Rules of Marriage Page 3

  One of the bandsmen, Kelly, wore a wide grin. The other snorted and pressed a finger into Henry’s chest. “Better take what you can get, mister. As it is, your man will be getting one of the best.”

  “But she’s a woman,” Henry said in almost a wail.

  David grinned, too. “An’ a very handsome one at that. She also knows what she’s doing. I’ve seen her work.”

  “Thank you, David.” Rachel felt a rush of gratitude to the normally taciturn young Welshman.

  He blushed. “Nothin’ but the truth, ma’am.” He looked belligerently at Henry. “Consider yourself—no, him—lucky.” He pointed at the major. “Come on, Kelly, we got more work to do.”

  As the two left, the opposition seemed to fade in Henry’s stance. “Very well, madam. It shall be as you say.” But his tone was grudging.

  Two

  While the batman went off to retrieve necessary items from the major’s gear, Rachel informed Ferguson of what she planned regarding the wounded man.

  “You’re wasting your time,” Ferguson said as he bent over yet another patient.

  “Perhaps. But I have to try.”

  He straightened and surveyed the activity around them. “We are not shorthanded at the moment, so go ahead and do what you must.” He gestured to a stack of supplies. “Take what you need there.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  He touched her shoulder and held her gaze. “And don’t take it too hard if—when—he doesn’t make it.”

  She nodded, a lump in her throat. All this human devastation around him, yet Ferguson had taken notice of how she might react to the loss of one patient. Captain Ferguson had comforted her through that first devastating loss in the Peninsula. She had witnessed death in the past, but always before, it had come from old age, a debilitating disease, or an accident, never from the organized inhumanity of war. He had been so very young, her first soldier death in Spain. Delirious with pain, he called for his “mummy” repeatedly. Rachel sat quietly talking to him, letting him think she was his mother until death finally came for him. Since then she had comforted other dying men and grieved for the losses their wives and mothers would suffer. Somehow she sensed—and perhaps Ferguson did, too—that if she lost the battle for Major Forrester, it would be as devastating as that first loss had been.

  She gathered what she thought she would need—what she thought could be spared. Then, with the sergeant and the corporal again carrying the major in a blanket, she led the way to the sheepherder’s hut. Thank goodness the rain had stopped, at least temporarily. Their patient groaned a time or two, but he seemed to remain blessedly oblivious to what was happening to him. They arrived at the hut just as Henry arrived from another direction, leading a loaded mule.

  “Is that a folding cot?” she asked of Henry, pointing to a contraption on the mule.

  “Yes, ma’am, it is.”

  “Good. That will keep him off the damp earth.”

  Rachel pushed the door open and called, “Clara?”

  There was no answer.

  She quickly cleared space for the cot against the wall opposite the pallet she shared with Brady. She helped Henry set up the cot as the other two patiently waited, their arms obviously strained by the major’s weight. Despite the gentleness with which they laid him on the cot, he moaned incoherently at this abuse of his person. Rachel pinned up the canvas over the window to let in more light and stirred the seemingly dead coals in the fire. She was pleased to see they were very much alive. Moreover, the kettle was full of water that was still warm.

  “Remove his clothing,” she said as she laid out supplies and instruments.

  “All of it?” Pete asked in a shocked tone.

  “Probably.” She smiled at the boy’s naive response. Did he think a married woman—not to mention one who tended wounded soldiers—had never seen a man unclothed? “I need access to each of his injuries.”

  She poured hot water into a basin and carried it over to the cot. Henry had produced a pillow and draped a blanket strategically across the major’s torso. Three helpless looking men hovered over the prostrate form on the cot.

  “I shall need only one of you to assist me,” she said with a gesture toward the door.

  Henry took charge. “Sergeant, perhaps you and the corporal would be so kind as to get the rest of the major’s gear and bring it here, and let Thompkins know where we are. He can tether the horses among those cork trees,” he said, waving his hand.

  “We’ll do that,” the sergeant said, ushering his companion out with him.

  Rachel knelt beside the cot and began to sponge away the blood and dirt around the wound in a firmly muscled chest sporting a mat of reddish brown hair. She ran her hand gently along his rib cage to determine if there were broken ribs as well as internal injuries. She was surprised at the degree of her own awareness of his masculinity. She dealt with dozens of patients far more impersonally than this!

  “Ah, this explains his labored breathing,” she said.

  “What?” Henry stood anxiously at the major’s head, observing her every movement.

  “He has at least two broken ribs.” She rinsed her cloth and cleaned around the torn laceration across his abdomen. “He must have turned or ducked at just the right moment—or the assailant was confused.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Corporal Collins said Major Forrester took a blow intended for him, and it appears his ribs took the brunt of the thrust, though the blade also sliced across his abdomen.”

  “Is that good?” Henry sounded dubious.

  “It could be,” she said guardedly. “Mr. Ferguson thought vital organs had been hit, but if they were spared . . .”

  “Then there is hope?”

  “A thread, perhaps.” She continued cleansing the tissue. Then she looked up at Henry with a smile. “I think this injury is not as serious as it first appeared. However, I shall need to close this laceration. Then we shall bind his ribs tightly.”

  Henry’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, but the man gamely assisted her. He held the ragged edges of the cut together as she stitched, then held the major’s upper body free of the cot so she could slip a cloth beneath him to bind the rib cage. Again, the major groaned incoherently and feebly tried to push her hands away.

  “There. There,” she murmured softly. “Just be patient, sir. I promise you will feel better.”

  The gentleness of her tone seemed to soothe him. As she reached around him to drag the cloth into place, her face came very near his. She felt his breath on her cheek and smelled the familiar sandalwood. She was pleased to hear his breathing take on a healthier tone as soon as the ribs were bound, and she wondered fleetingly at the brief catch in her own breath. As she drew the blanket up to his chin, he seemed to relax a bit.

  Emitting what sounded to Rachel like a sigh of relief, Henry wiped his master’s brow as Rachel stood and wrung out the cloth she had used to cleanse the chest wound. She took the dirty water to the door and flung it to the side, then filled the basin with more hot water. “Now, the leg,” she said, a determined note in her voice.

  She glanced at the major’s face to find a pair of gray-blue eyes riveted on her. When he moved his head, she saw pain flash across his eyes.

  “Wha—” he started.

  “Shh. You have been seriously injured, sir. Mr. Henry and I are endeavoring to put some of the pieces back together.” She motioned for the batman to come within the major’s line of vision.

  “I ... see,” he said weakly, his breathing erratic. “Well . . . carry ... on ... then.”

  She raised the blanket enough to expose the wound above his knee, but still preserve Henry’s sense of propriety. Forrester’s legs were covered with soft hair slightly lighter in color than that on his chest. She had a fleeting thought that, with legs as well formed as these, the man must show to good advantage in tight pantaloons. She sponged the dried blood from around the wound, which was about the size of her palm. The ball had torn through a good deal of muscle tissue, but there was no exit wound.

  “The ball is still in there,” she said to Henry. “Come hold his leg while I probe for it.” She touched the patient’s shoulder and held his gaze. “This is going to hurt, Major Forrester, but that thing must come out.”

  He nodded.

  “Shall I give you something to bite down on?”

  “No. Just . . . do it,” he croaked hoarsely as Henry moved around to do her bidding.

  She poked her finger into the torn tissue and felt around for the foreign object. The major took in a deep whistling breath which she knew must be extremely painful in itself, given his broken ribs.

  “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. Then her finger touched the piece of metal. It was lodged against the bone. But the question was, was the bone broken? She expanded her probing and said again, “I’m so sorry.”

  This time her apology fell on deaf ears. Her patient had fainted.

  “Good.” She glanced briefly at Henry. There were beads of sweat on the batman’s forehead and upper lip; his eyes were suspiciously bright, and he had a rather greenish tinge to his complexion. “Don’t you dare faint on me,” she said sternly.

  He took a deep breath and shook his head, but said nothing.

  With her invasion of the injured area, it had started to bleed again. She wiped at the blood and reached for the instrument with which to extract the misshapen metal ball. She had to make two stabs at grabbing the ball, but finally had a firm hold and extracted it quickly. She heaved a great sigh, unaware she had been holding her breath, and heard an answering sigh from Henry.

  She took advantage of her patient’s insensibility to probe for any additional debris, but found none. Again, she wiped the area free of new blood, spread basilicum sa
lve on a clean cloth, and wrapped the whole in a thick bandage. She tied a clean cloth around his leg to hold it in place.

  “Will he lose the leg?” Henry asked. “I heard the surgeon say he would.”

  “I hope not. We shall know in time—perhaps as soon as tomorrow. And I am still worried there may be internal bleeding from the other wound.”

  “I ... I apologize for what I said earlier.” Henry’s tone was very stiff. “It is apparent even to me that you do know what you are doing.”

  “Thank you,” she said, unable to keep her exhaustion from showing in her tone. “I knew what had to be done—I have seen it done dozens of times—but I must admit this is a first for me.”

  Henry’s eyes widened in surprise at this admission.

  There was a commotion at the door. Rachel opened it to find Clara struggling to carry both her son and a canvas bag.

  “Oh! I’m glad you are back,” Clara said. “I’ve news. Both our men are safe. I saw Mary Parsons. Her husband was wounded as they broke through, but he saw both Joe and Mr. Brady and—” Her voice trailed off as she observed the other two people in the room.

  “This is Mr. Henry—and Major Forrester.” Rachel gestured to each and quickly explained the situation to Clara. “I—I hope you don’t mind. I just could not leave him to die without doing something.”

  Clara set her son on the floor and her bag on the table, then gave Rachel a quick hug. “Of course I don’t mind. Nor will Joe. However,” the ever-practical Clara added with a glance at the bag she had brought in, “we’ve precious little food, you know. Mind you, some of the supplies have begun to catch up with us, but that’s all I could get.”

  “The major’s rations will, of course, be added to yours,” Henry said. “As soon as the rest of his gear arrives, we shall sort it out. I know he would not want to burden you unnecessarily.” Henry took a lingering look at the major and then left, promising to return soon.

  “Well, that solves that problem.” Clara pushed a lock of red hair off her forehead and began to sort out her treasures to make a nourishing soup. “Now—” she pointed at Rachel. “You get some rest. I can see you’re exhausted. I shall keep an eye on your patient as I get us some food under way.”

  Grateful for Clara’s quick understanding, Rachel settled herself on the pallet. “What did you learn of Edwin and Mr. Paxton?” she asked from her horizontal position.

  “They were both fine when Private Parsons saw them last, and the worst of it was over by then. I expect they’ll be back sometime tonight.”

  “We’ll see . . .” Rachel remembered only too well the looting and wild revelry after the taking of Ciudad Rodrigo a few weeks before. She had been shocked to learn her own countrymen reacted so when a besieged town put up a prolonged fight. And Badajoz had fought very long and very hard.

  It was dark when Rachel awoke. She had actually slept an hour or so. She checked on her patient, who seemed to be sleeping normally, then sat to share the soup and some bread with Clara.

  Clara held her son on her lap and spooned mashed vegetables into his rosebud mouth. Rachel smiled as Clara coped with small flailing arms and the child’s tendency to wear as much food as he actually swallowed. Benny had been a source of joy to Rachel as well as his parents, though Edwin merely tolerated the toddler. Once, Rachel had tried to apologize for her husband’s indifference.

  “Oh, never mind,” Clara had said. “Lots of men are like that. Just wait’ll you have your own. He’ll come around.”

  Rachel was not sure of this at all, but she let the matter drop.

  Between spoonfuls, Clara said, “Mr. Henry seems very devoted to his employer.”

  “Yes, he does. So do the men who brought the major to hospital.”

  “Could be he’s one of those rare beings—an officer deserving of such regard.” Clara shared the typical rank-and-file soldier’s disdain for officers as a general class. “Nice looking fellow, he is,” she added.

  Rachel pretended shock. “Clara! For shame.”

  “I may be married, but I’m not blind.”

  “I suppose you are right.” Rachel feigned casual interest in this line of discussion. She did not understand the depth of her concern for a man who had been totally insensible during most of her acquaintance with him and had scarcely spoken two words in her presence.

  As Clara continued to feed Benny, Rachel rose and stood looking down at Major Forrester, thinking to find an explanation in his countenance. As she stood thus, Henry returned, accompanied by a younger man and a boy whose olive skin proclaimed him to be Portuguese or Spanish.

  “How is he?” Henry asked.

  “About the same,” Rachel answered. “He has not stirred much.”

  Henry introduced his companions. “This is Thompkins and Juan. Thompkins is Lord Jacob’s groom and Juan joined us about a year ago. He takes care of the goats.”

  “Goats?” Rachel said vacantly, trying to absorb the fact that the man in the cot was a lord of some sort.

  “Si,” the boy said shyly, holding up a covered container. “Here is milk for your tea—or para su hijito.”

  “For your son,” Henry translated, addressing Clara.

  “Milk?” Clara said wonderingly. “How marvelous!”

  The three looked at the sleeping figure on the cot. Each of them seemed to need to reassure himself of the major’s continued well-being.

  “We are setting up our camp about twelve yards that way.” Henry pointed over the major’s cot. “And here’s some meat and vegetables that may prove useful to you—and his lordship.” He handed Rachel two packets as he turned to usher the other two out ahead of him. “I shall return in an hour or so to sit with him.”

  “Very well.” Rachel sensed a burning need in the man to be able to do something, however little. Besides, the major would undoubtedly prefer that his long-time batman perform the more personal services required for a convalescent.

  She tried with little success to rouse the patient to get some of the soup into him. She did manage to give him some water, but he was barely aware of swallowing and fell back immediately.

  Clara took her son to bed in the loft and Henry returned to sit, quietly reading, at the head of the major’s cot. A pole with a candle on it had been driven into the dirt floor nearby.

  Rachel lay down again on her pallet, but sleep did not come immediately. She reviewed everything she had done for the major. Could she have done more? Probably not, she decided. Should she have done what she had? Her conscience shouted yes! but common sense and experience told her there would be a price to pay when her husband returned.

  And where was Edwin? Was he hurt? Surely not, according to what Clara had heard. But what was he doing? No. She would not allow her mind to go down that route. She had learned not to ask questions to which the response was likely to be a lie—or a shock.

  Finally, she fell asleep, only to be awakened by a flash of cold air as the door opened.

  “What the—?” a male voice asked in astonishment.

  “Oh! Mr. Paxton.” Rachel sat up quickly and Henry stood.

  A weary-looking Sergeant Joseph Paxton took in the entire scene, then shifted his gaze to Rachel. “For a moment, I thought I had stumbled into the wrong billet.”

  She laughed softly. “No. This is the right place.”

  “Joe?” Clara called as she scrambled down from the loft. She threw herself into her husband’s arms so violently he nearly dropped his musket. “Oh, Joe, I was so worried.”

  “No need to be.” His voice was gruff.

  Rachel thought him embarrassed in front of strangers. Rachel introduced Henry and explained his and the major’s presence, which Joe accepted with great equanimity.

  “Are you hungry?” his wife asked.

  “Famished,” he replied. “And see what I have.” He pulled a bottle of wine from his knapsack.

  Clara dipped him a bowl of the soup that still sat in the edge of the fireplace and Rachel produced four cups. She poured a small measure of the wine into each, handing one to Henry.

  “Did you see Edwin?” she asked.

  “I saw him about noon, I think it was. He was . . . uh ... in another part of the city from me.” He looked away, apparently unable to meet her gaze.