Bonds of Earth (11 page)

“You’ll dirty your dress,” he scolded, because he imagined it was something Abbott would have said.

She shrugged. “I don’t mind. The teacher doesn’t strap you for that; she only makes you write lines on the board.” Tugging another plant free and tossing it on the pile, she said, “School will be over tomorrow. I can weed all the gardens for you, if you like.”

He felt unaccountably touched by her offer. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.” The weeding was light work, but it was fiddling and time-consuming. If Sarah took it on, it would give him time to work with Seward each day and probably keep him from going mad trying to juggle both jobs.

Nodding, Sarah stood and brushed the worst of the dirt off her skirts, then removed the gloves and laid them on the pile. They walked together in silence to the car.

A
FTER
driving Sarah to the school, he stopped in town at the pharmacist’s, where he confounded the man with his purchases of mineral salts, Vaseline, cocoa butter, lanolin, saw palmetto extract, and cajeput and sassafras oil. He still remembered the proportions needed for the mixture the physical therapy staff had used at the convalescent hospital to develop muscle tone in recovering patients. There had been some who’d recovered, he reminded himself; not nearly enough, but there had been some. He had to remain focused on that if he was to be of any use at all to Seward and fulfill his promise to the Abbotts.

When he returned to the house, Mary’s sour expression told him all he needed to know. “He’s in a fine mood,” she remarked. “Keep your fingers away from his mouth. He’s liable to bite them off.”

Michael attempted a smile. “I’ll be careful,” he murmured as he climbed the stairs with his sack of supplies.

He found Seward at the desk in his bedroom, which sat before the wide windows overlooking the front lawn. Brushing away memories of a moonlit night and the feeling of being watched, Michael stood still and silent in the middle of the room until Seward made an impatient noise and glared up at him.

“Well? What fresh hell do you have planned for me today?”

“A massage,” Michael said smoothly. “The one we missed yesterday.”

“I’ve had massages,” Seward snapped. “They don’t help.”

“You haven’t had one of mine,” Michael answered, forcing his tone to remain light. “This one will be fairly superficial, to begin improving your circulation. We won’t go deeper until you’re ready.”

Seward’s jaw clenched convulsively, then relaxed. “All right, then,” he muttered. “Let’s get it over with.” Reaching for the cane propped against the desk, he levered himself to his feet. Recovering quickly from his surprise at the sudden capitulation, Michael moved to the bed and stripped it down to the sheets.

When Seward was seated on the bed, he took off his dressing gown, revealing an Oxford shirt and trousers. He shucked off shoes and socks, then swiftly unbuttoned the shirt; Michael noted he wore nothing underneath this time. Standing again, Seward dealt with the trousers, then stood in his shorts, his green gaze direct and challenging. “Is this sufficient?” he demanded.

“Yes,” Michael answered, keeping his eyes level this time. Nodding, Seward sat down again, then made to swing his legs up onto the mattress.

“No, I’d like to start with you in that position, if you can hold it,” Michael said, stopping him.

Seward nodded again, and Michael hastened to retrieve the jar of cocoa butter and open it as he sat on the low footstool beside the bed. Scooping out a small amount of the thick stuff with his fingers, he took Seward’s left foot in his hand and began to stroke the sole.

Seward twitched when the cool butter touched his skin but relaxed gradually as Michael continued his work along the sides and up toward the ankles. Using nothing more vigorous than strokings and frictions, Michael worked his slow way up to Seward’s knees. When he was finally satisfied, he released the left foot and made to grasp the right.

Not surprisingly, Seward flinched at the first gentle pressure on his damaged foot. “It’s all right,” Michael said, easing his grip even further. “I know. Just let me know if I’m hurting you.”

“You’ll be the first to hear,” Seward drawled, but that was the last time he gave any indication that Michael was causing him pain. Watching Seward’s stoic face from time to time as he worked, Michael saw the square jaw set against any betrayal of discomfort.

Returning his attention to his task, he kneaded Seward’s calf gently but firmly, finding evidence of numerous fibroses between the weakened muscles. Employing the tips of his fingers, he palpated them with care. It would take time and a variety of treatments to reverse the damage. Luckily, he had confidence in Doctor Parrish’s powers of persuasion. If anyone could convince that old bat to spend her money on a noble cause, it would be his former mentor.

By the time he’d finished his work on Seward’s lower legs, he noticed the other man was trembling visibly in an effort to hold his torso upright. Standing, he said, “Prone position now, please.” He helped Seward roll onto his stomach, then began working on the backs of his thighs, encouraging the circulation of blood with wide, circular motions of his palms.

He debated about asking Seward for permission to work on the gluteal muscles; all of the muscle groups involved in locomotion required attention, but Michael finally decided against it, at least until his patient was more comfortable with him. Seward was humiliated enough already by this degree of exposure. There was no sense in pushing him past his low tolerance level and risking sabotaging their program—and Michael’s promise. He would fight only the battles he had a chance of winning.

Instead, he began long, sweeping strokes up Seward’s back, pausing now and then to rub and gently knead the muscles. When he came across a scar, he stretched the skin carefully and circled the puckered flesh with his fingertips, finishing off with soft strokings. As he proceeded, he was relieved to find himself falling into a familiar rhythm, one that he knew well from nearly a decade of work as a rubber. He began to believe he could do this. He could maintain his distance and do the job.

Seward had been silent since Michael had started on his back. Curious, Michael leaned over him and found that his eyes were closed.

“Hey. Time to turn over,” Michael said softly.

Seward started, then pushed weakly at the mattress in an attempt to roll himself over. With help from Michael, he was soon on his back staring up at the ceiling.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Seward gritted, his face an unreadable mask. “Get on with it.”

Biting back a retort, Michael wrapped one hand around Seward’s wrist and raised his arm carefully, then began stroking his forearm with the other hand.

Well, there was one benefit to treating a man like Seward, he thought wryly: at least he wouldn’t be required to polish his rusty bedside manner.

T
HEY
continued on in that fashion for nearly a week, and soon Michael’s days began to assume a regular pattern. He’d rise early and work with Sarah in the garden for the morning. After lunch came Seward’s massage, with a bath every other day to further encourage the restoration of his circulation. When Michael was done torturing them both, he’d check in on Abbott and help him with the exercises that his doctor had prescribed to assist in his recovery. The old man was on his feet now, but he was still weeks away from resuming even a portion of his former duties.

Throughout it all, Seward remained completely aloof. He surrendered his body to Michael’s ministrations readily enough, but every time Michael placed his hands on Seward's skin, he could feel the tension that Seward stored in every joint and muscle and tendon. Worse, as the days wore on, Michael began to understand that Seward’s acquiescence was nothing but a sham. He was no more active a participant in his own recovery than he had ever been, and perhaps less so. Michael didn’t have the first idea of how to deal with this passive resistance. He only knew that every day, his frustration at seeing Seward’s pliant body laid out before him was swiftly increasing.

Saturday morning dawned clear and warm, and Michael decided it was time to risk introducing another facet of Seward’s treatment. After breakfast, he intercepted Mary before she could take Seward his meal. She looked on him with pathetic gratitude as he plucked the tray from her hands.

When he arrived at the bedroom door, he found Seward already dressed and seated at his desk. He scowled when he spied Michael in the doorway.

“What’s wrong with Mary?” he barked in lieu of a greeting.

“Nothing,” Michael said pleasantly, striding forward and placing the tray on the desk.

“Then—and I’m certain I’m going to be sorry for asking this—why are you here?”

Straightening, Michael said matter-of-factly, “It’s going to be a beautiful day, and I think it’s time you began taking some sun.”

Seward stared at him, clearly nonplussed. After a moment, Michael elaborated. “It’s called heliotherapy, and it’s an important part of your rehabilitation. The healing properties of the sun’s light and warmth are well documented.”

Seward pursed his lips. “I don’t see the point of it.”

Michael sighed inwardly. He might have known Seward wouldn’t make it easy for him. “The only substitute for natural sunlight is ultraviolet treatments.”

“I know,” Seward growled. “They stuffed me into one of those damned light cabinets every day at the hospital in England for weeks. Idiots gave me blisters over half my body before they decided it wasn’t working.”

Michael shook his head. That went a long way to explaining why Seward was fed up with the medical profession. There was a reason why the wounded men had called them “ultraviolent treatments.” “Doctor Parrish had all the ultraviolet machines thrown out of our convalescent hospital. He insisted the men spend time outside in fine weather and had a glass atrium built for the winter months.” He spread his hands. “Listen, we don’t know all of the reasons why it works, only that it does. It speeds up the healing process and improves health in a general sense.” Exposure to sunlight had also been proven to improve the mood of recalcitrant patients, though of course Michael kept this to himself. “I’m only asking you to give it a try for a few days. You can sit and relax while I work, and I’ll take you back inside after an hour or two. If you don’t see an improvement by the end of the week, you can discontinue it.”

Seward glared at him for another few moments, then huffed out a breath. “All right. Come back in half an hour and I’ll be ready.”

Michael nodded and left swiftly, the taste of even this small victory unexpectedly sweet.

T
HE
warm day drew everyone outside. As soon as she had finished her indoor chores, Sarah came out to help Michael with the weeding. Mary emerged a short time later, her sleeves rolled up and a heavy apron covering her skirt.

“I don’t see why you young folks should be the only ones to have fun getting dirty,” she said, and set to weeding and watering her kitchen garden. When she was done, Michael watched her gaze upon her small plot of earth and smile a quiet, private smile. It had never been in his nature to become attached to a particular place, for he had never had so much as a patch of weeds to call his own. However, it was clear that it meant a great deal to her, and for that reason he was pleased and strangely humbled by her obvious pride.

To his surprise, Abbott hobbled his way out of the house around ten, his steps slow but surer than they had been a week ago. Michael jogged over to help him, but Abbott waved him off. “I’m not at death’s door,” the old man grumbled without rancor. “Just let me take my time.”

Sarah came bounding up to him, her cheeks dirty and her dress grass-stained. She waited patiently until Abbott took her hand and smiled down at her. “Come along, child,” he said, “let’s you and I pay a visit to Mister Seward.”

Michael watched as the two slowly made their way across the lawn to the terrace, then began to mount the steps. Seward had spotted them by now and was on his feet. He limped over to meet them, his face grave.

Michael went back to work, deliberately choosing a bed far from the house so that he could not eavesdrop unintentionally, though his curiosity soon got the better of him and he was tempted to take a look. What he saw confused him. Seward was heading back toward the house, his back stiff, his entire body a taut bow. Abbott was still holding on to his granddaughter’s hand, his own back ramrod straight, his eyes flashing with something Michael couldn’t identify from this distance.

Deciding that discretion was vastly overrated, he walked up to the house and met Abbott and Sarah descending the stairs. “What’s the matter?” he demanded as the glass doors closed behind Seward. The bastard had promised Michael an hour or two; he’d lasted precisely fifteen minutes.

Abbott shook his head once, jaw tight. “What else? He still blames himself for what happened to me,” he said.

That would explain why Seward hadn’t been to see Abbott since the old man had been released from the hospital. “What did you say to him?”

Abbott hesitated, then said, “I told him it was my fault, not his.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Now I know where he gets it,” he muttered, jogging up the flagstone steps and following Seward into the house.

He found him, predictably, in the library, where Seward had just finished pouring himself a bourbon. Before he could think about what he was doing, Michael strode forward and plucked the glass from his hand.

“You—” Seward began, indignation flaring in his eyes.

“You’ll never recover if you keep trying to pickle yourself,” Michael told him shortly. “And you’ll kill yourself too slowly for it to be of any use to the rest of us, so I’ll be confiscating these for the duration of our time together.”

Michael had the satisfaction of bringing Seward up short. He stiffened, then leaned back in his chair. “You’re—what?”

“You heard me,” Michael said, snatching up the bottle before Seward could reach for it. “Consider me your own personal Temperance movement.” He indicated the box on Seward’s table. “The same goes for those cigarettes.”