'Now, try and walk,' I said on one of the times he was awake.
He took my hand willingly enough and fell in quite a spectacular fashion as soon as I guided him out of bed.
Molly helped me put him back in between the covers, where he promptly lost consciousness once more. My failure to help my pet Frenchman combined with the loss of David to dull my normally cheerful disposition so I snapped at Kitty when she came along to see how I was doing.
'I miss David,' I said.
'It's not as if you were in love with him,' Kitty said, tactfully. 'You only wanted the position and the glamour of his uniform.'
There was some truth in that. There was also truth in James Buckett's observation a few weeks after the death.
'He was a handsome enough fellow,' Buckett said. 'That I will allow. Yet he was not a good man. No good man treats a lady the way he treated you that time I found him with you. If he was like that before you married, mark my words, he would be worse afterward, when you were both behind closed doors.' He gave a twisted grin. 'I am glad he was shot. It saved me the trouble.'
I took a deep breath. 'Why would you do that for me?'
'Your father is a good man,' Buckett said. 'He would want me to look after his daughter until he gets home.'
That surprised me. I had always looked on Buckett as a wild, uncouth man with neither morals nor scruples. Now I saw him in a different light, and also saw that side of David that I had conveniently pushed to the back of my mind.
While I was mulling over these facts, I realised that all the time I was recovering from my recent widowhood; Captain Chadwick had become a very frequent visitor to the Horse Head. At first he merely asked how I was and bought himself a glass of French brandy, but on his third or fourth visit he asked if he could speak to me privately.
I agreed of course. It was quite flattering to have a captain of Volunteers paying so much court to me. I could feel Mother watching from behind the counter, and Captain Nash looked up briefly from a discussion with Buckett, frowned and looked away. I was not sure if I liked so many middle aged men taking an interest in my affairs, yet I said nothing.
'Miss Bembridge,' Captain Chadwick had a deeper voice that David, and I thought the lines of experience around his eyes and mouth were quite distinguished, 'I am very distraught that it was an order of mine that sent your husband to such an unfortunate occurrence.'
I was not sure how to react to that. I had not forgotten David, of course, yet for all my despondency I was pragmatic enough to realise that his death was in the past, I was young and the world had many interests for me other than a deceased lieutenant in the Volunteers. I think I only smiled to the caring captain.
'I would dearly like to make it up to you in some way, Miss Bembridge.' Captain Chadwick continued.
'I am sure it was not your fault,' I told him. 'My husband died doing his duty.'
The captain nodded. 'You would be an excellent wife to any Volunteer officer,' Captain Chadwick said, 'whatever his rank.'
It was only then that I realised the captain was intending more than mere friendship. I may have gasped; I know that I stared at him. Now you may think badly of me but please remember I was a very young girl and we were involved in a very ugly and prolonged war. It was also true that living by the sea we were used to death, with seamen and fishermen risking their lives on a daily basis even without the threat of war, so there were many widows in the Back of Wight and I had seen more than a few women married while their widow's weeds were still fresh from the maker. My own position was only slightly different because of the length of time I had been married.
After that day, Captain Chadwick became an ever more frequent visitor to the Horse Head and although he was never impolite to Mother, he always danced attendance on me. He never stated his intentions openly, merely asking for my welfare, chatting a little and smiling a lot.
I basked in his attention without ever taking him seriously as I recovered from my period of mourning and continued with my own life. After all, what could a captain of Volunteers see in a widowed inn-keeper's daughter?
It was two weeks later that Captain Chadwick approached my mother with a most serious expression on his face and asked to speak to her alone. I was so naïve that I thought I had offended him in some way, perhaps by giving him the wrong meal or short-changing him as he paid for the brandy. Mother must have thought the same for she gave me the most peculiar look as she ushered Captain Chadwick to the small room in the back where she conducted all her private business.
I would have drifted to the door to listen in to the conversation, as was my wont, but the tap-room was busy and I had to serve my customers. Mr Howard was particularly attentive at that time and pressed me for information regarding my state of mind and intentions for the future.
'Well now Sarah, you are looking worried today.' Mr Howard said, putting one hand on my arm and smiling most benignly. 'You have had a troubling time, recently.'
I agreed, yet could not pay him my full attention, French agent although he was. I had a strange feeling that I should offer to re-stitch his hat; he seemed in great need of feminine attention of that sort.
'I know it is too early to think of such things,' Mr Howard said, 'but don't despair too much my dear; there will be another man to care for you soon.'
I cannot recall exactly what I told him; probably the usual platitudes one uses with older men. I may have told him that it was women who cared for men rather than vice versa; I hope so for that is the truth. I mean: just you compare single women with single men. The women are far more often self-reliant, sober and industrious while the men tend to frequent the inns, keeping Mother in funds, and walk about unkempt, unshaven and unhappy.
I am sure I smiled as best I could and thanked Mr Howard for his solicitations, while hoping that he did not include himself in the list of eligible men who were apparently queuing up to rescue me from the horrors of a man-free existence. I can recall the expression of incredulity on Mr Howard's face when Mother and Captain Chadwick emerged from Mother's little den.
'Sarah Baldivere!' Mother said. She had got into the habit of calling me that to remind me of my new status as a recent widow, although the marriage had never been consummated.
'Yes, Mother,' I said at once, waiting for her harpy-tongue to condemn me for some fault of omission or commission.
'Captain Chadwick has asked my permission to seek your hand in marriage. Do you consent?'
'Oh dear God,' I said, staring at my latest suitor as the tap-room suddenly hushed and Mr Howard dropped his fork with a clatter that seemed to echo for ever.
Chapter Fourteen
Now, I hope that you will forgive me if I leave that situation where it was and explain what else was happening in my life. You see, however intense my romantic existence, I was also still occupied in looking after my slowly recovering Frenchman. I walked to Molly's house every day with a basket of food from the Inn and usually a bottle of something more stimulating that well-water, although I am sure that Molly consumed more of each than her recumbent guest.
The visits followed a similar pattern. I would arrive with my basket and a ready, if forced, smile and ask: 'how is he today?'
Molly would take and empty the basket, reply, 'much the same as yesterday' and bring me upstairs to view my Frenchman. There followed the most interesting part of the day as I removed Merlin the cat from his nest of blankets and carefully shaved my Frenchman. After that I would sit at the side of his bed and talk to him in English, which he would neither hear nor understand, while watching his now familiar monkey-face. There were occasions when I nicked his skin while shaving him so that necessitated finding a towel and cleaning up the blood. I never inflicted a serious wound, I am glad to say.
After a while Molly would wander up the stairs. 'Are you going to spend all day with that silent man?'
'Not all day,' I said, although in truth there was something quite relaxing about talking to a man who did not speak back or try to sort
out problems I was not aware that I had.
After that I would tell Molly's the day's news and she would tell me hers, mostly about her hens not laying or her goats milking. Occasionally she would have a more interesting tit-bit, such as the day she told me she saw Kitty and her new sweetheart skipping hand in hand to the old lighthouse or chantry or whatever people now term the structure is that stands erect on St Catherine's Down.
'Oh tell me more,' I insisted and listened avidly as Molly described exactly what Kitty and her beau had been up to, with great anatomical detail that would have shocked a marine and had me in stitches of laughter and some hidden jealousy as well, for so far in my life I had never experienced such pleasures. Now don't forget these jealousies because they had a part to play in my decision with the gallant captain. A girl has certain needs you know, and in my line of work I witnessed a constant flow of men and women through their lives of meeting, marrying and bearing children; I felt quite neglected at times with my poor Lieutenant Baldivere lying cold in his grave and me lying equally chill in my lonely bed.
There were other tit-bits that turned me a lesser shade of green, and some that stilled the blood in my veins.
'The Volunteers were searching again,' Molly spoke almost casually. 'They knocked on every door in the parish asking if anybody had heard anything of a fugitive smuggler.'
I could not help my furtive glance upstairs where my Frenchman was lying alone. 'Did you tell them anything?'
'Of course not,' Molly said. She was silent for a few moments. 'I don't think he can stay here for ever though. Once the Volunteers get bored with merely asking, they will start searching the houses and I can't hide a hulking great man like that inside my clothes chest.'
'I'll think of something,' I said, although in truth I had no idea at all what to do with him. Wight is not a huge island and if the Volunteers, or worse the regular redcoats decided to rummage through every house and cottage there were few places where I could hide him. The only alternative I could think of was Limestone Manor, which had been empty for so long that nobody would ever look there; unless Mr Howard and his French friends had another meeting there, of course. Honestly, whoever said 'what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive' knew what he was talking about. It must have been a man who wrote that because women don't have to admit such things.
After that little conversation it was time for me to have a last look at Monkey-face with the slightly razor-nicked face and the healing bruise on his forehead, and return back to the Inn. These meetings became a fixed routine for some time, until my Frenchmen woke again.
As luck would have it, I was shaving him at the time. I had lathered his face and was stroking the open razor down his left cheek when his eyes popped open and I found myself staring into them. They were of the deepest green, like a winter sea, and looked utterly startled to see me.
He said something in French.
'Hello,' I responded. 'I am afraid I can't understand a word you are saying.'
He spoke again, trying to sit up and putting a hand on my arm, as if to prevent me shaving him. After all it must be quite disconcerting to wake up and have some stray foreign woman flashing a great sharp blade an inch or two from one's throat.
'It's all right,' I said, holding up the razor so he could see it better. 'I am just trying to shave you.' I made gestures with the razor across my own face to reassure him. I am not sure if he smiled or not as I resumed shaving operations on his face, moving my hand very gently in case he should suddenly sit up, or launch into singing La Marseillaise or try to conquer the island or maybe leap out the window and make a dash for freedom.
I could feel his eyes on me, watching everything I was doing. I tried to relax him by speaking as I worked, 'there we are, removing all that ugly stubble; nice and smooth now; around your lips next and what lovely lips they are too, some lady will enjoy kissing them; do you have a sweetheart? I wager you do; I wager you have a whole host of sweethearts back in France all desperate to kiss these lips of yours. They will be missing you now, lost in England and cared for by Molly and me.'
'I have no sweetheart.' My Frenchman said in the most delightful accent I had ever heard.
'No?' I looked at him in astonishment. 'You are awake then; and speaking in English again.'
He looked at me and slowly, gently smiled.
I thought it best to encourage him to speak more. 'Do the women in France not like handsome men?' I had heard so many rumours about Frenchwomen that I did not know what to believe.
My Frenchman looked blank. 'I don't remember,' he said. 'You are very kind taking care of me.'
That stopped me. I had been called many things in my life but kind was not one of them. 'I am not kind in the slightest,' I told him.
'I think you are,' my Frenchman said.
'Well, I said, rudely, for I was angrier than I should have been, but I was young enough to wish certain perceptions thought about me. 'You know what thought did, don't you?'
'No,' he said, 'I don't know.'
'Thought stuck his bottom out the window and ran outside because he thought he could throw stones at it!' I was so cross with this man for thinking me kind that I grew careless with the razor and nicked his chin. A ruby drop of blood formed amidst the frothy soap and smeared the blade of my razor. 'Oh God, I'm sorry!' I said, immediately contrite.
He had not flinched. 'I won't be throwing stones at myself,' he said. His eyes had not left my face. 'What's your name?'
'I am Sarah,' I said. 'Sarah Bembridge.' I carried on with the shaving, taking more care.
'Sarah.' My Frenchman rolled the syllables around his tongue. 'That is a nice name. Soft, easy on the mouth.'
'Easier than my shaving anyway,' I said. 'And what's your name anyway. It is Pierre? Or Marcel? Isn't that what all Frenchmen are called?'
'Oh no, I'm Charles; Charles Louis Durand.' He said the name so naturally that I thought he had fully recovered.
'Well Charles,' I wiped the last of the soap from his face and stepped back, 'it is good to finally know your name.' I gave a little curtsey and held out my hand in a formal greeting.
His smile was small but welcome as he took my hand. I was prepared for him to kiss it, in the French manner, but instead he gave it an honest shake and returned it to me unsullied and unkissed. I felt a trifle disappointed. Perhaps the Republican French did not approve of hand-kissing, I thought, which seemed a little strange of them.
'Welcome to Wight,' I said.
'Thank you,' Charles looked confused. 'How did I get here?'
'You were on a French ship,' I told him, 'and you either fell overboard or were blown overboard by a cannon and were washed up on the shore here.'
Charles shook his head. 'Why was I on a French ship? I can't remember anything about it.'
I smiled. 'You were on a French ship because you are French,' I said. 'You do speak English very well for a Frenchman.'
Charles looked down at himself. 'Where am I? Where are my clothes? When can I go home?'
I laughed out loud, 'so many questions from one man and all at the same time!' It was good to have Charles talking after so long, yet I really hoped he might know more about himself. It seemed that he had lost some of his memory when he had fallen in the sea.
'What's all the noise about?' Molly poked her head through the door. 'Oh so we're awake are we?'
'His name is Charles Louis Durand and he does not remember anything about anything,' I said. 'Charles, say good afternoon to Molly Draper, your host here.'
'Good afternoon,' Charles said politely. He looked at me. 'I thought you were my host.'
'I am only a visitor. Molly here is the host.'
Somehow Charles managed to bow from his position lying in bed. 'Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Draper.'
Molly nodded. 'It is Miss Draper,' she said. 'And there are men looking for you.'
Charles smiled, 'maybe they can tell me more about myself?'
'Or maybe they will shoot you,
' Molly said. 'We can't allow them to find you.'
I met Charles' gaze. I had grown to rather like this monkey-faced man who had lain so quiet. Now I liked his interesting French accent. I did not want to see him shot by some over-zealous Volunteer, or locked in the Hulks or whatever hell-hole the government incarcerated their French prisoners.
I resolved to find some more secure accommodation for my smiling Frenchman and if that meant I was committing treason against the Crown, well, the Crown had never bowed to me from a bed, or smiled when I nicked its chin with an open razor. Nor was it particularly handsome, in a monkey-faced, inquisitive sort of way. You will notice that I had quite forgiven Charles for calling me kind, although I knew I had a lot of work ahead of me.
Chapter Fifteen
So you see, when Captain Chadwick asked me to marry him, my mind was quite busy with things other than matrimony. I had Kitty's flirting to think about and my poor Charles to move somewhere safer than Molly's house, as well as my own work in the Inn and David's sad demise.
I must have stared at Captain Chadwick with my mouth open for a good half-minute before I could even think of a reply.
'Why Captain Chadwick,' I eventually managed to stutter. 'I am overwhelmed. I had no idea that you felt that way about me.' Well I had an inkling I suppose but I did not take his attentions as seriously as I might.
Captain Chadwick smiled. 'Oh my dear,' he said, taking one of my hands in his. 'I have been so concerned about you ever since Lieutenant … David … your poor husband … died. You were so forlorn.'
'Oh,' I looked to Mother, who raised her eyebrows and said nothing, leaving me alone in that room full of people. I honestly did not know what to do and what to say. 'I have to think,' I said.
'Of course you do,' Captain Chadwick said. 'I do not expect an instant reply.'
He did not get one. I ran from the tap-room and up to the fresh air of the Downs. I am not sure how I got there, but I found myself at the Long Stone, that most ancient of monuments on Wight where I had wooed poor David, and I sat on the ground with my arms around my knees and my head even more of a whirl than it normally was.
Sarah's Story Page 9