Gallant Waif

by Anne Gracie

  He threw back his head and laughed outright at that. "Good God, no! Heaven preserve me from hysterical fe­males!"

  They continued their laboured progress for a few more minutes, then stopped for a brief respite.

  "You have no idea how refreshing it is to have a sensible female to deal with," he said earnestly.

  At this Kate was forced to lower her head and compress her lips to prevent herself laughing out loud.

  He noticed, however. "What is it now?" he asked and, when she did not respond, he put a hand under her chin and turned her face up to his. Finding it brimful of suppressed merriment, he frowned in suspicion.

  "Well, what have I said to cause this?'' With a light finger he flicked at the dimple which peeped elusively out.

  Her eyes danced irrepressibly. “For weeks now you have been calling me 'the stubbornest, most infuriating female it has ever been my misfortune to meet'!" she growled in a deep gruff voice. Then she allowed her mouth to droop mournfully. "And now, when you call me a sensible female, alas, there are no witnesses!"

  His lips twitched. "Well, most of the time. . ." he began.

  Kate burst into peals of infectious laughter and reluctantly he joined in. As they laughed, she met his eye and felt the jolt of warm good humour pass through her. Slowly the laughter died in his eyes and she felt his gaze intensify. Sud­denly Kate became hotly aware of the intimacy of their po­sition, her body held tightly under his arm, wedged firmly against his hard, warm body, his mouth only inches away from hers. For a moment they stood there, their eyes locked, then she felt, rather than saw, his mouth moving down to­wards hers. Abruptly she turned her head away, her heart racing, her mouth dry.

  "Come on now," she murmured. "We'd best keep mov­ing and get you in out of this chilly morning. Your leg will need to be examined by the doctor." She felt him withdraw as they moved off.

  "I'm not having any damned leech or sawbones maul me around any more. I had enough of them to serve me a lifetime on the Peninsula."

  "Oh, but surely you cannot compare the physicians we have here in England with some of the butchers that passed for surgeons during wartime?" Kate said incautiously.

  Jack stopped and looked at her in surprise. “Do you know, you're the first person in England that I've ever heard with an accurate notion of some of those bloody devils? Apart from anyone who was there, I mean. You sound as if you actually have an inkling of what it was like."

  Kate smiled slightly. "Do I, indeed?" Her face sobered. “Well, I did have two brothers and a father who died there. Now, have you had enough of a rest to continue, or do you wish to rest a moment or two more?"

  That got him moving again. Kate was relieved, but, more than that, he'd given her the opening she'd wanted. "Not all doctors are butchers, you know," she said after a time. He snorted.

  "It's true," she insisted. "I once met the most wonderful physician, descended from a long line of physicians, right back to the Moors, who used methods of treatment that en­abled some terrible wounds to heal almost like new."

  "Humph!"

  "For instance, with a bad leg like yours," she persisted, "where the wound had healed, but the muscles had lost their strength, he would order that the leg be massaged three times daily with hot oils, the oil being rubbed well in and each part of the leg stretched and pummelled."

  "Ah. . ." he said ironically. "A torturer. I have heard that some of those oriental types have the most subtle and fiendish methods."

  "I know it sounds like that, but it is truly efficacious, though it is not at all comfortable at first." Kate remembered the groans of anguish that her brother Jemmy had uttered when the treatment first began, and how it had taken all her will-power to continue the treatment.

  "After a few short weeks, the limb begins to strengthen and, with added exercise, I believe that almost full power can be returned in some cases."

  "Rubbish!" he snapped curtly. "Unscrupulous leeches preying on credulous fools."

  Kate understood his hostility. Hope could be very painful.

  "Possibly," she said quietly. "I suppose it depends on the wound, but this treatment had my brother walking after our English doctors had told him he would never be without crutches again."

  She paused to let that sink in. "And his wound was very bad, enough to have them planning to amputate."

  Kate would never forget frantically clinging to the sur­geon's arm, begging him to wait for another opinion, and then the final relief when her father had burst into the tent and wrested the saw from the man's drunken hand.

  "Perhaps the method may help your leg."

  "I doubt it!"

  "It could not hurt to try, surely?" she coaxed.

  "Dammit! You know nothing about it, girl! I have been mauled enough by incompetents from the medical fraternity and I will have nothing to do with any more quack cures, especially those dreamed up by mysterious oriental fakirs!"

  Kate felt a wave of frustration surge through her. It was perfectly obvious to her that he had been attempting to ride his horse in defiance of the medical prognosis he had been given and despite the pain his leg was so clearly giving him. It was sheer insanity to attempt to use a barely healed limb for strenuous exercise.

  "Don't be so stupid. You cannot simply ignore damage done to muscles and sinews and ride by will-power alone. You are just a man, with a man's body. You were dreadfully injured and I am sorry for it, but you must face the fact of your injury, instead of pretending it does not exist."

  "What the devil would you know about it? I'm damned if I'll give in to it," he growled, attempting to thrust her away.

  Kate glared right back at him. "And who said you should give in to it?" she demanded. "Not I—I said face facts, not give in."

  "Dammit, girl, you go too far. This is none of your con­cern!"

  "Well, if you wish to ride that horse instead of falling off it all the time, you will have to do something differently," Kate said furiously. "You may be able to walk on that leg, but it is so stiff and weak you cannot grip on to a horse. And if you keep doing what you are doing you will end up giving yourself a much more serious injury. You need to retrain your muscles and exercise them. The treatment I spoke of is spe­cifically aimed to restore flexibility and muscle strength. . ."

  The words died on her tongue. Jack was staring at her with such a mixture of humiliation, outraged pride and sheer fury that she recoiled, thinking for a moment that he might strike her.

  "Damn you to hell and back, girl! Mind your own blasted business!" he exploded. "I don't need your damned un­wanted advice, I don't need your blasted quack miracle cures and I don't need your damned assistance. I can make my own way to the house!"

  Kate knew she should stop, but she had to have one last try, using an analogy he might accept. "What would you think of a trainer, who, after a horse had fallen and injured itself, put it straight at the highest jump, and expected it to succeed? Would you not think him a fool?''

  He was silent. Not knowing whether to feel encouraged or not, Kate continued, "A man who wants such a horse to jump again would surely walk it over low jumps, gradually raising them until it is strong enough and confident enough to jump anything. Well, wouldn't he? Think about it, Mr Carstairs."

  He stared at her, and for a moment Kate thought her ar­gument might have reached him. But, gritting his teeth against the pain, Jack pushed her roughly away and began to stump painfully towards the house.

  "You stupid stubborn man!" raged Kate, going after him and inserting her shoulder under his again. "If you don't want to listen to what I say, well, of course, that is your right, short-sighted as it may be. . . No, I won't be pushed away! How ridiculously. . ." she cast around for an adequate adjective ". . .manlike. . .to reject my practical assistance when you know you need it."

  Jack stopped and glared furiously down at her, his fingers biting into her shoulder.

  "All right," she said hastily, meeting that fiery blue gaze. "I have said my piece now and I promise you I wi
ll say nothing more on the subject." She began to head once more towards the house, forcing him to move too.

  They made slow, painful progress to the house, Kate si­lently cursing her runaway tongue. For the first time ever, they'd been completely easy with each other, even joking and laughing, despite his awkwardness at being discovered, help­less on the ground. And then she'd ruined it. Knowing what she knew.

  As she'd sat on the cold ground, cradling his head against her, the whole picture had come together—the sound of a galloping horse when she first arrived, hoofprints on frosted grass, day after day, his early morning bad temper, white lines of pain around his mouth.

  He'd been doing this for weeks, sneaking out before dawn to try and learn to ride again. His mental anguish, the des­peration that drove him to try to ride, secretly, day after day, knowing he would fall—Kate's heart contracted at the thought. It had taken courage—mad, proud, stubborn cour­age. But without treatment he would never be able to do it. And sooner or later he was bound to do himself a grave injury.

  It need not be that way, she was sure of it, and so she had spoken—too much. Offending the very pride she admired. He would never listen to her now, never forgive her. She was only his housekeeper, existing, not to put too fine a point on it, on the goodwill of his family. When would she learn to accept it?

  Finally they reached the house and she helped him to a chair in the kitchen. "I'll fetch Carlos," she said quietly, and moved towards the door.

  He did not acknowledge her; he just sat there, his face a white and bitter mask.

  Chapter Eight

  "What- s this? Looks delicious."

  Before Kate could say a word, Jack had scooped a fingerful of the creamy mixture and popped it in his mouth. She clapped a hand over her mouth, attempting unsuccessfully to repress her mirth. Giggles escaped her as his eyes filled first with disbelief, and then with disgust. He rushed outside and she heard the sounds of vigorous spitting, as he attempted to rid his mouth of the foul taste of her latest domestic effort.

  Kate collapsed in a chair, and laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks. It served him right. He had been hanging around the kitchen all day, popping in and out for no apparent reason—lurking! Several times she'd asked him if there was anything he wanted, but he'd almost snapped her nose off! It was his kitchen, wasn't it? Well, of course it was, the silly man! She knew that!

  Normally it wouldn't have bothered Kate so much, but today was proving to be one of those days; first a bird's nest had fallen down the chimney right into the bouillon which had just reached aromatic perfection. And it was baking day, but the dough stubbornly refused to rise. And the kitchen had been cluttered with damp washing for days.

  And she'd been sleeping badly, ever since the accident. That was his fault, too!

  Kate saw him only at breakfast. She would not have ad­mitted it to a soul, but she knew she only really started to breathe each morning when he limped through the kitchen door, those tell-tale white lines of pain around his mouth. It was only a matter of time before he injured himself seriously, and they both knew it, but the man was so stubborn!

  Last night she'd slept even worse than usual, alternately dreaming of him and worrying about him. She'd awakened feeling scratchy and irritable. And then the wretched man had lurked! Underfoot! All day! Observing each disaster!

  So now justice was served, and the sounds of his violent expectorations were as music to her ears. Still chuckling, Kate wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron. He re-entered the kitchen, wiping his mouth, which was still puckered at the lingering after-taste.

  "Are you trying to poison me?" He grimaced again and scrubbed at his mouth with his handkerchief. "What the hell was that foul stuff anyway?"

  "Spermacetti oil, white wax, almond oil," she said, be­tween giggles. "I haven't yet added the lemon oil and lemon juice."

  He choked. "Spermacetti oil? You were planning to feed me whale oil? That's for burning in lamps!"

  Kate giggled again. It was a new recipe she was trying— guaranteed to remove freckles. "I do not usually feed my cold cream to gentlemen, no matter how hungry—or greedy—they are."

  "Cold cream?"

  "Cold cream."

  "Hrmph!" He turned away. His ears turned slightly pink. Another giggle escaped her.

  He continued to fidget for some minutes, then finally he spoke. "Pour yourself a cup of coffee and sit down, Miss Farleigh. I wish to talk to you." His voice was serious.

  She fetched two cups and placed them on the table, still trying to keep a straight face. Eventually she met his gaze. He looked away, and the laughter died in her eyes. This really was serious.

  “That brother of yours—you say he was able to regain the use of his leg?"

  "Yes, completely," she murmured, her pulse beginning to race.

  "Because of the treatment you described to me?"

  "Yes," she confirmed, trying hard to suppress her rising jubilation.

  "And you think my leg may benefit from similar treat­ment?"

  "I am no medical expert but, yes, I think it would help." She swallowed convulsively. "At least. . . I cannot say if your leg will be completely restored, but I firmly believe there would be significant improvement."

  "Because of your brother."

  There was considerable scepticism in his voice, but Kate detected a grain of hopefulness. It was time to tell him the truth. It might cost her his respect, but if he could be con­vinced to try the treatment he might regain full use of his leg. Faced with that option, there was no choice but to risk it.

  "Not only because of my brother—there were many oth­ers."

  "Others?"

  "Yes, I saw this treatment used on many of our soldiers and, in almost every case, it brought some improvement."

  "And naturally there were hundreds of wounded soldiers in the village in. . .where did you say my grandmother found you—Bedfordshire?''

  "No, of course not, but I saw hundreds of wounded sol­diers in Spain and Portugal."

  He was incredulous. "You were in Spain and Portugal?"

  She nodded.

  "In wartime?"

  "Yes."

  "When?"

  "For the last three years." "On your own?"

  She flushed. "With my father. And my brothers, where possible."

  "What was your father doing there? Surely he was too old to be in the army."

  "My father felt he was needed more on the Peninsula than in his parish in Bedfordshire."

  "So he just packed up his Bible and went?'' he said scept­ically.

  "Yes, indeed. Though you would have to have known my father to understand. Once he had made up his mind there was no gainsaying him."

  "But what of you?"

  She looked at him in mild surprise. "I went with him, of course. He was a brilliant scholar, but hopelessly impractical in the domestic field. He had no notion at all of how to procure lodgings or food or any of the other things so nec­essary to life in a country torn by war."

  "And you had?"

  She looked at him in surprise. "Yes, of course." She flushed, realising she must sound boastful. “Well, not at first, but I soon learned. And once I was able to speak some of the language it became much easier."

  "Incredible. You were—how old—seventeen, eighteen?"

  "At first, yes."

  "And you did not mind?"

  She opened her eyes at that. "No, I did not mind." She grimaced wryly. "Remember my unladylike hands? They're a sign of a terrible hoyden, I'm afraid. I had some of the best times of my life travelling with the army. . . I see I've shocked you."

  "No, not at all. But. . .did you not experience a great deal of hardship?" Jack knew several officers' wives who had gone to war, but all of them had had servants to see to ev­erything. And a husband to protect them. A girl who wore the sort of clothes Kate had arrived in certainly would not have had many servants.

  "Oh, naturally there were times I wished we were not having to sleep in a dirt
y, vermin-infested village, or ride for hour after hour in the pouring rain or the sweltering heat—I am not unnatural, you know! But at least it was never dull. There was always something to be done and someone to talk to."

  She could not explain to him how she'd almost welcomed such discomforts because they highlighted her usefulness to her father, making him value her for the first time in her life.

  "But the danger. Did your father not consider that?"

  "Oh, yes, of course!" She was indignant at the slur. "Why, at Badajoz he kept me virtually confined to my tent for more than a week."

  Jack gasped. "You were at Badajoz " He could not be­lieve it. That bloody siege with its even bloodier aftermath! And her father had protected her from blood-crazed rampag­ing troops with a piece of canvas!

  "Yes, and at Ciudad Rodrigo and all the other battles that are now famous, but always I was well to the rear during the fighting," she said crossly, "for several officers spoke to him and after that Papa was most insistent about it."

  "I should think so too!" he muttered, his hair raising on his scalp as he recalled some of the bloodier incidents in his experience of the war.

  "Yes, but it was very impractical, for how could I tend the wounded when I was so far to the rear all the time?''

  "Tend the wounded?" His tone was incredulous.

  Kate flushed, knowing the reason for his surprise. He thought her immodest. Harry too had been incredulous when he had discovered that she had been helping wounded sol­diers, not simply her brothers. He had been furious, forbid­ding her to do anything so indelicate again. Her refusal had caused him to thin his lips and walk off angrily. Obviously Jack Carstairs felt the same—well, his good opinion of her was a small thing to risk, if it meant he might ride again.

  "Well, I had to do something to help—there was so much need. And that is how I came to know the Moorish doctor." She looked earnestly at him. ' And why I have such a strong belief in his methods of treatment."

  He reached across the table and took her small hand in his large one, his thumb rubbing gently over the skin of her small, grubby "hoyden's hands'. He gazed at her face, noting the delicacy of her features, the small tip-tilted nose, the wide, innocent-looking eyes that had witnessed so much hardship and suffering. "You truly are the most amazing girl."