by Carla Kelly
He tugged on her hand until she sat down on the bed, as she knew he must have intended. She was still too shy to look at him. “Thank you, Major,” she said. “Thank you for … Gerald.” She slid her hand out of his and hurried back to the safety of the kitchen.
Major Beresford ate everything she brought to him. He ate quickly, with no conversation. Halfway through the dishes on his tray, he looked up at her and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Should I be carrying on with a little breakfast chatter?” he asked. “I've forgotten what to do during an English meal.” He laughed. “I own I'm accustomed to eating fast before the next barrage begins—or ends.” He winked at her. “I've been known to duel for a piece of cheese. Don't try me, Onyx, or make any sudden moves! I'm a dangerous man over plate and fork.”
Onyx laughed and fell into the spirit of his banter. “Silly! You should sit at a table and read the newspaper, grunt a little, and then animadvert on the weather, and make disparaging comments about your tenants.”
“I need to know these things, Mrs. Beresford,” he said, teasing her. “Suppose Mrs. Millstead were to come in here? We must preserve our fiction of connubial enchantment, at least until I have mended.”
Her conscience strove with her mightily again. “I … I think I would feel more at home with myself if I confessed to Mrs. Millstead,” she said. “I feel so deceitful with my Banbury tale.”
He did not argue. “It is an awkward pass, Mrs. Beresford.”
“You must stop calling me that!” she protested, feeling the unruly blush rise up her neck and into her cheeks.
He regarded her. “You color up so, delightfully, Mrs. B.,” he said. “I am told that comes from an uneasy conscience.” He laughed at her confusion. “But in total fairness to your sex, I must say that you have been an amiable and well intentioned spouse during the past—what is it?—three or four days. I think I lost a day.”
He buttered the remaining square of toast and popped it in his mouth. “But you are right, Onyx B. We must make a clean breast of it to our hostess. Throw ourselves on the mercy of the Methodists.”
She laughed. “You wretch!” She rose and he took her hand again.
“Onyx,” he began, and he was serious this time. “Call her up here and tell her. I don't want you to face the wrath alone.”
Not since Gerald had been her childhood companion had there been an advocate in difficult situations. She mentally forgave him all his teasing, nodded, and patted his hand.
Mrs. Millstead came when she was called, huffing up the stairs and talking to herself as she wiped her hands on her apron. The anxious way her eyebrows came together gave Onyx another bad moment.
“It is not serious, Mrs. Millstead,” Onyx said as she stood at the top of the landing. “I need, or rather, we need to talk to you.”
The woman came into the bedroom right on Onyx's heels, looking over Onyx's shoulder to make sure for herself that the dear major was not lying dead on her second-best sheets.
When she saw that he was looking rested and running his little finger around the rim of the jam pot, her sigh of relief was audible. Mrs. Millstead clapped her hands together to see this display of culinary enthusiasm from the man brought bleeding and half-conscious into her house only three days ago.
“Major Beresford!” she began, and then words failed her. She dabbed at her eyes with her apron. “I love to see a sick man eat!” she sobbed into her apron.
Onyx touched her shoulder. “The major is ever so much better,” she said, “and we have you to thank for it.”
The obvious promise of Jack Beresford's return to health and vigor seemed to unnerve the woman. She sobbed into her apron all the more. “He finished off the toast and the jam,” she marveled as she wept. “God bless us!”
Jack set down the jam pot and gave Onyx such a droll glance over Mrs. Millstead's bowed head that she could scarcely contain herself. Resolutely Onyx turned her back on him and took Mrs. Millstead to her bosom.
When Mrs. Millstead was reduced finally to an occasional sob or sniff, Onyx released her. The woman's eyes filled with tears again. “Only think, Mrs. Beresford, soon you will be reunited with little Ned.”
The silence that followed was broken at last by the major.
“M-Mrs. Millstead,” he began, picking his way carefully over stony ground, “there isn't going to be a reunion with little Ned.”
Mrs. Millstead gasped, threw up her hands, and sank onto the bed, narrowly missing the major's legs. She sobbed into her damp apron. “Little Ned is … dead?” she shrieked.
Onyx hurried to her side, mortification growing by the minute as the woman sobbed and the major lay on his back staring at the ceiling, soundlessly laughing and holding his arm to assuage the pain of it. He looked at her only long enough to launch into another painful fit of silent mirth. Onyx tried to stare him down, but the effort proved fruitless. She turned her attention again to the distraught farmer's wife, who grabbed her about the waist and pulled Onyx to her own ample bosom.
She rocked back and forth, hugging Onyx to her. “My dear Mrs. Beresford, there will be other children for you and the major. I'm sure it will be so.”
Onyx knew better this time than to even shift her eyes in the direction of the unrepentant Jack Beresford. She let herself be smothered in Mrs. Millstead's fleshy embrace and then gradually disentangled herself. When Mrs. Millstead was reasonably composed, Onyx cleared her throat, thought fleetingly of her fiancé as she did so, and forged resolutely ahead.
“Mrs. Millstead, you misunderstand me,” she began. “We have … misrepresented ourselves. You see,” she struggled on, “the major and I are not … we're not married.”
Mrs. Millstead turned as pale as her second-best sheets. Her eyes widened. “Then little Ned …” She couldn't bring herself to say it. “ … out of wedlock?” She ended the sentence on a whisper, as if afraid the laborers working in the barley field one mile distant would overhear.
Onyx sat up straight. With great force of will, she ignored the muffled choking sounds behind her from the general vicinity of Major Beresford. If he opens his stitches, it will serve him right, she thought to herself as she took Mrs. Millstead's hands in her own.
“Oh, ma'am, it's nothing like that, I assure you! I never met the major before three days ago.”
Mrs. Millstead continued to stare at her, her mouth wide open.
“I … I didn't intend to tell you a tale, but your husband assumed … he asked what happened to my husband …” Onyx knew she was fumbling about, but she forged on. “I thought that if he continued to believe that Major Beresford and I were married, he would not turn us away. You see, Mrs. Millstead, the major was bleeding so much, and we did look like … like down-and-out irregulars. Oh, please say you understand, Mrs. Millstead. I'm dreadfully sorry!”
The silence was awful. Onyx knew that her face was flaming red. Mrs. Millstead pulled her hands away and lodged them firmly in her lap.
“You mean … there is no little Ned?” she asked finally.
Onyx shook her head. “I really don't know why I said that. I don't think I've ever lied in my life. I was desperate for you take us in. Oh, Mrs. Millstead, suppose the major had died?”
The thought seemed to soften the woman's heart again. She sighed and looked at Onyx. “Then who are you?”
Onyx couldn't look at her. “My name is Onyx Hamilton, from Morecombe. Alice Banner and I were on our way to Chalcott when we were set upon by highwaymen.”
“Major Beresford and Private Petrie came to your rescue?”
“Yes,” lied Onyx. She could see no harm in allowing Private Petrie a less-checkered past, particularly in light of his sincere repentance. “I do not know what we would have done if they had not come along.”
The woman looked from Onyx to Major Beresford, who had composed himself and was lying supine with an interesting, pitiful air of suffering on his face.
“Is this so, Major?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“We … we're sorry for any inconvenience we may have caused you. I'm riding north to Yorkshire as soon as I'm able.”
“And you?” Mrs. Millstead shifted her gaze back to Onyx.
“I'm going to Chalcott. I am to marry the vicar of Chalcott.”
“What?” said the major, abandoning his studied agony long enough to sit upright and stare at his former wife.
“Yes,” she replied quietly. “I'm to be the vicar's wife. Dear me.”
“‘Dear me’ indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Millstead, rising to her feet. “I fear you're going to lead that poor man a merry dance!”
Onyx could not disagree, so she made no reply. The silence continued. Onyx heard the bees humming around the hollyhocks growing toward the window. How could I have been so deceitful? she flagellated herself. And why does Major Beresford continue to stare at me? She wished herself away from the little bedroom, but even Gerald's game of “I wish” had no comfort.
Onyx swallowed hard. “Mrs. Millstead,” she began, quite overcome with her deception and chagrined as never before, “I will write to John, the coachman, and we will be away from here tomorrow afternoon at the latest. Only please … please allow Jack … the major to remain here until he has healed.”
The silence was awful. Mrs. Millstead looked at them both and shook her head. “I cannot say this is anything to be proud of, but if I own the truth, I'm glad enough to have you here.” She pointed a finger at Onyx. “The follies of youth!” she exclaimed, and then left the room.
Onyx couldn't bring herself to look at Major Beresford. With a studied air, she examined the wallpaper. She could think of nothing to say. She was not a witty person, however lively her mind; she had never pretended to be. Nothing in the calm of her life had prepared her for someone like Major Beresford. More than anything, she wanted to be alone by herself for a while, to reflect on the chaos of the last few days. At the same time, she was already regretting that tomorrow she would be leaving.
“It is fascinating wallpaper, isn't it, Onyx?” the major ventured at last.
She turned around then, smiling. “Major Beresford,” she said, “I am chagrined to reflect that now there is one region of England in which I dare not show my face ever again.”
“But only one,” he rejoined, adding outrageously, “I have many.” He grinned at her shocked look, showing no remorse. “I haven't had so much fun since …” He paused. “Never mind. I'll not b-bore you with Spanish stories.”
“I have benefited from your Spanish stories,” Onyx said quietly.
“Not these you wouldn't,” he said. “Wait. Before you go. Could you l-loosen my bandage? It's beginning to feel sharpish.”
She came over to him, pulling a chair up to the bed, bending over her work seriously, thankful not to have to look him in the eyes.
“Before—when you were still my wife—you sat on my bed,” said the major. He was smiling, but his eyes were gentle.
Onyx refused to rise to his teasing this time. “I did. I think I should not do that anymore.”
When Onyx finally came downstairs, she had a letter in her hand for Private Petrie. “Take this to my coachman at Chalcott,” she instructed. She laid a hand on his arm as he turned to go. “And if you please, Private, come back with John and help the major.”
He looked at her in astonishment. “Did you think I would not, Mrs. Beres … Miss Hamilton?” He put his hand over his heart. “I am his forever.”
She covered her mouth to hide her smile. “I think only until he is well enough to sit his horse will be sufficient, Private.”
Major Beresford was dozing when she took his dinner to him. By the time she set the tray on the table and lit the lamp, he was awake and watching her. She could tell by the brightness of his eyes that the fever had returned with evening. She sighed and mixed some powders for him. He drank the potion and offered no objection until she began to gather up the dishes when he had finished.
“I own I feel a trifle ill-used, Onyx,” he said at last. There was no mistaking the pout in his voice.
“And why is this, Major?”
“Are you so sure that I am sufficiently recovered to be thrown on the mercy of an amiable but overworked farmwoman?”
She was not so sure, but she did not tell him. “You have had far worse wounds, Major.”
“I wondered when we would return to my thigh,” he said wickedly and winked at her. “It's not the same,” he continued. “I've grown … used to you,” he declared, the force of his argument dulled because the fever powders were making him drowsy. He kept his eyes open with an effort. “Tell me something, Miss Hamilton,” he said, long after his eyes had closed and she was sure he slept. “This vicar—is he good to you?”
His question startled her. “Really, Major, whatever do you mean?”
“I hope he's good to you,” said the major, his voice far away. He slept.
Alice made room for Onyx in the parlor that night. Onyx pretended she was asleep so she would not have to talk to Alice. She finally drifted off, wondering to herself what color the Reverend Mr. Andrew Littletree's eyes were. She chastised herself. How strange that she could not remember such a mundane detail, when she had no trouble with her recollection that Jack Beresford's eyes were quite, quite brown.
NYX WONDERED AT FIRST WHAT HAD WOKEN her in the middle of the night. One moment she was asleep, and the next moment she was wide awake, listening. The room was quiet except for Alice's regular breathing. Onyx yawned and rolled over, and then she heard it again.
Someone was talking upstairs. It sounded like Major Beresford, but she could not be sure. She sat up on her cot to hear him better and then found herself by the door, listening as his voice rose.
“My stars,” she whispered out loud. “What can be the matter? Who is he talking to?”
No one answered her questions, but the voice became louder, more insistent. There was an air of command in it, sharp and to the point. Onyx threw a sheet around her nightgown and quietly climbed the stairs, hand over hand on the railing, avoiding the squeaky tread that she was already familiar with. Major Beresford was shouting now. Onyx bolted up the stairs two at a time and burst into his room.
He was sitting up in bed and staring at her. But no, not at her. He didn't know she was there. He was looking beyond her, beyond the wall even, to a place she had never seen before. She resisted the very real urge to look over her shoulder. Through some alchemy of the night, she feared what she would see.
Still staring beyond her, the major started to get out of bed. “Come on, my lads, come on!” he called to troops she could not see. “We'll take it and be back in time for supper!”
The terror in his eyes made her gasp. She was filled with fear of her own, but she closed the door and ran to his side, pushing him back down on the bed. He resisted, muttering something about the French, but she kept her hands on his shoulders, talking to him, murmuring words that made no sense to her, soothing sounds.
After what seemed like ages to her, she felt the tension leave his shoulders. He relaxed and leaned forward as if the springs that wound him had suddenly snapped. He rested his head on her bosom, and soon he was breathing steadily again. Gradually, still whispering to him as she would to a child, she lowered him back to his bed and covered him.
There were tears on his cheeks. She wiped them off with the sheet and touched his forehead. He was cool now and damp with perspiration. She wiped his face carefully and tiptoed to the window to close it against the chill of the night.
“Onyx, forgive me.”
She whirled around. He was sitting up in bed again, and he frightened her. For only the smallest moment, she felt that she was in the room with someone strange, someone she did not know.
He shuddered then, and she forgot her own fear. Onyx hurried to his side again and took hold of his shoulders, hoping that her presence would wake him from whatever nightmare still possessed him.
The major put his arms around her and held her tight, as if afraid that she wou
ld vanish. She made no objection but clung to him and tentatively placed her hand on his hair as he rested against her. As she held him, Onyx thought to herself: A week ago, I would have screamed and swooned if someone had grabbed me like this. She knew that nothing could force her to leave his side now. She would cling to him like this as long as he needed her.
After a few moments, his breathing changed. In another moment she could feel the flutter of his eyelids against her. She loosened her grip on him, and the major sat up, fully awake.
He didn't say anything for a long time, but he watched her. His direct gaze troubled her, and she almost said something, then realized that he was trying to decide if he could trust her. She remained silent, not moving away from him, returning his gaze.
“I … I … just w-want to go home,” he said at last. His hair was so rumpled. She reached out impulsively to smooth it down, and he took her hand and held it against his cheek, letting out a long shuddering sigh.
“You'll have to wait until you are able to travel,” she reminded him.
He shook his head, kissed her fingers, and let go of her hand. “No. I want to go n-now.”
His look of longing unnerved her. “Oh, Jack,” she whispered, close to tears. “Perhaps we can work something out.”
He didn't say anything else, only continued to regard her. He opened his mouth to say something and then thought better of it. Onyx sat in silence. When he said nothing else, she rose to go.
Jack Beresford took her hand and pulled her back down. She sat beside him on the bed and rearranged the coverings. She reached around to pull up the other pillow and then was still.
“Tell me, Jack,” she said simply.
It was as though he had been waiting for her to ask him. He allowed himself to lean back on the pillows, although there was no peace or relaxation in the lines of his face. His eyes bored into hers. Whatever he tells me, I must not flinch, she thought to herself as she watched him.
“I don't know how long the siege of Badajoz had gone on,” he began, his tone conversational as he strove for a calmness she instinctively knew he did not feel. “We were all pretty sick of one another. Tired of the way we smelled, I guess. I hate sieges.”
