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"Come, William," encouraged Amaranthus. "You're already damp enough from sweat; a bit of seawater won't make a difference."
Summer in Savannah was, in fact, sweltering, and William welcomed an excuse to shuck off his shoes and stockings and cool off. The sand was hot under his soles, but he reached the packed, damp sand closer to the water's edge in a few strides.
Amaranthus handed her fan to him wordlessly, then hiked up her skirts and stepped into the tide. "It's almost chilly!" she remarked.
She was right—the water was pleasantly cool around his ankles. He held out an elbow to her. "Shall we?"
They walked in the water for a while, Amaranthus pointing out the names of natural curiosities that had washed ashore. "That is a type of large algae, rather than a seaweed," she noted, bending over to inspect the indiscernible pile of wet vegetation. How a slimy heap of what looked like red ribbon was an alga, he didn't care to learn. "That is a Brachyuran."
Whatever creature lay past her extended finger, William couldn't say, nor could his brain supply the translation from Greek. "What?"
Rather than reply, she pulled him close, much to the dismay of his quickening heartbeat. Indeed, upon closer inspection, there was a small crab nestled amongst the seaweed, fervently scuttling for a new hiding place. Its black, kernel-shaped eyes pierced the soul. "Admittedly, I am none too familiar with aquatic creatures, but this is an Atlantic ghost crab. It digs burrows in the sand and covers the top to avoid the heat."
"Fascinating." It wasn't, tell truth—he could scarcely concentrate as a strand of Amaranthus' hair, blown loose from her cap by the wind, tickled his ear as he leaned against her.
Just as soon as her dirty blonde locks had graced his face, she stood. "Come, cousin," she said, taking his elbow. "I wish to surprise Trevor with shells."
Beyond the waves, a large, brown bird—a pelican; he knew that one—swooped towards the water, its body level with the surface as it gulped ocean water. "What a beautiful creature," he marveled.
"Indeed," Amaranthus agreed. "Hold my basket, will you, cousin?"
Tucked beside her fan was a book. "Conchis Marini Americae," he read. American Seashells. "You mean to tell me you don't know them by heart?"
That made her smile. "I must confess, I am still learning. Let us practice, shall we?" She stooped to pick up a large, pear-shaped, gray shell. It was knobbed and looked not dissimilar to the cluster of large rocks nearby. She released his elbow, using her other hand to turn over the shell in her palm. It shimmered beautifully in the sunlight, waves of delicate, soft greens and purples.
He handed her the book, taking the shell as she flipped through drawings. It dwarfed her small hand, he noted, rubbing a calloused thumb along the satin interior.
"'Tis an Atlantic oyster, I think." Indeed, the shell to which she pointed in the book matched the one in hand remarkably. "Care for another?"
Obliging her, he slipped the oyster into her basket and picked up a small, triangular specimen, of which dozens more lined the shore. "To match your dress," he explained, passing her the pale orange shell.
She flipped through the pages until the correct one appeared. "A member of the genus Donax, the bean clams," she read. "A bivalve and much-loved meal of sanderlings—Trynga calidris."
The pair continued as such, Amaranthus matching shells William produced to drawings in her book, occasionally seeking his aid to compare between two similar species. How helpful he was, William was unsure, but he appreciated her leaning close and feeling her breath on his cheek all the same. When a live periwinkle snail's slick body struck an odd chord in his loins, recalling the feeling of soft flesh between a woman's legs, he knew he had to separate himself.
He cleared his throat in preamble and returned her basket, now full of lettered olives, surf clams, ark clams, cockles, and other such creatures whose names he would not recall come tomorrow. "I think I shall walk a bit deeper in the water and return the snail to its companions."
She nodded in acknowledgement, releasing his arm and allowing him to hike up his breeches to above the knee, lest the linen grow damp.
Up to his shins and ghastly petite snail in hand, he watched a group of silver minnows—did such fish live in the ocean? He hadn't a clue—dart away from the small waves he produced. The water was a greenish hue, like sea glass, and shadows from the waves dappled the undisturbed sand ahead of him. As he walked, he stirred up clouds of sand, hiding his feet from view. Very well then; he would look forward and admire the Georgian coastline instead. It seemed so different from the English shores of home, despite being the same ocean. Indeed, he had seen—and vomited into—the vast stretch of it on the ship to Newport News. Memories of the voyage would surely turn him as green as the water below, so he pushed the thought out of mind.
His mind was almost sufficiently blank when William reached a suitable embankment of rocks, dappled with small snails like the one he held. He paid no mind to the rough texture of the rocks underfoot as he plucked the snail from his palm and placed it onto a large, dark stone, black where the waves lapped at it.
Nestled between two rocks was a brilliant blue creature the size of his palm, its black eyes like drops of glass—a crab, perhaps? Something to impress Amaranthus, surely. He took a cautious step forward, foot placed on a submerged rock, and squinted for a closer look.
Noticing his shadow, the crab crawled further into the crevice such that only its eyes were visible.
"Bastard…" William muttered. No matter: He shifted his weight forwards, never breaking eye contact with the creature as he stepped forward onto a higher rock.
Just as soon as the crab's body reappeared, his foot twisted and slipped from under him, sending him flying. His breath left him as his back hit the water, knocked out of him by the impact.
He barely registered the pain in his ankle as he gasped for air, only succeeding in inhaling the brine. Oh, God. William couldn't swim. He was going to drown, wasn't he? He coughed and sputtered, limbs flailing and contacting the sandy bottom. Oh, right—he was only up to his shins when he fell. Fucking fool.
He pushed himself into a seated position, now sitting in the water, before hacking up the last of the seawater he had just inhaled. His eyes narrowed at the renewed site of the rocks, where the crab surely lurked to mock him. He swiped at the water angrily, as if perhaps he could knock the smug crab into the water. "Dammit!"
"William?" called Amaranthus from the beach. "Are you alright?"
He took a steadying breath, slightly calmer now that his lungs were rid of water. "Yes… Yes, I believe myself to be intact." He swiped damp hair away from his face, freed from his Q in the struggle. Despite the slight chill of the water that soaked him to the bone, his face felt hot with embarrassment.
He leaned forward, meaning to stand up, but even at a crouch, the weight sent searing ribbons of pain down his ankle. He collapsed back down into the water, unsure if his cry was in frustration or pain.
"What's happened?"
He gritted his teeth and lifted his leg to inspect. "It's nothing," he replied. Nothing was simultaneously bleeding steadily and growing purple, but no matter. "It seems my ankle caught on the rocks as I fell."
Expecting the pain this time and wanting not to worry Amaranthus, he stood gingerly, concentrating his weight on the undamaged leg. In comparison to being hit on the head with an ax, this was surely child's play, he reasoned. He hobbled to the beach, waving off her offer of physical support as he reached the shore. Amaranthus was not petite, but she was not tall either—and William was certainly the latter. An ankle injury was embarrassing enough without needing to lean on a young woman whose head barely reached his collarbone, ambling awkwardly on the Savannah coastline like a pair of drunkards.
"Come now, sit down, cousin," she urged, easing him onto the sand. He was probably getting seawater all over her gown; her maidservant would have his head upon their return to the house.
"Once more, I assure you that I am quite alright."
Her fair eyebrows narrowed and she knelt to inspect his foot, now bleeding freely onto the sand. He jerked his leg instinctively as she attempted to brush blood-soaked sand off his sole, barely suppressing an ungentlemanly German phrase from escaping his lips and huffing instead.
"Like that, is it?" Her eyes flicked up and met his, then she grabbed his ankle.
He let out a strangled sound, her grip shooting painful sparks up his leg. "P-please," he begged, practically panting. "Just let me put my stockings on, then we can return home."
Her grip relented, but only after a brief squeeze that made him see stars. "I suppose you're well-equipped to deal with the wrath you'll incur by bleeding all over your stockings."
He took the opportunity to heave a frustrated breath as Amaranthus retrieved the items in question. She relished his pain; he was sure of it. Curse that godforsaken crab for enabling her.
When she returned a moment later with his footwear, the matter of him being soaked in seawater was the least of his problems. The difficulties associated with putting shoes and stockings on wet skin, as it turns out, ceases to matter when one's ankle is swollen and bloody. His leg drawn closer to his chest, he was able to see the injury clearly now: His ankle had reached the size and turgidity of a small melon, and the sole of his foot, skin scratched to hell by rocks, looked no better. Nonetheless, he coaxed the appendage into a stocking—not his silk pair, fortunately—with only a few stifled grunts, lest he give Amaranthus an opportunity to dote on his injury and coddle or mock him in alternating bouts to her own satisfaction. His shoes slipped on with relative ease, though the buckle compressed his foot somewhat painfully.
Prioritizing the last shred of his dignity over physical comfort, he declined Amaranthus' proffered elbow to escort him to the cobbled street from which they could call a carriage. Each step on his injured foot was agony, equal parts stinging and shooting pain that forced all thoughts that weren't expletives from his head. He tried to steel his expression to avoid attracting attention from onlookers, but a light breeze proved that his face was cool with sweat. Fucking great.
He had no idea how much time passed before the coach arrived, too busy trying to squash his body's desire to faint to pay attention. Amaranthus had ceased making idle conversation sometime after a rushing sound filled his head, not dissimilar to the nearby crashing waves. As for the potential of his collapsing on the Savannah streets, never mind splitting his head on the cobble streets—and his skull had suffered enough since he returned to the Colonies, thank you—if he didn't die of embarrassment, Amaranthus' gleeful chidings would surely do him in.
He stumbled towards the stopped carriage, feet unsure as a new bout of pain surged over him. He put an arm in front of himself so as not to crash into the carriage, extended fingers brushing the painted wooden side. Sweet Jesus, he might vomit onto the stones below. His vision swam from the movement, but he ignored it to put a foot on the carriage step. This proved to be a mistake: The moment his good foot ceased contact with the ground, all his weight on its injured fellow, he saw white.
William collapsed onto the carriage bench, somewhat astonished he hadn't fallen facedown into the damn thing. A proper gentleman would have helped his female companion board first, but he felt his cousin would forgive him, given the circumstances. Quite frankly, he didn't particularly care if he did, so long as he made it back to Number 12, Oglethorpe Street without any bodily fluids contacting the carriage floor. He was even beyond caring about the fate that awaited him once they returned, to be nursed, pestered, and altogether treated like a feeble kitten.
With every bump and loose stone the carriage wheels caught, William gripped the side of the carriage ever harder, bracing himself against waves of pain. When his eyes were not screwed shut, he stared at the red streak creeping its way up his stocking, willing it to cease its course, lest his father—Lord John, his irritated mind corrected—send for the doctor. Lack of blood relation aside, William had seemingly inherited his Papa's nauseated distaste for having his blood let. He pushed the thought out of his mind, lest any further thoughts of his true paternity cling to the forefront of his mind like leeches.
After becoming agonizingly familiar with what seemed to be every wayward cobble in Savannah, the carriage at last reached the painted white exterior of Number 12, Oglethorpe Street.
"I'll fetch Lord John," announced Amaranthus, descending from the carriage step in a flutter of skirts.
William leaned back and closed his eyes, wood rough against his shoulder blades.
Soon after, he heard the flurrying crunch of oyster shells that lined the side streets and opened them again. Amaranthus no longer had her basket in tow and his father was missing his greatcoat. The latter stepped into the carriage, lines of worry creasing his face as his eyes searched William.
William gestured at his afflicted foot. "Caught the bugger on a rock and fell."
"So it seems," his father agreed. "Let's get you inside. Can you stand?"
He nodded as Lord John exited the carriage. He could hop the two steps to the carriage door, at least, even if the act of doing so brought yet another bout of pain as his ankle was jarred. He took his father's extended hand, the other gripping the side edge of the carriage as he braced himself to step down.
"That's it, William. Almost there."
Scarcely taller than Amaranthus and at eye level with William's shoulder, Lord John was somewhat ill-equipped to escort William inside, but he took as much of his weight as possible all the same. Still, he was unable to prevent William from crying out in pain as his injured foot reached the ground, supporting his not-inconsiderable weight for an excruciating moment.
"It's alright," said Lord John, coaxing William's arm around his shoulder in an instant. "Only a few more steps, then all will be well." William wished he could believe the man, but knew the worst had not yet begun.
Even with his father supporting most of his weight, climbing the steps sapped the last of William's ability to disguise the depth of his pain. He collapsed into the closest parlor chair with a groan, movement so ungentle that it shook the china in the cupboard and woke Trevor. Amaranthus clicked her tongue at him before vanishing upstairs to attend to her newly-wailing son. William paid her no mind, his father already lifting his leg gently onto the footstool and stripping off his shoe and stocking. He noticed himself panting as the bottom of the stocking stuck to the bloodied sole of his foot, feeling every bloodstained fiber as it separated from his skin.
He removed his waistcoat, damp with sweat and seawater alike, as his father fetched the ewer from the bedroom upstairs. He could feel Moira, the maid, behind him, likely standing in the doorjamb with confounded expressions, but he didn't bother to turn around.
Lord John descended the steps, ceramic water jug in hand. "Moira, fetch a doctor. Quickly."
William shook his head. "No, please. I beg of you; I'm fine."
Lord John scoffed. "And I'm the King of England."
He took a measured breath, then looked up. "Father, please. The limb isn't broken. Might we just bandage my ankle and be done with it?"
"God's teeth, William, have you seen that bloody mess you call an ankle? Surely some leeches for the bruising or—"
"I will not endure the torture of whatever quack physician can be plucked from the streets of Savannah." He saw his father open his mouth, but continued before the man could reply. "What's more, Father, if you allow such a man to let my blood or suffer me to leeches, you will faint."
He sighed, all too familiar with the shape of William's stubbornness. "If you insist." Lord John turned to look behind William. "Some cloth, then, to staunch the bleeding."
"And some brandy, if you please, Miss," added William before she could get far. He looked down at his ankle for the first time since he consigned its fate to his stocking. Christ, could the damn joint get any more swollen?
"As ye say, sirs." She started to leave but paused once in William's line of sight. "Shall I have Miss Crabb bring yerselves some refreshment? Ye look fit to keel over, son."
"Just the brandy," Lord John replied for him.
William groaned as she left. "Thank you. I fear I may vomit at the mere scent of a teacake."
His father smiled. "Wouldn't suit the brandy, in any case. Now, about that leg… May I clean the wound now, or would you prefer to wait until Moira returns with brandy?"
It would be best to get it over quickly, even without the soothing effect of alcohol. He gestured for his father to proceed.
Lord John wet one end of the linen cloth. "To remove the last of the sand," he explained, meeting William's eye.
It stung. Every swipe and pass of the rag was like a hot coal to his sole, and William dug his fingers into the arm of the chair to keep still as best he could, to little success.
His father muttered reassuring sentiments—that he was almost finished, that it would be done soon, that it was alright—with the same tone one would use to comfort a child Trevor's age. Still, he allowed himself to be comforted by his father's presence, and the presence of a fellow soldier at that, far preferable to being coddled and belittled by Miss Crabb, the housekeeper.
At last, his father's assault with the rag ceased. "I'm going to pour water over it now." Great.
If it was possible for the chair to have nail marks, it surely did now. Even still, clutching the sides of the chair as if it were at risk of floating away proved not to be enough to keep a groan from escaping.
"Almost done, Willie…"
He was too frustrated and exhausted from pain to take offense at being called by such a juvenile name. He hummed his acknowledgement through gritted teeth, then gasped as Lord John used the dry end of the cloth to dab the wound dry. It came away stained red, but less dramatically than his stocking, William noticed.
Moira returned with the brandy just as his father finished drying the wound with a resolute "there." She cleared her throat and handed a cup to William. The brandy stung as he inhaled its sharp scent. Perfect. "Best to take a stiff drink, son. Keep yer strength up."
He obliged her, the pleasant burn of the drink a welcome contrast to his present lower sensations.
"Good lad," she said, nodding as he took another hearty gulp. "That's the ruffle off've my oldest petticoat, sir." She handed a pile of formerly-white linen to Lord John.
"That will do nicely. Thank you, Miss." He looked at William. "Have you prepared yourself sufficiently?"
That earned his father an exhale with a note of finality.
"As you were, then." Lord John took one end of the proffered makeshift bandage in one hand, William's ankle in the other. He tried not to hiss at the sudden touch, managing to suppress it into a stiff exhale as his father wrapped the offending limb.
Whether Lord John wrapped the ankle incredibly tightly or if the ankle itself was so swollen it seemed fit to burst, William couldn't say, but the minute required for bandaging was excruciating. The pain climbed faster than he could stifle it with brandy; his leg would be squeezed painfully from all angles with no chance of reprieve until his bandages were changed the following morning. In fairness to his father, Lord John worked as quickly as possible, but German curses were uttered on both fronts.
Lord John heaved a sigh. "Nothing you can do now but wait. I assure you, though, it will heal."
"Thank you, Papa," he replied, realizing his teeth had been clenched since he had fallen off that goddamn rock and consciously relaxing his jaw. He sighed. It would heal.