Chapter Three
Cuddy stood
in the doorway of the bedroom and glared. Usually it was her most
frightening expression; she had most of her servants cowed with it,
even Isaiah and William, but it seemed to have no effect on the man on
the feather mattress. He barely registered it and closed his eyes
again. “And so the children tattle tales to Nursie, who comes
bearing the strap . . . “ he droned mockingly.
She stepped in and looked at the spilled gruel; the cracked wooden bowl lying at the side of the bed, victim of a quick shove. Cuddy counted to ten in her head. “If you don’t eat, you won’t recover. And if you don’t recover, you’ll be stuck in that bed for the winter, and should it come to that, I’ll have the men lift it by the four corners and carry it out to the hog shed, House, so that you may share your manners with the beasts you so beautifully put to shame with your gratitude and patience.”
One eye opened warily, rolling towards her to assess this new threat. Cuddy held her gimlet gaze, and finally House gave a chuff of annoyed acquiescence. “I want more wine of opium, first.”
“No. When you do, you lose your appetite, and I need you to eat,” Cuddy told him, moving forward and picking up the bowl. House scowled. His beard was thick now, and startlingly dark on his pale face. Cuddy felt his gaze follow her actions, and when she straightened up, caught his petulant expression. “What now?” she demanded quietly.
He folded his hands in his lap. “I propose a bargain.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard my terms,” he protested, annoyed at being shot down so quickly. Cuddy pulled a kerchief from her apron pocket and began to wipe up the drying gruel.
“I don’t need to hear them. You have nothing to bargain with, House—you’re an invalid at the moment, and completely dependent on me and my household. Should you prove unbearable, I will simply have you carried off to the regimental encampment, where Colonel Vogler will assign a few rough-handed bumpkins there to feed you and wipe your arse.”
House managed a mock-serene look. “Ah, but I do have something, Mistress Cuddy—a commodity you need very much.” He managed to look both slightly menacing and lascivious as he spoke, and Cuddy pursed her mouth, reluctantly listening.
“And that would be--?”
“My silence,” House murmured, closing his eyes.
The pause grew; Cuddy was too smart to bluff, and aware that even when incapacitated, House was still a potential danger. She took a step closer, setting the gruel-covered rag in the bowl, setting it on the bedside table, on top of the latest broadsheet. “Your silence, “ she echoed quietly.
“People talk,” House began in a low voice. “A word here, a comment there. When a man has time to listen, even small pieces begin to fit into bigger puzzles, ‘Lisa. I have no proof, of course, but I’ve heard and seen enough to put together a convincing argument for Colonel Vogler to put James Wilson under house arrest, and to have Robert Chase’s ship seized and searched.”
“You . . . wouldn’t,” Cuddy said with more conviction than she felt, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at House, who finally opened his eyes. His gaze was cynical, and tinged with pain; he struggled a little to sit up.
“No . . . not if I’m . . . accommodated. I’ll be good—angelic might be pushing it, but at the very least more cooperative, if I’m provided with a few little preferences.”
Cuddy’s expression twisted with renewed exasperation; House’s invalidism was already taking a toll on Plainsboro if the past three weeks had been any indication. She cocked her head, her expression stubborn, but House waited until she gave a little sigh.
“Let’s hear what your demands are, and they we can negotiate from there, Doctor House.”
He told her.
Two minutes later she was out of the room, moving at a quick pace to the kitchen, her expression frightening enough to make the cook scurry out of her way. Cuddy slammed the bowl down on the wooden table and took a moment to grip the edges of it as she regained her composure.
“Doctor House?” Cook asked softly, knowing the answer. Cuddy shot the other woman a dark look.
“Brenda, if I take it upon myself to feed that . . . man . . . his meals and change his bandages and linens soley, will you and Paul divide up the mending and see to it that the late crops get in the rest of this month?”
“In a heart’s beat, Mistress,” Brenda grinned, then cleared her throat. “Tis not a Christian thing to say, but House the very devil to please, and the less often any of US are around him, the better.”
“It seems to be his wish as well, and in order to both keep peace and get that . . . . ingrate back on his feet, I’m going to attend to him myself from now on,” Cuddy ground out between clenched teeth. “Mayhap if he’s only got ONE person to torment, he’ll heal faster. God willing,” she finished. Brenda said nothing as Cuddy moved to the cupboards and fished around, pulling out another wooden bowl.
She turned to Brenda and spoke again, her words firm and clear. “Let everyone know that I will attend to his little sick Majesty starting now. I want another bowl of heated gruel, please, and a mug of cider. Tell William to move the sheep to the south pasture without me, and have Paul exercise the horses this afternoon, if I’m not here for noon meal.”
“You are a brave woman,” Brenda assured her solemnly, and bustled to the fireplace where the pot was hanging.
Wilson rapped at the door again, waiting anxiously for it to open. The sun was near setting, and he was due back at Hitchcock House for Sabbath, but there was time enough to check on House’s leg and deliver more medication, if anyone would let him in. He was just about to rap again when the door opened, and a breathless Cuddy stood before him, her cheeks flushed. She smiled, gratefully. “You! Thank God, come in, James—“
“What, is he worse?” Wilson asked, alarmed as he crossed the threshold, doffing his hat and looking anxious. Cuddy didn’t reply, and led the way toward House’s bedroom, the two of the passing through the sitting room on the way. They reached the bedroom, and in the candlelight, Wilson thought House looked much better than he had in several days. His color was good; almost a little flushed in fact, and judging from the tray of half-finished bread and soup, his appetite was back.
“Ah, the quack—“ House greeted him snidely. “Aren’t you supposed to be out drowning Christian children in wells?”
“I’ll kick one in on the way home, just for you,” Wilson replied, unfazed, moving to lift the quilt and examine House’s leg. Under the bandages, the raw wound was beginning to heal, angry pink flesh in ragged furrows, the shiny skin of burns melding in thick ugly tracks along the dented muscle. House himself didn’t look down; his gaze was flinty, and directed at Cuddy, who refused to meet his eyes. “It’s healing well . . . “ Wilson murmured, pressed gently along the edges. “No abnormal heat to the skin, or swelling---“
“No infection,” House agreed curtly. “Did you bring it?”
Wilson sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, cloth-wrapped bottle. The cork had been sealed with wax, and within it, the brown liquid moved with a sludgy thickness; Wilson glanced at it, and then at House, who was eyeing it with a sense of anticipation.
“To me—“ Cuddy broke in, holding out her hand. With relief, Wilson passed it to her and she tucked it into the pocket of her skirt.
House scowled. “I’m more qualified than either of you to gauge my need and use.”
“Not at the moment,” Cuddy told him firmly. Wilson noted that there was a book on the bed; it looked as though House had been reading moments before. He moved to pick it up, but House shifted to stop him, laying a protective hand over the cover.
“Ah-ah—“ he chided, giving Wilson a mock-glare. “Anything else? Do I need bloodletting or a nice emetic?”
Wilson shot House a tolerantly good-natured look. “Neither of those would help your leg, although they’d be delightful to administer—“
“Try it, and you will be the one passing leeches, Christ-Killer,” House growled without malice.
Wilson rolled his eyes at Mistress Cuddy, who gave a tired little sigh and spoke softly. “He’s eating better.”
“Good. Whatever works, keep doing it,” Wilson told her. He missed House’s smile to that, which was slightly predatory, but Wilson did catch Cuddy’s rapid blink and wince. “Are you all right?”
“I’m well,” She fended his inquiry. “Just . . . occupied with matters of the moment. Thank you,” Cuddy added gently.
After she’d seen Wilson out, she gritted her teeth and returned to the bedroom, leading with her jaw this time, and determined not to let House rattle her. He looked up as she crossed the bedroom threshold, and while he wasn’t smiling, there was a certain mischievous look in his eyes. “Back to read again?”
“Eat, or no opium,” Cuddy told him, patting her pocket. House glanced at the wooden tray with the half-eaten slice of bread on it. Reluctantly he picked the bread up.
“Butter?”
“None made; the cow is going dry,” Cuddy reminded him as she stepped closer to the bed.
“Honey?”
“Used up.”
“Jam?”
“Saving it for winter—House, EAT,” Cuddy snapped, balling her fists and leaning down on them to glare in his face. With a great show of being offended, he nibbled a corner of the bread in sulky silence for a moment. With his free hand, he pushed the book towards her.
Cuddy paused, and closed her eyes for a moment. She picked up the volume, pulled the ribbon out marking the page and settled in on the edge of the mattress.
House looked at her, his expression mild. Waiting.
Cuddy cleared her throat, reading softly and hurriedly. “My bosom was now bare, and rising in the warmest throbs, presented to his sight and feeling the firm hard swell of a pair of young breasts, such as may be imagin'd of a girl not sixteen, fresh out of the country, and never before handled; but even their pride, whiteness, fashion, pleasing resistance to the touch, could not bribe his restless hands from roving; but giving them the loose, my petticoats and shift were soon taken up, and their stronger center of attraction laid open to their tender invasion.”
House’s smile deepened; he nibbled the bread and nodded for her to continue.
She sighed. “My fears, however, made me mechanically close my thighs; but the very touch of his hand insinuated between them, disclosed them and opened a way for the main attack . . . “ Cuddy paused, her expression slightly mortified, and shot a pained look at her patient, who was looking back, not at her face, but a bit lower. “—House!”
“You rush it a bit—try to put a bit more of a salacious tone into your recitation there, although I approve of the heaving bosoms,” he told her, after swallowing his mouthful. “Adds an ambience to Cleland’s words, although you are decidedly no fifteen year old, not with those dugs—“
Cuddy’s hand flew out to his cheek, but he caught it easily, his long fingers circling around her wrist and holding it an inch or two from his face. For a moment she struggled. Thinking better of it, though, Cuddy forced her arm to relax; sensing the change, House softened his grip and turned his head, brushing his beard against her palm, like a cat seeking a caress.
She held herself very still, not wanting to admit that the sensation was a good one. House gave a soft sigh. “You have a deft touch—was the harp yours, or your husband’s?”
“His.” The reply slipped out before she could stop herself. “It’s too rich and idle a toy for hands like mine.” It wasn’t a complaint; merely an observation. House still hadn’t let go of her wrist, though his grip shifted, nearly caressing her much smaller fingers.
“I’m sure these fingers can dance a merry tune on a man’s hornpipe—“ he drawled.
Cuddy fought another sigh, caught between irritation at his salacious words, and an undercurrent of slow, thick desire. The latter had been stirring, quite against her better judgment and much to her annoyance. House wasn’t the sort of man she’d ever have had anything to do with, if events hadn’t forced him into her home and care. He was recklessly direct, often to the point of being crude; impatient and snappish, intolerant of other people and cruel.
He was also wealthy, and far too intelligent to dismiss, or even consider disposing of, however. She’d argued to let him die, but both Foreman and Wilson pointed out that House’s death would arouse suspicion, and in any case, she’d be forced to take in another officer just the same. Better the devil you know, Wilson intoned.
Easy for him to say. Vogler was reasonable polite and spent most of his time with his troops. He didn’t make outrageous demands or lewd comments, and while his presence wasn’t appreciated, it wasn’t completely intolerable either.
“You’ve mastered the solo well enough,” Cuddy told House with a hint of belligerence. He flashed a small grin at that.
“I was thinking on expanding to a duet, or perhaps a recital, where I could observe your technique from a position to know—“
“I’m a hard milker—ask the cow,” Cuddy replied, flushing, and House unexpectedly laughed. He let go of her hand, his expression twisting to one of pain, and guiltily Cuddy remembered the bottle in her skirt. She rose and went to the table by the window, decanting and pouring wine into the mug there. When Cuddy turned to glance at House, he was watching her, his eyes focused on the cup.
“Two good mouthfuls,” he rasped. Cuddy pulled the bottle out of her pocket. It took some fumbling to break the wax seal, but once she had, she poured some of the thick foul-smelling syrup into the wine.
Cuddy was careful to leave the little bottle on the table as she brought the cup to House.
He took it and drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he did so, draining it to the bottom, and when House handed her the cup, Cuddy could see his shoulders relax under his nightshirt. He sighed, letting his eyes close, murmuring softly. “Oh sweet mead of the orient, blessed champion of relief; noble counter to ills and aches, how I adore thee---“
“It’s medicine, not the elixir of life, House,” Cuddy reminded him. She stood watching him for a moment. “Need the bedpan or pot?”
He shook his head and opened his eyes; the pupils were enormous now. “No more opportunities to gaze upon my instrument tonight, Mistress Cuddy—the music master is otherwise engaged in more cerebral delights . . . . “ His voice trailed off, and Cuddy gently sat down at his hip once more, waiting.
It didn’t take long; he’d drop off to sleep within a few minutes, thanks to the poppy syrup, but Cuddy always stayed until House was under its spell leaving. When his breathing evened out and he lay quiet against the pillows; then was the time to slip out, and take care of business. She took the little bottle with her.
The night was much cooler, and Cuddy pulled a cloak on, wrapping up well as she made her way to the stables and their warm darkness. She made no move to any stall though, but went to the back, and the ladder that rose up to the hayloft above. Climbing easily, Cuddy made her way up, and to—
--her second patient. The man lay facedown on a pallet of straw, his bare back a mass of red and bloody welts. Cuddy quietly lit a candle and set it well away from the straw on a wall sconce, then began to wash his back. He flinched at her touch, but she whispered softly to him. “Quiet. I’ve got something for your pain, and to help you sleep. Are you still determined to run?”
The man nodded weakly, but with determination. “Jah.”
Cuddy smiled briefly, and dipped a rag into the water bucket under the candle.
--and in regard to the matter of House, the issue remains whether or not he can return to active duty in a timely manner. His record of service is a disturbing read, with as many accusations as commendations to it; were it not for the sterling reputation of his father, it is without a doubt that the son would have been dishonorably discharged from His Highness’s army well before this. Nevertheless, his medical skills are considerable, and given our situation in the Colonies, worth holding for the time being.
Should this situation change, and House be declared unfit for return to regular service, then it will be your duty, Colonel Vogler, to dismiss him and have him escorted back to England where he will be found a menial position somewhere at one of the garrisons near London.
The morning was cold; the first frost lay on the windows, and Cuddy dressed quickly, wanting nothing more than to get down to the kitchen and warm her hands by the fire there. It was nearly time to start keeping wood inside, too, and she remembered guiltily that House’s room had no fireplace.
As she approached his room, she heard voices; curious, she listened.
“Th’ grey one is Edgar, and the other is Emily. Cook says I can keep them if I gentle them and keep them from climbing the curtains.”
That was Paul, young and earnest. House’s voice came back in reply, quiet and slow. “Two ways to do that, right? First, be the only one to feed them. Make sure you’re the one setting the dish down each and every time—that’s the first step.”
“Okay, sir. And the other?”
“Acquaint them with the pleasure of touch . . . like so . . . “
Cuddy slowly opened the door and looked in. House was sitting up in bed, and Paul sat cross-legged at the foot. Between them, a grey kitten skittered over the quilt, and resting on one of House’s big palms was a small, round-bellied tabby kitten, purring like a tiny tigress as House stroked his other hand over her back.
He glanced up at Cuddy, then looked back at the kitten, his touch as slow and gentle as before. “Small furry things respond well to soft pettings, Paul—it’s a truth for all your life, boy—remember it.”
The boy grinned and reached out a finger to the grey kitten, stroking its head. Cuddy bit back her smile. “Take your pets along Paul while I attend to Doctor House—“
“Yes, Mistress,” Paul gave a quick nod and collected the two slightly protesting kittens. House watched him go.
“Bring them back when the mean old lady is gone—“ he called, amused at Paul’s scandalized grin before the boy disappeared.
Cuddy herself smiled. “Small furry things, House?”
He smirked. “That could include kittens as well, yes.”
She stepped in and looked at the spilled gruel; the cracked wooden bowl lying at the side of the bed, victim of a quick shove. Cuddy counted to ten in her head. “If you don’t eat, you won’t recover. And if you don’t recover, you’ll be stuck in that bed for the winter, and should it come to that, I’ll have the men lift it by the four corners and carry it out to the hog shed, House, so that you may share your manners with the beasts you so beautifully put to shame with your gratitude and patience.”
One eye opened warily, rolling towards her to assess this new threat. Cuddy held her gimlet gaze, and finally House gave a chuff of annoyed acquiescence. “I want more wine of opium, first.”
“No. When you do, you lose your appetite, and I need you to eat,” Cuddy told him, moving forward and picking up the bowl. House scowled. His beard was thick now, and startlingly dark on his pale face. Cuddy felt his gaze follow her actions, and when she straightened up, caught his petulant expression. “What now?” she demanded quietly.
He folded his hands in his lap. “I propose a bargain.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard my terms,” he protested, annoyed at being shot down so quickly. Cuddy pulled a kerchief from her apron pocket and began to wipe up the drying gruel.
“I don’t need to hear them. You have nothing to bargain with, House—you’re an invalid at the moment, and completely dependent on me and my household. Should you prove unbearable, I will simply have you carried off to the regimental encampment, where Colonel Vogler will assign a few rough-handed bumpkins there to feed you and wipe your arse.”
House managed a mock-serene look. “Ah, but I do have something, Mistress Cuddy—a commodity you need very much.” He managed to look both slightly menacing and lascivious as he spoke, and Cuddy pursed her mouth, reluctantly listening.
“And that would be--?”
“My silence,” House murmured, closing his eyes.
The pause grew; Cuddy was too smart to bluff, and aware that even when incapacitated, House was still a potential danger. She took a step closer, setting the gruel-covered rag in the bowl, setting it on the bedside table, on top of the latest broadsheet. “Your silence, “ she echoed quietly.
“People talk,” House began in a low voice. “A word here, a comment there. When a man has time to listen, even small pieces begin to fit into bigger puzzles, ‘Lisa. I have no proof, of course, but I’ve heard and seen enough to put together a convincing argument for Colonel Vogler to put James Wilson under house arrest, and to have Robert Chase’s ship seized and searched.”
“You . . . wouldn’t,” Cuddy said with more conviction than she felt, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at House, who finally opened his eyes. His gaze was cynical, and tinged with pain; he struggled a little to sit up.
“No . . . not if I’m . . . accommodated. I’ll be good—angelic might be pushing it, but at the very least more cooperative, if I’m provided with a few little preferences.”
Cuddy’s expression twisted with renewed exasperation; House’s invalidism was already taking a toll on Plainsboro if the past three weeks had been any indication. She cocked her head, her expression stubborn, but House waited until she gave a little sigh.
“Let’s hear what your demands are, and they we can negotiate from there, Doctor House.”
He told her.
Two minutes later she was out of the room, moving at a quick pace to the kitchen, her expression frightening enough to make the cook scurry out of her way. Cuddy slammed the bowl down on the wooden table and took a moment to grip the edges of it as she regained her composure.
“Doctor House?” Cook asked softly, knowing the answer. Cuddy shot the other woman a dark look.
“Brenda, if I take it upon myself to feed that . . . man . . . his meals and change his bandages and linens soley, will you and Paul divide up the mending and see to it that the late crops get in the rest of this month?”
“In a heart’s beat, Mistress,” Brenda grinned, then cleared her throat. “Tis not a Christian thing to say, but House the very devil to please, and the less often any of US are around him, the better.”
“It seems to be his wish as well, and in order to both keep peace and get that . . . . ingrate back on his feet, I’m going to attend to him myself from now on,” Cuddy ground out between clenched teeth. “Mayhap if he’s only got ONE person to torment, he’ll heal faster. God willing,” she finished. Brenda said nothing as Cuddy moved to the cupboards and fished around, pulling out another wooden bowl.
She turned to Brenda and spoke again, her words firm and clear. “Let everyone know that I will attend to his little sick Majesty starting now. I want another bowl of heated gruel, please, and a mug of cider. Tell William to move the sheep to the south pasture without me, and have Paul exercise the horses this afternoon, if I’m not here for noon meal.”
“You are a brave woman,” Brenda assured her solemnly, and bustled to the fireplace where the pot was hanging.
*** *** ***
Wilson rapped at the door again, waiting anxiously for it to open. The sun was near setting, and he was due back at Hitchcock House for Sabbath, but there was time enough to check on House’s leg and deliver more medication, if anyone would let him in. He was just about to rap again when the door opened, and a breathless Cuddy stood before him, her cheeks flushed. She smiled, gratefully. “You! Thank God, come in, James—“
“What, is he worse?” Wilson asked, alarmed as he crossed the threshold, doffing his hat and looking anxious. Cuddy didn’t reply, and led the way toward House’s bedroom, the two of the passing through the sitting room on the way. They reached the bedroom, and in the candlelight, Wilson thought House looked much better than he had in several days. His color was good; almost a little flushed in fact, and judging from the tray of half-finished bread and soup, his appetite was back.
“Ah, the quack—“ House greeted him snidely. “Aren’t you supposed to be out drowning Christian children in wells?”
“I’ll kick one in on the way home, just for you,” Wilson replied, unfazed, moving to lift the quilt and examine House’s leg. Under the bandages, the raw wound was beginning to heal, angry pink flesh in ragged furrows, the shiny skin of burns melding in thick ugly tracks along the dented muscle. House himself didn’t look down; his gaze was flinty, and directed at Cuddy, who refused to meet his eyes. “It’s healing well . . . “ Wilson murmured, pressed gently along the edges. “No abnormal heat to the skin, or swelling---“
“No infection,” House agreed curtly. “Did you bring it?”
Wilson sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, cloth-wrapped bottle. The cork had been sealed with wax, and within it, the brown liquid moved with a sludgy thickness; Wilson glanced at it, and then at House, who was eyeing it with a sense of anticipation.
“To me—“ Cuddy broke in, holding out her hand. With relief, Wilson passed it to her and she tucked it into the pocket of her skirt.
House scowled. “I’m more qualified than either of you to gauge my need and use.”
“Not at the moment,” Cuddy told him firmly. Wilson noted that there was a book on the bed; it looked as though House had been reading moments before. He moved to pick it up, but House shifted to stop him, laying a protective hand over the cover.
“Ah-ah—“ he chided, giving Wilson a mock-glare. “Anything else? Do I need bloodletting or a nice emetic?”
Wilson shot House a tolerantly good-natured look. “Neither of those would help your leg, although they’d be delightful to administer—“
“Try it, and you will be the one passing leeches, Christ-Killer,” House growled without malice.
Wilson rolled his eyes at Mistress Cuddy, who gave a tired little sigh and spoke softly. “He’s eating better.”
“Good. Whatever works, keep doing it,” Wilson told her. He missed House’s smile to that, which was slightly predatory, but Wilson did catch Cuddy’s rapid blink and wince. “Are you all right?”
“I’m well,” She fended his inquiry. “Just . . . occupied with matters of the moment. Thank you,” Cuddy added gently.
After she’d seen Wilson out, she gritted her teeth and returned to the bedroom, leading with her jaw this time, and determined not to let House rattle her. He looked up as she crossed the bedroom threshold, and while he wasn’t smiling, there was a certain mischievous look in his eyes. “Back to read again?”
“Eat, or no opium,” Cuddy told him, patting her pocket. House glanced at the wooden tray with the half-eaten slice of bread on it. Reluctantly he picked the bread up.
“Butter?”
“None made; the cow is going dry,” Cuddy reminded him as she stepped closer to the bed.
“Honey?”
“Used up.”
“Jam?”
“Saving it for winter—House, EAT,” Cuddy snapped, balling her fists and leaning down on them to glare in his face. With a great show of being offended, he nibbled a corner of the bread in sulky silence for a moment. With his free hand, he pushed the book towards her.
Cuddy paused, and closed her eyes for a moment. She picked up the volume, pulled the ribbon out marking the page and settled in on the edge of the mattress.
House looked at her, his expression mild. Waiting.
Cuddy cleared her throat, reading softly and hurriedly. “My bosom was now bare, and rising in the warmest throbs, presented to his sight and feeling the firm hard swell of a pair of young breasts, such as may be imagin'd of a girl not sixteen, fresh out of the country, and never before handled; but even their pride, whiteness, fashion, pleasing resistance to the touch, could not bribe his restless hands from roving; but giving them the loose, my petticoats and shift were soon taken up, and their stronger center of attraction laid open to their tender invasion.”
House’s smile deepened; he nibbled the bread and nodded for her to continue.
She sighed. “My fears, however, made me mechanically close my thighs; but the very touch of his hand insinuated between them, disclosed them and opened a way for the main attack . . . “ Cuddy paused, her expression slightly mortified, and shot a pained look at her patient, who was looking back, not at her face, but a bit lower. “—House!”
“You rush it a bit—try to put a bit more of a salacious tone into your recitation there, although I approve of the heaving bosoms,” he told her, after swallowing his mouthful. “Adds an ambience to Cleland’s words, although you are decidedly no fifteen year old, not with those dugs—“
Cuddy’s hand flew out to his cheek, but he caught it easily, his long fingers circling around her wrist and holding it an inch or two from his face. For a moment she struggled. Thinking better of it, though, Cuddy forced her arm to relax; sensing the change, House softened his grip and turned his head, brushing his beard against her palm, like a cat seeking a caress.
She held herself very still, not wanting to admit that the sensation was a good one. House gave a soft sigh. “You have a deft touch—was the harp yours, or your husband’s?”
“His.” The reply slipped out before she could stop herself. “It’s too rich and idle a toy for hands like mine.” It wasn’t a complaint; merely an observation. House still hadn’t let go of her wrist, though his grip shifted, nearly caressing her much smaller fingers.
“I’m sure these fingers can dance a merry tune on a man’s hornpipe—“ he drawled.
Cuddy fought another sigh, caught between irritation at his salacious words, and an undercurrent of slow, thick desire. The latter had been stirring, quite against her better judgment and much to her annoyance. House wasn’t the sort of man she’d ever have had anything to do with, if events hadn’t forced him into her home and care. He was recklessly direct, often to the point of being crude; impatient and snappish, intolerant of other people and cruel.
He was also wealthy, and far too intelligent to dismiss, or even consider disposing of, however. She’d argued to let him die, but both Foreman and Wilson pointed out that House’s death would arouse suspicion, and in any case, she’d be forced to take in another officer just the same. Better the devil you know, Wilson intoned.
Easy for him to say. Vogler was reasonable polite and spent most of his time with his troops. He didn’t make outrageous demands or lewd comments, and while his presence wasn’t appreciated, it wasn’t completely intolerable either.
“You’ve mastered the solo well enough,” Cuddy told House with a hint of belligerence. He flashed a small grin at that.
“I was thinking on expanding to a duet, or perhaps a recital, where I could observe your technique from a position to know—“
“I’m a hard milker—ask the cow,” Cuddy replied, flushing, and House unexpectedly laughed. He let go of her hand, his expression twisting to one of pain, and guiltily Cuddy remembered the bottle in her skirt. She rose and went to the table by the window, decanting and pouring wine into the mug there. When Cuddy turned to glance at House, he was watching her, his eyes focused on the cup.
“Two good mouthfuls,” he rasped. Cuddy pulled the bottle out of her pocket. It took some fumbling to break the wax seal, but once she had, she poured some of the thick foul-smelling syrup into the wine.
Cuddy was careful to leave the little bottle on the table as she brought the cup to House.
He took it and drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he did so, draining it to the bottom, and when House handed her the cup, Cuddy could see his shoulders relax under his nightshirt. He sighed, letting his eyes close, murmuring softly. “Oh sweet mead of the orient, blessed champion of relief; noble counter to ills and aches, how I adore thee---“
“It’s medicine, not the elixir of life, House,” Cuddy reminded him. She stood watching him for a moment. “Need the bedpan or pot?”
He shook his head and opened his eyes; the pupils were enormous now. “No more opportunities to gaze upon my instrument tonight, Mistress Cuddy—the music master is otherwise engaged in more cerebral delights . . . . “ His voice trailed off, and Cuddy gently sat down at his hip once more, waiting.
It didn’t take long; he’d drop off to sleep within a few minutes, thanks to the poppy syrup, but Cuddy always stayed until House was under its spell leaving. When his breathing evened out and he lay quiet against the pillows; then was the time to slip out, and take care of business. She took the little bottle with her.
The night was much cooler, and Cuddy pulled a cloak on, wrapping up well as she made her way to the stables and their warm darkness. She made no move to any stall though, but went to the back, and the ladder that rose up to the hayloft above. Climbing easily, Cuddy made her way up, and to—
--her second patient. The man lay facedown on a pallet of straw, his bare back a mass of red and bloody welts. Cuddy quietly lit a candle and set it well away from the straw on a wall sconce, then began to wash his back. He flinched at her touch, but she whispered softly to him. “Quiet. I’ve got something for your pain, and to help you sleep. Are you still determined to run?”
The man nodded weakly, but with determination. “Jah.”
Cuddy smiled briefly, and dipped a rag into the water bucket under the candle.
*** *** ***
--and in regard to the matter of House, the issue remains whether or not he can return to active duty in a timely manner. His record of service is a disturbing read, with as many accusations as commendations to it; were it not for the sterling reputation of his father, it is without a doubt that the son would have been dishonorably discharged from His Highness’s army well before this. Nevertheless, his medical skills are considerable, and given our situation in the Colonies, worth holding for the time being.
Should this situation change, and House be declared unfit for return to regular service, then it will be your duty, Colonel Vogler, to dismiss him and have him escorted back to England where he will be found a menial position somewhere at one of the garrisons near London.
*** *** ***
The morning was cold; the first frost lay on the windows, and Cuddy dressed quickly, wanting nothing more than to get down to the kitchen and warm her hands by the fire there. It was nearly time to start keeping wood inside, too, and she remembered guiltily that House’s room had no fireplace.
As she approached his room, she heard voices; curious, she listened.
“Th’ grey one is Edgar, and the other is Emily. Cook says I can keep them if I gentle them and keep them from climbing the curtains.”
That was Paul, young and earnest. House’s voice came back in reply, quiet and slow. “Two ways to do that, right? First, be the only one to feed them. Make sure you’re the one setting the dish down each and every time—that’s the first step.”
“Okay, sir. And the other?”
“Acquaint them with the pleasure of touch . . . like so . . . “
Cuddy slowly opened the door and looked in. House was sitting up in bed, and Paul sat cross-legged at the foot. Between them, a grey kitten skittered over the quilt, and resting on one of House’s big palms was a small, round-bellied tabby kitten, purring like a tiny tigress as House stroked his other hand over her back.
He glanced up at Cuddy, then looked back at the kitten, his touch as slow and gentle as before. “Small furry things respond well to soft pettings, Paul—it’s a truth for all your life, boy—remember it.”
The boy grinned and reached out a finger to the grey kitten, stroking its head. Cuddy bit back her smile. “Take your pets along Paul while I attend to Doctor House—“
“Yes, Mistress,” Paul gave a quick nod and collected the two slightly protesting kittens. House watched him go.
“Bring them back when the mean old lady is gone—“ he called, amused at Paul’s scandalized grin before the boy disappeared.
Cuddy herself smiled. “Small furry things, House?”
He smirked. “That could include kittens as well, yes.”
