by Don Jacobson
Now that he was unoccupied, he felt the shame of this day’s failures wash over him. Planting both feet flat on the floor, he rested his elbows on his knees and let his hands dangle. He reflexively clenched and relaxed his great fists as he stared at the richly stained floorboards between his heels. Tears of frustration threatened to well unbidden from his burning eyes. Temporarily unmanned, he gulped and heaved a strangled cry.
He felt the intensity of Annie’s stare. He lifted his head to face her and was surprised by the gentleness of her tone as she spoke to him. She reached out a small hand to him.
“Hen…Mr. Wilson…what happened? You told Doctor Campbell that ‘your devil took you.’ What did you mean by that? Was the fit you had a few weeks ago that devil of which you spoke?”
Wilson nodded, swallowed audibly and gazed down at his hands hanging between his knees. How could someone as sweet, innocent and honest as Annie Reynolds understand, let alone admire, a broken soul like him? He had spent so many years in the Army hiding the fear and anger that alternately coursed through him. He had killed men in a dozen ways. He had watched men under his command die in a dozen more. In spite of the time he had spent with Father Newman,[xxiii] he was still convinced that, like the damned Scottish laird Macbeth, his hands would never come clean.[xxiv]
Yet Henry Wilson knew with every fiber of his being that Anne Reynolds was made for him and he for her. That discovery had been resolving itself for weeks now. If he did not trust her at this moment with his awful secret, there could never be any them, only a dark and possibly short future for him alone. If he did not speak immediately, before Campbell and Maturin returned to minister to Miss Bennet, there might never be another chance as he would likely be gone by morning from Cecil House; turned out without character, for his failure to protect the young woman and the child.
He ran his tongue around dry lips. And began his tale.
He cast back ten years or more to the last time he was truly happy—when he served Reverend Benton at St. Ann’s in Manchester.[xxv] Then came the news of Trafalgar and, like so many youngsters who had never known anything but that the Corsican bastard was an existential threat to Britain, he tracked down a recruiting sergeant. Even though Henry was just a stripling lad of four and ten, his shoulders were broader than those of most men and he towered above all but a few denizens of Manchester’s greasier quarters. The three-striper smiled but did not ask his age. Rather he bought him a tankard of ale, passed him his bounty and, with that transaction, Henry Wilson became the liege servant of His Majesty King George III.
Then he told her of his adjusting to life in the army—and it was not a gentle transition. While he was big and strong, he had not yet attained that temperament which would allow him to fight for his place. He learned to hate because the sadistic Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill[xxvi] pinned his own thievery on the young man three times…each of which earned him 25 lashes at the crosstrees. After that, he cultivated a deadly vacant stare that frightened the slimy slug into leaving him alone.
His first combat was outside of Copenhagen. There he encountered the good-hearted Northamptonshire-bred Charlie Tomkins. From then on, Tomkins protected the young giant from enemies both in Frankish blue and British red. The 33rd fought its way out through the horrors Corunna. After resupply and filled with new recruits, the 33rd was transferred to Arthur Wellesley’s[xxvii] command in Portugal. From Porto to Talavera in 1810, Tomkins taught Wilson the warrior’s craft. In 1811 they ran side-by-side into the breach at Badajoz with Lieutenant Sharpe’s forlorn hope.[xxviii] That and their survival earned both men their sergeant’s stripes.
The further battlefields Wilson ticked off in his litany read like the Roll of Honor at Horse Guards and were known to every Briton who was awake and aware: Salamanca, Vitoria, the breaching of the Pyrenees, Toulouse and, finally, Quatre Bras, Mont. St. Jean and Waterloo. Annie marveled at how he could have come through so much and still live to tell the tale.
A wraith floating above Reynolds and Wilson would have seen and heard the big man, head bowed, alternately speaking in a monotone or softly sobbing; his broad shoulders heaving in his pain and grief. Miss Reynolds moved little, but as time passed, she leaned more and more toward the shuddering footman as if drawn to his bruised nobility.
Then she reached out her hand and gently stroked his short cut hair, not from pity, but rather to provide tangible evidence that he was being heard and that his pain was being shared in whatever measure by one who cared for him.
That simple gesture…grace it was…broke through his final reserves.
Henry Wilson dropped to his knees, buried his face in her skirts and wept as he mourned lost friends, childhood and chunks of his soul.
Henry did not know how long he knelt in front of Annie before he was able to regulate his emotions. She had not said a word since he began his story. However, the moment that he realized that his face was buried in black muslin, he pulled back, a deep blush suffusing his fair skin. He jolted to his feet and unconsciously sought to straighten his coat only to realize he was clad only in breeches and a shirt.
He stammered as he addressed Annie, “Oh, M…Mis…Miss Reynolds… wh…wh…what you must think of me. I apologize most sincerely for this horrible violation of propriety. I treated you abominably.
“I would expect that every man jack below stairs starting with Mr. Hastings would be happy to take me out behind the stables for a deeper conversation about my manners. I would deserve it. Would not raise a hand to defend myself either.”
His disturbed countenance and physical quaking was too much for Anne. Hopping from the bed, she stepped up to him capturing his bright blue eyes with her creamy brown ones and rested her hand on his arm. She spoke softly to him, “Mr. Wilson, you have done nothing for which either you or I should be ashamed. You were in great distress. I simply provided that same measure of human kindness I would hope would be doled out to me if my world came crashing down about my ears.”
Her tender reply stopped his crisis.
She does understand. And she is not repulsed by my story. What now?
The quiet shared by the two of them was suddenly shattered with the arrival of the saturnine Maturin and the burly Campbell who were engaged in a deep discussion.
Chapter XIII
Annie marveled as she watched Stephen Maturin work at his craft. Delegated to hold the lacemaker’s lamp that focused light on the surgical site, the young maid had revised her thinking about medicine in the past few hours. So used to dirty men claiming knowledge but using treatments unchanged since the ancient Greeks, she was astonished at the depth of the ideas present in the continuous dialogue between the naval surgeon and the army doctor. These were men not beholden to rich nobs easily fooled into paying for useless treatments for imagined maladies. Rather, they appeared to live to learn…and their field of study was the human body.
She stood directly behind Henry who was seated at Miss Bennet’s head. As before, he held the governess steady in his unchanging grip. Maturin drilled the necessary holes and then used his jeweler’s saw to delicately remove living bone as he reduced the fracture and left a porthole exposing the young woman’s brain. Anne saw Henry’s native strength and his powerful resolve. He had not significantly shifted his position in over an hour. The only signs of weariness he exhibited were periodic tremors in the great muscular triangle formed by his neck and shoulders.
Finally Maturin signaled that Wilson could relax. The footman lifted his fingers from Miss Bennet’s head and softly let his hands drop to his sides. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes releasing a great sigh. As he turned his head from side-to-side to release the tension, he caught Anne’s eye. The slight twitch at the corners of his mouth told her that at least at this exact moment, Henry felt that he had expiated some of his sin.
Dr. Campbell stated, “Miss Reynolds, I am going to ask you to bear with us for another few minutes while Mr. Maturin finishes treating Miss Bennet. We wi
ll need your light to guide us as we swab the area with spirits and then pack the cavity with cotton wool. Then a quick wrapping to keep the nasty things at bay.”
She nodded, but began to wobble a little with that movement. Henry pushed back his chair and stood.
“Please allow me to take the lamp from you,” he rumbled, “You are about spent. I have a least one more forced march left.”
She made to demur, but he shook his head and reached out, removing the light from her hands. Then he added, “Sit. Once they are finished, you will have more time on your feet before you can relax.”
Annie smiled her gratitude and dropped into the seat he had just vacated. Together the servants watched the physicians complete their tasks.
After the three men had shifted Miss Bennet to the bed, they left to report to Lady Mary and Lord Tom. Annie rang for Sarah, and together they carefully removed the remnants of Miss Bennet’s day clothes. As they gave the senseless girl a sponge bath, the maids’ moods hardened against her dead attacker as they viewed the angry purple and yellow welts marring her delicate flesh. Both Sarah and Annie unconsciously touched matching spots on their young torsos as they revealed each fearsome mark hidden beneath the older girl’s chemise. The worst was the blackening of the tender creaminess of her maidenly left breast, a mark so deep and angry that the nipple had all but vanished. Teenaged tears added saltiness to the soothing wash.
Sarah had not seen Miss Bennet since she had watched the footmen carry her inside. She was shocked at the terrible injuries the governess had absorbed in defense of Miss Margaret.
Aiii. T’would I’ve done th’ same as Miss B? Allus bin a foll’wer, me. First me sis. Then Annie. Nev’r ‘ad the courage ta know me own mind. Not like Miss B. She’s a real lady. Steady like. Dependable. Bet she never took the rear-facin’ seat in th’ carriage ‘cept when she were ridin’ wit’ Lady Mary.
Annie had spent some time considering how they would attire Miss Bennet. Now she put her plans into action. Sarah had brought the India Rubber-treated sheet fro and had slid it underneath her. A makeshift nappie bound her hips. Annie had also tracked down an oversized night rail accidentally left in the laundry by an elderly guest of generous proportions. The drawstring neckline helped ease the gown over Miss Bennet’s well-bandaged head. Annie had split the left sleeve from the armpit to nearly the wrist to accommodate the splint.
The job completed, the girls looked at one another over the supine form of a woman they both saw more as a sister than a mistress.
“The doctors said she will remain in a coma for at least the next several days. You and I will have to divide our time here. Someone needs to be with Miss Bennet every minute. I am not certain if Mrs. Hastings will relieve us of all of our other duties, but we can address that if we have to divide our attentions,” Annie said.
Sarah slowly responded, carefully picking her words, “I…want…ya…you to know…that I am grateful for the conf’dence you have shown in me. I…”
“Oh, Sarah, that was spoken beautifully. Keep that up, and you will be a Lady’s Maid yourself before long.
“Could you keep watch over Miss Bennet? I am going downstairs to see if Dr. Campbell has any other instructions. No sense in having him traipse all over trying to find me after he talks with her Ladyship and his Lordship.”
A footman opened the doors to the sitting room. Maturin and Campbell marched in. Wilson trailed behind carrying Maturin’s bag. That was about all he could carry given the profound exhaustion that was beginning to assail him.
Campbell addressed Lady Mary, Lord Tom and General Fitzwilliam.
“Well, Miss Bennet is yet in the land of the living. We dinna kill her. I am not sure how. Mr. Maturin seems satisfied. I will let him tell you more. Please forgive our sartorial disarray. We did not waste time with valets in the belief you would wish to know everything immediately.
“Lady Cecil, I would like to commend Wilson here to you. He did us all a great service by holding Miss Bennet’s head in place for nearly an hour while Mr. Maturin did his work. Without Wilson, we could not have brought the lady over the finish line.”
Lady Mary smiled first at Campbell and then, turning her to her servant, at Wilson. That she bestowed this reward was not lost on Henry. She acknowledged him with a nod and said, “Wilson, you should go below stairs now and take some dinner and rest. Tell the staff that it appears that Miss Bennet is moving in the right direction.”
Maturin jumped in, “But please do not raise their hopes. It is still likely that she will not survive. We have done what we can at this moment to keep her alive for longer than if we had done nothing.”
Wilson bowed and left the room. As he closed the door, he heard Campbell speak up.
“Listen Fitzwilliam, I am not going to speculate about what happened to Wilson this morning, but I can make an educated guess. It is the same problem you and I have talked about in the past. Maybe you could take him in hand. His is a good man…in fact one of the best.”
Turning into the hallway after he closed the door, Henry nearly collided with Annie as she moved toward the sitting room. He pulled back to avoid trampling her, but extended a long arm to catch her as she momentarily stumbled.
Anne blushed sweetly as she steadied herself against the rippling muscles thoroughly discernable beneath the flowing linen of his shirtsleeve. Gazing up at him she could see his tanned neck vanishing down between unbuttoned collars which vee’d to a close about three inches below his collarbones. She studied chest hairs curling up from between flat pectorals. His scent, leather and beeswax, which she had ignored while they were above in the Gold Suite, flooded back to envelope her. She was nearly overcome by his sheer presence.
“Miss Reynolds, are you all right? Do you need to sit?”
“Oh, Mr. Wilson, I am quite well. Indeed, if not for poor Miss Bennet, I could not be better.”
Leaving him standing in puzzlement, she tapped on the sitting room door and entered.
Chapter XIV
November 12, 1815, Gold Suite
The past week had seen little change in Miss Bennet’s obvious condition. From his post next to the top of the bed, Wilson had observed little to encourage him. Then again, he was just a footman. Both Mr. Maturin and Dr. Campbell seemed quite satisfied with her progress…so much so that yesterday they had declared the dreaded brain swelling to be on the retreat and had returned the preserved fragment of her skull to its proper place.
Miss Bennet certainly did not seem any worse now except in appearance. The bruising on her face had moved through a number of stages, darkening to a near purple-black before beginning to fade to a sickly yellow-green. Her breathing remaining regular and soft, for the most part, except when she would suddenly cough as her body tried to clear away mucous dripping into her throat from behind her broken nose. Those spasms would send the great General Sir Richard Fitzwilliam scurrying from the room like a scalded cat. His flight would end in the hallway outside of the Gold Suite with him collapsing into the armchair installed for that purpose.
That poor man. He forgets that there is so much in this war we call life that he cannot control. Among those are his feelings for the lady.
Michael Tomkins and Henry had been alternating four-hour shifts standing post by the head of the bed. Sarah and Annie would do the same from a chair at the foot of the bed. The men either stood watch or fetched as directed by the maids or the doctors. They would be shooed out of the room when both girls would work together to clean and dress Miss Bennet and refresh the bed linens. The one solemn task entrusted only to Annie—one which she would not allow Sarah or anyone else to take on—was to spoon water or broth between the lady’s still lips. Early on Annie would gently stroke Kitty’s throat to encourage swallowing. However, by the evening of the 9th, liquids were being well tolerated and her swallowing reflex was clearly unimpeded…a good sign according to Dr. Campbell.
None of them had gotten more than
three or fours hours rest in any stretch during the past week. Not that they noticed; their focus on Miss Bennet being so strong. The General slept even less than they. He caught catnaps in another chair adjacent to Miss Bennet’s bed or out in the hall in the slightly more comfortable wingback left for him there. His military lifestyle had trained him to sleep when he could and soldier on when he could not. For Richard Fitzwilliam this was the most important forced march of his life.
This Sunday morning, one of the many in Ordinary Time between Pentecost and Advent, began as an unremarkable day. The household from Lord Tom and Lady Mary down to all but a few essential staff—those left behind would attend Vespers in the evening—repaired to services in St. George’s precincts. The four servants and General Fitzwilliam remained with Kitty.
Fitzwilliam had been reading from his prayer book when he stopped and looked up at the four people busying themselves around the room. He stood and cleared his throat to get their attention.
“Today is Sunday. I am certain that Rector Hodgson[xxix] has composed a special prayer for Miss Bennet at the behest of Lord Tom. We cannot attend today’s services, but if you would not object, I would like to lead us in a particular prayer that gave me comfort over my years in the field. Sergeant Wilson will recognize this, I am sure. Our church fathers have written prayers for a variety of needs and occasions from plague and famine to celebration and weather.
“We have been battling this past week alongside one of the most valiant women I have ever known. So, Miss Reynolds, Miss Small, Mr. Tomkins and Sergeant Wilson, I would like to speak the Prayer for a Time of War.”
He bowed is shaggy head over the well-thumbed pages.
“O Almighty God, King of all kings, and Governor of all things, whose power no creature is able to resist, to whom it belongeth justly to punish sinners, and to be merciful to them that truly repent: Save and deliver us, … that we, being armed with thy defense, may be preserved evermore from all perils, to glorify thee, who art the only giver of all victory; through the merits of thy only Son, Jesus Christ our Lord.”[xxx]
