"Shhhh. It's all right." She was there, crouching down beside him, her irritating little hand on his arm, his back, stroking him as though he was a baby. Soft fingers brushed the hair off his forehead, rubbed the back of his neck in a gentle, soothing motion. "Just be still. You're not alone. I'm here."
He was sharply aware of the floorboards, hard beneath his cheek and smelling faintly of dust and pine. He was embarrassingly aware of the fact he wore only a long, nearly knee-length shirt. And he was very aware of her hand, soothing him, stroking him. Normally he would have resented such womanly coddling — even from Juliet — but in his shock and grief he was powerless to do anything but lie there and allow it.
The girl Amy tried to put a hand on his shoulder in comfort.
"Leave me!" he said hoarsely, embarrassed by his shameful display and angrily twitching his shoulder to throw her off. He buried his face in his hands. "Oh, please, just go away and leave me to die."
The girl said nothing, which made him all the more angry, all the more afraid, all the more frustrated by his sudden helplessness. He hated himself for it. Hated himself for this shocking loss of control. But most of all, he hated himself for what had happened to him because it was, after all, his own damned fault.
Cruel, cruel memory! He remembered the boy jumping out and shooting at him. He remembered jerking his musket up at the last moment so that he wouldn't kill the lad, and then losing his balance, falling backwards and hitting something so hard that a million lights had exploded in his head. What a clumsy fool he was. What an inept excuse for a soldier. He'd always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. Well, he'd gone out, all right.
In a blaze of humiliation.
Sitting up, he gazed miserably into the darkness, trying to get used to it and knowing he never could. Imagine, an entire life with nothing before you but this. No light, ever again. No colors, ever again. No faces of those you love, no knowledge of what your baby will look like, no career, no future, no independence, nothing.
He took a deep, shaky, bracing breath.
Ever again.
Outside, the sparrows were still chattering; for them, for the girl beside him, for just about everything on God's earth, life went on as usual. How could everything be so complete and utterly normal, when for him, things would never be the same?
He heard liquid pouring into a vessel of some sort, and then the girl's voice, subdued, sympathetic.
"Here, drink this. It'll make you feel better."
He shut his eyes, unable to speak.
"Please, Captain. I know you've had a shock, but you should be grateful that you're alive."
"Grateful? Grateful? Did it ever occur to you that I'd prefer to be dead?"
"I'm sorry. I . . . I cannot imagine what you must feel, right now."
"Indeed, you cannot. I am a captain in the King's Own. I had a fine career, people who depended on me, and the sweetest girl in Boston just accepted my hand in marriage. Now I doubt whether I can so much as feed myself without mishap — let alone lead my troops into battle or suffice as anything resembling a husband or a father. No, madam, you cannot imagine what I feel right now. You cannot imagine it at all."
"But these are early days."
"Right. Early days. I suppose the doctor thinks I will recover my sight tomorrow, eh?"
"The doctor thought you'd never wake up. The fact that you have is a miracle in itself."
"You will understand if I don't quite consider it a miracle."
He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, and rested his head thus, his fingers splaying up through hair that felt thick and disgustingly greasy. His fingertips encountered a bald spot, and, pushing his hand further back and over his crown, he discovered that an area the size of his fist had been shaved.
And there — ouch — stitches, swelling, soreness. Ah, yes. Of course. They would've had to shave his hair off in order to cut a plug of bone out of his skull. The very idea was horrifying. Bitterly, he wondered if he'd lost his sight before the doctor — no doubt some inept, ignorant provincial — had got to him, or after.
Despondently, he asked, "What happened after Concord?"
She gave a heavy sigh. "Your army retreated to Boston, suffering heavy casualties along the way. The countryside is still in an uproar, post riders have been racing through, and God only knows what will happen next." She paused. "Would you like something to eat?"
"No."
"A little water to drink, then?"
"I do not want anything."
"But you must be hungry . . . thirsty . . ."
"Please, child. Just leave me alone."
He needed to grieve in privacy, to try to come to terms with what had happened to him, to think what to do next. He needed to contact his commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Maddison; he needed to get a letter off to Lucien in England; and oh, God, he needed Juliet. Badly. He dug his knuckles into his eyes to stop the sudden threat of tears. Oh, so very, very badly —
He wiped a hand over his face, and as he did, his elbow hit a tankard the girl, who was getting to her feet, was holding, sloshing its contents all down his chin and neck.
Charles's temper, normally under as tight a control as everything else about him, exploded.
"Plague take it, woman, just leave me the devil alone! I am in torment enough without someone trying to nanny me!"
"I'm only trying to help —"
"Then go away and leave me be, damn you!" he roared, plowing his fingers into his hair and gathering great hunks of it in his fists. "Go away, go away, go away!"
Stunned silence. And then he heard her get to her feet.
"I'm sorry, Captain de Montforte. I should have realized that you'd need time to come to terms with what's happened to you." A pause. "I'll leave this jug of hard cider next to you in case you get thirsty. It's not as potent as rum, but maybe it'll let you escape from your troubles for a while." Her voice had lost its sparkle, and Charles knew then — much to his own dismay and self-loathing — that she was a sensitive little thing beneath that cheerfulness, and that he'd hurt her feelings. He suddenly felt like a monster, especially when her voice faltered and she said, "I'll be just across the room, peeling vegetables for supper . . . if you need anything, just call and I'll be right there."
She walked away, and he dug the heels of his hands into his useless eyes and let self-disgust consume him. With vivid clarity, he saw the face of his brother and heard again the words with which Lucien had proudly seen him off to America: "Godspeed then, Charles, and return to us crowned in laurels. You are a de Montforte. I expect nothing less than glory from you. Especially from you."
Laurels. Glory. He hadn't even seen proper action. He bit savagely down on the inside of his cheek and felt sick with shame, for he had never failed anyone before.
Ever.
Now, he'd failed not only his family, but his country, his reputation, his men. He had ruined his life and nearly killed a young boy as well. It was beyond unbearable. He tried to block out his last, painful memories, but all he could see was poor Ensign Gillard charging into that rebel-held pasture and straight toward his death.
Over and over again.
Behind him, he heard the sound of a pail being set down on the floor, and then the rapid scrape-scrape-scrape of a knife over vegetables.
He remained where he was, suffering in silence.
The scraping went on. Stopped. Became a rapid chop-chop-chop. Stopped. There was the sound of vegetables being tossed into a pot. More scraping. More chopping . . .
And absolutely nothing from the girl.
With a weary sigh, he lay down on the pallet and pulled the blanket back over his shoulders. "My apologies, Miss Leighton. You are kinder than I deserve, and my anger is not with you, but myself."
He heard the thunk of more vegetables landing in the pot. "There's no need to apologize, Captain. After what's happened to you, no one's expecting you to behave as you normally would."
"Had I behaved as I 'normally would,' I
would not be in this predicament," he said bitterly. "Furthermore, it is humiliating to find myself so dependent on people who are not only unknown to me, but who owe me nothing."
"You are wrong, Captain. We owe you everything."
"I am a 'redcoat,' Miss Leighton. No longer your protector, but your enemy."
"And I am the sister of a fourteen-year-old boy who thought war was the way to prove his manhood. He was the one who shot at you, Captain de Montforte. He was the one whose life you could've snuffed out in a heartbeat, but decided instead to spare at the last moment, and for that, sir, we owe you everything."
"You mean to tell me that your brother was the one who —"
He broke off as a door slammed and sudden, impatient footfalls reverberated across distant floorboards.
"Amy? Amy, where are you?" shrilled a young woman's voice.
He heard Amy catch her breath; a second later the footfalls stormed into the room.
"Amy! Oh, there you are, tending to that horrible drain upon our resources again. I wish he'd just hurry up and die so that you'd get back to our needs. I told you I needed you to dress my hair since I'm going out this afternoon, but you haven't even got out the curling iron, have you?"
"I've been busy with other things, Ophelia."
"Yes, that stupid oaf Will dragged in! I want you to fix my hair!"
"And I want her to get supper going!" snapped another female, her voice as sharp and impatient as the first. "Here it is, nearly three o'clock, and you still haven't collected the eggs, made the beds, or even started the stew —"
"I'm doing it now —"
"You aren't either, you're down here fawning over your pet man again!"
"And why not, he's the only one she's ever likely to get!"
"Why don't you get yourself a dog instead, Amy? At least you'll get some response!"
Vicious laughter rang out and Charles, who hadn't moved, felt Amy's humiliation as keenly as if it were his own. His heart started a slow, angry tha-dump, and his fists clenched involuntarily as he stared into a fire he could not see.
"Please, stop," he heard her plead. "You don't know what you're saying —"
"But I know what I'm seeing. Always got your silly head in the clouds, haven't you? I'll bet you're sitting down here daydreaming, gazing at that useless creature and pretending he's your suitor!"
"Ha! That sure does explain why she's barely left his side, doesn't it? You know you're scraping the bottom of the barrel when you have to start pretending someone who's too senseless to know any different is your lover, ha ha ha!"
Charles had had enough. He raised himself on one elbow. "I beg your pardon?"
Behind him came a shriek and a splintering crash as one of the two newcomers dropped something to the floor.
"Heaven above, he spoke!"
Charles kept his back toward them so they couldn't see his blindness. "Yes, I believe I did," he said in his frostiest drawl. "I also believe I heard you maligning this dear angel in a way she does not deserve."
He could sense Amy's cringing embarrassment.
The two females were speechless with shock.
"Will you not apologize to her?" he asked with deadly softness.
"Apologize? To Amy? Whatever for?"
"Captain, please — my sisters, they . . . they don't know what they're saying."
"The devil they don't. You deserve an apology from these two termagants and I will see that you get one."
"Termagants?! How dare you!" Angry footsteps came right up behind him. "Just who do you think you are, anyhow? Imposing on us, partaking of our Christian charity and now putting on airs and insulting us! Why, just listen to that impossibly fancy accent of his, Mildred! He thinks he's above himself!"
"Thinks he's above us!" cried the other, mimicking Charles's expensively educated, aristocratic speech. "So where are you from, anyhow? Regardless of what Will said, I can tell right now that you're no farmer, and you're not from Woburn, either!"
"You are correct. I'm no farmer, and I am not from Woburn."
"Who are you, then? Answer me!" The girl stamped her foot. "Answer me now!"
"No! Don't tell them!" gasped Amy.
"Shut up!" snarled the one called Ophelia, and Charles heard the sharp crack of a hand meeting flesh, and Amy's cry of pain. Everything inside of him went cold with a deep, black rage. How dare they hurt her. How dare they.
His back toward them all, he summoned his strength and began to pull himself to his feet.
"You tell us who you are right now or I'm going to go get Papa!"
Charles kept rising, the blanket sliding off his shoulders, too angry to care that he wore nothing but this long shirt.
"You're not even from around here, are you? Are you?"
"How very astute you are. For a provincial, that is."
"You're as much a provincial as we are!"
He laughed softly. "I think not."
"What?"
"Go get your father." And then, when no one moved, "Now."
The girl fled the room. "Papa!" she cried in a piercing shriek that made Charles's head ache all the more. "Pa-paaa!"
Sylvanus, sitting outside beneath an apple tree and trying to work out a theme for Sunday's sermon, jerked his head up as Ophelia, bawling like a cow needing to be milked, came flying to the open door. Raising his eyes to God in a silent plea for patience, he put down his notes.
"For the love of heaven, what's going on in there?"
For answer, she burst into tears and ran back inside.
Sylvanus abandoned his sermon and followed, dragging his feet all the way. The first person he saw was Amy, hands steepled over her mouth. She stared at him like a rabbit caught in a snare, and it was then that he saw Ophelia and Mildred near the keeping room fireplace and shrinking back from —
Praise the Lord! Will's friend was conscious and on his feet. His spine, as straight as the back of a pew, faced them all, and his bearing was one of pride, outrage, and the sort of well-bred elan not often found amongst people of Sylvanus's acquaintance. Barely able to contain his excitement, Sylvanus came up behind him.
"Ah, Mr. Smith, thank the Lord you're awake! Will is going to be absolutely delighted that his friend has finally returned to the land of the living!"
The young man's profile was severe, his jaw clenched with impatience as he fixed his gaze straight ahead. "Will?"
"Yes, Will! Don't you remember?"
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I am not acquainted with anyone named Will, and my surname is certainly not Smith."
Sylvanus blinked, slightly undone by the anger in the man's tone. "Well, of course it is . . . Will said so himself . . ."
"What madness have I woken to?" The stranger pressed his fingertips to his temples, as though his patience with the lot of them had finally reached its end. "My name, sir, is Lord Charles Adair de Montforte. I am a captain in His Majesty's army, my home is in Berkshire, England, and my brother Lucien is the fifth and current duke of Blackheath." The proud head turned to regard him, the clear blue eyes staring straight over Sylvanus's right shoulder and through the wall behind him. "And who, pray tell, are you?"
Chapter 4
A redcoat. A blind redcoat. A blind, aristocratic redcoat. Oh dear, oh, dear, oh dear . . .
"Amy. Go find Will and bring him to me immediately."
"Oh, Papa, please, be easy on him, he only did what he thought was right —"
Sylvanus kneaded his brow. "Don't argue with me, Amy. Just go get him, now."
Amy found her brother outside in the barn. He was gathering the eggs she should have collected this morning, trying to help her with duties that, because of the captain, she could no longer keep up with. Amy's heart went out to him. Poor Will was ravaged by guilt from all corners. He took one look at Amy's face and froze with his hand beneath a hen's breast, earning a vicious peck on the back of his hand for his hesitation.
"It's time, Will," said Amy, taking the basket from him. "The captain's awake, and Papa wa
nts to talk to you."
Her brother swallowed, made a brave but pitiful attempt to square his shoulders, and followed her back into the house, Crystal trotting at his heels. Sylvanus was waiting by the door. He gestured for Will to precede him into the keeping room where Lord Charles, his back to them all, sat on his pallet before the fireplace, decently covered in one of Sylvanus's old banyans. Ophelia and Mildred stood with folded arms in the corner, and the air was so thick with tension that Amy almost expected a lightning bolt to slam down out of the ceiling.
Sylvanus poured himself a mug of hard cider and took a seat. Then he looked up at Will, his face confused, saddened, mirroring betrayal. "Out with it, son. Before your family, before this fellow you brought home, and before God."
Will took one look at the expectant faces around him, and, his eyes filling with tears, blurted out the story for all to hear.
"I didn't know what else to do, Pa!" he said, stroking the dog's head and gulping once, twice. "I couldn't just leave him there, not after he saved my life! He was dying, and no one should have to die alone!" And then, between apologies to his father, to the stone-silent captain, and even to God for sneaking off to fight without Uncle Eb's knowing, Will finally broke down in great wracking sobs that testified to the anguish in his soul, burying his face in Crystal's neck.
Amy glanced at the captain. He hadn't said a word throughout Will's confession, neither batting an eyelash nor moving a muscle, merely sitting there on his pallet with his back to them all. It was as though he'd already given up on life, already given up on hope, and that what had happened in his past was now irrelevant. Glancing at him, Sylvanus raked a hand through what was left of his hair; then, ushering Will to his feet, he sent the boy to bed.
An awful silence remained in his wake.
Sylvanus picked up the poker and stabbed at a burning log. "I just don't understand it. He's never given me a spot of trouble. Always been a good lad, always did the right thing, and now . . ." He took off his spectacles and rubbed wearily at his eyes. "And now, I don't know what to do with him. I just don't know . . ."
The Beloved One Page 4
