Make sure you do that so if she changes the bed she won't pull them out with the ground sheet. Get them as far under as you can, he thought blindly. As usual, her mobcap was askew and she smelled of the snuff she still firmly believed, after all these years, to be a secret vice. Ramage, the Carmichaels" crotchety but lovable old housekeeper, asked him as she came in from the pantry. "All done?" she asked a few moments later. Without Misery, there would simply be no life left for him, or in him. He loved her so much without her he would die. Geoffrey was right, of course - dear old Geoffrey was rarely wrong - but sometimes when he was alone, the Gearless of Misery's escape from the Grim Reaper came forcibly home to him, and it was nearly impossible to hold the tears back. Writing does not cause misery, it is born of misery. "Dear old Geoffrey" He spoke it aloud this time as he stepped into the huge and stuporously warm West Country kitchen. He shoved the last under the mattress, then leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, where the W's danced drunkenly across the plaster. It was only after midnight, an hour after Geoffrey had ridden into the gathering storm to try and fetch the doctor, that the midwife had grown alarmed. Her labor had been long and hard, but no longer and no harder than that of many other young ladies she had seen, the midwife declared. "I thought you were in a lot of pain, buster." She looked at him, gaze narrowing slightly. "Annie, could you wait five minutes?" he managed. Although Ian Carmichael would not have moved from Little Dunthorpe for all the jewels in the Queen's treasury, he had to admit to himself that when it rained in Cornwall it rained harder than anywhere else in England.
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