Rules of Marriage, page 6
“I don’t need any more brats in my life.”
“More brats?” she asked, mystified.
“You forget I was the eldest of eight children.”
“But this won’t be the same.”
“Close enough, I’m sure.” He gave her a hard look. “Can’t you do something?
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“Don’t you have a potion of some sort to take care of it?”
“You ... do not want our child?”
“Ah, sweetheart . . .” He came to enclose her in his arms and nuzzle her neck, speaking softly. “I do—someday. But don’t you see it’s just not a good idea for us now?”
“Nevertheless,” she said, her tone adamant as she twisted away from him, “now is when it is happening for us.”
“Fine!”
He had stomped from their rented lodgings and returned in the wee hours of the morning staggeringly drunk. She got him into bed even as he faded into oblivion. He was violently ill when he finally woke and she might have felt sorry for him had she not herself been in the throes of morning sickness.
Three weeks later she miscarried, though she had done nothing to effect that outcome. In fact, she had wanted the babe intensely and she mourned its loss profoundly. Edwin had been contrite and caring during her recovery, but he could not hide his relief. After that, there was an unbridgeable gulf between them, but she suspected he hardly recognized it existed. Now, she feared bringing a babe into this world to follow the military drum. Perhaps when they returned to England . . . but no. This new life was not going to wait until then.
Well, so be it. She would not be the first woman to give birth on the campaign trail. And Edwin would have several months to adjust to the idea. Still, she thought she might not tell him quite yet.
Major Forrester moaned softly, bringing her back to the sheepherder’s hut.
“You want to hear more, then?” she asked indulgently. “Very well.”
She launched into a monologue about her childhood as the daughter of a doctor in a mid-sized town in Scotland. She told him of attending Miss Ogilvie’s Day School For Young Ladies and of accompanying her father on house calls, of music and dance lessons, and of sharing her father’s passion for research, as well as his love of history and literature. When this topic ran out, she recited passages from Shakespeare, Milton, and that modern poet, Mr. Wordsworth. Finally, as slits of light began to appear around the canvas-covered window, her patient seemed to have fallen into a restful, healing sleep.
The pain enveloped him—like one of those dense fogs in London where one fought to discern vague shapes and identify muffled sounds. Jacob Forrester had never felt so out of touch with himself and his surroundings. Pain dominated his whole being. He tried to concentrate on something else.
He recalled the woman bending over him. Pretty. Brown hair. He could not remember the color of her eyes. All he could pull through the pain was the compassion he had seen in them just before that sharper, most excruciating pain had sent him over the brink.
Even this enveloping fog of pain was preferable to that. Escape. How to get away from it? Then he heard the soothing music.
A siren’s song luring him to the peace of death?
No. Not music. A voice. A voice offering comfort. He allowed the soothing tones to wash over him and push the pain to a lower level. Then the voice stopped and the pain rushed forward again.
He struggled to reach for the hope, the comfort embodied in that disembodied voice. Was it the pretty lady with brown hair? He felt lost, deserted. He was a small boy again, banished to a dark cellar after being beaten. What for? Ah, yes. He and Robbie had gone exploring. Nurse had been distraught. Robbie tried to assume the blame. The beating. Father kept a strap for just such occasions. Then Robbie was sent to the room the boys shared; Jacob to the cellar. No Robbie for companionship. No toys, no books for diversion. Just fear. Fear then; pain now. Unendurable agony from which he struggled to escape.
Then the voice started again. He felt the pain receding into the background once more—still there, but no longer center stage.
Finally the pain and the voice faded into sleep—not Hamlet’s sleep of death, but Don Quixote’s satisfying, healing sleep.
To avoid any further confrontation with her husband, Rachel deliberately did not try to rouse him until the last possible moment. He hurriedly donned clean socks and his discarded outer clothing of the night before.
“Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” he grumbled. “Hoskins will be at me for being late. Not to mention Morton’s smirking.”
Rachel had never quite understood the relationship between Edwin and his friend Morton. On the one hand, they spent a good deal of time together both on and off duty. Rachel knew—and worried—that Brady owed Morton a substantial sum in gambling debts from their ongoing card games. On the other hand, Edwin seemed to resent Morton, for the two constantly competed, each trying to be “one up” on the other, whether in military or leisure activities.
For her part, Rachel simply did not like Morton much. Not that he had ever done anything overtly to earn her dislike. However, the way he looked at her sometimes made her uncomfortable. There were rumors Sergeant Morton cheated at cards, but when Rachel mentioned this to her husband, Edwin had dismissed the idea contemptuously.
“Silly women’s gossip. He’s just had a streak of luck which is bound to turn—and in my favor. Believe me, the man sharp enough to cheat Edwin Brady hasn’t been born yet!”
When Brady and Paxton had reported to their respective duties, Henry arrived to take over the major’s care. He brought with him a container of still warm milk. Clara voiced her intention to do some laundry now that the weather had changed for the better. When Rachel mentioned to Henry that she had promised Major Forrester a bath, the batman was aghast.
“I shall take care of that particular duty, madam,” he had said stiffly.
“Very well.” She acceded to his male sense of propriety. She could not stifle a yawn. “Try to get some more broth into him—or perhaps some milk. He needs nourishment. And water.”
“Yes, madam. If you will pardon my bluntness, Mrs. Brady, may I suggest that the biblical injunction, ‘physician, heal thyself,’ might be most appropriate at the moment?”
“Hmm?”
“You’ve obviously had but little rest.”
Touched by his concern for her, she said, “It was rather a long night. I shall just have a short nap.” She removed her shoes, lay down on her own pallet, and was almost instantly asleep. She awoke in midafternoon with a small hand patting her cheek.
“Oh, Benny!” Clara admonished her son in a quiet tone. “I’m sorry, Rachel.”
Rachel sat up and stretched, then hugged Benny briefly. “Never mind. ’Twas beyond time for me to be up. I must check in with Mac. But, first, how is our patient here doing?”
“Actually, quite well, I think. Mr. Henry said he was conscious earlier, but I was not here. Major Forrester even took some broth and tea with milk.” Clara had continued to keep her voice soft.
“That is surely a good sign,” Rachel responded, feeling hopeful about his possible recovery. “Where is Mr. Henry?”
“He went into the city to see if the looters left anything in the way of foodstuff.”
Rachel put her shoes on, combed out her hair, and quickly twisted it into her customary, efficient bun. She looked at Major Forrester and was surprised to see he was clean-shaven. The planes of his face stood out rather starkly. Henry had been busy as she slept. As she bent over him, the welcome smell of sandalwood arrested her attention. It caught her off guard, sending a curious tingle of excitement through her.
She changed his bandages, but he did not waken. The head wound was healing very nicely, as was the slash across his abdomen. She held her breath against the odor as she removed the old bandage on his leg wound. Gazing at the repulsive, moving mass of ghastly white and grayish-yellow, she could hardly believe she had done that to another human being. However, it seemed to be working. The infection was apparently being contained. She quickly retied the covering cloth.
Later, when she checked in with MacLachlan and Ferguson, she discovered far fewer patients requiring their care.
“What happened?” she asked.
Ferguson answered. “We sent those who were permanently disabled—and could be moved—back to Lisbon to be shipped home. The rest will either be well enough shortly to rejoin their regiments, or they, too, will be shipped home—assuming they make it.” He lowered his voice. “Some won’t. Would not even have survived a journey to the port.”
“But most will,” she said confidently.
“I hope so. By the way, how is your private patient faring?”
“He’s . . . uh ... coming along nicely, I think.” She hesitated to tell these men of science of the precise step she had taken to control the infection.
“No infection?” Ferguson seemed to have read her mind. “I thought sure he would lose that leg.”
“Well ...” Needing their validation, she took a deep breath and explained.
“You did what?” Ferguson’s astonishment was clear. “Mac, did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Mac had been momentarily distracted by a patient.
Feeling some trepidation, Rachel explained again about using the maggots to cleanse the wound.
“Good grief!” Mac said. Then he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. I have heard of such. Is it working?”
“I ... I think so. The infection does not appear to be spreading.”
“If Forrester survives at all, he will owe you his life,” Ferguson said.
“And his eternal gratitude if he does not lose the leg,” Mac added. “Be certain you keep a close watch on that. Call us, if need be.”
“I shall.” She was grateful neither surgeon ridiculed her efforts despite their surprise.
“Unless you mean to stay behind with him, you’ve not a lot of time,” Mac informed her. “Word is Wellington intends to pursue the French right on to Salamanca—maybe even to Madrid. We shall be moving on in a fortnight or so.”
“By then he will surely be out of serious danger.” Her voice held more confidence than she felt.
When she returned to the hut, she found both Mr. Henry and Sergeant Paxton had arrived before her. Clara was in a high state of excitement.
“Mr. Henry has wrought a miracle,” Clara announced.
“You found some laudanum,” Rachel guessed.
“Yes. I did that, too.” He held up a small vial. “But Mrs. Paxton refers to new quarters.”
“New quarters?”
“In the town.” Clara’s eyes shone as she hugged the child on her hip. “We’ll be in a real house, won’t we Benny?”
“We are moving up in the world,” Joe said with a grin.
“How can this be?” Rachel was well aware that officers were not regularly assigned to share quarters with enlisted persons.
“I simply explained that you ladies have been extraordinarily helpful in tending the major,” Henry said. “We shall effect the move tomorrow morning. Sergeant Humphrey and Corporal Collins have offered to help.”
“I ... I see.” Overwhelmed by this news, Rachel had a fleeting thought of her husband’s injunction about new quarters. But there was really no point in her staying in the hut by herself—and besides, who knew for sure when Brady would return? She removed her shawl and placed the back of her hand on the major’s cheek to check his temperature.
His eyes opened immediately.
Was it touching him or that penetrating gaze that affected her so?
“Oh! You have come back to us,” she said, too brightly. “You were not . . . a fantasy,” he murmured.
“No.” She gave a nervous little laugh.
“I dreamt of snakes crawling . . . then there was an angel. . . and music . . .” His voice ended with a wince of pain.
“He has been conscious from time to time,” Clara offered. “He did eat a bit, but has little appetite.”
“ ’Tis the pain,” Henry said. “We . . . I waited for you to come back before giving him the laudanum.”
Rachel gave the batman a grateful look, for this statement showed her, as nothing else could have, that Mr. Henry no longer harbored doubts about her nursing abilities.
She checked the wound on the major’s midriff, then lifted the blanket from his leg. He made a noise of obvious protest at this action, apparently embarrassed.
Henry laid a hand on his master’s shoulder. “ ’Tis not unseemly, my lord. Mrs. Brady knows about such matters.”
It crossed her mind to wonder what Henry meant by “such matters,” but she quickly completed her examination. “No change,” she said.
“Is that . . . good?” Major Forrester asked.
She nodded. “At the moment, it is.”
He grimaced and sucked in his breath, in the grip of pain. She mixed a bit of the laudanum with milk and, as Henry held the patient’s head and shoulders up, Rachel put the cup to his lips. It was some time before the painkiller took effect and he slept.
The next morning, the Paxton-Brady-Forrester enterprise moved within the city walls. Upon seeing their new lodgings, Rachel thought Mr. Henry’s powers of persuasion must be quite remarkable indeed. Henry looked embarrassed when she complimented him on his achievement.
“While I should like to have you think so well of me, the credit really belongs to Lord Jacob.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, madam. You see, Lord Jacob served in India with Lord Wellington. His aides know the general likes to take care of men who have served him well.”
“Well, whatever the reason for our being here, these are quite the fanciest quarters I have enjoyed since I became associated with His Majesty’s Army.”
The accommodations were actually in a modest house on a side street. Its location had allowed it to escape the worst of the ravages of the looting following the siege. Some “removables” had obviously been taken, for the rooms had been ransacked and furniture overturned. Rachel and Clara, along with help from Joe and Thompkins, managed to put the place to rights in short order.
A drawing room, library, dining room, and kitchen occupied the ground floor. The first and second floors boasted bedchambers and dressing rooms, with servants’ quarters on the top floor. There was even a small, empty stable in the rear. Amazingly, the place seemed totally deserted.
Major Forrester was, of course, allotted the best bedchamber, with Rachel in one directly across the hall, and the Paxtons in another on the same floor. Sergeant Humphrey and Corporal Collins again transported the major with great care. Rachel had given him another dose of the laudanum to ease his journey.
Within an hour, they were all in place, with Thompkins and Juan in quarters above the stable, which now housed the major’s cattle—three horses, two mules, and three goats. Clara immediately set about the task of preparing lunch, which they would all share in the large dining room. Thompkins and Juan were initially shy about joining the others, as was Henry, to some degree. However, Joe, Clara, and Rachel contrived to make them feel at ease, and soon it was a relaxed “family” group around the table.
Juan found the Paxton baby fascinating and happily babbled to the toddler in Spanish.
“Juan misses his family,” Thompkins explained.
“He has a family? Why is he not with them, then?” Clara asked.
“They were killed—massacred by guerrillas siding with the French. The whole village was wiped out.”
“The poor child,” Rachel murmured.
“How did he escape?” Joe asked.
“He was out taking the goats to pasture. Lord Jacob found him trying to bury his family.”
“Oh, my.” Clara cast a lingering look of sympathy on the boy who could not be more than eight—nine at the most.
Juan seemed to sense he was suddenly the center of attention. He looked up to smile shyly, showing white teeth against his olive skin.
Clearly changing the subject, Clara said, “I wonder that this house was so deserted.”
“Juan talked with a neighbor,” Thompkins replied. “Seems ’tis owned by a widow who lived here with her two daughters and a young son. Before the siege was in place, she left to join her sister further south.”
“But they must have had servants,” Rachel observed.
“They did, but they ran off when our troops broke through and the looting started.”
“Probably the least we can do is try to leave their home in good condition,” Joe Paxton said.
Rachel was struck by his generosity of spirit, and again she wondered about Edwin’s accusing the man of cowardice.
The next few days settled into a routine, with Joe going off daily to regimental duties. Wellington’s threats to hang anyone further involved in looting and pillage had restored order, and the troops returned to regular drills as they awaited the order to pursue the enemy to the north and east. Clara managed most of the household duties, for Rachel still reported to the hospital every day, though she also shared with Henry the care of the major. Ferguson came at Rachel’s request to check on Forrester’s condition.
“It is too early to be absolutely sure,” the surgeon said, “but I think you may have actually saved this leg! At the very least, the infection seems to have been arrested.”
Major Forrester spent more and more of each day fully awake now. Although Rachel could tell he still experienced a great deal of pain, he refused to resort to the insensibility offered by large doses of laudanum.
“I will not rely on that seductively dangerous stuff,” he said. “I have seen men—and women, too—destroyed by such.”
Only occasionally would he resort to a small dose of the drug. Meanwhile, he was also eating better and was recovering enough to become impatient with his inactivity. At one point, Rachel arrived in the room just as he had pushed himself to a sitting position.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
