by Kris Tualla
Reid was fairly certain that, this gift of clothing aside, her parents would not be pleased to have their daughter courted by an apparent pauper even if he was a captain in the army. They had higher aspirations for her, even if she had dug in her heels against fulfilling them.
That was not a battle he wished to engage in. Kirsten’s conflict was not his. Better to hold back and remain safely entrenched out of range.
The tailor’s hand slid up the inside of Reid’s thigh and startled him back into the room.
“Spread your legs a bit will you?” the man asked. “I need to measure your inseams.”
Reid complied, a little embarrassed by the man’s unanticipated intimacy. The only other people who ever sewed his clothes were his mother and sisters. When they measured him there, he held the tape in place. For a tailor to do so was obviously expected, as evinced by the man’s businesslike air. He moved the tape quickly from one leg to the other, then wrote the numbers down on his list. Still, Reid had been caught off guard and that always made him uncomfortable.
“Now, Captain, let’s look at materials.” The tailor unrolled several selections of woven wool and linsey-woolsey. “I recommend the linsey-woolsey for your regular uniform as it’s a bit hardier.”
Reid agreed. Though not as elegant a fabric, he was less concerned about that than the idea this might be his last chance to procure a uniform that actually fit him. He would need it to survive as long as possible.
“I agree. I’ll take the gray.” Reid pointed at a sample that matched most of the tree barks he encountered. Moving unseen in forests was an important consideration. “Be certain to add yellow stripes on the sleeves.”
“Yellow for a captain. Of course. And the trousers? Perhaps something darker.” Reid was presented with charcoal gray and dark brown options.
“Brown.” Mud was always a concern.
“Very good, sir.” The tailor made the appropriate notes. “For your dress uniform, however, I recommend going with the wool. Do you want the same colors?”
Reid frowned. “My dress uniform?”
The tailor looked up from his paper. “Mister Sven said I was to outfit you for both battle and social occasions.”
That was unexpectedly generous. Reid glanced at the fabrics and picked the first color he saw. “The dark blue.”
The man looked back at his paper and resumed writing. “And the trousers?”
“Gray, I suppose.”
“Excellent,” the man replied without looking up.
An intuition niggled at Reid’s mind. “What else did Mister Sven order?”
The tailor straightened. “Three linen shirts, three sets of small clothes, and four pair of stockings, two of those wool.”
Reid sat down hard on his cot. “That much? How will I carry it all?”
The tailor grinned. “In the new pack my brother-in-law is making.”
“And my weapons?” Reid prompted, another suspicion making itself known.
The grin widened. “My father has the best selection of Pennsylvania long rifles left in Philadelphia. Yours will be delivered later today.”
Reid glanced at his boots, standing by his cot. “At least I still have my own boots.”
The tailor’s gaze followed his. “Oh, dear.”
“They are a little worn,” Reid admitted.
The other man’s brow wrinkled. “A little?”
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a sheet of paper and a stick of charcoal. He marched over to the boots, plopped them on the paper one at a time and traced their soles.
“Black, I assume,” he said as he worked.
Reid chuckled. “Don’t tell me—your uncle is a cobbler.”
“Cousin, actually.” The tailor looked up and winked. “Uncle Seth retired last year.”
“Did Mister Sven account for the boots?” Reid asked warily. “Because I have no money to pay for them.”
The boots were back in their spot and the man straightened. “He said to procure whatever else you needed that he hadn’t thought of.”
Reid was honestly stunned by Henrik’s generosity. “I don’t know what to say…”
“The same thing I did,” the tailor quipped as he gathered all of his paraphernalia and dumped it in his satchel. “I do thank you, sir, most sincerely!”
*****
Kirsten waited until the tailor had been gone for a quarter hour so she wouldn’t appear too eager to see Reid. When she knocked on his open door he looked up from his book. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles and she noticed that a little of the swelling around his eyes had receded.
“You found the library, I see,” she said as she strolled into the room. “Can you read well enough in this light?”
“It seems bright to me,” he replied with a rueful grin. “But I’m not complaining.”
Kirsten sat in one of the upholstered chairs near the settee where Reid lounged. He closed the book and laid it in his lap.
“I owe you an apology,” he began.
“No, that’s why I’m here,” She objected. “I owe you one.”
Reid’s gaze was pensive. “Go on.”
“You could have objected longer,” she said, partly in jest.
He laughed. “My turn is coming. But I was always taught to let ladies go first.”
He made a salient point. Kirsten drew a deep breath. “I am afraid I did put you in an untenable position.”
Reid waited, his expression unchanged.
“After I told you that people judged me by my looks, I was offended when you didn’t say I was pretty,” she admitted. Her cheeks flamed her embarrassment and she silently blessed the room’s dim light. “And yet, you were right when you called me to task.”
When she paused he asked. “How so?”
He was not making this easy on her. “If you had said I was attractive, then I would have been just as offended. There was no answer you could have given which I could have accepted.”
“Do I receive credit for realizing that before I blurted out my answer?” Reid asked.
Was that a twinkle in his eye? Kirsten wondered. Or perhaps they were simply watering again.
“Yes,” she conceded. “You do.”
Reid dipped his head and gave her a soft smile. “Apology accepted, Miss Sven. All is forgiven.”
“Thank you, Captain Hansen,” she responded. “Your turn.”
Reid straightened on the settee and set the book on a side table. He leaned toward her, resting an elbow on his one bent knee.
“Kirsten, I apologize for raising my voice to you. You are a woman gently born and you should never be spoken to in such a manner,” he began.
Kirsten stared into his eyes as he spoke. Their gray centers and blue rims were so unique that she couldn’t look away.
“Furthermore, I purposely buried my compliments in such a way that they didn’t sound like compliments at all,” he confessed.
“I heard them,” she interrupted. “That was when I realized what I had done.”
“I’d like to correct that failing,” he continued.
Kirsten shook her head. “There is no need. I don’t need to hear—”
“Yes. You do.” His retort was almost a command. Almost.
“Reid…”
“Just listen, will you?” he pressed. “Might you do a poor, injured, and unimportant soldier this small favor?”
Kirsten smiled at that. “You are incorrigible.”
“So I have been told.”
She flipped her wrist dismissively. “Go ahead then. If you must.”
Reid resettled his stance on the settee and flexed his arms, as if preparing for some physical event. “Are you ready?”
Kirsten nodded. Curiosity shoved aside her lingering embarrassment and plopped down next to her in the chair. She honestly wondered what sort of recitation was about to take place.
“First of all, you are a kind and generous woman. I know this because you were at my side when I first became aware after bei
ng injured. Your touch and your voice calmed me when I thought I might be blinded.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Secondly, I heard your—how shall I describe it?—intentional dissuasion of the suitor your parents put on display that first night.”
Kirsten’s embarrassment returned and knocked curiosity to the floor. “That was—”
“Funny,” he interrupted. “And clever. And you made a point which, if I’m not mistaken, you had tried to make before?”
She nodded. “My mother refuses to believe me.”
Reid put held up his palm. “Third, you visited me in the night. Under the cover of darkness and bandages, you showed me what was in your heart. I saw the real Kirsten.”
Kirsten glanced at the open parlor door.
“No one is there,” Reid assured her. “I wouldn’t have said it aloud if someone was.”
She turned back to face him.
“Last of all, my bandages were removed and I saw your visage. And you are, indeed, the singularly most beautiful woman I have ever come across,” he admitted. “I have to be honest with you. I don’t know how else to be.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
If she was the honest one, she would say that his complimenting her beauty now was so unimportant after hearing his other declarations. Staring into his bloodshot, bruised, and beautiful eyes, however, had silenced her voice.
“I have one more thing to add.” He shifted forward in his seat. “I already believed you were a truly beautiful woman. Seeing how you look didn’t change my estimation.”
Kirsten’s gaze dropped to his lips. The urge to kiss him overwhelmed and terrified her. She froze, unsure of what to do.
“Not unless you mean it,” he murmured.
Her eyes shot up to meet his, intense and pinned on hers. For a pace, she didn’t even breathe.
“I have to go,” she rasped.
She stood and walked from the room, fighting the urge to flee.
CHAPTER TEN
September 13, 1781
Reid assumed the resounding knock on the manor’s front door would be Doctor Haralson coming to remove the stitches in his leg. He was surprised by the envelope brought to him in the doctor’s stead. It was addressed simply to R.H.
He looked up at Horace. “Who brought this?”
“A rather non-descript soldier wearing brown,” the valet replied.
“Horseback or on foot?” Reid pressed.
Horace’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t see a horse.”
Reid pushed himself up from an upholstered bench in the library, his heavy book falling to the ground with a loud, flat-sided crack. He step-hopped to the entry and yanked the front door open. Between the portico’s pillars he could see all the way down the drive.
No one was there.
Skitt.
“Is anything amiss, sir?” Horace asked from just behind his right shoulder.
Reid shook his head, still staring down the drive as if he could make the mystery messenger reappear by sheer will. “No,” he grunted.
Reid closed the front door, resisting the urge to slam it, and hobbled past a worried Horace into his parlor.
“Would you care for tea?” the valet offered. “Perhaps a biscuit?”
“Yes, thank you,” Reid answered without looking up. He broke the seal on the note and unfolded the thick paper.
Just received word you were injured, not killed. When you are able, come directly to the farm. More was discovered regarding the target and the marksman.
102
Reid refolded the paper. He walked to the fireplace and tossed it into the small flame. The paper flared briefly before crumbling into ash. He stared at the remainders of the message and knew for certain that the explosion was no accident.
He just needed to remember what happened.
“Was that the doctor?” Kirsten asked from the parlor’s doorway.
Reid turned and smiled at her. “No. I had hoped so as well.”
She clasped her hands behind her and returned his smile. “Would you care to take a walk while we wait?”
“Horace is bringing tea and biscuits,” Reid said as he limped toward her. “Will you join me? We can walk afterward if Haralson still has not arrived.”
“Yes, that would be lovely,” she replied.
Reid reached the parlor door and offered his arm. “Let’s have our refreshments in the drawing room. I spend enough time in here.”
Kirsten hooked her arm through his, offering him support in his lameness.
Reid hoped that once the stitches were removed he might be able to test the limits of his leg. The message in the note cleared away the cloud of denial he had rested in these last ten days and the time for him to return to his duties was nigh. Once his clothing and weapon arrived, he would leave the Sven household. And Kirsten.
He settled into a chair and considered his hostess. She had made her views regarding marriage quite clear to him. Even so, her actions toward him spoke of more than friendship, and he wondered if she was reconsidering her position. Though he had nothing to offer her at the moment, he might in the future. By the time he went on his way, he needed to decide whether to open that door, or leave it closed and walk away with no strings trailing behind.
“What are you pondering so somberly?” she asked.
“I have a war to return to,” he answered. “That isn’t a pleasant consideration.”
Her expression cooled. “No. It is not.”
A servant girl carried in the tray of tea and biscuits. Neither Kirsten nor Reid spoke as she poured their cups and set out plates.
“Will there be anything else?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” Kirsten replied.
The girl curtsied and left.
“I shall be quite bored when you leave, you realize,” Kirsten said.
Reid gave her a crooked grin. “Perhaps I should write to my superiors and ask their leave to remain here and entertain you on a daily basis.”
She huffed a little chuckle. “You are not that much fun.”
He clapped a hand over his heart. “You wound so deeply with your words. Alas, I am cast back into the cauldron of conflict,” he teased.
Kirsten flashed him half-a-smile and blew on the liquid in her cup. She took a sip of her tea. Reid bit into a sugared biscuit.
She considered him over her steaming cup. “After the war you hope to get land of your own.”
He nodded. “I do.”
“Do you know how you will manage that?” she probed.
He shook his head. “I do not.”
Her brow twitched. “To reign as sovereign over your lands and family—wasn’t that what you said?”
Reid made a dismissive gesture with the biscuit still in his hand. “Expansive dinner conversation is not to be used as testimony against anyone.”
Kirsten sighed and stared at nothing. “Sovereignty is not an easy burden, just the same,” she said after a pace.
“And I don’t expect to run a country. Only a few hundred acres with a servant or two,” he countered. “Where is this grave humor coming from?”
She blinked her turquoise eyes back to his as if she had forgotten he was there. “Don’t mind me. I was reading a book about Denmark.”
Reid laughed. “Was it Hamlet? No wonder you are so maudlin.”
Kirsten smiled, appearing relieved for some unexplained reason. “And without you to walk me out every afternoon and enliven my dinner conversation each evening, how will my spirits be lifted?”
“I’m certain you will adjust to the loss,” he quipped with a grin. “After all, I’m not that much fun.”
*****
Kirsten nearly choked on her tea. After much coughing and resultant back-slapping, she squinted up at Captain Hansen through watering eyes.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
“I’m so sorry!” Reid declared, looking quite contrite. “Are you recovered?”
“If you stop beating
me to death I might have a chance,” she squeaked.
Reid dropped back into his chair, his expression still etched with concern. “You said once that my sense of humor was going to get you in trouble.”
“I was jesting, you idiot!” she rasped between intermittent coughs and reluctant giggles.
The door knocker drew her attention.
“Shall I ask the doctor to see you first?” Reid asked.
“That’s not necessary.” Kirsten took a long gulp of her cooled tea. “I am fine.”
Horace appeared at the drawing room door. “Doctor Haralson has arrived.”
Kirsten set her cup down, careful to not break off this one’s handle, and stood. “Show him to the parlor, Horace. We shall join him presently.”
Horace gave a small bow. “Yes, Miss.”
Kirsten steadied Reid as he hobbled across the entry. She helped him into the parlor, wondering if she might be allowed to stay.
“Thank you, my dear,” the doctor said gently as he gestured toward the door. “I’ll call you back in when we have finished.”
Kirsten flashed a gracious smile, and then positioned herself outside the closed portal with her ear smashed flat against it. The men’s words were muffled, but she caught most of them. There was a pause while Reid removed his breeches. Kirsten bit her lips and tried not to imagine what the captain might look like disrobed.
“Good. Very good,” Doctor Haralson said, followed by the sounds of rummaging in a case. “This will probably be a bit uncomfortable, and the wound might bleed.”
Reid didn’t say anything intelligible in reply.
The next several minutes passed in silence. Kirsten blew her impatience out loose lips.
“There we are. How does it feel?”
“Sore. But not intolerable, by any means,” Reid answered.
“I’m going to wrap it again to give the wound support as it heals. You can begin to bend your leg now. But if you feel the gash pulling, you must stop immediately or you might reopen it.”
Reid must have nodded his response.
“Headaches?”
“Gone.”
“How are your eyes?”
“Improving.”
“Are you still wearing the spectacles?”
