Summer Campaign

by Carla Kelly

  She reached the bottom of the last page. The ensuing silence lasted long enough for Jack Beresford to cross and uncross his long legs twice.

  “This is outrageous!” Lady Bagshott said at last, her voice rising to a timbre that made the window shiver. “Repairs on the vicarage will propel me into the poorhouse!”

  “Madam,” ventured Onyx, “the house is falling down. Alice and I spent last night in the parlor because the bedroom was deluged. The roof leaks, the floors are rotten because of it, the fireplaces all draw wickedly, the wallpaper hangs in tat—”

  “That is enough of your impertinence!” exclaimed Lady Bagshott.

  “Did you get wet, Onyx?” Major Beresford asked. She nodded, too afraid to speak.

  Lady Bagshott banged her fist on the desk. “Name me the three most important repairs, young lady.”

  “The roof, the upstairs flooring, and …” Onyx paused, and then sat up straight and looked the irate woman right in the eye. “ … and the piano wants tuning.”

  Lady Bagshott gasped and slammed the list down on the desk. “You are a frivolous baggage!” she said. “How distressed I am that my vicar has so obviously been led astray by a pretty face! I will not spend one farthing on sheets and towels and these countless other little idiocies. You can use whatever money your stepmother has settled on you for fripperies.”

  “I have not one pound note of my own,” Onyx said quietly.

  “Then, Miss Fine Airs, I suggest you unlimber your needles and start patching the sheets and towels. And as for that piano, you can chop it into kindling to feed the kitchen fireplace.” Lady Bagshott rose to her feet. “The Reverend Littletree will be thoroughly ashamed when I tell him of your behavior! For a vicar's wife, you do have airs! Remember who you are!”

  “I am reminded all the time,” was Onyx's reply. Her words seemed to hang in the air like fiery darts after Lady Bagshott's windy tirade. Onyx rose to go. The room seemed small and close.

  “Sit down,” ordered Lady Bagshott. “We are not through!”

  “Oh, we are!” said Onyx. She turned and fled the room, bumping into Jenner, who was discreetly watering potted plants within earshot of the door.

  “Excuse me!’“ she gasped and hurried out the side door, running across the back lawn.

  “Wait, Onyx!” It was Jack Beresford, but she did not look back. She ran faster, gathering up her skirts as she darted across the wet lawn, scattering the sheep grazing there, and setting the geese to hissing and arching their long necks.

  “I … can't keep up with you, Onyx!”

  She stopped, looking back at Jack, who was standing with his hand clasped over his bandaged arm. Without a word, she turned and walked back to him, already ashamed of her action.

  He managed a grin, but she saw, with anger at her own thoughtlessness, how tight the muscles were around his mouth, and that the strained look was back in his eyes.

  “Onyx B,” he began when he caught his breath, “take my arm like a good girl and find me a bench.”

  Still silent, she did as he said, walking him to one of the rustic stone benches crafted to look like wood that Lady Bagshott had placed throughout the grounds.

  He lowered himself to the bench and sighed. “Now, if I were a gentleman, my dear, I would sweep off my coat and place it here so you could sit without soiling your dress. But I do not have on a coat, and if I did, I am certain the act of sweeping it off would cause me to topple over in a dead faint. Sit at your own risk.”

  She sat, head bowed, and waited for him to ring a grand and glorious peal over her.

  “Come, come, Onyx,” he said after a moment's pause. “You're supposed to sit on my other side by my good arm. That way I could take you by the hand and you would not dash away again. Did anyone ever tell you that you are remarkably fleet for a woman?”

  His gentle banter did cause her to smile briefly. “I'll sit right where I am, sir, because you can tell me from either side what a fool I was.”

  He shrugged and then winced from the pain. “I hate this,” he muttered under his breath. “Pardon, Miss Hamilton. I am, as you have probably well noted, a less-than-exemplary patient. And no, I have no intention of calling you a fool. But do you know what I will tell you?”

  She shook her head, too shy to, look at him.

  “I think you are magnificently brave, remarkably courageous, and full of delightful surprises.”

  Her eyes looked into his in perfect amazement.

  “Heaven help me,” he exclaimed. “How did you manage to come by those Wedgwood eyes?”

  She laughed and dabbed at the tears that glistened in her eyes.

  “That's much better. I'd lend you a handkerchief, but the inmates of Sherbourn did not send me one. Seriously, Miss Hamilton, I'd have been privileged to have you serve under me in Picton's Brigade. You're brave, even though you're powerless, and you maintain dignity and countenance even though people about you have done their best to reduce you to … to their level.” He paused and gazed across the lawn, as if thinking of something else.

  “I didn't have much, ‘dignity and countenance’ in the bookroom just now,” she reminded him.

  “I contend that you were superb. A roof over your head, floors you won't fall through, and … Beethoven. What a salvo you fired at Lady Bagshott!”

  She laughed again. “Jack, did you see how her eyes started out of her head when I mentioned the piano?”

  He laughed with her, holding on to his arm again. “I've simply never met anyone like you. Every other woman I ever had any dealings with—my mother included—was devoted to frippery things and ideas, comforts, pleasures. I remember how Mother would pout and rage when Father denied her any little thing. How different you are! If you have Beethoven, you would be as happy as a grig, even if your house fell down flat around you. I like that. You're a great campaigner.”

  “I seem to have lost this encounter with the enemy,” she said, and the flush rose to her face again as she remembered the humiliation of the bookroom.

  “I can think of a few I have lost,” Jack agreed, “and the cost was greater.” He turned slightly to face her on the bench. “The important thing is to win the war.” He winked at her. “Perhaps if you throw yourself on the Reverend Littletree's chest when he returns this Sunday or next for a sermon?”

  “You will never let me forget that, will you?” she asked.

  “Well, it worked,” he said. “Your scheme wouldn't work with me. I'd see right through it, Onyx B, and you know it. Of course, I suspect that I know you better than the Reverend Littletree does. Besides, I'm a campaigner too.”

  He was sitting so close to her, and she had always liked the smell of bay rum. Jack's voice was such a pleasant combination of clipped North Country burr mingled with public-school polish, and the assurance of someone used to giving commands. The funny feeling in her chest returned again. I simply must take some baking soda and water tonight, she said to herself.

  The thought was enough to recall her to her present situation. She had no business sitting so close to a man not her husband or fiancé. She moved away slightly, noting as she did so how his brown eyes crinkled up with laughter.

  She stood up then, considering it the better part of valor, and with the hope that her indigestion would subside. “I think you have jollied me out of my miseries, Major,” she added and held her hand out to him.

  He took her hand and kissed it. “Wellington always told us to serve valiantly in whatever capacity needed. It is my pleasure, Onyx B.”

  “And you promised me you would stop calling me that!” she exclaimed, stamping her foot.

  “Did I? Very well, plain Onyx. Tell me how you will plan your campaign.”

  “That will bear thinking on, Major. But I will return to the vicarage, mop the water from my bedchamber, wash the windows, and patch the broken ones with pasteboard. And then later this evening, I will sit myself at the piano, leave the lid closed, and hum to myself as I go through all the fingerings of Beethoven's
Sonata in G. ‘Chop it up for firewood’ indeed! Who does she think she is? And I will not go back to Chalcott until I can be well-behaved, calm, sensible, and so thoroughly irritating that it will drive her to Bedlam. Adieu, sir.”

  Major Beresford laughed so loud that the sheep looked up from their grazing. She joined in, noting that her indigestion subsided when she laughed.

  He stood up slowly, carefully, and with his good hand on the back of her neck, pulled her toward him before she had a chance to dart away. He kissed her on the forehead with a resounding smack. “It feels so good to laugh again, Onyx! You can't imagine.”

  The baking soda and water can't wait until morning, she thought as he released her, saluted, and started back to Chalcott.

  “Are you sure, Major, that you are able to … to return to Chalcott?”

  “Decidedly. I feel better already, as long as I run no footraces with irate women. And besides, Onyx B—Onyx—if I tire, I can plop myself down on these ornamental Iron Maidens that Lady Bagshott has placed artistically about for strollers’ discomfort.”

  She was still laughing to herself as she went into the vicarage and stared at the pianoforte. She touched its shining surface, sat down, and rested her cheek on the magnificent instrument. The wood was soft, almost like a human touch on her face.

  Onyx stayed in the little parlor, the door closed, her head resting on the piano, until she felt almost calm again. Part of her longed to be in the Daggetts’ house again, back in the house, however unfriendly, that she was familiar with. It was easy to dissolve into the woodwork or vanish quietly, unobtrusively, when Lady Daggett arched her eyebrows or motioned with her hand. Onyx realized for the second time in as many days that she had never before been called upon to experience much emotion. Whereas her life had been calm and bloodless, it was now unsettling, tumultuous. Another part of her yearned for … What? She did not know.

  Because there was no sign of rain that evening, Onyx and Alice remained at the vicarage, mending the tattered sheets when possible and tearing them into cleaning rags when there was no choice.

  “Do you know,” said Alice suddenly, after a long moment of silence, “I think the former vicar had very sharp toenails which he never trimmed.”

  Onyx laughed and held up a ragged towel. “Yes, and a sharp chin. Oh, Alice, we should not think ill of him, I suppose. He had a piano.”

  “Yes, he had,” agreed Alice, “and only imagine the trouble it has already caused.”

  “That is my doing,” Onyx replied. “Perhaps it will teach me to hold my tongue.”

  The next day, Mrs. Sable and Daisy washed, brushed, and aired the curtains, and Alice and Onyx scrubbed walls, washing off several years of grime and carefully cleaning wallpaper that was not in total ruin. Onyx thought briefly of Jack Beresford and wondered if he would visit the vicarage. When he did not come, she began to worry, although Daisy assured her that the other servants said he was strolling about the house.

  The evening was quiet, as before. The women of the vicarage mended until their eyes began to blur from the flickering light of cheap candles. Onyx would have preferred silence to mull on her sins, but Alice was in a voluble mood.

  “Onyx, have you taken a thought to what we will make your wedding dress out of, now that all your beautiful silk was ruined on the highway?”

  Onyx looked up from the tea towel she was stitching together and rubbed her eyes. Not once in the time since Jack Beresford had been shot had she considered the material, other than to briefly mourn its passing, and then forget all about it.

  “It didn't seem … important, in light of what has been happening.”

  “It might seem important when you're standing at the altar in your petticoat, miss!” Alice jabbed at the sheet with her needle. “I fear that you must importune either Sir Matthew or your fiancé.”

  Onyx sighed. “I suppose I must. The lesser of two evils will be Andrew. When he is here this Sunday, I will ask and observe him clear his throat, and hem and haw, and step about, and pose and posture, and deliver a catechism of my faults and shortcomings. Then perhaps he will come through. Altogether, Alice, it is a dismal prospect.”

  So dismal a prospect that she was kept awake long after Alice was snoring softly beside her, wondering how on earth she was to come by material for another wedding dress. She folded her arms across her stomach and stared at the ceiling, wondering if Jack Beresford was troubled by nightmares, wishing that her own would not chase her around and around in her head until she was clenching her jaw and entirely on edge.

  She rose early in the morning. The air was heavy with mist and fog, chilly as late winter again. Onyx dressed quietly, leaving Alice to slumber, pulled her hair into a knot that perched on the top of her head, and tiptoed down the stairs.

  They would hang curtains again today and pretend that the rotting sun spots did not show, and that the little rips and tears caused by the defunct vicar's defunct cat would be politely overlooked. The wallpaper was cleaner now, the shreds and tatters removed to expose the design beneath or glued firmly into place, where the strips were long enough. Lady Bagshott had sent over a terse note yesterday stating that workmen would be attacking the roof that morning.

  Mrs. Sable already presided in the kitchen and seemed disinclined to talk. She nodded to Onyx and handed her a cup of tea, which she took into the piano room and drank standing by the window.

  She heard Jack Beresford's step on the walk even before she saw him through the mist. He came to the front door and knocked. He did not see her as she stood back slightly and watched him through the window. He was more serious than she had ever seen him.

  Onyx hurried to the door and opened it. Private Petrie stood behind him in the mist. She motioned both men into the vicarage and stood on tiptoe to take Jack Beresford's cloak from him: Without a word, he walked past her into the little parlor, where he stood before the pianoforte and ran his fingers over the wood.

  Petrie remained in the hall. Onyx took him by the arm.

  “Private, if you would like, Mrs. Sable has hot tea in the kitchen and probably toast directly.”

  I look a fright, Onyx thought as she stood in the hallway a moment and smoothed the creases in her muslin work dress. She went into the parlor and closed the door behind her. Jack turned around to face her, and her eyes widened in surprise.

  She had never seen such bleakness on one face. His eyes were filled with pain, his complexion a sallow, sick shade under his Spanish tan. She wanted to reach out for him, help him to a chair, put his booted feet up on a hassock. She stood where she was, her hand still on the doorknob.

  “Jack, what is the matter?” she asked finally when he did not speak.

  To her horror, his eyes filled with tears, and he turned his back to her, running his hand over the piano again. He pulled up the lid and played a chord and then closed the lid again.

  “I'm leaving, Onyx,” he said, his voice muffled, as if he could barely control it. “My brother … my brother, Adrian … Onyx, he's dying.”

  She hurried to him, taking his arm to lead him to a settee, but he wrapped her in a bear hug and would not let her go. He wasn't crying, but he was so close to it that, clutched to him, she could feel the effort he made within himself to control his tears. Tentatively she reached up and gathered him close to her, her arms around him, careful not to hurt his arm.

  “Tell me, Jack,” she said when she could speak.

  He let her lead him to the settee and they sat down together, her arm still around him. “What happened, Jack?” she asked again. “Oh, please tell me.”

  “A special post came late last night. Did you hear it? There was a message … from Sherbourn. From Emily, Adrian's wife.” He paused and shook his head, taking a deep breath. “I'm not making much sense, am I?” he asked finally, sounding more like himself.

  She relaxed her arm around him, and he took hold of her hand. “The other day after Lady Bagshott wrote to Sherbourn, I received some clothes and a little note from Emil
y. All it said was, ‘Please get well soon and come quickly.’ ”He stood up then and paced to the window and back again, to stand directly before her. “I have long suspected Adrian was ill, but I had other concerns. The war …” His voice drifted off and he went to the window again, leaning against the frame. “I was … too busy to think much about Adrian.” He gave a short laugh with no mirth in it. “And, as you know better than anyone else, I had miseries enough of my own.”

  Onyx rose to her feet and came to him by the window. He touched her cheek and smiled. “I dislike shoveling my problems onto your shoulders, but I know I would never feel right if I left without telling you.”

  “Tell me, then. What was in the letter you received last night?”

  “Another note from Emily, all misspellings and tear splotches. Said for me to come quickly. Adrian was delirious and in great pain. They don't … the doctors don't know what it is.”

  “You're not well enough to travel on horseback, Jack,” she said.

  “I know. But I have to. I've ridden farther and felt worse before, I can assure you. Private Petrie will see that I make it. I only hope I am not too late.”

  “I greatly appreciate your stopping by to tell me,” she said. “I'll miss you, Jack.”

  “And I, you. Saying good-bye hurts.”

  She heard Private Petrie in the hall again, so she steered Major Beresford away from the window. He went to the piano again and touched it. “What a beautiful piece of work,” he said. “Do you have any music?”

  “I found some in the bottom of the desk. Some folk airs, a tune by Purcell, some Mozart the mice enjoyed. None of the modern composers like Beethoven.”

  “Ah, yes,” he replied with a ghost of his usual good humor. “Lady Bagshott's favorite musician, I believe.”

  “I fear that we are forever in her black book, Beethoven and I. Here, let me help you with your cloak.”

  He obligingly bent down a little so she could drape it around his shoulders again. He stooped over further and looked into her eyes. “I had better take another good look at your beautiful eyes,” he said softly. “No telling when I will see them again.” He straightened up and turned to go, then turned around again. “Onyx, will you marry me?”