Corinne bustled into the room with an armful of linen strips and a jar of ointment. “Cook said this would help with the swelling,” she said as she dumped the items onto the bed before coming around and stepping in front of Duncan, forcing him to fall back a few steps. “That is all, Mr. Penhale,” Corinne said. She set about propping pillows behind Hazel’s back for support.
“I want to help,” Duncan said.
“Go on to bed,” Hazel said. “Corinne will fetch you if there is anything else we need.”
“Are you sure I cannot help?”
“I am sure, but thank you for all you’ve done. Good night.”
Duncan sighed and turned from the room.
It was a long night, and in the morning, Hazel’s knee had nearly doubled in size, and her ankle was black. Duncan did not go to his office, and when Mrs. Randall arrived for the day’s lessons, he brought her into the bedroom. She took one look at the knee and immediately sent Duncan for her husband. Hazel’s protests did no good, and within the hour, Mrs. Randall had sent the parlor students home and Dr. Randall was sitting beside her bed.
“Mr. Leavitt’s boot likely saved you from a worse fate than this,” Dr. Randall said after inspecting her boot. “The supports built into the ankle will need to be repaired before you can wear it again, however.”
“I shall have Corinne take it to him this afternoon,” Hazel said.
Dr. Randall lifted her foot, turning his head to assess it. “When the swelling goes down, I would like to make a better assessment of your foot.” He pressed on the inside of her foot, then glanced at her tight expression and withdrew the pressure. “There may be some therapies that can improve the alignment and allow you to build strength into the muscles that play into balance.”
“I massage it every night.”
“That is obvious. If you did not do so, your foot would be little more than a knot of wood at the end of your leg. You have done very well with your own ministrations, but additional treatments may bring even greater improvement.”
“I imagine these additional treatments will include bloodletting and cognac.”
Dr. Randall laughed and began rubbing some of Cook’s ointment on Hazel’s bruises. “I am rather skeptical of bloodletting for matters of structure, like this, and though cognac can be a good treatment for ailments of the lungs and stomach, it does little for muscle and bone. What I have in mind is a more rigorous massage that can further stretch the tendons and, perhaps, the resetting of a few of the bones. I think there is a fusion of sorts in the lower metatarsals.”
“That sounds painful,” Hazel said without hiding her trepidation.
“Oh, it will be painful.” He smiled at her. “But are you not in pain anyway?”
“I see your point, but for now, I would like to focus on being able to walk again. How long until I can try?”
He began wrapping the ankle tighter than she normally would while explaining that the pressure would keep blood from pooling but that she should check every hour to make sure her toes were not turning purple. If they did, she should loosen the binding immediately. Then he stood and allowed her to slide her foot back under the covers.
“Five days in bed, no weight-bearing on that foot,” he said. “And then crutches for at least a week. I do not want undue pressure on this leg until you know you can properly bear weight. You have a cane for when you no longer need the crutches?”
Hazel nodded, then gave a heavy sigh. “Crutches. I swore I would never use crutches again once I could walk on my own.” She mourned the idea of staying in bed. What about the parlor school? What about . . . well, that was the only responsibility that would be affected, but it was a big responsibility! She did not want her clumsiness to interfere with her students’ education.
“Should you impede the healing of your right leg or injure your left leg, the repercussions will be far more inconvenient than a week on crutches. You might want to think of keeping the crutches on hand even after you’ve healed. Using them on occasion will ease the pressure on your joints and perhaps give you greater mobility.”
“There is no greater mobility than walking on my own.”
“There is no greater independence than walking on your own,” Dr. Randall amended. He picked up his bag from the side table. “Just consider the possibility, Mrs. Penhale. You suffer from a condition that resigns many people to a bath chair by their third decade of life because even ordinary actions, like walking, take a toll upon misshapen bones and joints.
“Anything you can do to lessen that impact—such as not stepping on cat’s tails”—he smiled, and she could not help but smile back—“should be considered an effort toward your future independence. I shall instruct Duncan on where to procure a set of hardwood crutches that will be suitable for indoor and outdoor use. Promise me you will obey my instructions.”
“I will. Thank you, Doctor.”
Duncan brought the crutches into her room that afternoon, beaming with pride at his accomplishment. The crutches were padded with leather straps that fit around her forearms and a handle she could grip in such a way that allowed better dexterity than if the crutch had fit under her arm.
Only for a week, she told herself, but she did not forget what Dr. Randall had said about a bath chair and the unnatural impact she inflicted on her body with every step.
Mrs. Randall arrived promptly at nine o’clock the next morning, and they made a plan for the next week of parlor school. Mrs. Randall would manage the students but send them to Hazel’s room for their readings and recitations. Corinne helped Hazel dress each morning and do her hair so that she looked as presentable and professional as possible, despite being in bed. Such a thing would never be tolerated at Cordon Academy, but the parlor students did not stand on such formality and would pull the chair up to the bed without discomfort.
Duncan ate his dinner in the dining room each night while Hazel ate from a bed tray, but then he came to her room for their evening discussions. He could pace fourteen steps in her bedroom, which was an acceptable count. That first week included a discussion about the railway—again—the significant impact of industry on the city of Manchester—Hazel’s choice—and the religious practices of followers of Confucius—Duncan’s choice after he’d found a periodical regarding Confucianism.
By the time Hazel was freed from her confinement, she could not wait to master the crutches and reclaim the independence she’d missed so much.
True to Dr. Randall’s word, she found she could soon move faster on her crutches than she could on her feet, and though her shoulders and back often ached at the end of the day, it was a strengthening sort of ache she began to welcome. Her ankle improved sooner than her knee, which allowed her to wear her boot again instead of wrapping her foot in linen and covering it with a sock.