Mary Reilly by Valerie Martin Page B

when Mr. Bradshaw scared me out of my wits by touching me on the back, but when I saw his face I could not be annoyed, for he looked as if he was the one who had had a shock.
    “Mary,” he said. “You’d best give that up and come into the kitchen at once. Master has come in a bad way.”
    So I straightened myself as best I could, though there was nothing to be done about the black but try to keep it off the carpet as I went along, and followed Mr. Bradshaw to the kitchen.
    Master sat sprawled at the table, looking more dead than alive. When I come into the room he looked up at me as if he did not know me. In fact, he seemed hardly to know he was in his own house. Mr. Poole stood over him like a mother hen, and Cook was on his other side, but they seemed not to know what to do. Cook said to me, “I don’t know how he got across the yard. He can scarce walk.” His stick lay on the floor where, I thought, he must have dropped it, seeing that the table might hold him up. His clothes was awry, the collar undone, nor did he have on his coat, and I saw the cuff on his shirt was only half fastened, as if he’d put it on in ahurry. He put his head down in his arms and groaned. Mr. Poole seemed to recollect himself at that and began giving orders all round, to Cook to get some water boiling, to me to prepare Master’s bed, and to Mr. Bradshaw to help support Master up the stairs.
    I took off my apron, brushed myself as best I could and cleaned my hands quickly in a bucket. Master lifted his head to say, “My boot. Please take it off,” and Cook said, “His poor ankle. He has done it in now.”
    Mr. Poole told Cook to hold her tongue and then got on his knees to take off Master’s boots. I watched long enough to see that Master’s ankle was twice the size it should be and so tender that Mr. Poole said he must cut the sock off with a scissors. So I went ahead up the stairs to prepare the room.
    The room was warm and damp to my way of thinking, but I knew Master would find it chilly so I closed the window at once. Then I turned back the bed and laid out Master’s dressing gown, filled the basin with water and opened the door to his dressing room. I could hear them on the stairs, helping him along. In a moment they were at the door, Master between Mr. Bradshaw and Mr. Poole, hopping on one foot with his head dropped forward as if he could not hold it up. They set him down on his chair so clumsily I thought he would fall right out of it, but the jolt seemed to wake him up and he looked about, seeming very weary but relieved. Mr. Bradshaw went off and Mr. Poole took the scissors from the dresser and fell to cutting off Master’s sock.
    “I’d like a fire, Mary,” Master said, though he did not look at me but at his ankle, which was now exposed and was indeed such a sorry sight, swollen and bruised many colours so that we all of us could do nothing but stare at it and I said, “Lord, sir, sure it is broken now.”
    But Master said, “No, only I should not have been on it so soon.” Mr. Poole took off Master’s other sock and I went to work on the coals. Master said, “Poole, help me to get undressed. I fear I shall spend a few days gazing at my footboard.” Mr. Poole said, “Very good, sir,” as he always does and got Master to stand on his one foot, then he helped him to the end of the bed where Master could hold on to the footboard. Usually Master uses his dressing room, of course, but no one could think of his making extra steps. As I had my back to them, bent over the fire which was taking some work to get up, being cold these two days, they paid me no mind. I could hear the rustle of Master’s shirt coming off, the clink of his studs and cuffs, and he gave a little moan, I thought when he put weight on his bad foot to help Mr. Poole get his trousers off.
    When I stood up and turned around, Master was sitting on his bed in his dressing gown, looking like a sick boy but for his silver hair. He eased himself back