by P. N. Elrod
“I’ll be fine, sir,” I promised him, then immediately followed this with a sharp grunt that could not have inspired him with any confidence.
Beldon discarded a nasty-looking shard and asked for Father to hold the candle closer and with more steadiness. He brought it close, but was unable to keep from trembling. As the splinters came out, though, my pain lessened, and with it, much of Father’s anguish melted away.
“The bleeding’s stopped,” Beldon announced, amazed.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” asked Father, though he looked at me for an answer. For the moment, I was too weary to provide one, not that I had any.
“But don’t you see? The punctures have closed right up!” Beldon sluiced water over the area. “It’s as though he’s not been wounded at all.”
Father could not help but share in his amazement, but he was more restrained in his reaction. “A trick of the light, perhaps. I don’t know how you can even see to work in this—”
“It’s unnatural, sir,” Beldon went on, with emphasis. His voice rose a little.
Damnation. Tired as I was, something would have to be done. I glanced at Father, questioning. He frowned slightly, but nodded his consent.
“Doctor. . . .” I touched Beldon’s hand and got his attention.
A few minutes later Beldon had finished his bandaging. It was for show only, for with the splinters gone, my skin had indeed knitted itself up, leaving behind red scars that were rapidly fading. Of the stabbings from Nat’s knife, there were no signs, though there were plenty of slashes and red stains in my clothes to mark where the blade had gone in. I had been too immersed in the madness of the fight to notice them at the time.
Finished, Beldon went out with Father to tell the others that I was not seriously hurt and that a full recovery was inevitable.
From the parlor I heard Mrs. Montagu release a sob of relief and Father telling her to be of good cheer.
“Samuel, I am so sorry,” she was saying.
“There’s no need.”
“But he might have been killed. I can hardly believe his escape even now.”
“Tell us what happened, madam,” suggested Norwood. He must have come in again through the front door.
Manners and social customs will out under the most extraordinary circumstances. Father introduced Lord James Norwood to her, touching off a considerable reaction and flurry that the house should have such a lofty visitor.
As they talked, their voices faded briefly for me. I found I could vanish again, for which I felt an absurdly vast relief. Gone for a moment and then back, the lingering fire in my side completely abated. I offered heartfelt thanks to my Maker. Though I could walk now, I decided a little more rest would not be amiss.
Mrs. Montagu had some idea that she should play the hostess for Norwood, but he graciously managed to steer her away from that and repeated his question.
The story gradually came out. One of the Montagu stablemen had been the first to give the alarm. He’d shouted a warning to the house and, after narrowly eluding capture, had run off in the direction of the old barn on our property where the Hessians were quartered.
“It’s not far from here,” she explained. “I’d told the servants that if there was any trouble to either go there or to Mr. Barrett’s house for help.”
The rebels had not known about the closeness of the troops or that a dozen of them had dispatched themselves to give chase while the rest went to fetch Lieutenant Nash. So engrossed were the thieves in their pilfering that no one noticed the new arrivals until it was nearly too late. All but two fled, carrying what they could, the Hessians in close pursuit.
“We hid in the cellar and heard the row,” she said, “and then it became quiet. I thought they were gone, but when I opened the door, those awful men pushed their way in. They were going to wait, thinking to let the soldiers get well ahead before making their own escape. They thought they could find help by going to Suffolk County.”
“The only place they’ll be going is a burying ground,” said Norwood.
“What?”
Concerned with my own woes, I’d forgotten about the two I’d taken on. What had I done?
Beldon murmured agreement. “Yes. One of them has a broken back and the other a broken neck. Despite his wounds, young Mr. Barrett seems to have defended himself ably and well.”
“Young Mr. Barrett” sat up on the table, thoughts of rest vanquished. My mouth went dust-dry. Death. I had smelled death in this room. Could still smell it when I bothered to breathe. Could see it now.
The big fellow, the one I’d rammed with the table, was on his side, bent backward at the hips. Bent very sharply. Nat lay nearby, his head twisted over farther than what might have been considered comfortable to a living man. His face was suffused with blood; his black tongue thrust past his lips. The marks of my fingers were clear on his throat.
I stared at them and went sick, swaying in place. Merciful God, what had l done?
Beldon returned. “Mr. Barrett?” He saw the look on my face and came over, placing himself between me and the bodies.
“I killed them,” I said. I’d lost much of my breath and not replaced it, so what came out was barely a sound at all.
He pursed his lips. “Yes.”
“Oh, God.” I slumped, still sick and certain the feeling would never leave. Though there was no food in my belly, it wanted to turn itself inside out. I drew breath and hiccupped forcefully, for it nearly turned into another sob. I struggled against several of these until Beldon put strong hands on my shoulders and bent his own gaze hard upon mine.
“You killed as a soldier in battle must,” he said, looking steadily on me as though he possessed my power to influence. “There is no dishonor or shame in defending the helpless against evil.”
There was a strength in him that I’d never before suspected, and it seemed to pass from him into me. “Soldier?”
“You did what was necessary to save others. Think of it that way, and it will be easier to bear,” he said gently. “Fate demanded this of you, it was not your choice, but you are strong enough for it, else you would not have been the one chosen.”
I swallowed with difficulty, again recalling that he had seen real war and must know of what he spoke. “Was . . . was Father the first through the door?”
“Yes, and I was just behind him. Why?”
I motioned for him to stand away. Reluctantly, he did so. I looked at the dead men in their final, undignified poses; looked until the sickness in me passed.
“You’re both all right?” I asked.
“Perfectly.”
Nodding, I managed a smile, though it must have been a ghastly one. “That makes it easier to bear, Doctor,” I told him, as though sharing a profound confidence.
He returned a sad smile of his own and nodded.
* * *
Beldon decided that my removal from the kitchen would be of more benefit than risk to my health and helped steady my steps into the next room. I was well able to walk, but saw the need to maintain the pretense of being hurt. Too quick a recovery would invite comment. Norwood found a chair and dragged it over, and Beldon made me sit.
“You’re staying the night, Jonathan,” said Mrs. Montagu. “You’re dreadfully pale. You should be abed now.”
“It’s but a scratch or two, madam, I’ve had worse from my barber,” I responded in a stout tone. As for my lack of color . . . well, I had an easy enough remedy for that. “A little rest and I’ll be able to travel, but I think that you should not be left alone.”
“Certainly not,” said Father, smoothly stepping into the opening I’d given him. “I’d be honored to remain and make sure of your security, madam.” He’d assumed a more formal manner of address to her.
She echoed it. “If it would not be too great an imposition, Mr. Barrett.”
“Non
e at all.”
Such was the resumption of their fragile pretense that they were no more than good neighbors, not mistress and lover, Only their eyes betrayed the real feelings beneath the innocent words, and for the thousandth time I regretted the circumstances that prevented them from freely uniting as man and wife.
While the servants tried to wrest some order from the wreckage, Lieutenant Nash and his troop of Hessians finally arrived. They charged into the house as though it were a battleground and halted, disappointed, perhaps, that there were no rebels to shoot.
Nash stared at the lot of us in wonder, then his gaze finally fell hard upon me. “What the devil’s going on here?”
His greeting pressed home the fast that I was quite the terrifying spectacle with my torn and bloody shirt hanging from my shoulders and bandaging showing beneath.
“Things turned a bit warm here, Lieutenant,” said Norwood. “Some of your lads missed a couple of the rebels and it was left to Mr. Barrett to deal with ’em. He’s quite the firebrand.”
He’d said the right thing at the right time, sparing us from any bullying Nash might have been prepared to deliver to presumptuous civilians. The lieutenant was only too happy to listen to his lordship, and after inspecting the corpses, commended me for my bravery and quick thinking.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, “but had I been thinking quickly from the start I might have avoided this and somehow spared those men.”
“They’d have hanged anyway, Mr. Barrett. I found no papers on them, which means they were base looters, and part of no man’s army. We’ve dropped more than a few from the gibbet over the months, and if this continues, we’ll have others joining them, you mark me.”
Cold comfort, I thought, but better than none at all.
Nash was of a mind to go track down the troops who had given chase to the other thieves. When Mrs. Montagu expressed concern for the servant who had run for help, he opined that the fellow was likely to be found with them. “Once a man gets the blood up for a hunt, there’s no stopping him.” He grimaced at Father, Beldon, Norwood and finally at me. “If he’s still in one piece, I’ll see that he’s escorted home again, madam.”
With this reassurance, he left behind one of his clerks—an Englishman attached to the commissary office—to get a more detailed account of the raid and left with the rest. Norwood watched them go, unable to refrain from showing a resigned wistfulness. He turned away and looked at me and assumed a more neutral expression. It came to me that in his perception I’d had all the “adventure” that evening. I looked him over anew and tried to understand why I’d come to that conclusion.
He was a solid, muscular man with a back like a ramrod, yet exuded a kind of restless energy. He had quick dark eyes, and I hadn’t noticed much expression in them, but put that down to the class he’d been born into. Such constant self-restraint must have been instilled into him from the cradle, if his raising proved to be similar to that of other duke’s sons I’d met at Cambridge. His interest in the doings of Nash’s men touched me, though, for his chances of participation in something more interesting than a tea party must have been rare to nonexistent for him.
“Why don’t you go along?” I suggested.
My question did not seem to startle him; he smoothly supplied the excuse I expected. “My duty lies here, Mr. Barrett, to lend what aid I may to the wounded son of my host.”
“Not at all, Lord James,” I said. “I am quite able to manage, and Dr. Beldon is here. Go along with them, if you can talk Nash into it, then come back to the house and tell us all that happened.”
His face lighted up, but he wavered, compelling me to urge him a bit more until he finally accepted the idea. He promised to provide a full accounting upon his return. So saying, he left, apparently seeing any objections Nash might have as being entirely surmountable.
“He maneuvered you into that, laddie,” Father observed, speaking to me quietly from one side of his mouth.
“I know, sir. It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Not this time, anyway. Besides, I’m curious to know what’s going on as well. Nash might be able to prevent you or Beldon from tagging along to see things, but he won’t turn down his lordship.”
“By God, I wonder who’s doing the maneuvering here.”
“I’m just taking advantage of what’s been offered,” I said modestly. Father smiled, a small one, with his lips tight together, and looked me over narrowly. “How are you? Really?”
He was not asking after my wounds. “I don’t know yet. I feel numb.”
“When the numbness wears off, you come talk to me, y’hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Then he enfolded me in a brief, hard embrace.
* * *
Beldon and I got back to the house well after midnight, but found everyone awake and ourselves the objects of excess worry. I kept my cloak tight about me at first, so as not to frighten Elizabeth, and told her and the others that Father and Norwood were unharmed.
“And Mrs. Montagu?” my sister anxiously demanded, for like me, she also had a deep affection for the woman.
“Distressed and dismayed, but thankfully unhurt. Father and Lord James are staying there to reassure her and help better secure her home.”
Without difficulty, Elizabeth took my real meaning.
“How is it with my brother?” asked Lady Caroline, also anxious. She was pale, except for two spots of color high on her cheeks, and I thought she looked very pretty, indeed.
Prompted by that and further questions, I shared all that I knew, with some exceptions. On the ride home I’d asked Beldon to say nothing of the men I’d killed, and so he’d remained silent as I skipped over the unpleasantness; with that omission, I was also able to leave out the business of my wounding. Beldon had taken my insistence on that point to be a combination of wanting to avoid excessive fuss and a desire to spare the ladies additional unease, for which he was entirely correct. Later, I would tell Elizabeth the whole story, but I was exhausted now. It could wait until tomorrow.
Surrounded as I was by Elizabeth, Lady Caroline, Cousin Anne, Mrs. Hardinbrook and—unfortunately—Mother, not to mention a dozen servants watching close by, I suddenly became aware of a desire to be alone that was as great as my weariness. I wanted time to myself, to touch and find comfort amongst the familiar treasures of my own room . . . to change from my wretchedly used clothes. With a bow, I begged leave to be excused and was able to escape for the most part. Elizabeth and Jericho went ahead of me, Jericho to prepare my room and Elizabeth because she saw there was more to things than had been said. Well, I wouldn’t mind talking to them, but Mother . . . .
“You could have been killed, Jonathan Fonteyn,” she said as we all took the stairs. She was just behind me; Beldon, box of medicines in one hand, hat in the other, came last. I glanced back at her, surprised by this show of concern, but came to a disheartening conclusion: Mother’s words might have the show of worry, but their substance indicated that her worry was for herself. Had I been killed, how might she, herself, have been inconvenienced? As that question had already been answered for me last August, I should not have felt such a surge of bitter disappointment now, but did, anyway.
Once at my room, Beldon invoked his authority as a doctor and requested everyone to leave, saying that I was in need of rest. For various reasons, no one was inclined to listen to him. Jericho busied himself pulling out my nightclothes, and Mother and Elizabeth stood just inside the doorway.
“There will be no more of this foolish running off with soldiers, Jonathan Fonteyn,” Mother stated, arms crossed and head high. She didn’t seem to be looking at me so much as at something just over my left shoulder. I knew nothing was there, it was just her way. It suited me, as I had little stomach for looking at her, either. “You’re a gentleman, not some kind of foolish camp hanger-on for those soldiers. The
y don’t need your help to do their duty.”
“No, Mother,” I said meekly, hoping she’d finish soon and get out.
“And don’t use that long-suffering tone with me, young man. You’re far too impertinent.”
“Forgive me, Mother. My fatigue troubles me and makes me short.”
“Fatigue,” she spat. “I wonder how long it will take you to recover from this? You tell me that. You’re far too lazy as it is, sleeping all day and not lifting a finger to help your father even when you do manage to dislodge yourself from bed.”
Each of her words beat against my head like some awful hammer. Bang, bang, bang. I’d been through enough disruption for one evening, but it appeared that she was warming herself up for more.
When Mother paused for breath to continue her tirade, Elizabeth stepped forward. “He’s tired, Mother, can you not see that? Please let him rest.”
Mother, her mouth slightly open as she started to speak, stopped. She still looked past me, but now seemed to see nothing. Her eyes . . . there was something dreadfully wrong there.
And without word, without warning, Mother raised her hand and swung her whole body around. Her palm struck Elizabeth’s face with a resounding crack. My poor sister was knocked right off her feet. It was so swift and stunning that I was unable to take it in, not until I heard Elizabeth’s sobbing gasp of shock and pain. Then I was moving toward her, arms out to help.
“I didn’t send you to Cambridge for you to sleep your life away,” Mother continued, as though nothing had happened.
“Mrs. Barrett!” cried Beldon from where he stood flat-footed in a corner, utterly appalled.
But before I could get to Elizabeth, she’d surged right back up again, swift as thought. She had the beginnings of a red mark on her face oddly similar to the one Mrs. Montagu had received; beyond that the resemblance ceased. Elizabeth’s expression—indeed, her whole body—seemed possessed by pure fury. While Mother still babbled on, heaping more reproach upon me, Elizabeth launched herself. Mother’s speech abruptly stopped, replaced by a snarl of surprise and followed by thumps, howls and thuds. They were on the floor, skirts flying and fabric ripping as they rolled and tore at each other like cats.
