by Jackie Ivie
She almost had herself convinced of it when she curled next to Henry and Hester to catch a nap.
Chapter Three
Constant hushed her aching muscles, pushed the damp rag over her face and neck, and gathered foodstuffs in a basket. She was purloining enough for three meals, but her patient was probably hungry. He hadn’t reached the size he was by not eating. She was going on guesswork, however. She’d checked on him only once, when she’d gone to fetch more wood for the fire.
He’d been sleeping.
She was ready to drop from exhaustion, and the source of her problem was sleeping. Constant thinned her lips before adding several pats of butter to the feast she was gathering.
Hester and Henry had been upset to find the man had fled during the night. Hester had even cried over the poor bird-man named Kam. Constant cautioned both not to say another word when she’d carried Hester back to the house. The admonition hadn’t done much good, but luckily no one believed there had been a bird-man in the shed.
Constant hadn’t time to fret over any of it, however. Her mother ran her all day: gathering eggs, milking the three Jerseys they owned, cooking a breakfast for ten, serving it, cleaning up, gathering laundry, and keeping pails of water heating on the fire. Charity wasn’t moaning anymore, either. She was a lot louder. Then it was time to fix luncheon, serve it, clean it up. Prepare vegetables, meat, and barley to get a stew going, finish baking bread, and serve supper. Charity hadn’t had her baby yet and everyone worried. Near dark, she was doing a lot of screaming between her crying episodes, too.
It hadn’t taken much to persuade Henry to go to his room. He’d been scarce all day, and Constant had kissed him before he retired. And after that, she was supposed to be gaining her own bed. The entire house felt different somehow. Charity wasn’t as loud, but the hushed whispers from the master bedroom at the back of the upstairs hall were worse than the screaming. Nobody noticed as Constant snuck down the stairs, tied up some food in her apron, purloined another pail of heated water, took her mother’s honey-herb salve jar, and slid out the back kitchen door. Not a soul saw her.
Constant lifted the latch of the barn door and pulled it open. The harvest moon was framed in the hayloft window, pouring moonlight into the loft. She hitched her skirts and started climbing the ladder.
“Constant? Is that you?”
“Hush!” Worry made the sound loud. She put a leg over the top rung and settled her bucket into a solid spot in the loft. It took a few more moments to find the flint and light the wick of the stable lamp she’d purloined. And then she turned to find him.
“Sir?”
“You came back.” He sounded surprised and relieved.
“Yes,” she replied. She started brushing straw away from the spot where she’d put him but couldn’t locate anything that looked like a hulk of a man. “Sir?” she said again.
“Near the wall. I had to hide. The lad, Henry, is verra inquisitive.”
“Henry was up here?”
“More than once. He seems to believe I hadn’t the strength to walk on my own, and that you’d hide me. He also thinks you’d use your hayloft. Why is it called your hayloft?”
“Where are you?” she asked again, moving her hands in a circular motion.
“Call me Kam and I’ll tell you.”
“We haven’t time for games. I have to get that tar off you. I have to get you well. And then I have to get you away from here.”
“Who’s Charity?” he asked.
“My elder sister. And trust me. She doesn’t fit her name.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s birthing her first child. Being very loud and complaining over it. That’s the only reason no one is paying much attention to other things.”
“Like what?”
“Lard disappearing. Me, eating enough for four. Hester’s story about a bird-man that disappeared from the shed. Things like that.”
She heard him chuckle slightly. “You should reassure the lad. He thinks Charity’s dying.”
“How do you know all this?”
“He spoke of it to someone. I dinna’ hear an answer. Does he speak to himself oft?”
“He probably had Stream with him.” Constant connected with a foot. She ran her hand up his leg, lightly grazing feathers and then brushing hay from him.
“Who’s Stream?”
“My younger sister.”
“Your parents had strange ideas on the naming of their children.”
“Are you hungry?”
She had brushed away the hay and was arranging food in front of him. He’d moved quite a span. He was still lying facedown atop the log she’d brought last night. It appeared he’d shoved forward until the log was propped against the barn wall, with him on it.
“I think I could eat Eustace. Whole.”
He shoved a huge chunk of bread into his mouth and swigged it down with a good gulp of water from the canteen she’d brought.
“You know the horse’s name?”
He swallowed. “Naught is wrong with my ears, Constant. Or my eyes. I heard you last night when you moved me. The horse obeys your every command. Why is that?”
She shrugged. “We till fields together. He must mind my voice because he always hears it.”
“You? You till the fields, too? What does everyone else do?”
“My father has only one son. He was a sickly baby. He’s but five years old. My father is old and ill. My brothers-in-law assist, but if I don’t help till the soil every spring and bring the harvest in every fall, we don’t eat. Who else is going to do it?”
“You bake this?” He gestured with the half loaf he hadn’t shoved into his mouth yet.
“Yes,” she answered.
“It’s good. You make the stew, too?”
“Yes.”
She was pulling the bucket over. Her first task was removing his dressing. Then she could wash the wound and rebandage. It took some time. Constant realized it hurt as Kameron stiffened off and on while she saturated the cloth clinging to every welt. The volume and depth of them were a shame. He had such an impressive, well-muscled back. The stripes would probably scar. She wondered if that would bother him, and then why she cared. She had the honey-herb jar opened and let some dribble onto him before another thought arose: Mother always swore about the benefits of her salve. This was going to be a good test of it. That was certain.
“What are you doing?”
“Coating you with honey.”
He choked on his bite of stew. “Honey?”
“Mother swears by its restorative powers. You’re going to need restorative powers on this back or it’ll scar badly.”
“I’m prepared for a head-to-toe scarring, Constant, love.”
“Not if I can help it,” she replied under her breath. He was much too glorious-looking to be mutilated and disfigured, based on the parts of him she could see. “There. It’s done. You can stop fussing.”
“Will na’ my bandaging stick something terrible?”
“Of course,” she replied.
“And will it na’ need to be soaked free?”
“Yes.”
“Then . . . I doona’ understand why you bother.”
“It will stick and it will have to be soaked off, and that’s the chore I’m setting myself tomorrow night, the night after that, and the night after that. By then we’ll know if it works.”
“You’ll drop with exhaustion afore then.”
“Probably,” she replied.
“Then you’d best na’ do it. I doona’ mind a bit of scarring, especially on my back. Might make me appear a bit rakish, now that I mull it.”
“Rakish?”
“Aside from which, who sees a man’s back?”
“Your wife, for one.”
“I doona’ have one,” he said between bites.
“You don’t? That is not good.”
“Actually, to my way of thinking, it’s verra good.”
“A man your a
ge should have a wife. He should have a few babes, too. He shouldn’t be unwed, naked beneath a cloak of tar and feathers, being tended by a young, unmarried woman. He shouldn’t.”
“A man my age?” he replied. “My age? I think I’m offended, Constant. Truly offended. And that’s difficult to comprehend.”
“Why haven’t you wed?”
“I doona’ ken for certain. Limited selection. Na’ enough pressure,” he answered.
“Pressure?”
“It’s a long story. Canna’ we talk of something else?”
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Twenty-eight. Almost twenty-nine.”
“Twenty-eight? Good heavens! You’re almost old enough to be a grandfather.”
“Oh. Please,” he said, in a sarcastic fashion.
“You have a problem with marriage?”
“Nae.”
“You have a problem with responsibility?”
“Nae,” he replied again, in the same tone.
“Then, why aren’t you wed?”
“I already told you. The selection is too broad, and at the same time, too blasted narrow. And I doona’ wish to speak more on it. Agreed?”
She thought about that for a few moments. “I’m sorry I asked,” she finally replied.
“So am I.”
“I’m going to start on your feathers now.”
“Well, doona’ let me delay you.”
The answer was flippant and accompanied by another slurping sound as he took a bite of stew. Constant pulled the tub of lard over to her side. If she worked through the night she might be able to get most of the tar from him. And if she did that, he’d be leaving sooner.
“Do you have the care of the animals, too?”
“What?” she asked.
“I’m attempting a change of subject.”
“We don’t have a subject.”
“Verra well, then, I’m attempting to find a subject. One that does na’ include talk of marriage and all the chains that accompany it. And one that veers away from my present state of undress and incapacity. So . . . do you? Take care of the horses, goats, pigs, cows, cats, dogs, and whatever else you have on this farm?”
“Chickens,” she said, thinning her lips.
“Chickens?”
“You asked what else we have. The answer is chickens.”
“Oh. And do you take care of them all?”
“Most of the time.”
“You’re verra humble, Constant. It’s odd. I’m eating the results of your culinary skills, I’m on the receiving end of your compassion, and I heard Henry talking and playing all day. He does na’ seem to have a bone devoted to responsibility.”
“He’s the long-awaited heir in a household of eight sisters. And he was a sickly baby.”
“Oh. I see. He’s God’s gift, then?”
She sighed and looked from his feet to his head and back. “I’m afraid this is going to be a bit difficult. You may not want to do much talking.”
“On the contrary, I’m speaking for a reason.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“So, Constant, tell me, doona’ you have sisters to help you? What’s this Stream do?”
“You’re not going to tell me the reason?”
“Uh . . . nae. I’m invoking patient’s privilege. So, tell me about this Stream. She is na’ much help to you. Why?”
“She’s an invalid.”
“Oh.” He was silent for a bit. She heard him slurp more of her stew. For some reason, his appreciation of it made her warm all over. She wondered what that meant. “I’m sorry,” he said finally.
“Don’t be. She was born that way. We accept it.”
“I can still be sorry.”
Constant sat on her heels and looked over the length of man at her knees. “I think I’m going to need quiet now,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because I’ve never seen . . . what I’m about to.”
He choked again, and this time he coughed for some time afterward. Constant watched his back undulate with it.
“I probably should have you send a message to my garrison. On second thought, that’s what I’ll do. Can you get some paper, ink, and a quill?”
“I can’t send a message to any English-held anything.”
“You canna’ read or write?”
He was almost worse than dealing with Charity. “I’ll have you know I read and write. I do both quite well. I even speak two foreign languages: Spanish and French. I was taught by my sister Hope. She married a learned man. She wants to be a schoolmarm.”
“Oh. My mistake. So, why canna’ you get a message off for me?” he asked.
“Because it would be disloyal.”
“Disloyal? To whom? We’re all loyal British subjects . . . are na’ we?”
“Disloyal to my father. He had business with Doctor Thatcher this week, and that means what I’m doing right now, for you, will not go unpunished in my family. If it’s found out.”
He sucked in his breath. “Your name is Ridgely? That is what you said?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“God damn! Jesu’ Christ! And his Mother Mary! And bloody hell to top it off!”
“Mind your profanity, sir!”
“For the love of—! Constant. I was ever profane. I’d apologize, but I’ll probably just spout more, and then I’d have to apologize more, and then I’ll just do it again.”
“Well, I’m not used to it.”
“Fine. I apologize, but that does na’ change it.”
“What?”
“Your father. Ridgely. Does he write articles for the Colonial Register? Some bits of trash about sedition and rights of citizens? That sort of blather?”
“It isn’t blather!”
“Sweet Saint Jude. I’m covered with tar that your father heated to the correct burning, scarring temperature so those men could pour it all over a soldier doing little more than tipping a pint at an inn . . . and you defend it?”
“I already told you he’s ill. Old. He couldn’t do any such thing,” Constant retorted defensively.
“If you write that sort of drivel, you light the spark behind every one of these uprisings. Inflammatory words spark insurrections, my dearest Constant.”
“Perhaps your country shouldn’t try to cheat colonies half a world away, then.”
“You share your father’s sentiments?”
“I was born in the colonies, sir. I’ve never been to England. I have no desire to, either. I’m not English.”
“Neither am I,” he replied.
Constant frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m a Highlander. Black Watch regiment.”
“A . . . Highlander?”
“From Scotland. And damn proud of it. Oh. Bother. You’ll pardon the profane portion of that, will na’ you?”
Constant’s face fell. “Aren’t you a soldier . . . in King George’s regiment?”
“That does na’ mean I’m English.”
“There’s a difference?”
He sighed heavily. “Keep me jailed in this tar long enough and I’ll have time to explain.”
“I’m not keeping you anywhere.”
He sighed. “You’re right, Constant, love. And it’s dense of me to get you angered right now.”
“I’m not angry,” she replied.
“Good.”
“I just need you to be quiet.”
“I doona’ think I can. We should probably change the subject again, though.”
“To what?”
“I would like to ken why it is that you’re na’ looking at a man’s nakedness every night of your life. That’s what I’d like to hear.”
She was hot with the blush. She put every bit of affront into her voice. “I am not wed!”
“Well, you should be. You’re old enough. I’ve seen how young they like them in this uncivilized, backwater colony. I’m finding it difficult to believe that our sovereign is actually prep
aring to quell the insurgency over here.”
“Insurgency?”
“When colonists rebel against their country it’s called insurgency. It’s also treason. It’s whispered about on every street corner of your cities, bandied about in every tavern, and it’s lauded in your little news rags, like the Colonial Register. All of which is treasonous by law.”
“I know what insurgency is, and you’re wrong. What you just described sounds like free men with a voice. If that is treason, then the word needs another definition.”
He sighed hugely, reaching for his mug of water. “I thought we changed the subject.”
“Find one more to my liking than looking at a man’s behind, then.”
His reaction was probably a chuckle. He shouldn’t have been drinking at the time, she thought, watching him cough and choke again. It was some time before he said anything. She waited.
“Verra well, Constant. We’ll leave off arguing finer points of treason and the law. I’m at a disadvantage at the moment. I canna’ face you and argue.”
She smiled at that. “Does that mean you’re going to be quiet, finally?”
“Quiet?” He tipped his head as if considering it. “I might, if you answer my question first.”
“What was it?” she replied.
“Why have you na’ wed?”
Constant had a handful of grease and was hovering above the well-feathered rump, trying to gather her courage. She knew what she had to do. She knew it wasn’t going to be easy. She knew it made her warm with the blush. Nothing helped. She swallowed.
“I have no offers,” she answered.
“Really? The men in this country are more dense than I suspected.”
She reddened even more, closed her eyes, and plopped her greased hand on his buttocks. It was just as embarrassing as she’d suspected it would be. She felt him stiffen as she picked up the cheesecloth and wiped him free of feathers. And then she opened her eyes.
Oh no! That is much worse! More man than she’d ever seen was displayed right in front of her, covered only by the thin sheen of black tar.
“You should na’ be doing this,” he said.
“No, I shouldn’t. Why, I’ll probably have lost my virtue before I’m finished, too.”
He chuckled. “Na’ from this position, sweet.”
“Sir—”
“Kam,” he interrupted her. “It’s my name, Constant. Please use it. Please?”
