Rules of Marriage, page 10
He laid Rachel on the bed and knelt beside her. “You’ll be all right, sweetheart, I promise,” he said softly.
Clara rummaged through a dresser drawer and came back with a nightgown in her hand. “With her unconscious as she is, you’ll have to help me get her out of those clothes and into this gown before the doctor arrives.”
“Of course.” He resented Clara’s take-charge attitude, but this was obviously not the time to argue with her.
Together they removed Rachel’s outer dress and Clara loosened her stays and removed her undergarments, then slipped the gown over her head and, with Brady’s help, worked it down over her body.
“That’s an ugly bruise on her face,” Clara said, giving him a penetrating look. Her tone was challenging. “She get that in the fall?”
He shrugged. “Must have.” By God! A man had no need to justify punishing his own wife to some near stranger!
As Clara reached for the cover to draw it over Rachel, the patient groaned and opened her eyes.
“Oh, Clara. Oh. I hurt so very, very much.”
“Try to stay calm. I have sent for the doctor.”
“Clara, I ... I feel strange. Am I bleeding?”
“Bleeding?” Edwin asked brusquely. “Of course not. You just got the wind knocked out of you.”
“Clara? Would you see . . . ?” Rachel asked.
Clara pulled back the blanket, lifted the gown. “Oh, dear. You’re right. You are bleeding. Let me get a pad of some sort to put under you. But do lie very still, Rachel. We shall try to save your babe.”
“Babe?” Edwin growled in astonishment. “Are you saying she’s with child?”
“Please don’t be angry, Edwin,” Rachel pleaded. “I was going to tell you—when the time was right.”
“There would be no ‘right’ time for such news. And you know it. What were you thinking?” His voice was cold, accusing.
Clara straightened from placing a folded sheet beneath Rachel’s lower body. “You are not helping the present situation, Mr. Brady. Besides, it is rather common knowledge that no woman comes into this condition alone.”
“I don’t need—”
His retort was cut off by the arrival of Captain MacLachlan.
“Ah, Mrs. Brady. What have you got up to here?”
“I—I fell down the stairs,” she said.
“And you should know she is with child,” Clara informed him.
He raised his brows at this news. “How far?”
“Two—two and a half months,” Rachel answered.
“Two and a half months?” Edwin repeated in a challenging tone.
“Sergeant, if you will just wait over there as I examine the patient?” The surgeon pointed to a chair off to the side, and his tone made it clear this was no mere suggestion.
With Clara standing watch over the procedure, MacLachlan made short work of his examination, checking first for broken bones. When he was finished, he drew up a chair and sat beside his patient. He took Rachel’s hand in his great paw and gazed at her compassionately.
“I am very sorry, my dear. You are, in fact, losing this babe.”
“No. Oh, no-o-o.” Rachel’s anguished wail filled the room. Tears flowed freely from the outer corners of her eyes onto the pillow as she twisted her head from side to side in her emotional pain.
Clara grasped her other hand. “Rachel, I’m so sorry.”
“Are you sure, Mac?” Rachel asked, but she seemed to know the answer before the doctor responded.
He nodded, his expression solemn. “I know it is of little consolation to you now, but you are young and healthy. There will be other babes for you.”
Rachel merely turned her head away as though she were refusing to listen. The surgeon and Clara continued to offer words of comfort.
Brady sat mulling over the astonishing news of his wife’s pregnancy. Two and half months? Why, that meant she had lied to him several days ago when she had refused his advances. Refuse her own husband, would she?
Finally, the surgeon stood and took his leave of Rachel.
“Sergeant Brady, may I have a word with you outside?” Again it was an order rather than a request.
Outside the room, the doctor took a belligerent stance in front of Brady. Edwin felt intimidated by the man—a huge fellow of perhaps six and a half feet with shoulders that could have supported an ox.
“Now, look here, Brady. That little woman did not get that bruise on her face from any tumble down the stairs—and we both know it. I’m inclined to think she had some help in that fall, too.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t try to gammon me. You know exactly what I’m saying.” MacLachlan thumped him on the chest. “And know this, Brady—if it happens again, I will take a very personal interest in the matter.”
“What happens between a man his wife is of no concern to you.”
“I’m making it my concern in this instance.” The surgeon gave him a hard stare, and Brady found himself unable to hold the other’s gaze.
Seething with frustrated anger, Brady asked, “Are you finished having your say?”
“No. One other thing. She is a very sick woman now. She needs complete bed rest for at least a week. Mrs. Paxton has promised to care for her. And you are to leave her alone for at least a month. Do you get my meaning?”
“A month? A whole month?”
“A whole month.” The doctor did not bother to hide his disgust. “You could cause her further injury. And, I swear, if you do ...” The threat was very clear.
Brady heaved an angry sigh. “So be it. A month.”
They simply stared at each other for a moment. Then Forrester’s batman came into the hall. Had he heard this conversation? Well, so what if he had? Forrester and his lot were nothing to Edwin Brady.
“Captain MacLachlan, while you are here, would you please have a look at his lordship’s leg?”
“I’ll be glad to.” The surgeon also seemed glad to be shut of Edwin Brady.
“Will she recover properly?” Jake asked the question as Henry was closing the door behind the surgeon.
“Mrs. Brady, you mean? Yes, she will, though she has suffered a miscarriage. That’s always hard on a woman.”
“A sorry bit of bad luck, that,” Jake said. He felt profoundly sorry for Rachel. His intuition told him she would mourn such a loss even as she would a living child.
“I think more than luck was involved.” MacLachlan’s voice was filled with disgust.
“Yes, we heard it,” Jake admitted. “Unfortunately, it was over before I could fairly move.”
“Not much you could do anyway, especially given your own physical condition at the moment. ’Tis not unusual—and certainly not illegal—for a man to treat his wife so.”
“One wonders why a generous, giving woman would choose to align herself with such a brute,” Henry observed.
MacLachlan stroked his chin. “Who knows? She must have been very young when they married. Perhaps circumstances forced her to such a choice. Women simply haven’t the freedom of choosing that we men have.”
“True,” Jake said, thinking of Celia’s argument and wondering if there might be a parallel there.
“Now, you wanted me to look at that leg wound?”
“While you are here.”
MacLachlan removed the bandage and examined the injury. “You’ve reopened the wound, but the bleeding seems to have stopped. Mrs. Brady saved that leg for you, Major. I would have amputated immediately.”
“I know. I am most grateful to her.”
“Of course, your own fine constitution helped—along with a good deal of sheer will, I suspect.” MacLachlan rose. “I’ll be checking on her again in a day or so. I shall look in on you as well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
MacLachlan had left some laudanum for Rachel. Clara mixed a small dose with water and gave it to her.
“This will help you get some rest.”
“Thank you.” Rachel’s voice was dull, lifeless even to her own ears.
With tears in her eyes, Clara put her hand on Rachel’s. Her voice was infinitely gentle. “Try not to dwell on what might have been. It must have been God’s will.”
“I know, but it is just so hard to accept.”
“Of course it is.”
Brady returned to the room then.
“Mrs. Paxton, will you excuse us, please? I would like a word with my wife.” His words were polite enough, but his manner bordered on rudeness.
“Why, surely,” Clara said, casting a worried look at Rachel.
“Don’t worry. I will be fine,” Rachel assured her.
“Why should she worry?” Brady snapped.
“I’ll bring your supper up later.” Clara closed the door softly behind her.
Edwin took the seat Clara had vacated. He simply stared at Rachel a few minutes, but she was not sure he was actually seeing her.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he finally said.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the babe?”
“I didn’t know myself until just you before left.”
“But you could have told me then,” he insisted.
“I—I suppose I just did not want to deal with your anger,” she said wearily. She could feel the laudanum beginning to take effect and wished he would postpone this confrontation.
“So is that why you lied to me?” His voice had turned hard.
“Lied to you?”
“When I tried to make love to you.”
She could not meet his gaze. “Partly,” she whispered.
“Rachel, I will not tolerate your lying to me.”
Now she looked at him directly. “And I will no longer tolerate your striking me.”
“Then don’t provoke me,” he said dismissively.
She raised herself on her elbows. “Provoke you? Edwin, when you’ve been drinking it takes almost nothing to set you off.”
“That’s not true, and you know it. I have never hit you without cause. Now I’m sorry you fell down the stairs, but you can hardly blame me that you lost your footing.”
“Had you not hit me, I would not have lost my footing.”
“This discussion is going nowhere, Rachel. Just see you never lie to me again—or I promise I will make you very sorry indeed.”
Despite her exhaustion, her words were clipped, adamant. “Then know this, Edwin Brady—if you ever—ever again—raise a hand against me, I shall contrive to make you more than just sorry.” She lay back, spent.
“And just what do you think you could possibly do?” His tone expressed disbelief and contempt.
“If nothing else, I could easily slit your throat when you are in one of your drunken stupors. But most likely I would feed you some potion that would, at the very least, make you extremely and painfully ill. You know I possess sufficient knowledge of herbs.”
“You wouldn’t have the nerve,” he sneered, but she thought there was a trace of fearful doubt in his tone.
Her voice was calm, devoid of emotion, but firm. “Yes, Edwin, I would. I will not be hit again.”
Something in her demeanor must have penetrated, for he gave her a look that was at first startled, then speculative.
“I—I don’t have to put up with this nonsense,” he blustered. “You are obviously not quite yourself. I’ll go away now and let you rest. I shall see you in the morning.”
He rose and left the room.
Rachel lay still, trying to make her mind go blank. She allowed the drug to sweep away all unpleasantness—at least for a while.
Sergeant Edwin Brady left the house feeling very put upon indeed. He was madder than hops at Rachel, but what could he do with her lying there? How would it make him look if he heaped abuse on the head of a woman who had just suffered a miscarriage? He had to get away. Not only was he wholly inadequate as a nursemaid, he also did not want to spend too much time in close proximity to Jacob Forrester.
He sought the company of his friend Morton, finding the man in a posada—a Spanish pension or inn where Morton and several others were billeted. The entire place of business had been appropriated by the British army and duly Anglicized by English soldiers. Ralph Morton was in the common room of the posada throwing darts with Privates Harvey Willis and Fred Potter.
“Ay, Brady,” Morton greeted him. “Thought you went to find your wife.”
“I found her,” Brady said, disgruntled.
“And you’re back with us already?” Morton’s question was both leering and ridiculing. He grinned knowingly at Willis and Potter. “Our friend Brady seems to be having woman problems.”
“And wouldn’t you like to have problems with one as looked like that?” Willis retorted.
“I think I’d know how to keep her happy,” Morton said.
“You just think,” Brady responded, nettled. He stepped to the bar, ordered a drink, and carried it to an empty corner table.
Soon Morton finished the game and joined him. The two privates left the posada with joking comments about finding a willing woman. As Morton planted his muscular body in a chair across the table, Brady was struck anew by the incongruities of the man. Things just did not seem to fit with Morton. He was several years older than Brady and the two privates, yet sought to spend most of his free time with the younger men. He had a broad, flat face and a receding hairline. His nose was misshapen from having been broken one too many times. He looked like what he had been in civilian life, a street ruffian, yet he had smooth, long-fingered hands that looked almost feminine.
“Want to tell Uncle Ralphie your troubles?” Morton asked.
“Damn women who won’t do what they’re told,” Brady grumbled. “I told her I wanted nothing to do with Forrester.”
“Forrester. That major with the Rangers? He’s the one she’s taking care of?”
“The very one. The whole lot of them moved into the town together while we were gone. Forrester, the Paxtons, and my wife.”
Morton raised an eyebrow. “Sounds cozy.”
“Too cozy. And after I told her to get shut of that lot.”
“Well, make her do it now. Women have to do what their husbands tell them to do.”
“It’s not that easy.” Brady told him of Rachel’s fall and miscarriage, carefully omitting his role in the accident.
“Sounds like a plushy billet to me—and the major must be footing the expense. What is your gripe about that?”
“I got no use for Forrester. And the Paxtons are not my sort at all.”
“Thought goody-two-shoes Paxton was your bosom beau.”
“We shared quarters—that was all.”
“So what have you got against Forrester—other than his being a bloody officer?”
“I . . . uh ... met him once, years ago.” Brady was not about to share details of that particular event of his youth with the likes of Ralph Morton.
“Bested you in a fight, did he?”
“Not precisely.”
“Does he remember you?”
“I don’t think so—and I’d just as soon keep it that way.”
“Best get your woman outa that house then.”
“I know that,” Brady said impatiently. “But I have to wait now until that meddling doctor says she’s recovered enough to move.”
“Sounds a right proper mess to me.” There was little sign of sympathy in Morton’s tone.
Brady signaled the harried bartender for more drinks. When they arrived, he took a deep swallow of his and said, “I am heartily sick her disapproving what I do—and disobeying my orders. You’re damned lucky not to be saddled with a woman out here.”
“If you’re serious about that, it shouldn’t be too hard to rid yourself of her.”
“What are you saying?” Brady was genuinely shocked at what he thought Morton was suggesting. Soldiers killed, but cold-blooded murder was something else entirely. Although—had his wife not threatened him with such?
Morton gave him a look of exasperation. “Not what you are thinking.”
“What then? I couldn’t just desert an Englishwoman here on the Peninsula. I’m not looking to be court-martialed and flogged. Officers might turn a blind eye to a soldier abandoning a French, Spanish, or Portuguese woman—but an Englishwoman? I doubt that very much.”
“True. But there is another way of dealing with a wife you no longer want.”
Brady gave a derisive laugh. “Oh, sure. I could hie myself back to England and get Parliament to grant a bill of divorcement”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that. ‘Well, you see, General, I need to shed this woman.’ Can’t you just see the Peer agreeing to my having leave for that? Not to mention the cost. Where do you think I’d get the hundreds—no, thousands—of pounds it would cost—on a sergeant’s daily pay?”
“There’s always the poor man’s divorce . . .”
“You mean sell her? I’ve heard that’s not exactly legal.”
“Maybe not, but it’s still done, and English authorities generally tolerate the practice.”
“I’d have to think about that quite a lot.”
“You do that,” Morton said. “Look, if you need a place to sleep, you can roll up on the floor in our room.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that. You bunking with Willis and Potter, are you?”
“Yes.”
Brady finished his drink and shook his head, trying to clear it of Morton’s suggestion.
Sell his wife?
What a preposterous idea!
Eight
That conversation with Morton flitted in and out of Brady’s mind over the next few days. However, he found himself curiously reluctant to examine the idea too closely. True, he often chafed at the responsibilities of seeing to the needs of a woman. Moreover, his resentment had grown in the last year or so. Equally true, he was extremely angry with Rachel for contriving to put him in Forrester’s path. In all fairness, however, she had had no idea of his antipathy to the entire Forrester clan. Besides, she was an attractive woman—and she was his. Did he truly want to give her up? Things would be back to normal as soon as he could get her away from Forrester and the Paxtons.
