Veronica blushed, unsure if it be from embarrassment or pleasure.
“I am content in knowin’ you will be able to fight the infection,” Amy lamely finished.
“Well, I will be able to repay my debt.” Veronica turned to Brad, wondering what had caused him to refuse Amy’s attentions. Of all people, he should have known the humid weather would attack any wound if not properly treated.
As the carriage jumped over a rut in the road, Brad jerked awake, oddly grinning. “Why, hello!” he said, peering into Veronica’s face.
“Hello yourself, Brad,” Veronica replied.
“Isn’t she pretty? Never seen such a pretty girl,” he said to Amy.
“Brad, we have decided to not go to Washington but take a short break in Richmond,” Amy said, ignoring his feverish laugh.
“Ah, we are to visit Mrs. B!” He turned to Veronica, his smile lopsided. “I remember talking to you at Mrs. B’s. You hated me so much. Do you still hate me?”
“You will wake Madge,” Veronica murmured, taking his handkerchief to blot sweat beads forming at his brow. “Please, calm yourself.”
“Oui, ma capitaine!” He lolled forward into Veronica’s arms, rasping, “Does this mean you still hate me, though?” Veronica refused to respond as she gasped beneath the weight, barely managing to reseat his suddenly unconscious body.
“We should be in Richmond soon. Do you think Mrs. Beaumont will take you in?” Amy asked, keeping her voice low in case Madge happened to awake and protest their decision.
“I helped Mrs. B when she was cast from society. I’m sure she will be glad to do the same.” Pausing to make sure Brad was comfortable, Veronica braced herself against a sharp turn. “What happened when I was…in a daze this past month?”
“We barely managed to get back to Schönheitstal from the duel clearin’. Brad sent your uncle after Bentley’s body, and when he returned he banned us from the plantation. Your mother sent us off in tears, but I could tell she was glad you were rid of Bentley.” Amy paused, noting Veronica gripped Brad’s hand as though she was his lifeline. “Your uncle made me witness the strikin’ of your name from the family Bible, and each day I checked on Brad’s wound except for the past couple days, when he sat by your side and made sure you were content. He made sure you kissed your mother goodbye, and in a fit of consciousness I believe you promised you would write. And you threatened to hunt your uncle down if he prevented Bella from receivin’ them.”
“I am surprised we were able to leave so quickly. So, it's been a week since…Sunday?”
“Five days.” Amy tapped the top of the carriage, instructing the driver to veer towards Mrs. Beaumont’s before he left Richmond. “You were completely unresponsive.”
“I thank you for your patience, Amy. I don’t think I ever could have been so patient. Madge has a thing or two to learn from you, I suppose,” Veronica smiled as she felt the carriage slow to a stop. Waiting for the driver to open the door, she quickly murmured, “Send my well wishes to your family. Tell them I will not let him die, though I am but a simple southern girl.”
“I sense sarcasm, Ronnie,” Amy smiled. “I believe you have spent too much time with my cousin, for you distinctly sounded like him.” She bit back a laugh. “Do be careful.”
Veronica shook Brad’s shoulder until he awoke. “We are here, Brad, do you think you can make it to the door?” Jumping from the carriage step, she held her hand out for his as a means of support. She waved the carriage on as soon as the door shut behind Brad, and watched it leave with a sinking feeling. Who knew when next she would see Amy and Madge? She looped her arm through Brad’s, coaxing him forward.
“You smell good,” he chuckled, slouching forward.
Exclaiming, Veronica barely managed to get him to the door, which was thrown open to admit an astonished Mrs. Beaumont. “What are you two doin’ here? Where is Amy and Madge?”
“Mrs. B, some help—oh!” she gasped, struggling to keep Brad upright without leaning on his lame leg.
“What happened?” Mrs. Beaumont cried as she helped Veronica support Brad’s weight into the house. Calling for Maum Jo, they managed to get Brad into a bedroom before he completely lost control and fell to bed. “This is quite a surprise, I assure you, I had no idea you would be comin’ back so soon…and with a man! Though, he certainly looks familiar. Did he come to my party all those months ago? I am sure of it. But my word! Is he bleedin’? Ronnie, he is bleedin’!”
“He was shot, and didn’t dress the wound properly. Now he is infected, I’m sure,” Veronica explained, using her handkerchief to wipe the moisture from Brad’s forehead.
“What shall we do?” Mrs. Beaumont wrung her hands. “You must leave, I can’t have a young girl like you alone in a room with a grown man! I don’t even know what is name is, only that he is Amy’s cousin! This is preposterous, Ronnie. And he is sick—I don’t want you catchin’ fever. What would your Momma say?”
Veronica waved away her whining. This was hardly the moment to entertain Mrs. Beaumont’s verbosity. Helping Brad to the bed, Veronica fought to get from beneath his arm. He was so heavy! Breaking free, she leaned against him to prevent his tossing. “Get me hot water and as many clean cloths and the herbs in the house…”
Brad moaned, struggling so he could sit. “What are you doing? Get off me!” he shouted, futilely swatting against Veronica’s grip.
“Sit still! Do not you wonder why I myself am able to hold you down? If you want to live you will stop that obscene shoutin’!” Veronica roared over his wails. When he stared at her in baleful surprise, she smiled and pulled off his shoes. “That’s much better, dear. We don’t want the neighbors gossipin’ about the noise, now do we?”
Brad allowed Veronica to remove his jacket and tuck him beneath the blankets. “What are you going to do to me?” he demanded.
“Don’t be such a baby,” she snapped, ushering Maum Jo and Mrs. Beaumont from the room. Belatedly, she remembered she had left Nan in the carriage. Perhaps Amy’s uncle would allow her to live with them. The Washington house was certainly smaller than Schönheitstal, but its size made everything that much more pleasant.
“Where are you going?” Brad’s tone was decidedly calmer, and almost had a touch of desperation. It seemed the fever made him paranoid.
Veronica turned with a sympathetic smile to see his frown. “I assume you will want to change into somethin’ more comfortable, since you will much likely not wake for a while with that fever ragin’.” With a smile, she slammed the door against his temper.
“What was your momma thinkin’, allowin’ you to travel alone with that man?” Mrs. Beaumont demanded, pacing the hallway. “Has she no sense of propriety? If I had the ability to talk to her right now I would tell her one or two things on my mind—”
“My mother sent me here with Amy, Madge and Nan. I sent them on to Washington because I had no use of them. And I have no use of you, either, Mrs. B. I demand that I be the only one to enter his room, to prevent the spread of his fever. —Do not argue! I am not in the mood. My husband has died, and if I do not tend to Brad, he will die too.”
Mrs. Beaumont stumbled away from Veronica, shocked by this sudden display. “Of course, dear. Whatever you say. I had not been told of all your…trials.”
Veronica shrugged off her jacket, hat and gloves. She handed them to Maum Jo, who stood ready with a pile of cloths and bucket of hot water. “And I won’t be needin’ your help either, Maum Jo,” she firmly said, accepting the supplies. Spinning on her heel, Veronica reentered the bedroom to find Brad unconscious on the bed, his cravat hanging in his hand. She shook her head, taking the cravat from him and undoing the first few buttons of his shirt to aid his labored breathing. Tucking him beneath the covers, Veronica kept the wounded leg out so she could inspect it.
Flinching at the sight of the swollen, red flesh, she gently dabbed at the wound, glad the bullet had gone straight through. Murmuring words of consolation as Brad moaned in his feverish sl
eep, Veronica cleaned the wound until there were no traces of blood left. She wrapped his leg tightly and carefully, pausing only to hold back his flailing arms when she caused sharp pain. “Brad, honey, you’ve got to let me do this right,” Veronica murmured, brushing back his hair as he calmed into a sleep.
* * * * *
Veronica entered looking as though she would much rather be elsewhere. Depositing her trusty bucket to the floor, she wearily rolled her sleeves and set about washing Brad to bring his fever down. She ritually pulled back the sheet and dipped her cloth in the bucket to dab his forehead. “Well, Brad, I can see you are still not up to your usual teasin’ today,” she murmured, content with her habitually one-sided conversation. Her hand followed the line of his face.
“I suppose you’d be pleased to know, bein’ a Yank, that the Confederates were defeated at Shiloh.” Glancing around the room, Veronica leaned close to whisper, “We would have won, had it not been for your General Grant gettin’ reinforcements in the middle of the night.” Sighing, she dipped the cloth again and swiped the sweat from his neck and collarbone.
“Casualties were high. 13,000 of your boys, 11,000 of mine (Garrison). All for naught, since the war hasn’t ended yet.” She turned to shut the door, and returned to his bedside ardently frowning. “You are treatin’ me most unfairly, Mister Williams. I sit here by your bedside, leavin’ only to bring more comfort. And you won’t even open your eyes.”
Veronica clenched his hand, brushing away his matted hair. “Please don’t die,” she whispered, kissing his forehead. She hardly felt the strain of the past two weeks, though her shoulders and neck cried for relief. Confused when Brad began to thrash about, she checked his wound. His dressing was fresh, and the flesh beneath it looked healthier than it ever had. Holding her breath, Veronica inspected it, her face inches away. It seemed a healthily pink, no longer the infected, swollen red she first beheld.
Rebinding his leg proved to be a challenge. Glad when Brad seemed to settle, Veronica settled into the easy chair Mrs. Beaumont had been kind enough to provide. She blearily worked on her needlepoint, unconsciously matching his breathing as her tears fell. Flinching when his breath caught, Veronica dropped her project to the floor. She jumped from her seat.
“Why are you crying?” he raucously whispered, his eyes large and staring. When she didn’t answer, Brad frowned. “I’m sorry if I made you cry.”
“Your fever…?”
He smiled, fighting the urge to cough. How long had it been since last he used his voice? Brad motioned that she come closer with a flick of his hand, surprised by the weight of it. He grasped Veronica’s hand as she knelt beside the bed. “I believe…that the fever has left.” How lost she had seemed, sitting in that chair, needle-pointing as though it kept her sane. “You sang to me,” he rasped, his brow furrowing as the memory surfaced.
Shaking her head, Veronica lied, “It was Maum Jo. I asked her to watch you so I could rest.”
Brad closed his eyes for such a long time Veronica was sure he had fallen asleep. “I seem to dimly recall you demanding to be the only one in the room to prevent a spread of my fever.” Opening his eyes only wide enough to see her face, he smiled. “Anger doesn’t suit you, Nettle.”
“I dimly recall you tellin’ me I’m attractive when riled. A fit of generosity, I see.”
“Shouldn’t you treat your invalid with more respect?”
“If the invalid took care not to insult his nurse by pretendin’ he felt no agony, I am sure she would,” Veronica said, brushing hair from his pain-clouded eyes. She frowned as he laughed himself into a shallow coughing fit. “What is so funny?”
“You sang me Yankee Doodle.”
“I couldn’t think of anythin’ but of how a Yankee’s life depended on my southern shoulders,” she spat, attempting to remove her hand from his suddenly strong grip.
“Not any more than a Yankee saving your life from an insane Confederate man.”
Veronica watched him with a sense of calm and unease. It had been peaceful, watching over Brad in the silent room. With his fever broken, she could only imagine how he would act for attention. “You are such a silly man,” she said, wiping the sheet smooth, careful not to bump his leg. “Why would you risk your life to get me north of my uncle?”
“My actions explain themselves,” he sleepily said, seizing her hand so she couldn’t leave.
Veronica sat in complete shock. With each breath Brad took, she felt this impossibly heavy weight lift from her shoulders. It was invigorating and she found she did not know what to do with such sudden energy. Evidently, Veronica had not noticed how worried she actually was. Though her neck and shoulders still ached, the relief made every bodily discomfort seem trivial. And truly, it was not until she wiped away her exhaustion with the back of her hand that Veronica realized she cried.
* * * * *
Humming, Veronica entered the bedroom with a tray full of warm food. “How is my charge this mornin’?”
“Very ill,” Brad grumbled, slowly pulling himself into a sitting position.
“Well, you must not be so ill, for you almost look attractive with your hair all disheveled like that,” she lightly observed, setting the tray on the bedside table. Veronica watched him blush and run his fingers through his hair to retain some sort of decency. “That is much better.”
“What is all that?”
“Your breakfast.”
Brad recoiled in alarm. “I couldn’t possibly eat all that in one sitting!” he clenched his teeth as he saw her smile again. “You’re making fun of me,” Brad snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. He should have let Amy inspect his leg, back in Charleston: it would have prevented all this fuss.
“I am not makin’ fun of you, I swear.” Shaking her head, Veronica produced a bell from the folds of her apron. “This is a present for you, on behalf of Mrs. Beaumont, Maum Jo and I.”
“What is it?” he asked, eyeing the object as though it contained typhoid.
“It is a bell. I can’t be up here with you all day…that is hardly proper. So we devised a bell system. Two bells is Mrs. B, three is Maum Jo, and anything else is me. Isn’t it clever?”
“Not in the least.”
“Oh, pooh. You’re just upset because you’re sick. Well, we’re here to make sure you don’t stay that way. Now, open wide,” Veronica commenced in stabbing his eggs with a fork, holding them before his mouth.
“I can feed myself, Miss Vernon. And I’m not sick. I’ve been shot at!” he crossed his arms and defiantly stared at her. “I will not sit here and be treated like a child.”
Veronica laughed, setting the fork on his plate. “You speak as though you could chase after me in your tantrum. I assure you, you would not like to try it. And as you can’t chase me out the door, I will respect your want for privacy and leave.” With a flounce, she left the room with a dramatic curtsey and shut the door behind her.
Roaring, Brad grabbed the nearest object and hurled it at the door.
Veronica poked her head into the room, eyeing the bell as it scraped against the floor. “You rang?”
“Get out before I throw this fork at you!”
Veronica picked up the bell in mock offense. “How dare you treat me and this bell with such disrespect? We were merely tryin’ to do somethin’ nice, to make you feel not so helpless.” She bit back a giggle as Brad’s brow deeply furrowed. “Be careful, your face might get stuck that way.”
“I hate you,” he moaned, rubbing his forehead. “And you’ve given me the most abominable headache. I really could be dying, this time.”
Laughing, Veronica set the bell on the table with his plate of food. “I would suggest that I massage it, but that is highly improper and I would hardly want to cause Mrs. Beaumont anymore concern.” She sat in her customary easy chair, picking up her journal and pencils.
“What is it that you do in that journal?” Brad muttered, watching her furtively study him, her fingers madly dashing across the page.
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She held up one finger to indicate he wait for an answer, as she brushed a few definite lines across the page and switched pencils for a smaller tip. “I am drawin’ you.” Holding up her journal, Veronica proudly displayed a comical sketch of Brad frowning in his bed.
With an ill-concealed smile, Brad read the heading, “The Invalid.”
“Do you like it?” Veronica asked, handing him the journal. Clenching her hands as he sifted through her journal to find other sketches, he laughed when spying the one of Amy and Madge arguing in Richmond, labeled, “Taming of the Shrew.”
“Yes, I do like it. How many have you done of me, Miss Artist?”
Veronica blushed, watching as he looked at the first drawing she ever did, that night in Richmond. And those quick sketches in Washington, and those from Charleston when he last complained of a headache. She suddenly felt ashamed and embarrassed, and wished she hadn’t shown her diary. “Here, you haven’t eaten, let me take that off your hands,” Veronica said, pulling the journal from his hands.
Brad watched her tuck the journal in her lap as he reached for his plate. Strangely comfortable with the silence, he obediently tucked away the meal. He frowned upon seeing Veronica frowning, and set down his fork. “What’s wrong?”
She could hardly trust herself with an answer. “Ring if you need me,” Veronica lightly replied to hide her tumultuous emotions. She tucked her journal into her apron and stood from her chair. When she reached the door, a light ringing made her spin on her heel.
“I was just testing it, Miss Vernon,” he smiled.
* * * * *
What with Mrs. Beaumont at a sewing bee and Maum Jo preparing dinner downstairs, Veronica found she had a time of solitude. Determined not to waste such precious time, she pulled out her journal to write:
Catching the Rose Page 28
