Summer Campaign

by Carla Kelly

  “Did you locate a doctor, a real doctor?” she asked.

  He nodded. “He was attending a woman in confinement and could not return with me. He will be here in the morning.” Jack ran his hand through his hair, which was wet too. “What a day this has been! Harrogate is not a place I would willingly visit without serious reason.”

  “Why did you go there? Surely there are more doctors in York.”

  “Consider the logic, Onyx, my dear. When I came to the road this morning, I was on the verge of taking a coin from my pocket and flipping to decide on direction, when it occurred to me.”

  “What?” she asked after he yawned enormously and then seemed to forget what he was saying.

  “Excuse my manners,” he said. “As I sat there on my horse, it occurred to me that Harrogate was precisely the town where I should look for a doctor. Only think how many ill and infirm people drink those odious mineral waters. The place is dreadfully out of style now, but any trip I am forced to make there assures me that it is still a lodestone for the elderly. I knew I could find a doctor there.”

  He paused and looked more closely at her. “Do you know that the sky this morning was precisely the color of your eyes?”

  She moved up against the opposite railing, and he laughed and pulled her back again.

  “Onyx, you are a great gun! Now, what was I saying?”

  “About the doctor, Major Beresford,” she said, trying to sound severe and only succeeding in deepening his smile.

  “Oh, yes, the doctor. I went to one of the baths and inquired of the proprietor.” He stretched his long legs out in front of him on the stairs, leaning back on his elbow. “Wouldn't give me even a particle of advice until I paid for and drank some of his curative water.”

  She laughed. “And you are quite cured of whatever it was that troubled you, sir?” she teased.

  “No, Onyx, I am not,” he assured her. The twinkle came back into his tired eyes, and she knew too late she should never have asked such a question. “There is no cure for what I have.”

  She chose to ignore his statement, although it was difficult, sitting so close to him on the stairway. “Tell me, then. Who is the doctor?”

  He seemed to recall himself to the moment. “A young fellow by the name of Waldo Hutchins. He's from over the Pennines in Lancaster. Newly out from his medical studies in Edinburgh. He has been practicing for several years in Harrogate. Each of the baths where I stopped recommended him, so it remained only to seek him out.”

  “And were you compelled to drink the water at each place?”

  “I was. I wonder you cannot smell the sulfur on my clothes. When Adrian is feeling a little more like himself, I will not hesitate to tell him of my great sacrifice on his behalf.” He looked more closely at her. “From the tiny glimpse I got tonight, you seem already to have been working miracles in that dreadful room.”

  “Poor Adrian,” she said. “He is covered with sores of the foulest kind.” Her voice hardened. “And that miserable doctor had the effrontery to tell me such things were for his own good! Horrible man. I wish I had struck him with that poker!”

  Before she could stop him, Jack took her hand in his, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. “I assure you, Miss Hamilton, the redoubtable Miss Hamilton, that by the time this escapade has had the opportunity to circulate throughout this district—I give it two days—the tale will have matured until you are bending the poker over his head and wrapping it around his throat. News has a way of traveling.”

  She carefully extracted her hand from his grasp. “Sir, in your letter you promised me—”

  He rose and pulled her to her feet. “Miss Hamilton, if you will peruse that letter again, provided you still have it, of course, I distinctly remember that I wrote, ‘I have no intention,’ not that ‘I promise.’ They are hardly the same. Correct me if I err. And I was holding on to your hand only because, well, it seemed like a noble idea, in light of your achievements this day.”

  “Wretch,” she said, wishing the word had more force behind it, but suddenly finding herself struggling to keep her eyes open.

  “And now you must go to bed. I will not have the halls of this fine old manor littered with the bodies of courageous young women who defend my hearth and home from evil physicians and then are left to languish, droop, and fade on the carpet.”

  “I would have gone to bed, but I did not know what room was mine.”

  He took her arm again, but this time to tuck it in the crook of his. “Onyx Hamilton, you are a wonder. You have no qualms about shooting a highwayman, routing a charlatan, or nursing wounds of the worst sort, and yet you are too timid to disturb the sleep of Adrian's forgetful servants! Such a paradox.”

  She was too tired to remonstrate with him. She let him lead her down the hall and into a room. A fire which obviously had been laid much earlier was on the verge of going out. Jack knelt by it, stirring it with a poker and blowing on it until the flame leapt up.

  “This was my mother's room. It's quite the loveliest room at Sherbourn, with the best view.” He got to his feet and gestured to the little chair by the window. “Mama used to sit me there and lecture me at length on the sins of throwing rocks at robins and pushing my cousins in the pond.”

  She wished he would leave. All she wanted to do was rest her head on the inviting pillow and forget everything.

  “But you're not even paying attention to me and my rustic stories, Onyx,” she heard him saying out of the fog that waited to envelop her. “Good night, Miss Hamilton,” he said. “And thank you again, from the bottom of my heart.”

  HE DOCTOR WAS TRUE TO HIS WORD. HE arrived the next morning in a modest tilbury, pulled by an equally modest horse. The animal assumed an apologetic air as it waited at the front entrance next to Jack Beresford's black stallion, saddled and bridled for a ride around the estate.

  Dr. Hutchins would never have the command and style of the late-departed, unlamented Dr. Marchmount. He was tall and gawky, and his large hands seemed to spill out of his too-short sleeves. Onyx doubted that his hair had been combed that morning. He wore spectacles that continually drifted to the end of his long and narrow nose, and which were as continually being poked back into place.

  Emily, who watched him from the first-floor landing, looked doubtful, but she said nothing as Jack ushered the doctor into the house and stood for a moment in the entrance hall chatting with him.

  “He looks so … seedy,” she whispered to Onyx. There was no denying that, but even from her vantage point on the landing, Onyx noticed something about the doctor that Emily overlooked. He appeared genuinely interested in what Jack was telling him, and he seemed to give off an air of quiet capability. He looked as though he had all the time in the world. She sighed and hoped for the best.

  They came up the stairs, and Dr. Hutchins held out his hand to Emily. “Lady Sherbourn, I appreciate this invitation to your lovely home.”

  She smiled and inclined her head toward him, but said nothing. He turned to Onyx. “And you are Major Beresford's wife?” he inquired.

  Jack winked at her in that way she found so maddening but made no denials. “Oh, no, Doctor,” she stammered, “I am … I am Onyx Hamilton, a friend … of the … family.”

  As Beresford motioned the doctor into Adrian's room, Onyx glared at him behind Hutchins's back. He smiled and winked again, which only ruffled her further.

  Emily remained outside. “Won't you go in too, Emily?” Onyx asked. “Surely you should be there.”

  Emily shook her head. “I could not. No.” She seemed to grow pale at the suggestion. “Onyx, I have not your courage. This is something I would rather not face just now.”

  “Very well, dear. Let us go downstairs into the library,” said Onyx.

  They remained in the library, talking in short bursts, listening in silence, waiting for the doctor to leave Adrian's room upstairs. Onyx addressed as many as a half-dozen comments to Emily that she did not seem to hear. Emily might have been watching her
attentively and nodding in all the appropriate spots, but her whole heart was elsewhere.

  Finally they heard the men on the stairs. Emily's hand went to her throat. “Which do you think is better, Onyx,” she asked, her voice strained, “knowing or not knowing?”

  “Knowing,” said Onyx immediately, thinking of the years she had wondered where Gerald was and how he had died. “Knowing is better, even if it hurts at first.”

  Dr. Hutchins came into the room with Jack. Emily rose to her feet, whiter than Onyx had ever seen her before. She stared at the doctor, pleading with her eyes for some sign that all would be well.

  “Please sit with us, Lady Sherbourn,” said the doctor, holding out his hand to her.

  She would not take it and remained standing, poised for flight.

  “Emily,” said Jack as he walked toward her.

  She backed away from him. “Onyx, I don't want to hear any of this!” she said. “Please don't make me stay.”

  Onyx looked to Jack for help, and he shook his head slightly. “Very well, Emily,” she said, “you go upstairs and sit with Adrian. I will … talk to you later.”

  “Thank you!” Emily kissed Onyx on the cheek and fled the room.

  “I'm sorry about that,” Jack said to Dr. Hutchins as he sat down heavily next to Onyx.

  Dr. Hutchins shrugged. “I see all kinds of reactions to such news as I have.” He looked at Onyx. “It may fall your lot to tell her.”

  “Tell her?” repeated Onyx. “What?”

  “What I'm sure she already knows. That her husband will die soon.”

  The words, spoken so matter-of-factly, hung in the air.

  Jack stirred beside her, but she could not bring herself to look at him. Onyx spoke to the doctor. “I think we all knew: It's just … there's something so final about putting those thoughts into words. Forgive us if we seem remote.”

  The burden of his news brought Dr. Hutchins to his feet.

  “You have done him a great service by nursing his sores, Miss Hamilton. That must continue, of course. He will be much more comfortable.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at Major Beresford. “We must lessen his addiction to morphine if he is to live much longer. As long as his dosage is so high, he won't eat.”

  “But with it, he does not suffer,” Onyx said.

  “True. Neither does he have any kind of a life in his time remaining. With your permission, Major Beresford, I would like to cut down on the dose so he can tell us himself what he would like us to do. As things are now, we don't know.”

  She thought of Adrian's flickering eyelids and his failed attempts to open his eyes. There was truth in what Dr. Hutchins said. Adrian had spoken to no one, not even his brother.

  “How do we do this?” she asked.

  “Cut back on his medicine. Wait longer between doses. You'll need nerves of iron, Miss Hamilton, when he begins to suffer.” He sat down again and dangled his hands between his knees. “And yet, when the thing is done, and he is eating again, you should see some little improvement. I consider it worth the attempt. But of course,” he concluded, looking at Major Beresford again, “the final say will be yours.”

  “No, it should be Emily's.”

  “I do not know that she is capable of such a decision.”

  Jack said nothing.

  “Very well, then,” said the doctor. “I must go. I will return in three days to see how things are progressing, but I will be at your command anytime. You need only send someone.”

  “We are grateful to you,” said Jack. He walked the doctor to the door, taking his hat from Chalking and seeing him to his tilbury. He stood in the drive watching as the doctor left, and he was still just standing there when Onyx came to him.

  “Jack?”

  He said nothing. She came closer and touched him on the sleeve, and he flinched. “I'm sorry, Onyx,” he said, not turning around. “It's just difficult.”

  When he turned to her, his face was composed, but the sorrow in his eyes was so intense that she wanted to put her hands over them. He waited a moment more until he could speak. “How strange this is, Onyx,” he said. “People die in Spain. They die there all the time. I nearly died there. But somehow, people aren't supposed to die in England. Explain that to me, Onyx B. I'll be back.”

  He headed for the front entrance, where his horse waited, leaving her standing at the door. She watched him ride down the lane, forcing his horse faster and faster until it jumped a fence and trotted into the haying fields. Onyx wandered back into the house and down to the bookroom. Alice Banner had arranged the desk to her liking and was working her way down an enormous pile of unpaid bills and unentered credits. She answered Onyx only in monosyllables, so Onyx left her and went into the garden. She sat on a bench and watched the birds darting down into the shallow pan of rainwater set out for them.

  Onyx knew that if she stayed at Sherbourn, there wouldn't be many times when she could come outside like this. Adrian needed constant care, and his needs would only deepen, as her foster father's had, the closer death came. Still, it was small repayment for Jack Beresford's rescue of her on the highway. And what is the real reason that you want to stay, Onyx Hamilton? she asked herself. Or are you even willing to admit there is another one?

  She was still sitting in the garden an hour later when Jack returned, coming from the opposite direction and riding much slower. As he rode, he held his injured arm at the elbow. She knew it still pained him, but he did not speak of it. Perhaps there is a lesson there for me, she thought as she rose. Beresford rode toward her and dismounted.

  “Come with me, Onyx,” he said. “I have to curry my horse.”

  She followed without a word to the stables, walking beside him as he led his horse. He seemed disinclined to talk, but she looked at him, noting how set his expression was, how troubled his eyes.

  He nodded to the stableboys, shaking his head when one of them tried to take the horse from him: “No, lad. I do my own horse. A military quirk, I suppose,” he explained, addressing Onyx. “You have this uncontrollable urge to take good care of what you owe your life to.” He smiled and looked at her, and she wondered if he was really thinking about his horse.

  Beresford turned over a bucket and wiped it off with an old blanket. “Here, have a seat. Keep me company.”

  She did as he said, watching as he removed the saddle and handed it to the stableboy, whisked off the blanket, and pulled out the bit and bridle, all the while talking in conversational tones to his horse. She couldn't hear what he said, but she noticed with some delight that the horse paid close attention, his ears pricked forward.

  He gave his horse a good rubdown and then picked up the curry comb.

  “I am having second thoughts about your presence here,” he said, his voice low. “It is hardly fair of me to ask this of you.”

  “I felt no hesitation in coming, Major,” she said, “and your letter was quite plain.”

  He brushed away, his back to her. “Yes, but I did not know the complexity of this until Dr. Hutchins told me. Do you realize what agony I will be putting you through in the next few days? I've seen this sort of thing in the hospitals in Lisbon, men crying and screaming for morphine. There's nothing worse, Onyx.”

  “Yes, there is,” she said.

  He looked at her, hands on his hips. “What, tell me.”

  “Not ever having the chance to know your brother again before he dies.”

  He turned around again to his horse, brushing harder.

  She knew he was crying, and her heart went out to him, even as she sat on the bucket, her hands in her lap, and did not move.

  “This is worse than combat,” he said finally.

  “How can it be?” she asked.

  “Oh, you wouldn't understand. It's something we don't talk about much because it makes us seem so uncivilized. There's a … a certain feeling when you rush to a fight. It's almost … pleasure. And if you win, oh, my, the feeling! Some men hate it, some men love it. It drives some, wh
en the fight is over, to maim and rape.” He looked at her. “I shouldn't be speaking of such things to you, but the sights I have seen …” He stopped brushing, his eyes far away. “As bad as combat is, there is a reward that makes it bearable.”

  “The reward will come here too, Jack, if we can stick it out.”

  “No. He will die. There's no reward.”

  She couldn't bear it. She jumped to her feet and put her arms around Jack Beresford, resting her hand against his back. “Don't you dare give up!” she whispered fiercely. “I will not leave you to fight this one alone!”

  He leaned against his horse, and she felt the tension leave his body. He dropped the currycomb and put his hands over hers, not moving, just standing there. “I couldn't do it alone,” he said finally. “I couldn't. I'd leave him in his drugged state before I'd try alone. After these four years, I'm so tired.”

  “There's your answer, then,” she said.

  She let go of him, and he turned around, putting his hands on her waist. “I've complicated this issue, of course. Jack Beresford always complicates things. I love you. I don't know how you feel about me, and I'm too tired to ask right now. You're engaged to another man, and you also have some notion about ‘place and birth’ that I really don't understand, but I love you.”

  “For someone who is likely to become a marquess before the summer is out, you are remarkably thickheaded,” she said with some asperity.

  “Ah, your logic is special, Onyx,” he said. “Being a marquess has nothing to do with intelligence. I can cite you any number of cases.”

  “Well, I am equivocating,” she confessed. “Since you like words with no bark on them, Jack Beresford, try these: you'd be laughed out of every gentlemen's club, every polite home, every hunt club, the House of Lords, for all I know, for marrying an illegitimate woman.”

  She had never said the word aloud before. She waited for it to hurt, but it did not. She could see no surprise in Jack's brown eyes, no revulsion. He looked at her as she was accustomed to seeing him look at her, with warmth, interest, and a little lurking humor.