by Shana Galen
The Dawsons were one of the wealthier families in Milcroft. Pru hadn’t been in the village long, but there were some things one learned right away. They had no children, but they did have three small dogs, and Pru enjoyed throwing a ball for the pups and feeding them scraps she sneaked under the table. The Dawsons were tedious but could be borne except on Sundays when she was forced to wear the stiff white dress with the high, itchy collar.
Pru did not complain, though. Firstly, it would be of no use. Secondly, the vicar would only tell her she was an ungrateful child, and she already knew that. She held her tongue and walked with the vicar until they reached the manicured lawns of the Dawsons’ home. The Dawsons had a small garden with pruned roses and perfectly even hedges. Pru found it utterly lacking in imagination. No fairy queens had cast any enchantments here, but to her surprise and delight, once they entered the house, she discovered they were to be joined at dinner by Mr. Langford, who was the village surgeon.
Mr. Langford was not as ancient as the Dawsons and the vicar, being only about forty, and he always had interesting and bloody tales to tell about accidents involving sharp farm implements and butcher knives. More importantly, Mr. Langford did not treat every question she asked as an opportunity to lecture her. She might ask him about the Earl of Beaufort and his son and receive more than a lesson on gossip.
Of course, the vicar and Mrs. Dawson might still consider the conversation gossip, but they would never dream of chastising Mr. Langford.
Pru waited through the chatter about the weather and the meal and the lovely sermon and was rewarded by Mr. Langford recalling how he had been called to the home of the Finker family because one of their children—who could say which one—had got his head stuck between the railings on the stair.
“Oh, but I hardly see as they would need a surgeon for that,” Mrs. Dawson said. “I would imagine some goose grease or butter would do the trick.”
“And that is what I prescribed, Mrs. Dawson,” Langford said with a smile. “But I’m afraid Mrs. Finker had not thought of that and had come to the conclusion that the little one would have to lose an ear in order to be set free. She had a knife waiting and handed it to me quite solemnly when I arrived. Do it quicky, Mr. Langford, she told me. Don’t let him suffer.
“At least I think that is what she said. It was difficult to hear over the child’s wailing.”
Pru could picture the scene and smiled at the poor child’s distress, thinking his ear was about to be severed from his head. Was it horrible of her to think if she were the surgeon that it would have been amusing to pretend—just for a moment—that she would actually sever the ear?
“But I soon calmed the child and assured him I would not need the knife. I greased him up like a Christmas goose and pulled him free easily enough.”
“Ridiculous waste of your time,” Mr. Higginbotham said. “You must have more important matters to tend to.”
“I did not mind,” Langford said, smiling at Pru across the table. She took that as her opportunity.
“I wonder, Mr. Langford, if you have ever been to Wentmore to treat the occupants there. I saw the earl’s son yesterday, and he looked quite thin and pale.”
Silence fell and the other diners looked so shocked one would have thought a massive boulder had crashed down from the sky and flattened the dining table.
“You saw Mr. Pope yesterday?” her guardian asked.
“Yes,” she said carefully, now aware she had made a misstep somewhere. Pru was not unfamiliar with the tightening in her belly that seemed to squeeze all the food she had eaten into an oily blob. Her mother always said trouble followed her like a hungry puppy. Pru often wondered if that puppy’s belly would ever fill.
“Did you speak to him?” Mrs. Dawson asked, her voice rising.
“Yes.” Pru looked around the table. Everyone was staring at her, wide-eyed, even Mr. Dawson who had been half-asleep in his chair a few moments before. “Is that unusual?” Pru asked finally because she hated silence and hated being stared at, and both had become the preferred activities at the dining table.
“I forget you arrived only two months ago,” Mrs. Dawson said.
“No one has seen Mr. Pope in over a year,” the vicar said. “The earl gave him use of Wentmore when he returned from the war, and he’s not stepped foot outside in all that time. The last time anyone saw him was about three months after he took up residence. A fire began in the kitchen and a few of the village men rushed to help put it out.”
“My nephew was one of those who rendered assistance,” Mrs. Dawson added, “and he said Mr. Pope ran everyone off with a pistol.”
“How was the fire contained?” Pru asked.
“Mrs. Brown probably put it out,” Mr. Langford said. “She is the housekeeper there and the only servant Pope will keep. I doubt she’s been paid in a year, but she has been with the family since she was old enough to mop and dust, and she stays out of loyalty.”
“That seems quite noble,” Pru said.
“It’s dangerous,” Langford said. “Pope is dangerous. If you see him again, go the other way. I was at Wentmore this summer because Mr. Pope shot a man.”
Pru inhaled sharply.
“Oh, Mr. Langford, please do not tell that gruesome tale again,” Mrs. Dawson said in a tone that all but begged the surgeon to tell the tale and with as much detail as he could muster.
“I am afraid I must, Mrs. Dawson,” Mr. Langford said. “Miss Howard needs to know the danger she was in.”
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Dawson produced a fan and began to wave it in front of her face.
“I do not think Mr. Pope would have shot me,” Pru said. “I was not a threat to him.”
“Neither was the man he shot,” Langford said. “In fact, the man was a friend of his. Pope served under Lieutenant-Colonel Draven in the war.” He paused as though this name should mean something to Pru. “You’ve not heard of Draven?”
“Should I have?”
“He commanded one of the most skilled troops ever assembled. Along with Wellington, Draven is credited as one of the men most responsible for the defeat of Napoleon. His troop was comprised of highly skilled gentlemen. Not heirs to any titles, but third and fourth sons for the most part. None of the men were expected to come home again. Twelve of the thirty did, and they are hailed as heroes.”
It did not seem to Pru as though Mr. Pope was being hailed as any sort of hero. “What was Mr. Pope’s skill?” she asked.
“Sharpshooting,” Mr. Dawson said, speaking for the first time since they’d sat down at the table. “One of the best in England. I saw him shoot when he was younger, before he went off to war,” Dawson said. “He never missed, and his aim was always perfect.”
“I rather think the Scotsman he shot would have preferred his aim less perfect. Apparently, two of his former brothers-in-arms came to visit him and instead of greeting them warmly, Pope opened fire,” Langford said. “I was called to treat the Scotsman. He was a big man and I expected him to make a full recovery. He left before I could do much more than remove the pistol ball and stitch him up. Apparently, Pope threatened to shoot him again if he stayed.”
Mrs. Dawson fanned her face violently, her eyes bright with interest.
“I don’t think it’s a breach of confidence to say that the house was a shambles,” Langford said. “I’ve no doubt Mrs. Brown does her best, but the place was dusty and in extreme disorder—chairs turned over, candle wax on the floor, rugs with holes in them.”
“I don’t understand why Lord Beaufort has not come and taken his son in hand,” Mr. Higginbotham said.
“I heard that the earl sent his son here to die. He told him to leave the family home in Richmond and that he never wanted to see him again.”
Pru gasped. “Oh, but that’s horrible. Surely no father would ever disown his own child.” Even as the words left her lips, Pru knew she was wrong. Hadn’t her own father all but disowned her? She still remembered the day they told her they had accepted a po
st in the Far East to serve as missionaries. Pru had asked, “Where will we live?” and her parents had said, not unkindly but firmly, “You will not be coming with us.”
“The point is,” the vicar said, “Mr. Pope is dangerous, and I do not want you near him, Prudence.”
“Yes, sir.”
“To think you might have been shot and killed!” Mrs. Dawson said.
“I really do not think I was in any danger of that,” Pru said. After all, Mr. Pope had been stuck in mud, and the only weapon he had with him had been that fierce scowl.
“Oh, you might think his injury prevents him from aiming true, but I saw the Scotsman,” Langford said. “Mr. Pope is still a good shot.”
“What injury?” Pru asked, trying to remember if she’d seen Mr. Pope walk with a limp or show any sign he favored one arm. He had looked thin and a bit wan but not injured.
“You did not notice?” Langford asked.
Pru shook her head.
“Mr. Pope is blind.”
Three
Nash sat in his dining room nursing a headache. Rowden certainly wasted no time in clearing the house of anything decent to drink. He’d put cup after cup of coffee and tea before Nash but nothing stronger. He’d also managed to have three meals served on Sunday. Nash hadn’t been able to eat much as his belly was used to a liquid diet, but he’d eaten enough that Rowden stopped badgering him.
Rowden was somewhere in the house right now, crashing about, making notes of what needed to be done or undone. Nash just wanted a whiskey or a brandy. Hell, he would have settled for cooking wine, but he’d already searched the kitchen in vain.
He took another sip of his weak tea and closed his eyes. A few moments later Rowden entered and tore open the curtains. “Must you do that?” Nash asked, turning his face from the light.
“You look like a ghost,” Rowden said. “You need fresh air and sunlight.”
Nash scowled. “Since when did you ever care about either? You’ve spent most of your life sleeping all day and battering men for money in the back of a tavern at night.”
“Ah, the good old days,” Rowden said fondly. “But now I spend a number of days giving nobs like you lessons in pugilism at Mostyn’s studio. The sunlight does wonders for my disposition.”
“My disposition is just fine,” Nash said.
“You do seem in a cheery mood. What was that tune you were humming?”
Nash started. “Humming?”
“When I came in, you were humming.”
“You must be hearing things.” But Nash suspected he had been humming. Ever since meeting Miss Howard in the informal gardens, he hadn’t been able to extricate “Bonny Black Hare” from his head. The song went around and around, and the worst part was he heard it sung in her clear, high voice.
“Well?” Rowden said and Nash realized he must have been speaking while Nash wasn’t attending.
“Well, what?”
“Will you come outside and hear my plans?”
“You have plans?”
“Clearly, someone needs a plan. Unless you would prefer to be shut away in an asylum for the rest of your miserable life.”
Nash did not answer.
“Come on. Up you go,” Rowden said.
“Bloody damn hell, but I hate this cheerful side of you,” Nash said, rising to his feet.
“I hate it too. I much prefer knocking men down to pulling them up, but then I owe you at least this much.”
Nash looked at Rowden, trying to see him with his one good eye, but it was too bright with the curtains open. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Rowden didn’t say anything until they were outside. Nash would never admit it, but the crisp autumn air did seem to infuse him with energy. His headache subsided slightly, and he lifted his head so the breeze might catch his hair.
“You saved my life at least three times,” Rowden said, pausing at the bottom of the steps leading to the front door. Nash was carefully navigating them, knowing depth perception was all but impossible with only one half-blind eye.
“I was doing my job,” Nash said once he reached the solid ground. He followed Rowden into a patch of sunlight and was relieved when the other man sank onto a square of brown grass. At least he wouldn’t be made to walk about. Although a small part of him wondered if he would encounter the unpredictable Miss Howard again.
“You were damn good at your job,” Rowden said. “Two of the times you saved my life, I didn’t even see the men coming.”
“I had a good vantage point.”
“You were also good at what you did.”
Nash didn’t answer. Good at what you did. Of course, Rowden wouldn’t say it outright. Nash was good at killing men. Sometimes he had killed them when they threatened his friends. But sometimes he had killed them simply because they might be a threat. And sometimes he’d made mistakes...
“We all came back with scars,” Rowden said quietly after they’d been sitting in the sun long enough for Nash’s cheeks to feel warm. “Some of us have visible scars, like you. But we all have to come to terms with what we did and who we are now. The war changed us.”
Nash lifted a hand and slashed the air angrily, cutting Rowden off. “That’s easy for you to say. You still have your sight. I’ll never see again.” He was surprised at how bitter his voice sounded. He hadn’t said the words out loud very often, but in his mind, they hadn’t sounded quite so petulant.
“You will never see again,” Rowden said, and the words were like the final nail in Nash’s coffin. “But you are alive and the rest of you is in good working order. You can marry, have children—”
“What woman would want me?”
“Hell, what woman would want any of us? Yet, I keep receiving marriage announcements. Mostyn is going to be a father.”
Nash had been lounging on his elbows but now he sat up. Ewan Mostyn had been the Protector of the group, a big man with little to say and no charm to speak of. Nash had watched him toss men as though they were mere ragdolls. He could not imagine the large brute as a father.
“That was my response too,” Rowden said, obviously observing Nash’s shock. “But his wife told me herself.”
“The child would be two before Ewan said anything to you,” Nash observed.
Rowden laughed, and Nash smiled. It did feel good to smile. It had been a long time.
“Now that I have improved your mood, let’s discuss how we might keep you out of Bedlam,” Rowden said.
It was all very well to make plans and talk about the future on a sunny, cool autumn day when Nash had slept the night before and his mind was clear. Nash had made many such plans on days like this. Today was a good day.
But he knew better than to assume the good days would continue. He might have a stretch of three or four before The Cloud descended and he had a dozen bad days. Those days were so dark, so bleak, so devastating, it could take weeks to climb out.
When he was caught in The Cloud, Nash couldn’t stop his mind from going over and over the mistakes he’d made in his life. In particular, the mistakes he’d made in Draven’s troop. The innocents he’d killed. The men who hadn’t died right away after he’d shot them. Men who he’d watched writhe on the ground, crying, begging for help as their blood and their life seeped slowly away and they died a slow, agonizing death.
When he was caught in The Cloud, even the act of breathing seemed to take too much effort.
“Maybe I should go to an asylum,” Nash said after a long moment of silence.
“If that was your attitude, you could have saved me a trip here,” Rowden said, his voice filled with annoyance.
“I didn’t ask you to come.”
“But I came anyway.” Rowden’s voice was steely.
“For the money.”
“For friendship and brotherhood. Because I’m your friend. Mayne and Fortescue are your friends. We’re trying to help you.”
Nash stood. “I don’t want your help.”
“Clearly. The last
time Fortescue was here, you shot at him. You wounded Duncan Murray.”
Nash raked a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know it was Murray.”
“Who did you think it was?”
Nash didn’t answer. It sounded too mad, too unreasonable.
“You thought it was the French. You thought you were under attack,” Rowden said calmly.
Nash sank back to the ground. “I told you I belong in an asylum.”
“You think I don’t wake up sweating some nights, about to piss myself from fear over some imagined threat? You think Neil and Jasper and Colin don’t remember the faces of the men they killed, the screams of horses, and the cries of widows and orphans?”
“When did you become such a poet?”
“Just because I can break your nose doesn’t mean I don’t have a brain. Some would say I’m good at breaking noses because I use my brain. But you’re changing the subject. Why do you think we founded The Draven Club? Not because we all needed one more place to drink or eat beefsteak.”
The Draven Club was located on King Street in London. Membership included a dining room, reading room, card room, and billiards. The members numbered only thirteen—the twelve survivors from Draven’s troop and the colonel himself. Nash had been there once or twice, but with his limited vision, he found he didn’t like being in unfamiliar places or around too many people who might be staring at him.
He wasn’t certain what he looked like now, but he could feel the scar over his left eye and thought it must be hideous enough that he’d grown his hair to cover it.
“It helps to talk about it with people who understand,” Rowden said.
“And what if I don’t want to talk about it?”
There was a lengthy pause. “Then I suppose you end up here. Or in the asylum.” Nash heard Rowden rise. “If you’ve given up then I’m wasting my time. I’ll go back to London, and your father can cart you away.” The grass crunched under his feet as he walked away. Then silence. Nash supposed he had stopped and possibly turned back. “But if you want to fight...well, that’s something I know a bit about.”
