"Does that—" Rose winced as Jack's thumb lightly pressed against her calf muscle. "Hurt?" he finished softly. "Does it all hurt?"
She nodded. "It all hurts," she said with a sigh.
"That's what I thought," he said.
Since her fall the day before, her ankle had ballooned to three times its normal size; her calf was swollen and covered by a black bruise. She could barely move her foot. Jack had insisted she go straight to bed, making sure she kept her leg elevated and iced. But despite his best efforts, her injury appeared to have gotten worse rather than better.
Jack stared at her leg, his eyes narrowed. It wasn't broken, he was sure of that, but it was definitely more than a simple sprain. Rose watched, confused, as first he nodded to himself and then he hopped off the bed and disappeared into the other room. Her confusion increased when he came back carrying a sheet.
"What are you going to do with that?"
He sat down. "Wrap your leg." He gently lifted her foot and placed it in his lap.
"What?" Her brow knit. "With a sheet?"
He grinned. "With pieces of the sheet." He began to rip the sheet into strips. "See?"
"I see."
His hands moved deftly, his fingers barely touching her skin as first he wrapped the strips around her foot, then her ankle, and finally around her lower leg. "Doesn't hurt, does it?" he asked, glancing up at her face.
"No," she said quietly, her lips curling into a smile. "It doesn't hurt at all."
They ate dinner in bed that night—French toast and bacon. It was the only thing Jack could make without having to run out for more ingredients.
"Breakfast at night?" Rose asked, raising an eyebrow as he handed her a plate.
"Ah…but this is no mere breakfast," he said in an exaggerated French accent. "This is the toast of France!"
She laughed. "Is that right? And what is this?" she asked, pointing at the bacon.
"That?" he asked. "Oh, that is a delicacy. Go on. You try it."
Rose ate slowly, cutting her food into small bites. Jack watched her out of the corner of his eye.
"Is it—"
"It's wonderful!" she said, her eyes lighting up.
He smiled. "Do you really think so?"
"Oh, yes. Jack, I've never had anything like it before."
"You haven't?" There was surprise in his voice. "I didn't think there was anything you hadn't had."
"Well, there's breakfast at night."
He chuckled. "Not anymore."
*****
It was another three days before Rose saw any sign that her leg was healing, but Jack noticed a difference the next morning when he unwrapped it. The bruise wasn't any better, but as he ran his fingers over her ankle and then her calf, he felt a difference in the swelling. It was going down. It may not have been going down as quickly as he wanted it to, but at least it was going down.
"How did you learn how to do that?" she asked as he rewrapped her leg.
"My mother did it for me when I was a kid," he said. "I messed my ankles up pretty bad a few times." He smiled slightly. "I didn't always watch where I was going. I had this habit of getting a foot caught in a hole while running." He placed a quick kiss on her ankle. "There. All done."
*****
"You don't have to."
"Yes, I do," Rose said. "I can't stay in bed forever."
Jack placed a steadying hand on her waist. "I'll stay there with you," he said.
"I don't think that would be a good idea. How would we pay the rent?" The same way we have been, she thought as the words left her mouth.
The first thing they did after getting married was sell her engagement ring. They only got a few hundred dollars, nothing even approaching its actual value, but it was more money than Jack had ever seen. It was enough to keep them lodged, clothed, and fed for a few months, something which Jack had quickly become grateful for after Rose's injury ended his search for a job.
"Rose honey, you really don't have to try walking yet," he said. "The swelling isn't even gone yet."
"I know." She took a tentative step, putting her good foot forward. "But what if I forget how to walk?"
"I don't think that'll happen." He took hold of her elbow. "I'm pretty sure it's something you don't forget." He tightened his grip as she winced.
"I'm all right," she said, breathing quickly. "Don't worry, Jack."
He helped her walk from the bedroom to the kitchen and sit down at the table. "See? That wasn't so bad," she said with a smile.
He sat down next to her. "I guess it wasn't." He reached across the table and took her hand.
"Tell me another story," she said, rubbing her thumb across his knuckles.
A slow grin spread across his face. "What kind of story?"
"Tell me more about your childhood. What were you like?"
"Aw, you don't really want to know that."
"I do! Tell me."
"Well…" She leaned forward, eager to hear the rest. "I started drawing when I was…."
The Next Afternoon
Matilda stepped off the train and into the smallest station she had ever seen. Compared to the station she had left from in Philadelphia, it was deserted. And yet…
It's nice, she thought. Quiet. No crowd. Not that she had ever actually experienced walking through a crowd.
She smiled as she stepped out into the street. If her mother, worried that Rose's flight would influence her, felt the need to send her to her aunt's estate in the country, she was going to be happy about it.
"After all," she said to herself. "It isn't so bad here."
She caught the eyes of a handsome young blond man. He was sitting on the steps on an apartment building, an artist's portfolio balanced on his knees.