Summer Campaign

by Carla Kelly

I should be so offended by this vulgar man, thought Onyx as she held the major in her arms, but I'm not. What can be the matter with me? “Maybe it really isn't important,” she said out loud.

  “Pardon, ma'am?” asked Private Petrie.

  “Oh, nothing. Nothing. Private, we need to get the major to shelter and find a doctor. He is bleeding so badly.”

  “There's a farmhouse not far from here,” he offered. “The farmer's not what I'd call a generous soul, but—”

  “Surely he will not turn us away,” Onyx interrupted.

  “I hope not, ma'am,” said Petrie. He didn't say anything more, but Onyx wondered what was troubling him.

  The major's horse had not strayed. Petrie helped her mount the horse. She straddled the big horse, blushing with embarrassment as Major Beresford regained consciousness and winked at her. “Beautiful legs, ma'am,” he said. His voice sounded far away, but there was a chuckle in it.

  She considered all manner of replies but chose the simplest one. “Thank you, sir,” she replied as Petrie helped him into the saddle in front of her.

  “Can you hold him, ma'am?” he asked anxiously as the major sagged against her.

  “I think so, Private,” she replied, wrapping her arms around the man and grasping the reins.

  Major Beresford was still conscious. He rested his head on her generous bosom. “I have died and ascended to heaven,” he said in a low voice before he fainted again.

  She couldn't help laughing at the major's outrageousness. “What kind of man is this?” she asked out loud to no one in particular.

  “The very best, ma'am,” replied Petrie. “Take good care of him, mind.”

  She nodded and tightened her grip around the major.

  She held him and watched as Alice and Private Petrie gathered as many of Gerald's letters as they could and stuffed everything back in her trunk. The clasp had been broken off, but Alice sat on it as Petrie strapped it down.

  “What should we do now, Onyx?” Alice asked as the private helped her down from the trunk.

  How odd, thought Onyx. They are asking me for advice. No one ever asked me for advice in my life. I have always done what I was told to do. She looked down at the man in her arms as he stirred and tried to sit up. “Can't imagine why I'm such a baby about this,” he muttered before he lapsed into unconsciousness again.

  “We must find a doctor,” she said, guiding the major's horse closer to the carriage. “Just leave everything. We can't wait for John Coachman to return.”

  “But your clothes, Onyx, your possessions!” exclaimed Alice. “I should remain here.”

  “No, and that's final,” Onyx replied, her lips set in a firm line. “It's too dangerous. Nothing I have is worth your life.”

  “Bravo,” said the major softly. She hadn't realized that he was conscious again. “You're a trooper.”

  She patted his chest, “Private, you said you know where there is a farmhouse. Lead us there and be quick about it.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” said Petrie. He saluted smartly, and Onyx turned her face into the major's hair to hide her smile.

  The farmhouse was not far, and never was a sight more welcome to Onyx than the thatch-roofed house with smoke curling from the chimney. She could see a man in the barnyard. He stood still, hands on hips, watching them as they approached, Private Petrie in the lead.

  When they were within hailing distance, Petrie dropped back. “I can't go on, miss,” he said to Onyx.

  “Oh, how is this?” she asked. “Private, I need you.”

  Petrie shook his head. “Ma'am, you don't understand. He might … he might recognize me. We've been hanging around these parts.”

  She didn't have to ask who “we” was. “You can't abandon the major,” she said, throwing out her trump card.

  “Well, no,” he admitted, “I can't.” He sighed. “Maybe they won't know me. Soldiers all tend to look alike, don't they, ma'am?”

  “Rather like Chinese,” said Major Beresford. He sat up and leaned away from Onyx. “Why don't you leave the talking to me and the lady?”

  Major Beresford turned his head slightly, and she could tell that every movement pained him. “My name is Jack. What is your name?” he asked when he got his breath back.

  “Onyx,” she answered, “Onyx Hamilton.”

  “Onyx? What an odd name. Did your mother have a predilection for semiprecious gems?”

  She shook her head. “My … father was rather a romantic.”

  “And you're not?”

  “I never thought about it.” Onyx felt her face redden, and she rushed on. “I have a sister named Amethyst.”

  She waited for comment. There was none, and she realized that Major Beresford was grimacing with pain.

  “I will tell the farmer that the major is my brother,” she said to Petrie. “I do not think he would approve of any other explanation.” How strange this situation must seem to others, she thought. How strange it seems to me.

  Petrie eyed her doubtfully. “You two don't look anything alike. He won't believe you.”

  “Well, what should I do?” she snapped. There was no reply from the private. It's up to me, then, she thought as they came closer and stopped in front of the farmer.

  The man did not appear pleased to see them, and in spite of their need, Onyx could understand this. They were a ragged mob, a bloody gathering of shabby people. She remembered then that her hat was back at the carriage, and her stockings torn. Her gloves were so bloody that she had thrown them away back by the carriage.

  “Sir,” she asked, as the man approached the fence with some reluctance, “can you help us, please? We have met with an accident.”

  The man climbed over the fence, but he did not come close. “Indeed you have. What on earth has happened to your husband?”

  Onyx was ready to tell him the truth, or at least less of a lie, but there was something in the farmer's swift and minatory appraisal that told her there would be no welcome if they appeared any more out of the ordinary than they already did.

  She handed the reins to the farmer, who looped them over the fence. “I'm Onyx … Beresford, and this is my husband, Jack,” she explained, amazed at her glibness. She threw aside every bit of breeding she had been taught and rushed headlong into certain destruction. “Major Jack and his batman, Private Petrie here, are just back from the Spanish wars. We're on our way home to …” She paused. Dear heaven above, where did they live?

  “To Sherbourn, in Yorkshire,” said the major. “I … it's been four years. My d-dear wife met me in London. We were set upon by thieves.” His voice trailed off again, and his head sagged forward.

  “I don't know,” said the farmer, rubbing his jaw and looking at Petrie, who tried to stay well back. “This one, here, he looks familiar. I don't know. I don't want to be party to any havey-cavey doings. The wife and I, we're Methodists,” he said, as if that were sufficient explanation for his reluctance to be party to any nonsense.

  “Private Petrie has relatives in the vicinity,” Onyx lied. “You may have seen him about in years past. But see here, sir, we need a doctor. Is there a bed somewhere for my husband?” She put her hand in Jack's pocket and drew out his wallet. “We have money to pay. Please help us.”

  It was an easy matter to allow the tears to spring to her eyes. She had watched Amethyst practice her art in front of the mirror on many occasions and knew just how to make her lip quiver and when to sob out loud. But as the tears pooled in her eyes, she realized that lessons from Amethyst weren't necessary. Either way, the farmer didn't have a chance.

  The farmer, after another moment's long consideration, pulled the major over his shoulder like a sack of meal and started for the house. Private Petrie helped her down.

  “Pretty good, ma'am!” he said. “A body would think you'd been lying all your life!”

  Alice sniffed and thumped him. “Mind your tongue, Private!” she hissed.

  They followed the farmer into the cottage and up the stairs to a small bedroo
m under the eaves. The farmer put the major down as gently as he could, but the wound reopened and began to bleed heavily again. Onyx sat down on the bed and pressed down hard on the bloody bandage.

  “Oh, sir, go for the doctor at once! If anything should happen to my beloved husband, whatever would I tell little Ned!” She cast herself across Jack Beresford's body and sobbed.

  The farmer turned and ran down the stairs. “A bravura performance, Onyx,” said the major, his lips close to her ear. “I didn't know we had a son. Does he favor you or me?”

  She sat up quickly and would have laughed if she wasn't so distraught. “I … I thought that would hurry him up.” She paused and watched him. “I wish you would not look at me so! I cannot imagine what possessed me! What else was I to do?”

  He shook his head. “Onyx, you are truly magnificent. You have my permission to conjure up any number of sons and daughters, as long as the daughters look like you.” He smiled at her. “The sons too, f-for that matter.”

  He closed his eyes again and did not reopen them, not even when the farmer's wife came upstairs with a basin of warm water and several towels. The woman was large and red-faced and smelled strongly of yeast. Little pills of dough clung to her apron, and Onyx realized she had been taken away from the family bread-baking. She set the basin on the little table by the bed. “Here, madam,” she said, handing Onyx a soft cloth. “I'll help you get him out of those clothes, and we'll clean him up.”

  Onyx gulped and did as she was bid. The farmer's wife—her name was Mrs. Millstead—had few questions. She was more gentle than her appearance would have led Onyx to suspect, and she carefully took a pair of shears and slit the major's shirt and pants off him. Onyx tugged off his boots as Mrs. Millstead began washing Jack Beresford, talking all the while.

  “Mrs. Beresford,” she said as she scrubbed his legs, “do you suppose he has a scar from every battle?”

  “It's very likely,” said Onyx softly. She touched the infamous scar on the major's thigh to which Petrie had already alluded. “The wonder to me is that he survived.” She thought of Gerald and tears sprang to her eyes. She turned away.

  Mrs. Millstead stopped. “I may be forgetting myself, Mrs. Beresford. Would you prefer to do this by yourself?”

  Onyx whirled around. “Oh, no, no,” she said hastily. “I mean, Jack's such a big man. I'll need help turning him. Please don't go.”

  When the major was clean, Onyx covered him with a sheet and gently cut away the silk bandage. The bleeding had stopped, and she could see torn muscles and bits of bone. She bit her lip. “Will the doctor be here soon, do you think, Mrs. Millstead?”

  The woman put her arm around Onyx's shoulders. “Oh, don't you fret. He'll be here directly. Why, before you know it, the major will be home in Yorkshire playing with little Ned.”

  “Oh, yes, little Ned,” said Onyx, recalling her fictitious son.

  “How old is the dear boy?”

  “He's … he's three,” said Onyx as she dribbled water around the gaping wound and wondered how much deeper this path would lead her.

  “Oh?” said Mrs. Millstead. “Didn't my husband say the major was only just returning after four years?”

  Onyx blushed and stared down at Jack. “You see, Mrs. Millstead, he was on leave only just before that. He's never seen little Ned, who is really three and a half.”

  The major shifted his weight and gave out a groan that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Onyx bent over him, and he winked at her. She glared at him and then looked up at the farm wife, who was wringing out the bloody cloth.

  “Dear madam, could you not fetch me a small glass of port? In the event that my dear husband regains consciousness?”

  Mrs. Millstead opened the window and threw the water into the courtyard below. “I will. Here, I've wrung out this clean cloth. For his face, my dear. I'll be right back.”

  She left and Onyx pulled up a small stool and sat down near the bed. “Sir, you are incorrigible!” she whispered.

  Beresford opened his eyes wide. “I? Incorrigible? My-my dear wife, I must also be a dedicated lover. So little Ned was conceived on my last wild fling before returning to Spain?”

  “I did not say that!” she said, mortified completely, her state of mind wavering somewhere between laughter and tears. “Oh! I may strangle little Ned before you even get a chance to see him!”

  The major began to laugh, holding onto his arm. “It hurts to laugh. You will kill me yet, fair Onyx.”

  “I'd like to,” she retorted, softening the blow by wiping his sweat-stained face gently with the damp cloth.

  “But be kind to our child,” he said from the depths of the washcloth.

  She couldn't help laughing. “Serves you right if it hurts,” she gasped and then covered her mouth so Mrs. Millstead wouldn't hear.

  The major was only warming to his subject. “And not in recent memory has anyone … anyone … fingered any of my less-obvious scars. Ladies of quality have changed since my last furlough.”

  That was too much. She picked up the stool and carried it to the far side of the room, plunking herself down. Mrs. Millstead came into the room then and handed her a glass of port. “For your dear husband,” she whispered and tiptoed out of the room again.

  “How thoughtful of you, wife,” said the major wickedly. When she didn't come any closer to the bed, he smiled at her. “I'm sorry, Miss Hamilton. I've put you in a terribly awkward and embarrassing position.” He paused a moment. “I am thirsty.”

  She stood still a moment and then came back, pulling the stool next to the bed again. She put her hand under his head and raised him up so he could drink, wiping his lips when he finished.

  “I am sorry too, Major Beresford,” she said quietly as his eyes slowly closed. “How can I forget so quickly that you saved my virtue and probably my life?”

  She could tell he heard her because he smiled. He was still sleeping when the doctor came. Onyx eased herself out into the hall, where she stood shivering in the warm light until Mrs. Millstead claimed her and took her downstairs.

  NYX COULD NOT BRING HERSELF TO SIT quietly in the little front room of the farmer's house. Alice sat there calmly enough, sipping tea and silently keeping her reflections to herself, but the room seemed too small, too confined. Onyx felt like an exhibit at a zoological garden. She knew that if she remained a second longer in the parlor she would begin to pace back and forth like a panther.

  Onyx caught a glimpse of herself in the tiny mirror just inside the room. Her hands went immediately to her hair, and then she noticed the blood that flecked her arms from nails to elbows.

  “My stars,” she said out loud, surveying the ruin of her once-neat-and-proper traveling dress. “I look as though I have been in battle.”

  The farmer's wife was still hovering nearby. “Mrs. Beresford,” she announced in the tone of one not accustomed to any disagreement, “you'll want to follow me into the kitchen. I have some nice hot water in there.”

  Onyx meekly did as she was told, thankful for something to do while the doctor was upstairs. She scrubbed her arms and face until her skin glowed pink. There wasn't much she could do about her dress, but she did remove her ruined stockings and wash her legs.

  She was sitting there wondering how soon she could locate clean clothes, when she remembered John, the coachman. Her hand went to her mouth. My stars,” she said again, and leapt to her feet, forgetting her shoes. She ran into the farmyard, calling for Private Petrie.

  She found him in the barn, where the farmer had taken Beresford's horse. He sat huddled on an overturned milk pail, complete in his misery. When he looked up at her, she saw that he was on the verge of tears. Wordlessly she sat next to him on the straw-covered floor.

  “He's … he's … dead?”

  The words were wrenched out of him. Onyx took his hand. “Oh, no! The doctor is with him now.” She squeezed his hand. “Private, I don't know anything about wounds …” She shook her head and amended, “I don't know anyt
hing about anything, but I do not think he will die from this.”

  He looked at her then, and the wretchedness in his eyes made her want to turn away. To her credit, she did not but continued to hold his hand.

  “Don't you understand, Miss Hamilton?” The words were torn out of him. “I could have killed him! And you! I don't know how I came to be in such low company!”

  “Except that you were hungry, Private Petrie, and no one in England would hire you,” she said in excuse. “Everyone gets hungry. Everyone has to eat. The important thing is, you helped us instead.” She raised herself to her knees and touched his shoulder. “I don't know the major very well. Surely not as well as you must. But I do know him well enough to be confident that it will be your kindness to us that he will remember.”

  Petrie sighed and let go of her hand. “I hope you are right, miss. I don't want it any other way.”

  It would have been easy then for both of them to succumb to melancholy, sitting there in the dark barn, but Onyx hadn't time for melancholy. She stood up suddenly and pulled Petrie to his feet.

  “You must help me now,” she said. “Please, Private, you must go back to that clearing and wait for my coachman to return. I cannot imagine what he will think if he returns there and finds that dead man.” She paused. “And we are gone, and the place is so … bloody.”

  Her plight recalled Petrie to his duty. “I will leave at once on Major Beresford's horse,” he said, eager to be doing something. He pulled the saddle off the hook and hurried to the stall. “What on earth am I to tell your coachman?”

  What indeed? “I … I don't know …” She faltered. He waited for her to continue. Why is it nobody makes decisions but me? she thought, half in exasperation and half in vexation at her own shortcomings. “Just tell him what happened and get him to follow you here. I'll think of something by then.”

  “Perhaps if I were to move that corpse into the shrubbery?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, Private. I think that would be best.”

  Onyx stayed in the barn until Petrie left. She almost wished she had gone with him. Anything would better than standing around and waiting. How odd this is, she thought. For years and years I have waited on people and been a paragon of patience. I have cajoled the servants and calmed the family tempests and tolerated insufferable Amethyst with complete equanimity. Look at me now. I cannot even collect my thoughts. And I have become a hardened liar.