The Earl’s Intended Wife

by Louise Allen

She took the shirt gingerly and shook it out. ‘Give me the knife.’ With care she managed to cut a long, clean strip off from the back. ‘Take that shirt off.’ Alex shrugged it off with a resigned expression, which turned into one of comical apprehension as Hebe cut off another piece of cloth, soaked it liberally in the strong spirit and applied it to the cut.

  ‘Damn it, woman, that hurts!’

  ‘Please do not use that language sir,’ Hebe said calmly, bandaging up the cut with a firm hand, giving herself no opportunity to think about the feel of his skin under her fingers, or of how closely they touched as she reached around him to catch the end of the bandage. ‘There, you can put your shirt on again.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He eyed her balefully. ‘You are a very managing young lady. I had no idea.’

  ‘No such thing,’ she retorted cheerfully. ‘Your welfare is essential to my survival; naturally I must take care of you.’

  Major Beresford did not rise to the provocation, merely checking inside the hut to make sure they had left nothing, then tossing Hebe up into the saddle. ‘If you wrap the blanket around you like this, and pull it over your head like so, you will not look out of place from a distance. I must steal you some clothes as soon as possible.’

  ‘And another mule?’ she asked as they set off along the beach.

  ‘Not unless I find one away from a settlement. A valuable animal gone missing is likely to result in a search party, whereas a petticoat here and a shawl there might go unnoticed for a while.’

  The long day passed without more than half a dozen alarms as they gave the town of Argelès a wide berth. From time to time they saw riders on the horizon, or passed men working in the fields who raised curious heads to stare at the strangers. Alex called greetings in the local patois, or waved a hand, and no one seemed unduly curious.

  He left her with the mule hidden in a grove on the outskirts of the village of Sorède, and returned after an hour with a loaf of bread, some cheese, a pair of poorly made small leather shoes and a petticoat, all wrapped up in a worn woollen shawl.

  Hebe, who had been trying to keep herself from worrying while he was gone by staring at the tumbled mass of mountains ahead of them, emerged from behind the bush where she had scrambled into the petticoat and asked, ‘Where are we spending the night?’

  Alex nodded towards the apparently impenetrable wall in front of them. ‘Up there.’

  Hebe gasped. ‘But we can’t get over there! Surely we will go around the coast road?’

  ‘Ideal if you want to get caught,’ he responded briefly. ‘Another five miles by a mule track will take us into the foothills: I have a hut there I use. Tomorrow we can start to climb.’

  Now they were clear of habitation he unslung the gun, checked it and began to walk with it held in one hand, the mule’s halter rope in the other. The apparently casual walk he had been using all day changed and he began to walk briskly with long, swinging strides. After a while he began to jog, then dropped back into the walk again. The mule trotted obediently after him on its neat hooves.

  They crested a rise and he stopped to check the area, glancing up at Hebe. ‘Are you all right? That isn’t much of a saddle.’

  His voice sounded a little strained. Hebe wondered if he was breathless and, more to make him stay standing there than for any other reason, said, ‘I have never seen soldiers march like that.’

  ‘Learned it from the Rifles,’ he said. ‘Looks sloppy, covers the ground like nothing else.’

  No, he wasn’t breathless, but his voice was rough and, as Hebe leaned forward from the saddle, she thought his face looked pale in the evening light. ‘Alex, are you feeling all right? Is it that knife wound?’

  He began to walk again. ‘I’m perfectly all right.’

  They continued in silence for another half-hour, the narrow track becoming steadily steeper, the light ebbing. Alex paused again at a sharp bend, listening, and Hebe suddenly leaned forward and laid her palm on his forehead. ‘You are burning up! Alex, you have a fever.’

  ‘It is nothing.’ Now she could hear the rasp in his breathing plainly. Surely it could not be that wound already?

  Hebe began to swing her leg over the saddle. ‘Let me walk, you ride.’

  ‘No.’ He jerked the bridle, forcing her to sit back. ‘It is a marsh fever. It comes back occasionally if I become very cold or wet. If I march I’ll stay focused on what I’m doing, the rhythm keeps me going. Once I get on that damn mule I’ll start getting sleepy, and you don’t know the way.’

  Hebe forced herself to keep quiet. She had to trust him to do what was best. Surely Alex didn’t have the sort of stiff-necked pride that would force him to walk on if that was not the best thing in the circumstances? But Hebe’s resolution to keep quiet was soon stretched to the limit.

  Chapter Eleven

  The climb seemed endless. The slope was too steep now to jog any more, but Alex did not stop. He was not keeping to the Riflemen’s easy-going slouch, but increasingly marching like a disciplined trooper. Hebe could only suppose it was his way of keeping going, banishing all thought in the hypnotic task of putting one foot in front of the other.

  Suddenly they rounded a bend and found themselves on a small flat terrace, roughly paved with flat stones. A trickle of water ran down the rock face into a rough trough and then spilled out across the terrace in a muddy puddle, eventually falling over the edge. At the back of the space was a large hut, huddled into the craggy rock of the slope.

  Hebe slipped off the mule and stalked round to confront Alex, anxiety sharpening her voice. ‘Is this where we are going? Because whether it is or not, this is where we stop.’

  He looked down at her, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘Shh, not so loud. Yes, this is the hut I use: stay here until I check it out, and do not walk in the mud.’

  He cocked the musket and walked cautiously to the doorway. Hebe led the weary mule over to the water trough and let it drink. It showed no sign of wanting to wander off so she dropped a stone on to the end of the lead rope and followed Alex into the hut, jumping over the muddy patch.

  It was surprisingly roomy inside, although of a very odd shape, for the back wall was made out of the bare rock. There was a large, open, earthen-floored space with a stone fireplace and chimney, a rough wooden bench and table and a pile of old straw on the ground. Furthest away from the door the space narrowed abruptly, ending in a planked wall that was hung with old mule harness and empty sacks.

  Alex was standing with one hand on the wall, quite still, apparently lost in thought. Hebe walked up quietly and, before he realised what she was about, put her hand on his forehead.

  ‘You are burning up! Alex, will you lie down and rest now!’

  He pushed himself away from the wall, catching her hand in his and bringing it down close to his chest. Hebe twisted in his grasp and fastened her fingers over his wrist. ‘And your pulse is racing.’ He was pale under his tan, his eyes were dark and Hebe could feel that he was shivering.

  ‘Managing woman,’ he said, apparently with an effort. ‘There are things to do before we can rest, let me get on with it.’

  ‘No, I will not.’ Hebe kept hold of his wrist, realising with a frisson of fear just how ill he must be, and amazed that his strength and sheer will-power had kept him going for so long. ‘Tell me what to do, I have been sitting on that dratted mule all day, I need the exercise.’

  That provoked another smile. ‘Language, Hebe!’

  ‘What, “dratted”? I am sure by the time we get home I will be using far worse, given the example you have been setting me.’ She pulled him towards the bench. ‘Now, sit down and tell me what to do.’

  To her surprise he yielded. ‘Very well. Unsaddle the mule and bring the saddle in here. Lead it up the path and when you have passed the roof of the hut you will see another track to your left. Go up there and it opens into a tiny patch of meadow where the stream runs. You can tether it up there where it can drink and graze out of sight.’


  Hebe ran to do as she was told, casting him a suspicious glance when she lugged in the heavy wooden saddle and dumped it against the plank wall under the old harness, but he made no move to get up, so she felt reassured enough to leave him.

  The mule followed willingly enough and stood quietly while she tethered it to a wind-bent sapling near the runnel of water. When she got back to the hut, though, Alex was no longer sitting on the bench but was pulling planks from the wall at the narrow end of the hut. Behind them Hebe could see a dark space which, when she ran to help him, she saw was like a large cupboard containing a bed.

  Alex removed four of the vertical planks, then stopped. ‘You see, they slot in like this. They can be held in place from the inside if necessary. If anyone comes, get in here with anything which could give away our presence and pull them back.’ He stacked the planks in order against the wall and reached inside, bringing out a small lantern. ‘Do not light this unless the door is closed, and, if someone comes, blow it out or the light will show through the cracks in this false wall.’ Every word seemed to be an effort.

  Hebe peered round the edge. ‘Did you build this?’

  ‘When I found the hut this was just a typical cupboard bed, built into the alcove to keep the draughts down. I made the wall and fitted shelves inside.’

  Hebe eyed him: he was becoming sicker by the minute, now having to grip the edge of the planks so tightly that his knuckles showed white. ‘What is in here?’ she asked, scrambling into the space. ‘Let me see, then come and lie down. Please, Alex—if you collapse, I will never be able to lift you.’

  There were shelves with clothing stacked on them: rough shirts and culotte trousers, a pair of buckled shoes, woollen socks, a heavy cloak. There was a small wheel of cheese with a knife sticking in it and a thick rind that would deter most mice, an evil-looking sausage and a water container. The bed itself was a vast hay-filled sack lying over boards and covered with country-weave blankets.

  Hebe lifted out the food and wriggled back into the room. ‘Go on, lie down, Alex.’

  To her intense relief he did as she asked, falling back on to the mattress with a sigh, but he still would not relax and let go. ‘Hebe, listen to me…’

  ‘No, stop talking, Alex. I understand what I need to do. I must be careful not to do anything that will give away the fact we are here, and leave no footprints in the mud. I must keep a look out and if anyone comes I must put up the planks and hide in here. Now lie still and I will get you something to eat.’

  But when she returned a few moments later with a little cheese, bread and the water flask, he was heavily asleep, perhaps unconscious. Hebe forced herself to leave him while she checked outside. Darkness was falling and a faint powdering of lights showed from the villages in the foothills. She lit the lantern, left it on the table, then went outside and shut the door. Even in the darkness out there she could see no chink of light escaping, so she hurried back inside and, after an anxious glance at Alex, ate and drank.

  Now there was nothing else to distract her she found it difficult to keep her mind calm. To see such a strong man collapse so utterly filled her with dread. Was he dying? No, she told herself firmly, he says he has had this before. No, he will be all right if you only look after him.

  Hebe picked up the light and went and looked down at the long figure stretched out on the bed, fully clothed. She had never done any sick nursing and she had certainly never had to look after a helpless man.

  ‘Do not be feeble, Hebe,’ she said out loud. The sound of her own voice was strangely comforting. ‘Just imagine he is Mama in the same circumstances. Now, what do I do?’ It seemed an unlikely comparison, but it did at least help her think.

  To get him comfortable and warm seemed the first thing, and he certainly seemed to be neither, dressed like that. Hebe clambered up on to the bed and set about undressing him. At first it seemed daunting to touch a man like this, let alone one she loved. Then the practical difficulties turned the whole enterprise from embarrassing to infuriating and she stopped worrying about the impropriety of it.

  Alex was a dead weight to move. She started with the easiest things and took his shoes off. She unbuckled the heavy leather belt and pulled it from under him, then unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it open. His chest was hot and dry and under her hand his heartbeat was rapid. The bandage around the knife cut was badly stained but the skin around it felt no worse than the rest of him so she decided to leave it until the morning and better light.

  The shirt felt rough to the touch and was soaked in sweat. Hebe looked at the others on the shelf and found some which were softer linen: one would do as a nightshirt if she could only get this off. She tried rolling him and slipping off one side and then the other. That did not work. She tried pulling it up, but it would not shift. Finally Hebe simply hitched up her skirts, straddled his prone form and, linking her hands behind his neck, heaved. It worked and she found herself with her arms full of unconscious man.

  Hastily she pushed off the old shirt and began to pull his arms through the sleeves of the fresh one. Finally, after what seemed like hours, she managed it. For a long minute she sat there, Alex’s body in her arms, his head resting on her shoulder. ‘Oh, Alex darling,’ she murmured, stroking his damp, disordered hair. ‘I do love you.’

  As gently as she could she lowered him back to the bed and fastened the shirt, smoothing it down. Then she eyed the canvas trousers. They certainly looked extremely uncomfortable to sleep in and the waistband cut across the bandage on one side. If that got trapped in one position during the night it could chafe very badly and open the wound up.

  She bit her lip and reached uncertainly for the crude bone buttons on the waistband. ‘Come along, Hebe,’ she chided herself. ‘You are a rational young woman dealing with a sick patient. And, after all, you have seen plenty of classical nude sculptures: there is nothing to be surprised or alarmed about.’

  Naked male flesh was, perhaps, rather more of a revelation than she had bargained for, but Alex was soon wrapped snugly in the softest of the blankets and even to Hebe’s anxious eyes seemed to be resting more comfortably. She tried to coax him to drink a little but only managed to moisten his lips, so she put a pannier of water and a cloth carefully on the shelf close at hand, tidied away all traces of her presence from the hut and began to fit the planks back around the bed-cupboard.

  It was a little like doing one of the popular dissected puzzles, but after a brief struggle she worked out how everything fitted and dropped the cross-piece down that effectively held everything tightly in place. She wriggled down into the space beside Alex’s unconscious form, blew out the light and, despite her anxiety and the strangeness of the place, fell instantly into an exhausted sleep.

  But her rest did not last long. Hebe was wakened abruptly by a sharp blow and realised that Alex was tossing restlessly in his fever, his arms free of the blankets. She lit the lantern and managed to open the boards up, sliding out of the cupboard-bed and into the chilly darkness of the room. She found her shoes and dragged down the heavy cloak that at least kept her warm while she tried to make him more comfortable.

  It seemed hopeless. Whenever she had him covered he would throw off the blankets, his head tossing restlessly on the pillow, which became hot and crumpled. Hebe managed to trickle a little water into his mouth, but she could not rouse him enough to make him drink properly. She became increasingly frightened for him, but odd snatches of conversations came back to her and kept her going. There had been a friend of her stepmother whose son had been very ill with a fever and Hebe recalled her saying how terrifying the nights had been because the fever was always worse then. Sir Robert had told a tale of how one sailor had become completely delirious, throwing off the combined weights of the ship’s surgeon and two of his messmates, yet had made a complete recovery.

  Once or twice she managed to nod off, her head resting on the bed, but always woke with a start to find Alex no better. Then he began to talk, muttering at first, then
more and more clearly, although none of it made any sense. Doggedly she struggled on, replacing the blankets, smoothing the pillow, putting wet cloths on his forehead and trying to get a little water into his mouth.

  Finally morning came. Hebe heard the sound of bird-song, intermittent at first, then swelling into the full chorus. She got up stiffly, took the water pannier to the door and went out. It was going to be a beautiful day she saw thankfully, for she did not think she could cope if it turned wet and cold. A splash of cold water on her face, a drink and a piece of cheese seemed to give her renewed strength and somehow in the daylight she felt more optimistic.

  She left the door wide and went back to sit by Alex, holding his hand, her fingers lightly on his wrist where the pulse raced, and willed the fever to break. He was silent for a while, then said clearly, ‘Of course I love you.’

  Hebe gasped and sat up straight. ‘Alex?’ But his eyes were shut and he was moving restlessly, still obviously unconscious.

  ‘Give me a straight answer,’ he added, then, ‘Clarissa, must you always tease? You know I am serious.’

  Hebe dropped her face into her hands and felt the tears wetting her palm. It was one thing to have him tell her that he had made a proposal, quite another to, in effect, hear him make it. It hurt horribly, and it made her feel like an eavesdropper. What more might he say?

  ‘Shh, Alex, shh,’ she whispered. ‘Do not talk, just rest. I am here, Alex.’

  ‘Hebe?’ Had he heard her? ‘Hebe, no!’ Then he was quiet again.

  She sat down abruptly. What did that mean? It was hopeless to speculate, she thought drearily, but one thing was plain—her name seemed to provoke rejection, Clarissa’s, love.

  By mid-afternoon Hebe had managed to work out a routine. She would spend ten minutes or so by Alex’s side, talking to him, trying to get him to drink, bathing his forehead, then she would walk around the terrace, checking that there was no sign of anyone on the hillside, soaking in as much sunshine and warmth as she could. She checked on the mule, moving it to a better patch of grazing, then came down again to resume the pattern she had set herself.