by Kris Tualla
“I do when I go out of doors.”
“Mm-hmm.”
More rummaging in the case.
“Doctor, may I ask you a question?”
The rummaging stopped. “Of course.”
“I don’t remember the explosion, nor do I recall what happened just before it…”
Kirsten held her breath, shocked by Reid’s words.
“That’s not unusual. And it’s nothing to be worried about.”
There was a pause. “Will I ever remember?”
“I can’t answer that.” This time the doctor paused. “Is there a reason you need to remember?”
“There might be.”
That’s interesting. I wonder what could the reason be?
The rummaging continued. “In that case I wish you luck. There isn’t anything further I can do.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“It has been my honor, Captain.”
Kirsten backed away from the door. As soon as the latch clicked she walked past as if the timing was mere coincidence. She spun to face the opening portal.
“Doctor Haralson! Are you finished?” she enquired cheerily.
“We are,” he said turning toward the front door. “And I am glad to report that Captain Hansen is well on the road to recovery.”
“That is such good news,” she gushed.
Haralson rested his hand on the door handle. “He should be able to return to his regiment in another week.”
“That long?” Reid’s voice spilled over her shoulder.
She was thinking that soon? Based on their conversation before the doctor arrived, she didn’t expect Reid to sound so eager.
“Stay off horses for two weeks,” the doctor ordered. “And God speed.”
Kirsten turned to Reid as she closed the door behind the departing physician. “Do you have a horse?”
“No,” he replied.
“So you walk everywhere you go?” That seemed inefficient. And slow.
Reid shrugged. “Now you know why the war drags on.”
She stepped closer. “How does your leg feel?”
Reid bent his knee into a right angle. “Bending it this far doesn’t hurt. That’s an improvement.”
Kirsten wagged a finger at him. “You know what Doctor Haralson said. If you feel the gash pulling, you must stop immediately or you might reopen it.”
“I heard him.” Reid flashed an incredulous grin. “But how did you?”
*****
Reid watched with amusement as Kirsten’s cheeks turned an amazing shade of deep rose. The color was stunning next to her eyes. He debated whether to let her squirm or offer her dispensation.
Dispensation won out.
“Because if our roles were reversed,” he offered. “There is a very good chance that I would have been listening outside the door.”
“You are incorrigible,” she huffed.
“As are you, so it would seem.” He winked and swept a hand toward the door. “Are we still taking our walk?”
Kirsten wavered. “I thought your leg was sore.”
“It’s the sort of sore that exercise would be good for, I think.” He glanced out one of the two tall windows flanking the carved wooden door. The sun was currently hidden by clouds, though an abundance of blue sky was still visible. “Do you need a wrap?”
“No, I’ll be fine.” She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “Let’s go before the weather turns.
Reid donned his tinted glasses before he led Kirsten down the steps, the first time he did so without using his funny-looking cane. It felt good to be relying on his own strength. He set off on their accustomed stroll down the long drive. Clouds scudded overhead, alternately allowing and withholding the warmth of the sun in their spirited game of chase.
“Since you know I was listening at the door—and were rude enough to tell me so,” Kirsten began.
“Oh no,” Reid objected. “You revealed that indiscretion yourself, if you will recall. Keep your facts straight, darling.”
Kirsten blew huff of irritation. “The details are unimportant. But there is something I wanted to ask you about.”
“Go on,” Reid urged.
“I heard you say you can’t remember the explosion, nor what happened right before it.” She looked up at him. “While I can understand that must be disconcerting, why else do you want to remember?”
Reid walked in silence and considered how to answer her. “Because… it’s possible that the explosion was not an accident.”
“You mean you were attacked?” she clarified.
“I mean,” he said slowly. “That it’s possible that someone meant to do harm to someone else.”
She shook her head. “That’s a rather esoteric answer, isn’t it?”
Reid stopped walking and looked down at her. “If there was a reason for the explosion, then my being able to remember is critical to discovering that reason.”
“Is that your responsibility?” she pressed.
Reid hesitated before admitting the truth. “Yes.”
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
“Because that is one of the reasons I was sent here.”
Her brow furrowed delicately. “You were sent here in case there was an attack? Or because you knew there would be one?”
Reid struggled with how much to tell her. It wasn’t likely she would ever have a conversation with anyone to whom this information might be of interest, but one never knew.
“We had reason to believe something might happen,” he allowed. “Please don’t ask me any more.”
He watched her decide whether or not to be offended by that request, and was amazed at how her emotions played so openly over her features. This woman could never be a spy. Her thoughts were displayed as clearly as if they were written in ink across her forehead. At least, they were to him.
“Because if I tell you any more,” he cajoled, trying to make her laugh, “then I would have to kill you in order to keep our secrets.”
Kirsten screwed up her mouth and stuck her tongue at him. He laughed, glad to see her playfulness.
“Walk me back to the house?” she beseeched. “I’m starting to get cold.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
September 18, 1781
Reid stood in the parlor and stared at the wrapped bundles lined up on his cot. His new wardrobe had, apparently, arrived. On the floor, resting against the crate which extended his pallet, was a sturdy leather pack, generous in size, and designed to be worn on a sling that went over his shoulder and across his chest. The pack had two buckled pouches on the outside, so he would have easy access to whatever he found useful to store there. Next to the pack was a pair of tall, black boots.
His rifle had arrived days ago, and came with oil and a box of bullets. Reid had taken the weapon outside to practice shooting and was very pleased with both the accuracy and distance which the Pennsylvania rifle was capable of. The desire to return to his duties began niggling at him that very day.
Standing in his adopted chamber now, he flexed his right thigh. There remained some stiffness and soreness, but he assured himself of daily improvement. Now that his uniforms had arrived, he should make plans to leave.
Reid began opening the bundles. He shut the door of the parlor, stripped off the shirt and breeches which had been his only attire for the last week and a half, and began to try on the new garments. As he did so, he folded the items and stacked them on the cot in a way which made sense for stowing them in the leather pack.
The fit was excellent, down to the smallclothes. The linen shirts were roomy, but not excessively so. The daily uniform of linsey-woolsey was solidly constructed and should last him years. When he unwrapped the dress uniform, however, he sucked a slow breath of appreciation.
The dark blue wool was finely woven and deceptively soft. His yellow captain’s stripe circled the left sleeve—a solution Reid preferred over General Washington’s suggestion of a captain’s cockade on his hat. Mostly because he seldom
wore a hat; he found them to be a hindrance. Other than the stripe and a touch of red piping here and there, the jacket was simple and finely tailored. Reid slipped it on. It fit perfectly.
Next came the gray woolen trousers. Though he would tuck the trousers of either uniform inside his boots when he was in battle, both pair were long enough to be left outside the boots on more formal occasions without making him look like an adolescent pup whose mother couldn’t sew fast enough for his spurting growth.
Reid smiled at the clearly remembered, and accurate, illustration of his youth.
He swiped his palm across his chin, rasping his whiskers, and decided to thank Henrik by putting himself on display tonight. He would shave, bathe, and wear the formal uniform to dinner. Tonight he would show them the man who had been hidden and hobbled by his injuries.
Reid removed the formal garments and laid them out on his cot before searching out Horace.
“I’ll need a shave and a proper bath,” Reid told the valet once he ran the man to ground. “My new uniform has arrived and I want to make a proper show of my thanks.”
Horace looked as though he had been handed a plate of Christmas sweets. “Yes, sir! I should be happy to oblige. Follow me, will you?”
Reid followed Horace to an alcove off the kitchen. Along the way, the valet ordered the tin tub and hot water to be set up in the space. He directed Reid to sit in the simple yet sturdy wooden chair waiting there.
“I’ll shave you first, while we await the bath,” he explained.
Reid took his seat and gave himself over to Horace’s skilled ministrations. The hot towels to soften his skin and beard, the richly whipped-up soap lather, the rasping scrape as his stubble was removed row by row. Horace had an experienced hand and didn’t nick him even once. The man possessed a rare skill indeed.
Another hot towel wiped away the remainder of the soap. Reid always missed this luxury when he was in the field. He promised himself yet again that he would treat himself whenever the opportunity arose. If he had any money to pay the barber, that was.
“Would you like me to cut your hair, sir?” Horace asked, the razor still in his hand.
“I need it long enough to tie out of the way,” Reid explained. “In battle I cannot have hair in my eyes.”
Horace set the razor down, untied Reid’s hair, and combed it out with his fingers. “I could trim it a good three or four inches and it would still have adequate length,” he suggested.
“Why not?” Reid acquiesced, chuckling. “I should take advantage of your services while I have the chance. Lord knows when I’ll find myself in such luxury again!”
The valet smiled, obviously pleased that his suggestion was taken. He procured a proper comb and worked the tangles out of Reid’s hair before trimming it just as he said.
When Horace was finished, Reid ran his fingers through his hair. It hung just to his shoulders—a much easier length to maintain.
“That’s perfect, Horace,” he complimented. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure, sir. Will you need help with your bath?” The steaming tub was now ready and waiting in the alcove.
“I believe I can manage,” Reid answered.
“Very good.” Horace placed a folded privacy screen across the opening to the small space. “Here is the soap. I’ll bring your towels. Take as much time as you need.”
“Thank you.”
Once he was sheltered, Reid again stripped off the borrowed shirt and breeches, as well as the bandage around his thigh. The gash was healing, though it left a dark pink trail about half an inch wide and six inches long through the dark blond forest on his leg.
He stepped into the tub of hot water and eased himself into another luxury he seldom experienced. For several minutes, he closed his eyes and merely enjoyed the heat. It soaked into his thigh and eased the ache. Reid didn’t move until the water began to cool.
Dunking his head under the water, he scrubbed his scalp clean. Then he soaped and scrubbed his other important parts. Having finished his pleasure, and done his duty, he stood in the tub and began to dry himself off.
*****
Kirsten waited for Reid to join them for dinner, her impatience playing out in the tap of her slipper under the table and the bounce of her fork on top of it.
After their walk today, Reid had disappeared. His door was shut. He neither joined her for tea in the drawing room, nor met her in the library to read together, as had become their habit in the shortening afternoons.
The worst part was how much she missed him; this was not a good development. Reid was only a temporary diversion. Kirsten knew he would be leaving soon, probably in a few days at most. She hated to think about what her life would return to after the captain’s presence was removed. She had grown accustomed to his easy presence and his undemanding friendship.
A movement in the corner of her vision pulled her from her reverie.
She looked toward the doorway intending to chide Reid for being as late as he was. The vision in the opening silenced her. Captain Hansen was so transformed that astonishment robbed her ability to breathe, much less speak.
The uniform’s jacket hugged his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The gray trousers were snug against his thighs and dropped straight to the arch of his polished black boots. Newly shaven, his strong jaw was once again quite noticeable. His blond hair was clean, combed and neatly trimmed to a length which only brushed his shoulders.
He stood straight and tall, his scalp less than half a foot from the top of the door jamb. When his eyes met Kirsten’s, the blue of the jacket made them appear the most amazing color; at this moment they were more blue than gray.
“Good evening. I apologize for my tardiness,” he said in a voice that was somehow deeper and richer than she noticed before. “My toilette took longer than I anticipated.”
Henrik jumped up and crossed the room, his hand extended. “My God, sir, you do look the part of an officer now!” he enthused.
Reid pumped her father’s hand. “Thanks to your generosity.”
He shifted his regard to Marit. “And to your gracious hospitality, Madame Sven. I would not be so well recovered without it.”
“We were honored to be of help,” Marit replied softly.
Kirsten noticed Marit’s use of the past tense. She dragged her eyes away from Reid to consider her mother.
Marit’s gaze shifted from the captain’s to her daughter’s. Kirsten saw the warning there. What was her mother thinking existed between Kirsten and the captain? She narrowed her eyes in defiance.
“Come sit, Reid.” Kirsten’s irritation had released her voice. She turned back to face him and smiled. “Your unveiling has been quite successful and we are all duly impressed.”
Reid bowed from the neck before striding to his seat. Once in place he grinned at her so brightly that she nearly burst into tears.
Kirsten never imagined the possibility of becoming so connected to a stranger in only two weeks, that his imminent departure might reduce her to hysteria. She faced her soup and spooned the liquid into her mouth without really tasting it. Conversation colored the air around her as her father and Reid chatted amicably about where he would be going and what he would be doing when he arrived there.
Perhaps it was best that he left. Her unwavering objections to marriage remained solidly in place, and his continued presence in her home could only bring that situation to an ugly conclusion. Kirsten was certain of that.
At least, she believed that she was.
She looked up at Reid again.
His gaze moved to hers.
The intensity with which he regarded her conveyed both his respect for her, and his kind affections toward her. She felt the impact of both surge through her veins. She realized she was smiling at him only after he smiled back.
Her mother cleared her throat. “Coffee, Captain?”
He looked away. The spell was broken. As broken as Kirsten was.
And every bit as irreparable.
&
nbsp; *****
Reid hoped the knock at his parlor door might be Kirsten. She was so withdrawn through most of dinner that he wanted to speak with her and discern what might have occurred to put her mood off, yet she hurried away from the dining room before he could say anything.
He did not expect to see Marit Sven facing him. Luckily, he was still wearing his jacket, though it was unbuttoned.
“Might I have a word with you, Captain?” she asked.
Reid began to fasten the brass buttons. “Of course, Madame Sven.”
She turned and spoke to him over her shoulder. “Follow me. We’ll speak in my husband’s study.”
Reid obeyed, his curiosity rudely shoving him forward. Once in the room, Marit closed the door and indicated the two upholstered chairs in front of the banked fire. The nights were beginning to chill and low fires now burned in several of the manor’s lower rooms.
“After you, ma’am,” he said politely. Whatever was on her mind, he didn’t want his lack of manners to become part of her concern.
Marit sank wordlessly into one of the chairs. Reid sat in the other, his back straight.
“I have something to tell you, Captain. It’s about my daughter. Something I don’t believe that you know,” she stated with confidence.
“Is she ill?” Reid asked the first thing that popped in his mind.
Marit waved a heavily ringed hand. “Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. Kirsten is in the best of health, both in mind and body.”
“I am relieved to hear that,” he said truthfully.
She flashed a mirthless smile. “It’s about who she is.”
Reid waited. There was nothing to say to such a statement, and Marit was clearly enjoying his bemusement.
“To be more correct, I suppose, it’s about who I am. And my father,” she corrected. This time she waited.
“Who is your father?” Reid asked, realizing that this could be a very long conversation if he did not.
Her regal tone suited her words, “King Christian the Sixth of Norway and Denmark.”
Reid fell back in his chair. Whatever he anticipated she might say, this was definitely not on the table. Helvete, it wasn’t even in the room. Or the building.
