Lieutenant Mayhew's Catastrophes

by Emily Larkin

  The man ruminated on this question, his jaws moving as if he were chewing cud, and then said, “Farm cart.”

  The blacksmith was a man of few words, but with a great deal of chewing and a great many pauses, he informed them that his aunt’s brother-in-law’s son would shortly be driving his cart from Headbourne Worthy to Winnall, that Winnall was only a mile from Winchester, and that in Winchester they could easily hire a carriage to take them to Twyford.

  “When will the cart be leaving?” Mayhew asked.

  “Once it’s loaded.”

  “And you think we’d be able to reach Twyford by nightfall?”

  The blacksmith chewed and thought and then gave his considered opinion: “Yes.”

  “Excellent,” Mayhew said. “Where can we find this cart?”

  They found the cart in the blacksmith’s aunt’s farmyard. The young farmer’s load wasn’t vegetables, as Mayhew had supposed, but pigs. Uh-oh, he thought for the second time that afternoon. He glanced at Miss Culpepper.

  She interpreted his glance correctly. Dimples sprang to life in her cheeks. “Don’t look so worried, Lieutenant. I have no objection to traveling with pigs.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. Now, come along; it’s time to haggle for our ride.” She flashed him a smile and stepped into the farmyard.

  Mayhew watched her pick her way through the mud and the puddles, and had a moment of astonished insight. Miss Culpepper was actually enjoying this.

  Chapter Five

  If their luck had been out earlier, it was now in. The cart was loaded and the farmer ready to depart. Five minutes later and they’d have missed him. As it was, they left Headbourne Worthy perched on the box seat of a cart carrying pigs. Nine pigs, altogether. Willie had counted. And handsome pigs they were, too. Black, with a white stripe over their shoulders.

  The farmer was as garrulous as the blacksmith had been taciturn. He talked about his pigs and his other livestock and his crops and the spring just past and the summer they were having. Willie sat on the wooden seat and simply enjoyed it all: the fresh country air, the trees and the hedgerows, the grassy verges studded with wildflowers, the birdsong, the noises the pigs made, the slow clop-clop of the horse, the farmer’s conversation, his broad Hampshire accent.

  Headbourne Worthy to Winnall wasn’t a post road; consequently it was not in good repair. The horse picked its way slowly, walking, not trotting. The cart jolted and lurched over ruts and through potholes and puddles, but Willie didn’t mind the slowness, or the jolting, or the pigs. She drank it all in—the sights and sounds and smells. Traveling by farm cart was a thousand times better than sitting in a stagecoach, she decided, and perhaps she ought not to be relishing this unexpected little adventure as much as she was, but it was impossible not to relish it, partly because it reminded her of being in the army, and partly because there would be no opportunities to ride in farm carts with lieutenants who were carrying baskets of kittens once she was in Sir Walter’s employ.

  She liked this lieutenant. More, perhaps, than she ought to. She’d only just met him and yet for some reason Lieutenant Mayhew didn’t feel like a stranger; he felt like a friend.

  They came to a section of road where the ruts on one side had merged into a deep trough. “Hold tight,” the farmer said, and jumped down to guide his horse. Willie braced herself. The cart tilted sideways as the wheels on the left descended into the trough and the wheels on the right didn’t. The wooden seat was worn so smooth that Willie almost slid off it.

  “Careful, Miss Culpepper!” the lieutenant said, and put his arm around her.

  Willie’s heart beat a fast pitter-patter that had nothing to do with the angle of the cart and everything to do with Lieutenant Mayhew’s arm around her waist, strong and warm, and then the cart lurched its way up out of the trough and he released her.

  “That’s the worst of it,” the farmer said, clambering back up into the cart. He’d plucked a stem of grass, which he now set between his teeth.

  “How much further to Winnall?” Mayhew asked.

  The farmer sucked thoughtfully on his grass stem, and then said, “Mebbe half an hour?”

  Willie savored every minute of that half hour. In fact, she wished that the afternoon would never end, that the sun would remain halfway across the sky, and that the rutted, muddy lane would go on and on and on, and she’d sit next to Lieutenant Mayhew on this hard wooden seat forever.

  Which was a little alarming. Forever? With a man she barely knew?

  Don’t lose your head over a uniform and a handsome face, Willie scolded herself, as she climbed down from the cart in the farmer’s yard. But she didn’t think she’d done that. It wasn’t Mayhew’s uniform or his face that she liked so much—although his eyes were very nice—it was his character, his cheerfulness, the way he’d protected her from the sailor, changing seats, putting the man in his place with a few words and a look.

  The farmer wouldn’t take payment for the ride. “I were a-comin’ home anyways,” he said. They drank cool water from his well and the kittens lapped at a little milk, and then the farmer gave them directions to Winchester. “Quickest way’s across ol’ John Plum’s paddock,” he said, and then proceeded to tell them exactly how to find John Plum’s paddock.

  Two minutes later, they were walking along a country lane. The spires of Winchester were visible across the fields, and Willie knew that Twyford was only a few miles beyond those spires.

  She also knew that once they reached Twyford, she and Lieutenant Mayhew would part.

  It wasn’t in Willie’s nature to feel melancholy, but she did feel a little melancholy about reaching Twyford. She almost wanted to sigh. She suppressed the urge and strode briskly along the rough little lane and told herself that she was excited about reaching Twyford. Excited about starting her position. Excited about returning to the continent.

  “This looks like it,” Mayhew said, as a paddock planted with turnips came into view.

  Willie agreed: It did look very much like Old John Plum’s paddock.

  They started across. Willie picked her way carefully, holding her hem up. Squelch. Squelch. Within a dozen steps, her half boots were heavy with mud. It was almost like ice skating—slip and slide, slip and slide.

  Her half boots became heavier, her slips and slides more erratic.

  “Perhaps this wasn’t the wisest idea,” the lieutenant said.

  “Perhaps not,” Willie admitted.

  The lieutenant stopped. “Your choice, Miss Culpepper: keep going, or turn back.”

  Willie looked at what lay ahead, and then glanced behind them. It was a mistake; one of her feet slid sideways.

  Lieutenant Mayhew caught her upper arm in a strong grip. “Steady, there.”

  Willie’s other foot slid in the opposite direction. She clutched the lieutenant’s green jacket and tried not to fall.

  He set down the basket, but didn’t release his grip on her arm. “I think we’d best turn back.”

  “Yes.” Willie planted her right foot firmly in the mud, and then her left.

  “Got your balance?”

  “Yes.” She cautiously let go of his jacket.

  Mayhew waited a moment, then released her and reached for the basket—and skidded wildly, windmilling his arms.

  Willie grabbed one of his elbows and he grabbed one of hers. He gave a great, sliding, sideways lurch, and she lurched with him, and it was as if they were dancing a clownish jig. The lieutenant’s feet slid and her feet slid and they swayed left and then right and then left again.

  Finally, they both caught their balance, clutching each other in the middle of the muddy field. Willie bit her lip and tried not to giggle, and failed.

  The lieutenant grinned at her. “May I have this dance, Miss Culpepper?”

  “It would be my pleasure, Lieutenant,” Willie said, and she would have dipped him a curtsy if she’d been more certain of her footing, but she didn’t quite dare let him go yet, let alone dip funning curtsie
s.

  The lieutenant’s grin faded, and his expression changed slightly. Not the casually appreciative look he’d given her when he’d climbed aboard the stagecoach in London, but something warmer and faintly regretful.

  Willie felt that regret, too. If she and Lieutenant Mayhew had met under other circumstances, if she wasn’t going to Vienna, if he wasn’t going back to his regiment . . .

  But these were the circumstances under which they’d met, and the likelihood of them ever seeing each other again after today was infinitesimally small—and there was nothing at all that could be done about that.

  Willie released his arm.

  “Back to the lane?” the lieutenant said.

  “Back to the lane.”

  Lieutenant Mayhew let go of her. He shifted his weight. His left foot shot out from under him. His left hand shot out, too, grabbing her again. Together, they toppled over backwards into the mud.

  Willie blinked up at the sky.

  “Well, that was unfortunate,” the lieutenant said, after a moment of silence. “Please accept my apologies, Miss Culpepper.”

  Willie began to giggle, and then to more than giggle. She laughed—laughed from her belly, laughed until her ribs ached and tears streamed down her face—and the lieutenant lay alongside her in the muddy turnip field and laughed, too.

  Finally, Willie stopped laughing. She caught her breath and wiped her eyes and sat up.

  The lieutenant sat up, too, alongside her. “Thank heavens you have a sense of humor, Miss Culpepper.”

  “It’s just mud,” Willie said, smiling at him. “It will wash off.”

  “So it will.” He smiled back at her, and there was such warmth in his brown eyes, such approbation, that her breath caught in her throat and she realized that she didn’t just like him, she liked him a lot.

  And he liked her a lot, too.

  Which didn’t change the fact that she was headed to Vienna and he was headed back to his regiment.

  The last of Willie’s amusement snuffed out. She felt rather sad. She looked around for the basket. It was sitting where the lieutenant had left it, lid firmly fastened. “It’s fortunate you weren’t carrying the kittens when you fell.”

  “Yes.” The lieutenant carefully climbed to his feet, extended a hand, and helped her to stand. Then he picked up the basket. Together they slipped and slid their way back the way they’d come. Ironically, now that they were both caked in mud, neither of them fell over.

  “The farmer must have hobnails on his boots,” the lieutenant said, when they reached the lane.

  “Undoubtedly.” Willie looked around for a stick, found one, and set to work removing the mud from her half boots. That task accomplished, she took off her bonnet and examined it. It was liberally besmirched, as was her shawl and, yes, even her reticule. She only needed to look at the lieutenant’s filthy rifleman’s jacket to know what the back of her gown looked like.

  But it was only mud, and mud could be brushed off and washed off. Nothing was ruined. The next time she wore these clothes, the mud would be just a memory.

  As would the lieutenant and his kittens.

  Willie tried not to sigh. She put the bonnet back on and retied the ribbons.

  “Right,” the lieutenant said, after he’d scraped the worst of the mud off his boots. “Let’s get to Winchester as quickly as we can.”

  They set off at a brisk pace. Willie didn’t bother trying to keep her hem clean anymore. The lane curved right, then left, then dipped down to a ford where water flowed swiftly.

  They halted. “This would be why the farmer recommended the paddock,” Lieutenant Mayhew said.

  Willie eyed the water and tried to estimate how deep it was. Six inches? Twelve?

  “I’ll piggyback you across,” Mayhew said.

  “Piggyback?” Willie said. Her voice sounded a smidgeon higher than it usually was.

  “Would you prefer wet feet?”

  Willie bit her lip. No, she wouldn’t prefer wet feet, but being piggybacked by a man she barely knew while on a public lane where anyone might see—being piggybacked at all—was not something that a respectable lady would do.

  But neither was traveling in farm carts carrying pigs.

  Or falling over in muddy turnip fields.

  The lieutenant was still looking at her, eyebrows slightly raised, waiting for her decision.

  “I would prefer to keep my feet dry,” Willie admitted.

  Mayhew grinned at her, and set down the basket. “Let me just check how deep it is, Miss Culpepper.” He waded into the ford and cast about to find the shallowest spot. Willie was relieved to see that the water didn’t come over the top of his boots.

  The lieutenant returned and hunkered down with his back to her. “Climb aboard,” he said cheerfully.

  Willie glanced over her shoulder, made certain that the lane was empty of spectators, hiked her gown up past her knees, and scrambled onto Lieutenant Mayhew’s back.

  “Hold tight,” he said, and stood.

  Willie held on tightly, her arms around his shoulders, and the lieutenant held tightly to her, too, his hands gripping her legs just above the knees, where her garters were tied, and Willie realized that if he hadn’t been wearing gloves, his hands would have touched her bare skin.

  She shivered at this thought. Not a shiver of revulsion or unease, but a tingling, warm shiver that made her pulse accelerate. She held her breath as Lieutenant Mayhew navigated the ford, not merely because she was afraid he might lose his footing, but also because he was touching her legs and it felt deliciously exciting.

  Once he’d gained the other side, the lieutenant crouched again. Willie scrambled down and smoothed her gown hastily past her knees again. She knew she was blushing; her face felt quite hot.

  The lieutenant didn’t notice. He was already heading back for the kittens. Willie watched him. He was very well put together, with those long limbs and those broad shoulders, and—as he turned around—that cheerful grin, a flash of white teeth in his tanned face.

  Mayhew picked his way back across the ford, holding the basket. One of the kittens was mewing indignantly. “Poor Scout,” he said. “She wants out, and I can’t say I blame—”

  He sat down suddenly in the water.

  Willie stood frozen for a brief second, her mouth open in a soundless Oh of shock, and then she cast aside her reticule and splashed into the ford, dry feet be damned.

  “Your shoes—”

  “Kittens are more important than dry shoes,” Willie told him, taking the basket, which he fortunately hadn’t dropped. She heard two tiny voices, wailing their disapproval at the sudden change in elevation.

  She waded back to dry ground and set the basket down. “It’s all right, little ones,” she said soothingly, and then she splashed back to the lieutenant. Her wet hem wrapped itself around her ankles.

  She held out her hand. Mayhew took it and climbed to his feet. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I believe my uniform’s a little cleaner, now,” he said.

  Willie laughed, and he laughed, too, and as she laughed her foot slipped and she abruptly sat down.

  The lieutenant was still holding her hand, so he sat down again, too.

  There was a loud splash, and then silence. Willie bit her lip, and glanced at the lieutenant, sitting alongside her in the ford. His lips twitched. Her lips twitched, too, and then they were both laughing again, because really, what else could one do when one had just sat down in a ford?

  “Well,” the lieutenant said, when he’d caught his breath.

  “Well,” Willie agreed.

  They helped each other to their feet. Willie’s gown was quite sodden. Water streamed off it. “Are you all right?” the lieutenant asked.

  “I believe my gown’s a little cleaner, now,” Willie said.

  He grinned, recognizing his own words, and she grinned back at him, and then his grin faded, and hers did, too, and they just stood there in the ford, with water flowing around t
heir ankles, looking at each other.

  He’s going to kiss me, Willie thought, and then she thought, And I’m going to kiss him back.

  But at that moment a farm cart came around the corner, heading towards them.

  Willie and the lieutenant stepped away from each other and sloshed to dry ground. The cart slowed, splashed through the ford, and halted alongside them. A stout, grizzled farmer man gazed down at them, a pipe clamped between his teeth. He removed the pipe. Its stem was well-chewed. “Dearie me,” he said. “Dearie, dearie me.”

  Chapter Six

  The farmer took them home with him, where his wife fussed over them and bore Miss Culpepper off to the inner reaches of the farmhouse. When they returned, Miss Culpepper was wearing one of the farmer’s wife’s dresses. It wasn’t just two sizes too large for her, it was ten sizes too large. Miss Culpepper looked as if she was wearing a tent.

  But at least it was a dry tent.

  The farmer loaned Mayhew a shirt and breeches, and they were tent-like on him, too, and they sat in the kitchen and drank cowslip wine while their clothes dried by the fire.

  They stayed for three hours. Mrs. Penny, the farmer’s wife, fed them bread and butter and the last of a knuckle of ham, and apologized that she had nothing better to give them. Mayhew told her of the time the commissariat’s wagons had taken the wrong route and he’d had to eat acorns for his dinner, which made Mrs. Penny cluck with dismay. She stopped apologizing for the plainness of her fare, but she pressed bread and butter and ham on them until Mayhew feared that he would burst.

  He could have stayed in that warm, cozy kitchen forever, seated at the table alongside Miss Culpepper, eating bread and butter and sipping cowslip wine, while Mr. Penny chewed on his pipe and Mrs. Penny bustled to and fro.

  He watched Scout explore the kitchen, watched Bellyrub curl up and fall asleep on Mr. Penny’s lap, watched Mrs. Penny knead dough and chop vegetables, but mostly he watched Miss Culpepper. He watched her eat, he watched her smile, he watched her enjoy being in this rustic kitchen, he watched her simply be happy.