michael proudly informed him with a thump to one of the cylinders.
“I’m sure your father will thank you for that,” Alex said with a wry frown.
“C’mon, try ‘em out!”
Tentatively, Alex took them and placed them just so. After a few awkward attempts at balancing, he got the hang of it. The pads were too small, the handholds too narrow and his left leg swung uselessly, slightly bent at the knee. But as he took his first real steps around that small chamber without hopping and grabbing on to the furniture, Alex felt freer than he had for months. “I must see that sister of yours and thank her,” he said with a huge grin.
“Aye, Cap’n!” Michael crowed. “Follow me!”
She was waiting in the hall beside the large curved staircase and was seated in a chair almost identical, save for size, to the one he had just abandoned, hopefully forever.
“You look patently ridiculous lunging about on those pipe-rigged contraptions, Napier,” she said before he could even greet her.
“And you look entirely too comfortable riding around in that thing,” he replied, frowning at her chair. “But not for long.”
He swung the crutches forward and heaved himself closer. Then again, and once more until he reached her side.
“From my heart, I thank you.” Bracing himself carefully, Alex leaned down, reached for her hand to kiss it. But she raised her face as he did it and kissed him soundly on the mouth. Such a sweet mouth it was, too. Eager and soft, tasting of berries and cream and…
Her chair rolled backward under his weight. Alex tumbled back and landed flat on the floor, spread-eagled and helpless as an upturned tortoise. The clang of metal pipe bouncing on marble echoed through the cavernous hall.
“Napier! Sir, are you hurt?” she cried, leaning sideways in an attempt to touch him.
He turned his head and groaned. “Ow, run fetch me a compress, quick!”
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