“But now I must join my fellows at the Home Guard table. You’re all a bit stuffy for the likes of us.”
Gideon and his men seemed to adore her father and always made room for him in their company, sought him out for games of chess, and bridge, and visits to the pub. Men as fine as Gideon. She’d shared many conversations with his officers over the past weeks, mostly in passing, but had enjoyed their wit and banter, learned about their homes and families, their adventures in the war, and yet she felt older and much wiser than any of them.
Gideon himself was oddly quiet, standing bolt upright behind the chair he’d kept for her, smiled as he held the back and gestured for her to sit, which she so badly wanted to refuse. She was his colleague, his equal in all things. Yet, in his single act of rejection, she’d been reduced to being his date.
It was impossible not to sense him behind her as she sat and they listened to the mayor present prizes for the ‘best’ and the ‘most’ and the ‘biggest.’ Impossible not to feel the searing heat of his hand through the gabardine of her dress as he caressed her shoulder. Very hot, clammy, as though he’d become over-heated.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen of Balesborough Parish, it’s time to announce the sum raised today for our Spitfire campaign.” Lots of cheering, hooting. “And who best to make the announcement than the organizer of the fete, our own Miss Josie from Nimway Hall.”
She disliked this moment at the end of every local event, when she was recognized for doing exactly what anyone else would have done in her position as lady of the Hall. Which nearly everyone in the parish did every day of this terrible war—they willingly gave their all.
Gideon bent down to whisper, his large hand on her shoulder, hot as before. “You’ve got a major success on your hands, Josie. Let them love you for it.” He gave a brief squeeze to her upper arm then let her go.
“Thank you, I will—” as though she needed his approval or direction! Wanting nothing more than to call the man out for his chauvinism, Josie left Gideon without looking back and made her way toward the stage, winding through the tables and across the dance floor where the children were all seated.
“A miracle of a day, Miss Josie,” Mayor Wharmsley whispered, grinning madly as he handed Josie the slip of paper from the fund-raising committee. A quick glance at the total told her the reason!
Josie thanked the fete committee for their tireless work, the donors of so many goods and services, and her friends and neighbors “—for so generously opening your hearts and emptying your pockets for the war effort.”
Which seemed to delight the crowd and made Josie very proud of them all.
“Now to the figure you’ve all been waiting to hear. Due to your generosity and hard work today, we have added £4,388 and thruppence to Balesborough’s Spitfire Fund Campaign.”
The audience began to applaud and the band struck up a tune, but Josie raised her hand and the sound stopped.
“Before the drumroll, gentlemen, can any of our brilliant young students seated below me add that sum to our current total of—” she checked the slip of paper “—£878?”
Almost instantly Molly raised her hand and shouted correctly “—£5,266!”
“And thruppence!” added Lucas. Making the crowd roar and Josie’s heart swell with pride.
The mayor waved his arms to quiet the tumult. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have bought a Spitfire!”
The band struck up a blaring tune and the dance floor filled again, scattering the children and swelling the hall with the noise of celebration.
Josie had purposely not spared even a glance in Gideon’s direction as she made the announcement, hadn’t wanted to witness his disbelief.
But as she stepped down from the stage she saw him whisper something to Crossley, then slip out the backdoor. The bloody coward! Couldn’t even wait long enough to face her ‘I-told-you-we-could-buy-a-whole-Spitfire!’
Well, good riddance to you, Colonel Fletcher. The fete hadn’t been the time to reveal to him that she was Arcturus. There would be time enough in the next day or two.
Josie worked her way through the press of dancers and well-wishers, taking her time returning to the table where Gideon’s men were tucking into plates of cabbage, sausage and potatoes.
“Congratulations, Miss Stirling!” Crossley stood with the other men, raised his spoon in salute. “What a roaring success!”
“Look there—” Durbridge pointed to five model Spitfires sitting in the middle of the table. “We bought enough game tickets and scrumpy to fund an entire squadron.”
“We’ll be giving those to the children at the Hall,” Easton said, inspecting one of the toys. “The colonel said he watched our little evacuees donate their rose-hip money to the cause.”
“Did they?” And did Gideon take time to watch them?
“He also asked if we would pass along his congratulations to you,” Easton said, raising his pint to Josie. “His leg was giving him fits, so he thought it best to head back to the Hall.”
“His leg?” Had the girls been right about Gideon’s injury?
“Didn’t bring his cane with him to the fete and I think he came to regret it, especially after the Coconut Shy.” Crossley shared a nod with his comrades, then lowered his voice. “Was in gobs of pain when he left here just now, though he’d never let on, not even to us. Wouldn’t limp in front of strangers, if it killed him.”
But they had become so much more than strangers. “How did it happen, Lt. Crossley? Has he said?”
“Not a word to us. But we do know he was seriously wounded on a covert intelligence operation last spring, nearly didn’t make it home.”
Gideon, nearly killed in the line of duty, a chance that they would never have met. A chill settled on her heart as she turned away and noticed what looked to be a smear of oil on the wooden floor where he’d last been standing. She brushed it with her fingertip and came away with blood.
“How was the Colonel getting back to the Hall?”
“Walking, I assume. Wouldn’t ask for a ride.”
Foolish, prideful man!
“Thank you, Lt. Durbridge. Gentlemen.” She grabbed her things and raced through the near-dark to where Bess was parked beside the deserted WI stall. She slammed the rear doors on the stacks of empty crates, slid into the driver’s seat and sped off west through the village toward the lane that turned up to the Hall.
When Gideon wasn’t there, she knew exactly where he would be heading—to the dead drop at the back wall of the churchyard.
And there he was, in the pale light of her headlamps, standing outside the lych gate, her Invictus, checking the gate post for a signal from Arcturus.
It’s not there, you exasperating dolt!
Josie pulled alongside and honked Bess’s horn. “Get in!” she shouted out the driver’s window.
“Josie?” He turned, sheltered his eyes from the light. “Is something wrong at the Hall?” His pace was slow and upright as he approached the passenger side, his pain as poorly disguised in the dim light as his unsteady gait.
“You’re bleeding, Gideon.” Josie got out of the van, went round to the passenger side and opened the door. “Leaving a trail that any child could follow, let alone an enemy agent.”
“Enemy agent? Don’t be absurd.”
“Get in, or I’ll throw you in.”
“Josie, please leave me be. I’m fine. Go back to the fete.”
“Don’t tempt me. And you’re not fine. Get into the van and I’ll drive you to the Hall where you can continue bleeding all over the marble floors, if you’d like. Or you can let me see this gaping wound you’ve been hiding from me, and I’ll staunch it. I know how. I’m trained in first-aid.”
“I don’t need your help—”
“But you do need a ride.” She gave him the slightest nudge toward passenger seat and he dropped in, frowning as he turned to face the front.
Josie dismissed the feeling that she had just bagged a live tiger, and with it the worry
about his temper when she finally let him loose.
No matter that he was a thick-headed lout, was stubborn and too handsome for his own good, Gideon Fletcher was a fallen colleague and it was her duty to take him safely off the field of battle and see to his wounds before another minute passed.
The showdown between Arcturus and Invictus would have to wait until the man could at least stand upright.
Bloody hell, if he hadn’t been showing off like a schoolboy for Josie, he wouldn’t have re-injured his leg at the Coconut Shy, wouldn’t have risked the live drop which had doubtlessly sent Arcturus back into hiding.
He’d been so damn proud of Josie when she announced the success of the fete, astounded by her faith and determination. She had proved that a village like Balesborough could bind together to buy an entire Spitfire.
By that time his knee was nearly blinding him with pain; he couldn’t dance, couldn’t stay and didn’t want to ruin her celebration with questions about him.
And he’d been hoping that Arcturus had left the fete after abandoning the live drop and managed to slip the intended message with the Aux Unit names into the dead drop. He’d been beyond disappointed not to find a chalked signal on the lych gate post.
And, though he would never admit it to Josie, he was beyond grateful to her for insisting she drive him back to the Hall.
What had begun as a noticeable wrench deep inside his knee when he’d heaved that last ball at the coconut had grown into a throbbing, near-blinding ache. The blood on his trousers could only have come from the raw-edged surgical incision, was more dramatic than life-threatening. Still, the pain was like an inferno and he’d wondered how he would have made it back to the Hall on foot.
He held on tightly as Josie flew up the lane and into the drive, stopping long enough for the young sapper on guard at Nimway’s gate to peer into the van, salute Gideon and wave them on. Minutes later she pulled up to the rear of the darkened house, grabbed her electric torch from the glove box, then met him on the passenger side as he was opening the door to get out.
“Gideon, are you sure you can do this on your own?” She caught his elbow as though he were an invalid.
“I’m sure.” He wasn’t sure at all, swallowed a gasp as he swung around in the seat and stepped out with his left leg, didn’t even try to stand until he was square on his right, then braced himself upward with his hand on the back of the seat and stood upright. “There.”
“Not even close, Gideon.” She seemed impatient and angry as she slammed the door behind him, raised the bonnet and removed the rotor arm. “Everyone is at the fete for the next hour. We’ll go in through the pantry and then back to my office.”
“I’d much rather go up to my room–“
“I need to fix that—” she flicked on the torch and shined it on the stain on his trousers “before it worsens.”
“It won’t.”
She ignored him, caught his elbow and headed toward the kitchen stairs, fixing the beam of light on the hard-packed gravel just in front of him. “The Land Girls told me weeks ago that you had a limp and walked with a cane. I don’t know how I haven’t noticed in all our time together. But I see now how you’ve been able to mask the pain.”
“Have you, then?”
She left him and watched carefully from the top of the kitchen steps, the same way she must do when one of her livestock went lame. “There. A hitch, as you rise on your right, your left leg slightly stiff. Carrying the pain in your shoulders as well. Over-working your right leg.”
Winded, he stopped when he reached the top and braced his weight on the wall. “Do you mind?”
“Can you bend your knee fully?” She held the door wide as he hobbled through.
“Not at the moment, unless you want me to bleed all over the pantry.”
“No, but can you normally bend your knee fully?”
“With effort on a good day, nearly impossible today.” He steadied himself for a moment on the edge of a sink. “I’d like to thank you for the lift, Josie, and for a most marvelous day. But, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll retire and take care of th—”
“No, Gideon, I won’t excuse you; you’re not getting rid of me until I have seen this wound of yours in the flesh.” She scowled. “And blood.”
“It’s nothing, really.”
“’Nothing’ doesn’t leave a trail of blood. Doctor Wealty is in town tonight for the fete—it’s either me or him.”
“Josie, it’s an old injury. I’ll not bleed out.” Though he could feel new blood seeping down his leg.
“The first aid supplies are in my office. It won’t be but a minute for me to take a close look and see what’s needed.”
“A minute then.” Even so, he refused to hobble as he followed her through the kitchen, resisted propping himself against the worktable when the pain jarred him.
“This way, Gideon!” she called from her office, wheeling her chair to the side of her desk by the time he entered. She turned on the lamp and crooked the light toward the seat. “Sit here. I’ll get your shoes off. I don’t think you can reach your left one.”
Wary of every comfort she was offering, Gideon lowered himself into the swivel chair and extended his left leg, exposing the patch of blood, dark and clotted, at the knee of his trousers.
“I don’t mean to be fresh, Gideon,” she said as she knelt and unlaced his shoes.
“Go right ahead—” he leaned forward to be nearer, “takes my mind off the pain.”
“Very well.” He caught her in a brief smile as she slipped off his shoes and set them aside, then gently slid his trouser leg upward toward his knee “—hold this, please.”
She left him holding the hem, went to the workbench sink, ran water and returned with a damp towel. His left sock was stuck to the top of his calf where blood had congealed with hair and the knitted wool.
“Were you just planning to bleed to death?” She dabbed the wet towel against the crusted blood, wetting his leg and the ribs of the sock.
“That was my plan, yes.”
“I know this is an old injury, but what happened? How did you re-open it? Did you fall?”
“No.” I was showing off for you, Josie. “I just stepped badly.”
“And did all this damage?” She was still wearing her shapely dress from the fete. Looked even more lovely now than before. When she bent to pull off his socks, her neckline gaped, revealing more than he ought to be taking in, her breasts soft and round and promising. The birthmark she spoke of so lightly, hiding just out of sight over her lovely shoulder.
He’d never been undressed by a woman. It was always the other way around. Not that the number of women was great. Certainly none lately, save for the parade of stern-faced nurses who had raised him from the dead and then sent him home to be nursed by his mother. But in his misspent and unrepentant youth, there had been a few.
None came close to matching the heart of the woman kneeling before him, not in grace, devotion, wit or intelligence, not to mention beauty.
“Fair warning, Gideon, this might—” she yanked his sock down his calf, pulling out hair that was still dried to his sock “—hurt.
“It didn’t.” Barely distracted him from the throbbing in his knee, the spasm in his back.
“I can’t see much of the wound itself for your trouser leg, but at least it’s not still bleeding.” She stood, pointed to his trousers. “Time to take them off.”
“Take what off? My trousers? Really, Josie, you’re straightforward.”
“Can you make it upstairs to your room? I’ll follow shortly with my first aid bag. But I warn you, if you’re not out of your trousers and in your dressing gown when I arrive, I’m straightforward enough to take them off for you.”
She handed him his shoes and socks and he made his way up the backstairs to his room, his knee stiffening with every step. The blasted woman was right, he did need her help with his wound, at least tonight.
He’d let her patch up his knee tonight then take bet
ter care of it himself as he’d done for months now. He’d grown tired of applying surgical tape over a bandage, over a dressing. The incision had mostly healed, the sutures long gone but the healing had left a mighty fierce looking pirate scar that was still weeping, and bled when he wasn’t careful.
He hobbled through his sitting room into his bed chamber and dropped his shoes and socks on the floor beneath the wardrobe. It took every bit of concentration to drop his trousers over his throbbing knee, to balance on one leg as he removed his braces, tie and dress shirt, leaving him standing in his olive-drab military-issued knickers and vest.
He was just tying his sash around his dressing gown when she gave two raps on his door and entered carrying an enormous veterinarian bag, an enamel pitcher and basin. She stopped and stared, bold as brass.
“Ah, good, you’ve changed.”
“You’ve changed as well.” Into a pair of khaki work slacks and a slim-fitting, white cotton-knit Henley shirt. Every inch the country vet.
“My calving uniform.”
“I remember.” An unforgettable night, assisting her with the birth of Jill’s calf. “But you needn’t do this for me, Josie. If you leave a few bandages and a dressing, I can take care of it myself. I’ve done it before on the battlefield, for myself and my comrades.”
“You’re not on a battlefield, Gideon.” She set down the bag and basin on his dressing table, then made for the bathroom that adjoined his sitting room, talking all the while. “You’re in Nimway Hall. I have no idea what the orb thinks of this moment but I imagine its influence can’t possibly hurt.” She returned with the pitcher full of water and a stack of towels tucked under her arm, gave the room a quick scan. “I think you’ll be most comfortable if you sit there on the bench at the foot of the bed.
“Good Lord, woman I’m not giving birth.”
“No, but you’ve made as big a mess with whatever you did to your leg—” she yanked aside the left side of his robe and peered at the wound “—bloody hell, Gideon.”
“It is a mess, isn’t it?” He hadn’t dared look closely at the damage he’d done, until now. The incision was ten inches long, was again oozing blood and fluid.
The Legend of Nimway Hall_1940_Josie Page 19
