A Mistress For Major Bartlett. ANNIE BURROWS
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stitch ‘—I will do my best for this poor wretch. If, for example, I am going to be sick, I will do so after I’ve finished patching his scalp back together.’
‘That you will, miss,’ Dawkins agreed.
Though miraculously, and to her immense relief, she wasn’t sick at all. True, she did stagger away from the bed and sink weakly on to a chair while the men slathered a paste that smelled as if it consisted mostly of comfrey, on to the seam she’d just sewn.
She wished she had some brandy. Not that she’d ever drunk any, but people said it steadied the nerves. And she certainly needed it. Needed something...
‘We’ll go and fetch the Major’s traps now, miss,’ said Dawkins as soon as they’d finished covering her handiwork with bandages.
‘What?’ And leave her here, all alone, in sole charge of a man who looked as though he was at death’s door?
‘You won’t be long, will you?’
‘No, but—’ They exchanged another of their speaking looks. Oh, lord, what news were they going to break to her this time?
‘We’ll be back with his things in no time at all, miss. But we can’t stay after that. We have to report back.’
Her heart sank. When they said they’d help her, she’d thought they meant until he was fully recovered. But they had only spoken of lifting him and cleaning him up, hadn’t they? And they weren’t civilians who could come and go as they pleased. If they didn’t report to someone in authority, they would run the risk of being treated as deserters.
‘Yes. Of course you do.’
‘Nothing to do for him now but nursing, anyhow. You can do that as well as anyone. Better, probably.’
She leapt to her feet. ‘No. I mean...I have never nursed anyone. Ever. I am not trying to back out of it, it’s just that I won’t really know what to do,’ she cried, twisting her hands together to hide the fact they were shaking. ‘What must I do?’
‘Whatever he needs to make him comfortable.’
‘You’ve got meadowsweet to make a tea to help bring down the fever, if you can get him to drink it.’
‘Fever?’
‘He’s been lying outside in the muck, with an open wound all night, miss. Course he’s going to have a fever.’
Oh, dear heaven.
‘Bathe him with warm water, if that don’t work.’
‘And if he starts shivering, cover him up again,’ said Dawkins with a shrug, as though there was nothing to it.
For the first time in her life—she swallowed—she was going to have to cope, on her own, without the aid of a maid, or a footman, or anyone.
But hadn’t she always complained that nobody trusted her do anything for herself? Now she had the chance to prove her worth, was she going to witter and wring her hands, and wail that she couldn’t do it?
She was not. She was going to pull herself together and get on with it.
‘Give him the medicine,’ she repeated, albeit rather tremulously, ‘bathe him if he gets too hot, cover him if he gets too cold. Anything else?’
‘Landlady will have a man about the house to help when he needs to relieve himself, I dare say.’
Yes. Of course she would. There were a number of servants flitting about the place. She wouldn’t be all alone.
‘And we’ll tell the company surgeon where the Major is, so he can come and have a look.’
‘Oh.’ That would be a relief.
‘But don’t think he’ll do anything you couldn’t do yourself, miss,’ said Dawkins.
‘And don’t let him tell you the Major should be in a hospital,’ said Cooper vehemently. ‘They won’t look after him proper there.’
Coming from Cooper, that was quite a compliment. He’d been eyeing her askance every time she felt faint. His hostility had actually braced her, once or twice, just as much as Dawkins’s kindness and encouragement had. Because every time Cooper looked as though he expected her to fail, it made her more determined to prove she wouldn’t.
And now, to hear him say he trusted her to give the Major better care than he’d get in a hospital, made something in her swell and blossom.
‘I won’t let you down,’ she vowed. ‘I won’t let him down.’
With a parting nod, the men left.
‘Oh, goodness gracious,’ she said, sinking on to the chair again. ‘Whatever have I let myself in for?’
The guns had ceased. The battle was over, then. Won or lost. Leaving the field to the dead and dying. And the crows.
Flocks of them. Tearing at his back. His head. They’d go for his eyes if they could get at them.
No! He flung his arm up to protect his eyes. And felt considerable surprise that he could move it. Hadn’t been able to move at all before. They’d buried him. Tons of rock, tumbling down, crushing him so he could scarcely breathe, let alone fend off the crows.
Who had dug him out of his grave? He hadn’t been able to save himself. He’d tried. Strained with all his might. He’d broken out into a sweat, that was all, and dragged blackness back round him in a smothering cloak.
But he’d be safer under the earth. Crows wouldn’t be able to get their claws into him any more. Or their beaks.
‘Put me back in the ground,’ he begged.
‘Don’t be silly,’ came a rather exasperated-sounding voice.
‘But I’m dead.’ Wasn’t he? Above the ringing in his ears he’d heard the other damned souls all round him, begging for mercy. Begging for water.
Because it was so hot on the edge of the abyss.
Or was it powder caking his mouth, his nostrils, so that everything stank of sulphur?
‘Is it crows, then, not demons?’ He’d thought they were wraiths, sliding silently between the other corpses scattered round him. But he’d seen knives flashing, silencing the groans. Sometimes they’d looked just like battlefield looters, not Satan’s minions.
But whoever, or whatever it had been before, they’d got their claws deep into what was left of him now.
‘There are no crows in here,’ came the voice again. ‘No demons, either. Only me. And Ben.’
Something cool glided across his brow.
He reached up and grabbed hold of what turned out to be a hand. A human hand. Small, and soft, and trembling slightly.
‘Don’t let them take me. Deserve it. Hell. But please...’ He didn’t know why he was begging. Nobody could save him. He’d begged before, for mercy, just like all the others. Or would have done if he’d been able to make a sound. He’d understood then that he wasn’t even going to be permitted one final appeal. He’d had to stay pinned there, reflecting on every sin he’d committed, remembering every man he’d killed, every act of wanton destruction he’d engineered.
‘Nobody’s going to take you. I won’t let them.’
The voice had a face, this time. The face of an angel. Though—he knew her. She was...she was...
His head hurt too much to think. Only knew he’d seen her before.
That’s right—for a moment, just one, the power of speech had returned. And he’d begged her to save him. It had something