“So, what is it you wished to discuss?” Brock asked, as always, direct and to the point.
Duncan took a deep breath. “I need your help.”
Brock shrugged, “What else is new? Please tell me you haven’t burned down a Baron’s farm?”
The other three laughed remembering his minor accident while they were at school. He’d talked a young maid to join him the loft only to break a lamp and burn down her employer’s barn.
“No, … No, do you remember me telling you that I thought we could win this war? That Wellesley was the man to do it...”
All three of the men leaned forward, suddenly the conversation had shifted to important matters and none of them wanted to miss a single detail.
“… well,” Duncan continued, “we can bloody well still lose it if we keep getting such shoddy support from home. The supply system is atrocious. The government is spending the money, but what they send us is worse than useless half the time.”
Ian and Brock frowned. Jack grimaced. Duncan relaxed when he realized that none of them were going to challenge him. No, they were willing to listen.
“It is up and down the line. Not all of it, but enough so that it is becoming a problem. My own regiment had to walk halfway across Spain in their bare feet because the brand new boots disintegrated two days after we put them on.”
The look of consternation on his friend’s face told Duncan that they were unaware. Good, one less hurdle to overcome. “A Regiment to the south of us received a shipment of the new rifles. Except, someone forgot to include the bolts[ST1]. A minor detail that rendered them nothing more than clubs. Bonney is difficult enough as it is. But furnishing our men in such fashion will guarantee defeat.”
“Is it really that bad?” Brock asked. “Or, are these isolated instances?”
Duncan shot him a look as he shook his head. “It has happened too frequently, for too long.”
Jack snorted. “If the Army is anything like the Navy, some civilian is making sure coin is finding his pocket.”
“Bribery, to accept shoddy goods.” Ian cursed. “The merchants are making a mint off this war.”
“Does Wellesley know?” Brock asked.
“Of course, he does,” Duncan replied. “The man knows every detail of every Regiment. But, the man is busy fighting a war. I believe he doesn’t want to take on the political battles here at home.”
Brock nodded. “And that is where we come in. Political battles are what we do now.”
Duncan sighed. His friends understood. “I just need you to point me in the right direction. This must be stopped. I really believe this could be the difference between us winning or losing. And seeing as how I, for the moment, am unable to contribute on the battlefield. Perhaps I can do something here at home until I can return to the field. You help me find out who and I will deal with it from there.”
Ian folded his hands and stared at him for a long moment. “No,” he said. “You will not deal with it. We will, the four of us. That is how we have always done things.”
Duncan laughed, why was he not surprised? A sense of relief flashed through him. He was home and these men would help him solve this issue.
“Now then,” Ian said, “let us discuss important matters. Your ward, Miss Winslow, Margarete believes she will make some man an excellent wife.”
“As long as it is not Hawley,” Duncan said through a clenched jaw. “And as long as it is not someone as sour as me,” he mumbled under his breath.
Chapter Seven
Emily was unable to rest that night until she heard him return home. The house was so quiet. If she held her breath, she could hear every word spoken downstairs.
True to his word, he did not wake up the house. Instead, he asked the footman, John Fife, to send his valet, Corporal Jones, up to his room.
Emily listened to his steps as he passed her door. Oh, how she wanted to jump from her bed and check on him. Had he become more ill? Was he truly inebriated? It seemed so counter to the man she had always imagined. But then, did she really know him at all?
When he entered his room down the hall she slumped back on the bed and wondered about him. Something was wrong. Some deep wound that he refused to show. And if she was correct. A wound he would never allow anyone to help him heal.
The next morning, she was not surprised that he didn’t come down for breakfast. And again, at lunch. Nor even for tea. But when Jarvis opened the parlor door and announced that dinner was ready, Lady Denton had frowned and asked, “Will Lord Greenville be joining us?”
The butler had responded that His Lordship had requested his meal be taken up to his room.
Emily’s heart lurched. Was he well? She was tempted to march up to his room and discover the truth. But this was not her house, nor her place to interfere. But, a burning need to know dug into her.
It took every bit of self-control to remain quiet during dinner. She could tell that Lady Denton was concerned as well. After dinner, as the two of them crossed to return to the parlor, Emily caught Corporal Jones hurrying up the stairs. Both hands grasping a tray with several small china pots and what looked like folded facecloths.
“Corporate Jones,” she called. The man looked harried and very tired. “Is the Major well?”
Lady Denton scuffed, obviously upset at Emily prying. Emily ignored her employer, she had to know the truth. Staring into the Corporal’s eyes she focused and then she understood. The man was worried.
The Major’s valet dipped his head then looked up and said, “He has been better, Miss.”
Emily’s heart lurched once again. No, this would not be allowed. Lifting her hem, she hurried up after the Corporal then nodded for him to lead the way.
“Emily,” Lady Denton called out, obviously upset.
She turned back to her employer and said, “The Corporal can’t do it all. You know the Major, he will never ask for help.”
“We have people for this,” Lady Denton called out.
Emily ignored her. This was something she had to do for herself. When they reached the Major’s door she pulled back, suddenly hesitant. What would he say if she barged in on him?
The Corporal indicated that he wanted her to open the door so he didn’t have to put his try down. “Don’t worry Miss, the Major won’t know you’re there.”
Emily gasped. How bad was it? She held her breath as she stepped into the room. A strange smell of juniper and tallow made her nose wrinkle.
“The salve, Miss,” Jones said as he placed the tray on a table and pulled back the bed curtains.
A sick feeling of despair filled her as she saw the Major in bed, his pale skin with a yellowish tint. His forehead bathed in a fever’s sweat. His eyes were closed, his breaths short and shallow.
“Why hasn’t a doctor been called?”
Jones scoffed. “We don’t trust the quacks. Seen more men die under their hand than they done saved.”
Emily took a deep breath, turned on her heel, and marched back out of the room. “JARVIS,” she yelled in her loudest voice. “Send for a Doctor. Now!” Only after receiving confirmation that her instructions were being followed did she return to the room and immediately to the Major’s side.
“He looks so pale,” she said as she gently laid the back of her hand on his brow. The man was on fire.
“It ain’t the shoulder, Miss,” Jones said as he stepped to the other side of the bed so that he could mop the Major’s brow with a damp cloth. “It’s that blasted malaria.”
A sharp pain of fear filled her. A word to be fearful of if ever there was one. He looked so frail, her heart hurt with a sudden fear. She couldn’t lose him. Not now. Not when he was finally home, safe.
“I need to change the dressing on his shoulder,” Jones said, raising an eyebrow.
Her brow furrowed, “What can I do to help?”
Jones’ eyes opened wide then he shrugged and pulled back the blanket and began to unbutton the Major’s shirt.
Emily knew she shou
ld leave, but her feet refused to budge. She needed to be here. Every part of her soul demanded that she not leave his side until she knew he was on the way to the mend.
Her hand flew to cover her mouth when the corporal pulled back the shoulder of his shirt, then the bandage. A crosshatch of nasty black stitches traveled from his collar bone up and over his shoulder. One more wound snaked around his upper arm. The two were joined by several smaller veins of roped scars.
Fighting to keep breathing, she forced herself to remain calm. Panic would not fix him.
“They don’t look infected,” she whispered. Red, obviously, but not the violent puss-filled wounds she might have expected. No streaks of discolored fingers tracing out from the wound.
“No, Miss,” Jones said as he began to apply the salve. “Like I said, it’s the Malaria that has him. I know it. And if that Doctor disagrees, I’ll throw the man from that window over there.”
Emily absently nodded as she continued to study the Major. A small scar peaked out on his chest from under his shirt. An old wound. On his neck, on the opposite side of his current wounds, a burn mark, just below his ear, shaped like a child’s finger. Normally it would be covered by his collar and cravat. But here, he was exposed.
She briefly wondered if he would be upset about her knowing his secrets. Not a worry, she realized. He could be as mad as he wanted. But he was not going to stop her from helping him. Nothing in this world could do that.
“Hold this, Miss,” Jones said as he nodded to the pad of folded cloth he’d placed over the wound.”
Emily shifted to gently hold things in place while Jones carefully began to wrap a bandage around the Major’s shoulder.
“What is going on?” Lady Denton said as she stepped into the room, then gasped when she saw the Major. Her cross frown softened. “Is he …?”
“Corporal Jones believes it is an attack of malaria,” Emily informed Lady Denton, “not his wounds. Hopefully, the Doctor can help.”
The corporal scoffed under his breath, but continued to wrap the bandage, then tied it in a firm knot. “This has happened before. The last, about six months ago. The quack gave him some medicine, but I don’t know if it worked or if’n he just burnt through the fever on his own.”
Lady Denton continued to frown as she studied her nephew. “Emily, come away from there. It is not your place.”
Emily snapped around to glare at Lady Denton. “He has no one else, My Lady.” She knew she was risking her continued employment. A deep fear tickled her stomach. She had never disobeyed or shown the slightest insubordination. Her life was too perfect to risk. But some things could not be ignored.
The memories of her mother’s passing flashed to the front of her mind. She had woken one morning with a sore throat and was dead two days later. A sick worry filled her as she looked back at the Major.
Lady Denton took a deep breath as she prepared to argue when Jarvis opened the door for the Doctor.
An older man with a balding pate. His eyes immediately tracked to the Major in bed. His eyebrows rose as he approached his patient. Emily reluctantly left the Major’s side so that the doctor could examine him.
The doctor poked and prodded, removed the dressing on the Major’s shoulder, undoing all of Jones’ work, then bent lower to listen to the Major’s breath.
Jones's face contorted into a deep scowl as he watched every move the doctor took. Judging. Ready to pounce if the man made the slightest mistake.
“A fever,” the doctor said as he stood up and turned to them. “Perhaps buried in his wounds?”
Emily fought to stop from rolling her eyes. “We believe it is malaria,” she said. Perhaps the man was more likely to listen if it came from her instead of a servant like Corporal Jones. “He has had it before.”
The doctor pursed his lips, then turned and lifted an eyelid of the Major’s. Emily was able to see the yellow hew from several feet away.
“The first time was in America,” Corporal Jones said through gritted teeth. “Two years ago. The last time was in Portugal, six months back.”
The doctor nodded. “There is medicine. I know an apothecary who keeps it in stock. The bark of the quinoa tree. I will have some delivered.”
“I will go,” Jones said stepping forward. “I need to know in case we need more. Besides, I ain’t letting just anybody foster some tree root on us. I’ll make sure they give us this quinoa tree wood.”
The doctor frowned for a moment, then nodded as he took out a small notebook and wrote out the address and medicinal name.
“You will stay with him, Miss?” Jones asked her.
“Yes, but hurry, Corporal. I believe time is of the essence.” The sick worry deep inside wouldn’t stop. The Major looked so weak. As if he were at death’s very door.
The Corporal swallowed hard before he took the piece of paper from the doctor’s hand and left them.
The doctor studied the Major for a long moment then shook his head. “I have another call,” the man said as he gathered his bag. “There is little more I can do for him. Keep him warm, and if you can get water down him, do it as much as possible.”
Emily nodded, that she would do it.
“Aren’t you going to bleed him?” Lady Denton asked.
Emily fought back a snap comment. Couldn’t the woman see that the man was too pale already?
“No, not if it is malaria,” the doctor replied as he started for the door. “I will return tomorrow to check on him. Perhaps, if there is no improvement then I will bleed him.”
Lady Denton seemed to reluctantly accept the doctor’s judgment. To Emily, their conversation was lost in the background. Instead, she retrieved one of the Corporal’s wet cloths and gently laid it against the Major’s brow.
Please, she begged as she stared down at him, please get well.
Lady Denton came to stand next to her. The woman looked old, Emily thought. Her furrowed brow added to the impression. Her heart ached at the thought of losing this woman. They had become close over these last five years. It would be like losing her mother all over again.
“You should rest, My Lady,” Emily told her. “I will stay with him and send for you if there is any change.”
Lady Denton studied her for a moment, then obviously decided that there wasn’t a power on this earth that could have moved her companion from her nephew’s sickbed. Sighing heavily, she patted Emily’s shoulder as she left her, making her promise to call if necessary. Then, slowly made her way from the room, looking back with a deep frown.
Emily sighed, as she gently wiped at his neck and forehead. The man’s fever raged with a frightening heat. What would she do if he succumbed? Granted, Lady Denton would surely keep her as a companion. But what about when Lady Denton passed? What then?
The emptiness before her was frightening. But, the thought of losing the Major was even more terrifying.
He had been the rock in her world since the passing of her parents. There in his letters. In the stories Lady Denton told of his youth, in the birthday gifts he sent every year. Always some little thing, a silk scarf, a small carved horse, always unique, and always special.
When she pulled back to rinse the cloth he moaned deep in his throat as his brow furrowed. “Noooo,” he mumbled, over and over as his head thrashed from side to side, “Noooo.”
Emily’s soul hitched with despair. The pain and sorrow in his voice tore at her.
“I’m here, Major,” she whispered as she once again began to mop at his brow. Her touch seemed to calm him as he settled onto the bed with a heavy sigh, his breaths becoming deeper.
That was how Corporal Jones found her, at his bedside wiping the sweat from his brow.
“They said to make a tea,” the Corporal said as he entered with a china cup, carrying it with both hands to ensure none was lost.
Emily took the cup from him so that he could lift the Major. Gingerly, she put the cup to his lips and forced him to drink. He frowned and shook his head like a child refusing
his porridge. But she insisted and finally, she got it all down him.
“Now we wait,” the Corporal said as he studied the man in the bed.
“You should get some rest,” Emily told him. “You’ve been caring for him all day.”
“No Miss,” he said as he shook his head.
“Please,” Emily said. “I will not sleep. We will need you tomorrow, I think. We will take turns.”
The Corporal sighed, then took a deep breath and nodded. “You will send for me if …”
“I promise,” Emily said as her heart lurched at the thought of the Major taking a turn for the worse. “Let me change and I will return.”
Corporal Jones hesitated for a moment, then smiled and nodded his acceptance.
Emily quickly scurried back to her room to change into her night rail and her robe. It was late and no one would comment. Heaven knew Lady Denton spent more than half her days in her robe. It was perfectly permissible in front of the servants.
As she hurried back, she sighed. It would have been ridiculous for both her and the Corporal to be there all night, and she wasn’t leaving. After Corporal Jones gave her one last questioning look, he left her, promising to relieve her early in the morning.
She pulled a chair close to the bed, then sat and studied the Major as she took his hand in hers.
There was so much she didn’t know about him. So much she wished to know. Yet, he held such a firm position in her imagination. It was as if she knew everything worth knowing.
For several hours there was no difference. He would occasionally moan, the fever teasing at his mind, bringing forth monsters. His dreams seemed so troubled, as if there was too much to regret.
She watched him closely, wiping his brow, making sure the blankets were pulled tight. She believed he had improved slightly when his body was wracked with shivers. Her heart jumped to her throat.
On, and on, he shuddered. “Cooold,” he moaned in his sleep as he shivered once more.
The shift had been so fast it frightened her. Her mother had experienced the same thing before passing.
A Duke's Decision (The Duke''s Club Book 4) Page 5