Not nameless any longer, actually—Jamie whistled again and called, “Pilot!” and the big animal came trotting to him, the stick clamped in his powerful jaws.
“Pilot?” I asked.
Jamie shrugged. “I thought it seemed to fit.” He looked up at me. “You came. I thought perhaps that I had succeeded in frightening you off—or that you had changed your mind.”
I could see—now that I was looking for it—the faint outline of the bandage beneath his shirt, and swallowed at the thought of what I was about to do. But I raised my eyebrows and said, “If you want to succeed in frightening people off, you had better take lessons—at least throw in a headless horseman or a wandering skeleton or two. Because I am here, and I have not changed my mind. Tell me what I am to do.”
The next hour—
No. Since I can in fact pick and choose what I write in this diary, I will not record, either, what digging a musket ball out from the poisoned wound in Jamie’s shoulder was like. Living through it once was bad enough. Before I had finished, I was more than glad that Marianne’s questions at breakfast had kept me from swallowing more than tea and dry toast. And I felt that I would have welcomed several dozen headless horsemen with positively open arms, if only I could have chosen to face them instead.
But finally it was done. Jamie lay on the ground, ashen-faced and sweating, with his eyes closed. I was perfectly correct in what I said yesterday; he hadn’t enjoyed the process any more than I, though he had kept absolutely still throughout—and very nearly silent, too, save for muttering unintelligibly under his breath and giving me instructions—through clenched teeth—on how to proceed.
I washed the blood from my hands with the water I had fetched earlier from the stream—and then when my hands were clean, I cupped them and took a swallow of water, too, trying to rinse the taste of bile from my mouth.
“What are the carrots and apples for?” Jamie asked. “Good-conduct prizes, if I managed not to swear or cry?”
I turned, surprised—for I had thought Jamie nearly asleep. I myself felt as though I had been forced bodily through a clothes-wringer, and Jamie had far more cause to be exhausted than I. “Well,” I said judicially, “you did not cry, at any rate. I am not sure about the not swearing part—I could not understand a good many of the words you said. But no, the apples and carrots weren’t for you.”
I glanced at my pack where it lay open on the ground near the campfire. Pilot had nosed it open; that was how the contents had managed to spill out. “They were for Star—a horse that was found running wild a week ago. Have I not told you about her?”
Come to think of it, I supposed that I had not. Between Jamie’s illness and Joanna and my concern over Marianne, even I have had small attention to spare for Star these last days.
Jamie shook his head. I had re-bandaged the wound with the strips of clean linen, but his chest was still bare. Until we were certain that the wound had stopped bleeding, there seemed no point in risking fresh stains on his one remaining clean shirt.
“No, you’ve never said. You could tell me now. Unless—” He squinted, shading his eyes as he checked the position of the sun in the sky. “Do you need to get back?”
He certainly was not trying to garner sympathy or further attention. I could not even tell from his voice if he felt strongly one way or the other about whether I stayed with him longer or left at once. And yet, all at once I hated the thought of going away and leaving him to face another night alone and in pain. He was in pain. He was keeping all evidence of that, too, out of his voice, but I could see how his muscles tensed involuntarily at even a slight movement.
I set the pail of water down and moved nearer, gathering my skirts to sit beside him on the ground. “No, I can stay a while longer. Marianne is visiting Elinor for the afternoon, and I doubt she will be back before dinner time. And I’d like to tell you about Star. You can tell me what you think.”
Jamie listened attentively while I described to him the scars of ill-treatment on Star’s back, how I was fairly sure that her foal would be coming soon—but could not get near enough to her to make a more certain guess, since she grew wild and panicked whenever I tried to approach.
After I had finished, I waited in some anxiety to hear what Jamie would say. I was sure he would not suggest that Star should be put down, as Dawson had. But he might agree that she was beyond saving, and say that the best I could do would be to turn her loose to fend for herself, since she would never be able to deal well with humans again.
Jamie frowned thoughtfully, though, and said, “You could try chestnut powder, rubbed onto your hands when you go near her. That sometimes helps calm a panicked animal.”
I could remember the gritty grey powder that Jamie and his father had used to soothe difficult-tempered horses. Though I had not seen any in years. “Have you any idea where I might get some?”
“I’ve some in my pack, I think. Let me look.” Jamie started up, winced as the movement stretched his shoulder, and fell back, swearing under his breath.
“I’ll get it,” I said quickly. “In here?”
I lifted his heavy canvas kit-bag out from under the flap of the tent and Jamie nodded, eyes sliding momentarily closed. “Yes. In the bottom, I think.”
He did not move to take the pack from me—I suppose he knew the effort would only strain the wound again. So I untied the fastenings myself and started to unpack the contents. There was not very much: a change of clothing, a spare knife, a box of dry tinder for starting a fire—and to my surprise, two worn, leather-bound books.
The first was thick and quite heavy and read ‘Collected Tragedies of William Shakespeare’ across the cover. It was an old book, the spine cracked with age, so that the jacket fell open as I carefully set it aside, enabling me to read Colonel William S. Forsythe inscribed in faded ink on the flyleaf.
“Colonel Forsythe,” I said. “Is that the Colonel you were telling me about?”
Jamie nodded, and I asked, “Was it he who taught you to read.”
“No—that was Paxton. The veterinary surgeon who first took me on as assistant, when I was fifteen.” Jamie said. “He was a bluff old fellow—very strict and didn’t suffer any fools, though he would never have been unkind to an animal. Still, he said any assistant of his was at least going to know his letters, if only so that I wouldn’t be forever mixing up the bottles where he kept his various cures. But then Colonel Forsythe—I told you he took an interest in me, after I’d saved his horse’s life—he took it up to see that I learned more than just my letters. He was a good man—a gentleman, as well as a fine soldier. His men would have followed him anywhere.” Jamie opened his eyes and gave me a brief smile. “He always said that there were two books a soldier ought to have: the Bible and Shakespeare’s tragedies. The Bible so that you would be prepared to meet your Maker, should you happen to be killed in battle. And the tragedies to help you remember that however bad life got on campaign, things could always be worse.”
I laughed, and Jamie touched the book’s worn cover. “He was killed two years ago—struck by a cannonball. He lost his leg and then died a week later of the wound. Before he died, he said he wanted me to have the Shakespeare.”
“And this one?” I picked up the other book and, reading the title on the spine, saw that it was another book of Shakespeare—the sonnets. “Did this belong to Colonel Forsythe, too?”
Jamie shook his head as he took the book from me. “No, I—I bought that one first. With my first quarter’s pay after I joined the army.”
I felt my eyebrows rise. “You chose to spend your first quarter’s pay on a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets?” Unless I had got my timeline mixed, Jamie would not even have been able to read the sonnets when he had first joined the army. And if I am not an expert in soldiering, I could not believe it was usual for new recruits to spend their money on books when there were grog shops and gaming tables available.
Though I suppose Jamie saw enough of that sort of thing in dragging
his brother Sam out of trouble that he might not wish to gamble or carouse in grog shops himself.
I thought a slight flush, as of embarrassment, might have darkened his high cheekbones. He shrugged as he took the book back from me—then reached into the pack himself and took out a leather scrip, with neat compartments for holding several small cork-stoppered bottles, folded oil-skin packets, and a few stoneware jars for holding ointments. “Here. This one.” Jamie drew out one of the oilskins. “You can take it with you. There’s small chance I’ll be needing to calm a skittish horse anytime soon.”
I opened my mouth. It was on my lips to ask what Jamie’s plans were, now that he had left the army—he surely could not mean to go on sleeping in a tent and camping in hedgerows for the rest of his life. But I checked myself. If I had not stopped wondering silently about the question, I had—grudgingly—agreed not to ask him about how he had come to be shot. And it seemed to me that questions about the future would inevitably also involve the question of what he was doing here in Delaford now.
Besides, it seemed unfair to press him for answers when he looked so close to exhaustion.
Instead, I took the packet he had shown me. “Thank you. I will try it the next time I go to see Star.”
Monday 14 June 1802
Jamie is worse. So much worse.
I arrived at his camp today to find him tossing and turning on the bedroll, his eyes glassy and his face flushed with fever. He did not know me at all—at least, I do not think he did. He spoke only a few muttered words in Romany and seemed to look straight through me, even when I bathed his face and tried to coax him to drink.
Pilot appears to have attached himself permanently to Jamie. He was there, whining anxiously and nosing at Jamie’s side. Apparently he had been trying to help, for he had caught a rabbit and left its carcass at Jamie’s feet. Poor fellow. After I had tended to Jamie as best I could, I sat down on the ground—not knowing what else to do—and Pilot lay down beside me and with a gusty sigh, rested his shaggy head in my lap.
I scratched his ears and murmured reassurances, and eventually he seemed to brighten and even wagged his tail.
I wish my own anxiety could be so easily soothed. Eventually I had no choice but to leave Jamie and go back to the mansion house, otherwise I should have been missed at dinner. But fear was like a shard of ice pressing up into my heart—I can feel its chilly prick, still. Fear that I might have done Jamie some harm in removing the musket ball yesterday. Fear that I ought to have insisted on a surgeon after all.
Above all, fear that Jamie will die—that he may be dying out there as I write this now—and I will not be able to do anything at all to help.
Thursday 17 June 1802
I have had little time for writing these last days. I feel as though I have been living a strange, dual existence. On the one hand, slipping away to Jamie’s camp whenever I can—bathing his face, trying to coax him into taking a drink of water or broth, changing the bandages on the wound in his back, which is still angry and red. And on the other hand, sitting down to meals with Marianne and the Palmers, attending whatever social events Marianne has engaged us for—and all the while trying to pretend that I have no concerns graver than the chance of rain spoiling a planned picnic or the question of what bonnet I should wear.
This morning, Marianne invited Eliza and Joanna to come for a visit. And if their presence kept me from escaping to see Jamie, I at least minded their company far less than I would have minded anyone else’s.
While Marianne and Eliza sat and drank tea, Joanna enlisted my help in building ‘fairy houses’ out of twigs and leaves all about the garden. Though she—typically—soon grew bored with playing at fairies and announced that she wished to be a pirate, instead, and dig for buried treasure. I think I may owe the invention of that game to Pilot and Jamie. Though she soon grew discouraged with the lack of gold doubloons to be found in Marianne’s garden and decided to dig for earthworms instead.
We had just dug up a very handsome specimen that—after some spirited debate—we elected to christen ‘Reginald’, when a shadow fell across us from behind. Turning, I was startled to see M. de Courtenay, wearing riding kit and with his hat in his hand.
“I beg your pardon for coming upon you unannounced,” he said with a bow. “Mrs. Brandon’s butler informed me that you were all to be found in the garden and indicated that it would be quite all right for me to join you. I did not realise that you were already entertaining a guest.”
He nodded towards Reginald—who was dangling between Joanna’s small fingers—and crinkles of amusement gathered about his eyes. Strange: I suppose that a month ago, I would have been rather embarrassed to be caught digging in the dirt for worms—not to mention giving them names. But I seem not to care nearly so much what other people think as I once did—particularly since realising that playing the perfect society miss got me nowhere except engaged to Aubrey Neville.
Besides, it was difficult to worry about anything so petty as etiquette when my whole body felt clenched tight with worry for Jamie, and fear of what I might find when I was finally able to reach him.
So I smiled and said, “Earthworms make excellent pets. I had a whole terrarium full of them one summer when I was a child—my father helped me dig them up from the garden, and then we kept them in the gardener’s shed. Though I rather suspect that my father used to sneak out at night and dig up new ones to replace any who met with an untimely demise. He was lucky in that one worm looks very like another.”
M. de Courtenay laughed and started to reply—but I missed whatever he said. Looking past him, I caught sight of two more new arrivals walking towards us across the lawn: Sophia and John Willoughby.
“I beg your pardon?” M. de Courtenay said.
I had not actually realised that I had spoken my instinctive response aloud—but neither was I in a mood to care. I said, a bit grimly and with my eyes still on Willoughby, “Nothing. I certainly did not say ‘hell and damnation’ if that is what you thought. That would have been most unladylike.”
Joanna had scampered off to drop Reginald into our collection bucket; she had neither heard nor seen the new arrivals—not yet. The amusement at the corners of M. de Courtenay’s eyes deepened. But then he looked from Joanna to Willoughby, and I saw something approaching comprehension dawn in his gaze. If he has been in this neighbourhood any length of time at all, he has probably heard Eliza’s history. The unfortunate truth is that however Marianne tries, she cannot entirely prevent local gossip.
And if Joanna does not look like her mother, she does look like John Willoughby—strikingly so. She has exactly the same cast to her dark eyes, the same thickly drawn dark brows—even her small, determined chin has the same set as Willoughby’s.
As Willoughby came towards us across the lawn, he might just as well have held up a placard, proclaiming himself Joanna’s father.
M. de Courtenay was very quick. I suppose my exclamation and look of consternation must have given him all the information he needed—or at least enabled him to suspect what the situation might be.
He strode rapidly to Joanna and said, “Do you know, I believe I see an excellent spot for earthworms just over there.” He pointed towards a flower bed half-concealed from the rest of the lawn by a patch of shrubbery. “I was quite an expert at worm hunting when I was a boy. Would you do me the favour of allowing me to find out whether I still have the knack?”
Joanna is—fortunately—not at all shy with strangers. She considered M. de Courtenay for a moment, and then—stipulating only that he promise to return her spade when he was finished with it—went off happily to hunt for more worms in the new patch.
However, that only took care of half of the trouble. Willoughby was dressed in a coat of blue superfine immaculately tailored to his broad shoulders. His buckskin pantaloons were tucked into knee-high Hessian boots. He came to an abrupt halt when he noticed Eliza and Marianne, seated on garden chairs on the terrace and drinking their tea. Eliza, for
her part, turned dead-white at the sight of him—and instantly leapt up from her chair and walked away from Willoughby and towards me, plainly desperate to avoid a meeting.
Willoughby, though, strode after her, calling, “Eliza, wait—please.”
His wife, at least, hung back—taking the chair that Eliza had vacated beside Marianne. But Willoughby caught up with Eliza in a few easy strides, and caught her arm, turning her to face him. His face was pleading rather than demanding or bullying—but all the same, I walked rapidly towards them. I did not want to intrude. But neither did I feel as though I could leave Eliza to face him all alone—especially if he meant to renew his wife’s demands that she give up Joanna into their care.
He did not seem to be saying anything along those lines. The first words I heard him utter were, “Is that … is that her?”
He nodded towards Joanna’s small figure, energetically digging worms—flinging dirt in all directions every time she wielded the spade.
Eliza’s face was still white to the lips, taut and strained. She gave a short, jerky nod and said, her voice curt, “Yes. Her name is Joanna.”
“Joanna.” Willoughby’s eyes were still on his daughter, and he cleared his throat. “And the two of you are … you are all right? Brandon sees to it that you do not want for anything? If you should need more money, I am sure that I could—”
Twin spots of scarlet colour bloomed on Eliza’s cheekbones at that, and she interrupted, her voice still tight, “We are perfectly all right. Splendid, in fact. That man you see over with Joanna is my betrothed. We are to be married in August.” She smiled brightly as a peal of Joanna’s laughter floated to us from across the lawn. “Joanna absolutely adores him, as you can see.”
Willoughby’s jaw dropped open in astonishment. And then a look of relief passed across his handsome face. If I am to be charitable, I will credit the relief to a genuine wish to see Eliza and Joanna well settled in life; if I am being less kind, I might suspect that Willoughby was relieved to find that the responsibility for his former lover and his child was now firmly on another man’s hands.
Margaret Dashwood's Diary Page 11
