Kindred Hearts (51 page)

And then when he was done with his self-torture, and Tristan had helped him back into bed and hooked his leg back up into the traction machine, Tris would arrange his pillows so that he was comfortable, give him his tea, and then kiss him gently—
carefully
—on the forehead before leaving him to “rest.”

Charles was sure there was laudanum in the tea, because he did rest, despite the pain, falling asleep moments after Tristan left. Even though he was angry, and frustrated, and hurting, in more ways than one. When he woke hours later, groggy and ill-tempered, the frustration and anger seemed even more intense. The gentleness Tristan showed him was completely devoid of anything resembling passion, and Charles’s fury was honed by the fear that Tristan no longer felt about him the way he felt about Tristan.

Indeed, why should he? Tristan was a Corinthian, a hale, healthy young man obsessed with the physical. Charles… was not. Not any longer, at any rate. He was determined to walk again, and ride, but he knew he might never have the other physical abilities he once took for granted; might never box, or fence, or hunt again. He couldn’t expect Tristan to wait for a recovery that might not happen. He didn’t expect Tristan to wait.

But this patient, careful treatment frightened him. Had Tristan already given up on him? Was his kindness merely the care he had for a brother-in-law, and no longer the desire he had for a lover? Charles closed his eyes against the thought, his heart aching as much as his leg. It was possible. It was probable. Hadn’t he himself called Tristan a skylark? Hadn’t people—hadn’t Tristan himself?—warned him about Tristan’s inconstancy? He’d come to believe that he had been wrong, that Tris was different, that Tris was loyal. And he was, in his own way, loyal to Charlotte, loyal to his friends, to his children. Even to Charles himself. But Charles didn’t want just loyalty. He wanted devotion. He wanted love.

He wanted Tristan.

His throat was raw from the tears he refused to shed, but he swallowed anyway, relishing the burn. He needed to think, but the pain left him weary, and the laudanum left him thick-skulled, and he wished he could just close his eyes and it would all go away. He understood at last the frustration and despair that had once driven Tris to contemplate suicide, and even as that thought went through his mind he castigated himself for feeling so pathetic and helpless. He might be a cripple, but he wasn’t helpless. So what if he couldn’t ride again—that was what carriages were for. And if he had to walk with a stick, that was all right too. There were plenty of older doctors who used a stick.

And if he lost Tris? Then Tris was never really his to lose.

There were voices in the street outside; the breeze carried the sound through the open window. He recognized Tristan’s, but the other voice was harder to place. He thought he might have heard it before but couldn’t remember where, and the breeze wasn’t strong enough to carry their words, just the sound of the voices. The other voice spoke at length, then there was the sound of a coach on the cobbles, and the front door closing. He wondered who it was that had visited; if it was someone he knew or some friend that Tristan had made in Brussels, who had visited before and Charles had heard his voice in his sleep, or on the stairs. Perhaps on the stairs as they came up to bed—perhaps it was a new lover Tristan had taken. He swallowed again. He was thirsty, but the carafe on the nightstand was a reach, and he really wasn’t feeling up to it. It was easier to lie here and feel sorry for himself. He grimaced and reached for the carafe.

A few minutes later there were footsteps on the stairs: Tristan’s and a woman’s. His mother’s? But no; when the bedroom door opened Charlotte came in, her face bright and her step light as she rustled across the floor to his side. “Charlie, you foolish, foolish boy,” she scolded.

“
Kleine Schwester
,” he said. “What are you doing in Brussels?”

“Visiting you, silly. What else would I be doing? Purchasing chocolates?” She hugged him gently. “How are you feeling?”

Like shite
, he wanted to answer, but he glanced past her to see Tristan looking anxious, and he smiled instead. “Oh, far better than before. Between Tristan and Liesl, I have had excellent nursing.”

“I fetched Dr. Crosby with me on the way through London, and he’ll be dining with us tonight. He’ll visit you before supper, Tris says. Shall we have Reston set up a table in here, so you can join us?”

Charles glanced at Tristan again. “It’s entirely up to you,” Tristan said. “If you feel comfortable enough dining with us. I imagine that the count and countess will also be joining us; it will be quite a party to sit down together.” To Charlotte, he said, “I haven’t bothered with regular meals up ’til now, but I suppose with you to manage the household, that will change.”

“It certainly will,” Charlotte said. She beamed at Charles, then turned away. “Now go away, Tristan, and let me have a nice cose with Charlie. You have had him all to yourself for weeks now, and we have much to discuss.”

“As you wish, my dear.” Again, a quick, anxious look at Charles, followed by a careful smile, and then Tris was gone.

“Now,” Charlotte said as she drew up a chair beside the bed, “tell me what is really wrong, Charlie.”

He looked at her beloved face and to his horror, his eyes filled and tears spilled down his cheeks. With an effort, he managed a weak, watery smile and shook his head.

“Oh, my love,” she said, and climbed up to sit beside him, her arms around him. “Shh,” she crooned. “Shh….”

He sobbed into her shoulder, hating this, hating the weakness and the foolishness, but grateful that she’d come, that she was here. Even more than Mama, it was Charlotte who had always been his comfort. Finally, he drew away. She fished a handkerchief out of her bodice and wiped his eyes, then held it against his nose. “Blow.”

He took it away from her and blew, thanking his stars that practical Charlotte also preferred practical handkerchiefs. “I’m not
quite
as young as Jamie,” he said dryly.

“Men never really do grow up,” she said mildly. “Can you talk to me now without turning into a watering pot?”

“It isn’t anything, really,” he prevaricated, “just general misery and boredom. Remember how cranky Tristan got when he was starting to feel better after his illness? I suppose it’s just the same.”

“Mm,” she said. “But you are feeling better? Tristan was talking about how improved you are; that you’re walking with sticks and exercising, and that he expects you to be able to negotiate the stairs in a week or so, and by then the soldiers who are cluttering up the dining room will have gone away and we can put you in there instead. So you won’t have to worry about the stairs, and can have visitors, and so on.”

“Soldiers? He said there were a few sick men he was housing, but….”

“Didn’t he tell you? When you were rescued, there were four other soldiers rescued with you. I think Tristan said they were from your friend Captain Randall’s regiment or something. He’s been tending them, although he said none of them were as badly injured as you and will be sent back to their families or their billets tomorrow or the next day.”

“Tristan’s been tending
five
of us?”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Lottie said airily. “During and after the battles, he had as many as thirty men here in various states of injury at any one time. Reston said the house was quite full; even the servants were doubling up for space. Wellington has been quite complimentary about Tris, according to Dr. Crosby.” She frowned faintly. “I’m quite glad Mama has come, and that I did not heed Tristan’s instructions to remain home. He is looking quite drawn. I suppose it is difficult, after working so hard to make men better, to go out day after day to help bury them.”

“
Bury
them?”

“Oh, not the ones he treated—well, I suppose some of them did die, at least I think Tristan said so, despite all his hard work. But from the battle. The casualties were
awful
.”

“How many?” Charles asked.

“I don’t know. Twenty, thirty thousand? That’s what the papers were saying at home, although I expect they don’t know any better than anyone else. Wellington says every man on his staff was either injured or killed.” She kissed his cheek. “I’m so glad you weren’t among the latter.”

Twenty or thirty
thousand
? The Staff all dead or injured? He wanted to ask—to demand!—of Charlotte an accounting of his friends and fellow officers, but she wouldn’t know. He doubted Tris would, either. Then something she’d said struck him. “Have you
spoken
to the Duke?”

“Me? Oh, no. It was just something I’d heard he’d said. He’s not in Brussels; he’s gone off with the army. I think they’re expecting to capture Napoleon soon, if not already. You know how slowly news moves. Now, tell me again how you are feeling, and without the waterworks, if you please.”

Despite himself, her matter-of-fact attitude made him smile, and he settled down for a long conversation.

“
Well
, you’re looking a damn sight better than you’ve any right to.”

Charles smiled up at Crosby. His visit with his sister had gone a long way toward restoring his usual equilibrium, and he felt quite up to dealing with the brusque surgeon. “It was the only way I could get a rest,” he said, “with you and Mac driving me like a cart horse.”

“Well, you’ve some way to go if you plan to keep pace with your young surgeon friend here. He’s learned more about treating injuries in a fortnight than he would in a year of following me around. Grant’s quite pleased with him, and so is the Duke. Let’s take a look at what he’s accomplished here. Whose idea was the traction?”

“I don’t know. I was up in it when I awoke, so I suppose Tristan.”

“Hmm,” Crosby said. He investigated the apparatus, prodded at Charles’s leg, inspected the wound, inspected his shoulder, prodded his ribs, and all the while carried on an interrogation of him regarding Tristan’s treatment and Charles’s recovery. He was especially interested in some therapeutic activities with sandbags Charles and Tristan had worked out, and the daily walking, and picked Charles’s brain until his head spun. Finally he sat back down in the chair and regarded him with narrowed eyes.

“What?” Charles asked.

“You’re doing well. I’m quite impressed. And the sand weights for therapeutic muscle-building—that was quite a clever idea. I might have to steal it for use in my own practice.”

“I’d noticed that the injured who returned to work earlier—even if the work was at a slower pace, or less demanding—seemed to have a better long-term recovery,” Charles explained. “The same in the army. My leg still won’t bear my weight, so I must keep it strong in other ways.”

“It takes about six weeks to heal bone,” Crosby said. “The tibia is a primary weight-bearing bone so I’d advise you stay off it for an additional two weeks. Traction for the better part of the day and at night, to keep you from doing it additional injury. Still a lot of pain?”

“Not really,” Charles said evasively.

“Ballocks.”

Charles laughed. “All right, then. Yes. A lot of pain. I don’t like laudanum, but I’ll bet money Tristan’s been dosing me with it, and in a way I’m grateful. But it has to stop, and I’m not looking forward to dealing with the pain without it. Skullcap can only go so far, even augmented with willow and butterbur.”

“You and your damn herbs,” Crosby snorted, then added, “You know, don’t you, that you’re likely to end up with that leg shorter? Even if you do walk again, you’ll have a limp. Never met a survivor of that particular type of injury that didn’t. You’ll limp, and have to use a cane, in a best-case scenario. But you’ve made it through the worst of it. No infection. You were lucky.”