Page 50 of A Murder on London Bridge
That lopsided grin I loved made an appearance. “Progress indeed.” He glanced at the doctor. “So what’s the prognosis, Doctor Spencer?”
“Lady Rutledge can return home—on condition. Absolute rest for a fortnight at the very least. Bed, quiet, no excitements.” He turned back to me. “Your head will ache. You may take aspirin, and if the pain becomes severe, a small dose of codeine. But only then. Nothing stronger, mind you. You may be sensitive to bright light and become easily tired. Do not push against it. Your body will mend itself if you allow it the peace to do so.” He looked deliberately at Robert. “You must enforce these restrictions, Lord Rutledge.”
“I shall,” Robert said, his voice low but steady. “You have my word.”
Doctor Spencer straightened. “A physician should look in on Lady Rutledge once she’s home. Have you arranged for that?”
“Yes,” Robert said at once. “I’ve already asked Dr. Larson to attend to her.”
“Gerald Larson?” the doctor asked.
Robert nodded.
“He’s an excellent physician. I’ll leave word to make Lady Rutledge’s records available to him.” Doctor Spencer gave a satisfied nod and made a final note on his chart. “I’ll send your discharge papers to the desk.” And then he turned to me with a kindly half-smile, “You frightened your family, Lady Rutledge. Best not do so again.”
“I shall endeavor to be perfectly tedious henceforth,” I croaked, which won me a watery laugh from Mother and a look from Father that suggested even teasing would be rationed for the next fortnight.
After the doctor left, Mother kissed my brow. “My love,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “If you wish to recuperate at Worthington House, you are more than welcome to do so. Your room lies ready, should you wish it.”
“Thank you, Mother,” I said, and meant it, though the idea of returning to my girlhood room made me feel both tender and somehow smaller than myself. “But I should like to go to my own home. With Robert.”
Father cleared his throat. “Regardless, we shall accompany you to see you settled in. Your mother will not be denied that much.”
Robert’s hand found mine and gave the smallest, grateful squeeze. “Nor shall I,” he said gently. “We will get you home as soon as we can.”
It took more than an hour for the discharge papers to be processed. But by early afternoon, Robert’s motorcar was rolling up to our Eaton Square address. As Robert helped me out, the air hit my face—crisp, clean, carrying with it the faintest scent ofspring. So different from the sharp antiseptic tang of the hospital that tears sprang to my eyes.
The entire staff had assembled in the entrance hall: Mister Black, our butler, grave as a bishop, standing on his gamy leg; Mrs. Palmer, flour still ghosting her sleeves; several footmen and maids; Mister Hudson, Robert’s valet; Mrs. Phillips, our temporary housekeeper and even little Elsie from the scullery, her gaze bright with relief, peeping from behind her. Their murmurs of “Welcome home, my lady,” rose and fell like a benediction.
I tried to make a speech and could not. My throat closed on me. Instead, I nodded like a foolish queen and let them see the gratitude in my eyes. It seemed to satisfy them.
Robert guided me up the staircase, his arm firm beneath mine. He moved slowly, not because he needed to but because I did. He did not make a show of it. The steadiness of him—his clean, familiar scent, the brush of his sleeve against my hand—soothed something in me I had not known was raw.
Grace waited in my chamber, eyes shining. “My lady,” she whispered, as if in church. “If we might … this way.” She guided me to the dressing room where, with soft hands and quiet efficiency, she eased me out of my day dress and into a soft lawn nightgown and robe. Then she helped me settle against cool linen that smelled faintly of lavender. The pillows cradled my head with a mercy the hospital ward had not known.
“Thank you, Grace,” I said, and she bobbed a curtsy that was half a sob before whisking away to fetch broth.
Mother came and kissed me. Father patted my shoulder once more and promised to send flowers “only if the doctor approves of them.” They withdrew with the tact they had learned when I married—reluctant to smother, determined to hover just out of sight.
Robert, thankfully, lingered.
He drew the coverlet up, tucking it around me with a care that made my throat sting. His fingers brushed a stray curl from my brow and stared at it for a long moment, as though memorizing its place lest I vanish when he looked up.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered. “Unless you move this pillow. Then I shall go to sleep at once.”
His mouth twitched. “That is precisely where I wish you to go.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and, after the briefest hesitation, kissed me, softly, gently. He captured my hand in both of his, as if he feared I might fray and float away.
I wanted to tell him everything. The smoke, the rush of heat, the roar of a city burning; the weight of velvet and the scrape of farthingales; the whisper of plots and a queen’s steady eyes. But now was not the time. But sometime soon, it would be. I satisfied myself with that.
“We will talk tomorrow,” he said, as if he had read my mind. “But today you rest.” He leaned nearer and, with a tenderness that undid me, pressed a kiss to my temple. “Now go to sleep.”
I fell asleep with his hand still folded around mine.
Morning broughta pale light and a headache that throbbed behind my eyes. I had Grace bring me aspirin and a strong cup of coffee. Half an hour later, I was allowed scrambled eggs, toast, and marmalade. Breakfast had never tasted so good.
Doctor Larson, our family physician, called midmorning to check on me. Though he stopped short of declaring me fit as a fiddle, he was plainly satisfied.
