by Angela Couch
Moving to the table, she grabbed the cutting board from its hook, and plopped the naked hen onto it. “Do you need anything?”
Andrew replied with a shake of his head. His hand slid over his jaw, fingers scratching through the thick stubble. His mouth opened, its shape distorting as it pulled to one side.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.” His hand left his face, but only for a minute. This time his knuckles raked from one side to the other.
“Are you sure?”
His eyes opened into narrow slits, and he folded his arms over the letter.
Rachel bit the inside of her cheek, fighting to allow him his dignity. “You seem...disturbed by something.”
“I assure you, I am fine.”
She cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing.
His chin tipped to the side, brushing across his shoulder.
She smothered a giggle in her palm. When she regained control of it, she looked back. “It’s your curl, isn’t it?”
“Pardon me?”
“Your hair has curls, and your beard probably does, as well. You’re not used to wearing it, are you?” She smiled. “Joseph and Pa never seemed to mind, but their whiskers came in straight, so they probably didn’t itch like yours do.”
He remained silent.
“I could find you a razor and soap if you would like.”
The muscles under the stubble flexed, and then he released his breath in a gust. “Thank you. That would be most appreciated.”
Rachel left the chicken and washed her hands. Rinsing the basin, she poured tepid water from the kettle and went to get Pa’s shaving kit from the shelf in the bedroom. Mounted on the wall resided a decent-sized mirror, but it would be awkward to hold for him, so she opened the chest beside her bed.
Mama’s silver mirror lay against the side, wrapped in soft fabric. A treasure from civilization. Rachel ran the tips of her fingers over the intricate vines carved into the handle. I miss you so much, Mama. She hugged it and the coarse leather of the shaving kit. “I miss you both.” Blinking, she stood and closed the chest. Now was not the time for losing herself in emotion. Composure barely grasped, Rachel stepped back into Andrew’s presence.
He pushed himself into a sitting position.
She dragged a chair beside the cot and set the basin on it, along with the blade, soap, and a towel. Seating herself on the rocker, she scooted forward.
Andrew scowled. “I am quite capable of shaving my own face.”
“I’m sure you are, but wouldn’t you like to see what you’re doing?” She held up the mirror.
He glanced from her, to the object in her hand, and back again.
“You’re not comfortable with me helping you with anything, are you?”
“It is not that I am unappreciative of all you have done for me, and continue to do, only...I cannot push past the feeling of what is proper and acceptable behavior.”
“My behavior has been improper?”
“No, you have only been kind and generous in your actions.” Andrew clasped her hand. “Please do not think my aim is to censure you. You have always performed your ministrations above reproach. It is simply hard to think of you any longer as my nurse, and I could never consider you as a servant.” His gaze searched hers, and then lowered. “Forgive me. I should not have spoken. Thank you for offering your assistance.”
She nodded, though he seemed unaware of it.
His fingers released hers, their absence wrapping strings around her heart and tugging.
He moved for the soap, created a lather, and spread it over his chin and around his mouth.
He was an English gentleman—since he had first opened his mouth, there had been no doubt of that. Now the reality of it seeped into her chest, making it ache. If his mind were clear, a servant, or peasant, was exactly how he would see her. Pushing the thought aside, she raised the mirror so he would have a perfect view of his face. “How’s that?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Tell me if I need to move it at all.”
He nodded and reached for the straight razor. It hovered for a moment.
“Are you sure you remember how?”
Andrew glared, but the right side of his mouth quirked a smile. He brought the blade downward along his jaw, leaving a clean path.
“Just wanted to be certain.”
He continued, the razor cleaning both the soap and shadow from his face.
A stranger emerged from beneath. She swallowed as memories returned of the darkened battlefield and the glow of the moon illuminating the British soldier, his face twisted in agony. Don’t leave me, please. His words echoed in her mind. What if we had left him there? The thought clamped her throat, as did the realization that her feelings for this man were much too strong. She didn’t know him—he didn’t even know himself—and he would someday leave.
~*~
It was all Andrew could do to keep a tremor from the hand maneuvering the blade. He’d not taken the time to position himself properly, and his hip had already sustained sufficient abuse for one day. He focused on the mirror and his image there. He did not want Rachel to see his discomfort, and he couldn’t guarantee his eyes would keep that secret...or any of his secrets.
A knock pulled their attention to the door.
He lowered the razor as Rachel set aside the mirror.
She sent a nervous glance his direction and then to the door. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Daniel.”
Her shoulders relaxed and she moved to let him in. “You’re here alone?”
“Of course. But Rodney Cowden was here, wasn’t he? I got the feeling he’d made a detour.” Alarm widened his eyes. “Wait, he didn’t see…” He motioned to Andrew.
“Of course not. I stopped him in the yard. I’m sure he doesn’t suspect anything, unless you’ve said something.”
Daniel’s expression didn’t show guilt, but regret was present enough. As was his attraction to Rachel. “You know I wouldn’t.”
“I wasn’t so sure after the way you stormed out of here last time.” She folded her arms and Andrew couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man. He’d had his own taste of this woman’s scorn. “What do you want, anyways?”
“I need to speak with you.” Daniel looked to where Andrew sat, half his face still lathered with soap. The lines marking Daniel’s frown deepened. “Alone, this time.”
“We were in the middle of something. Why don’t you go see Joseph first, and I’ll come find you both when I’m done?”
His head gave a shake. “I’ll wait here.”
Rachel stepped back, her spine straight as she allowed him past her. “As you wish. Take a seat at the table.” Her voice rose as though she were nervous. “Can I offer you some water?”
“No.” Daniel’s gaze remained set on Andrew. “Thank you.”
“All right. We shouldn’t be much longer.”
Andrew shifted, releasing some of the pressure on his thigh, but none from his tailbone. He didn’t want an audience. “Why not go with him now? I am sure I can manage.”
She dropped into the rocker and took up the mirror.
He nodded to the other man’s scowl before bringing the razor back into action. All eyes seemed intent on him, even his own, as he worked, quickening his motions as much as he dared. The shave wouldn’t be perfect, but at least it would be done. So long as he could refrain from slitting his throat.
Rachel’s gasp brought his gaze from the mirror, than back as he traced her stare. Blood dribbled from his chin. His reflection danced and then dropped as she released the mirror to his lap and grabbed the towel. Dipping a corner in water, she pressed it over the cut.
“Do not concern yourself.” Andrew pulled the cloth away.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It is not more than a scratch.”
Her eyes seared his.
“Let me see to this.” He wiped the remaining soap from his neck. “Do not leave this man waiting. I a
m sure he must have something of importance to say to you.”
“But...”
“Go. Please.”
Without another word, Rachel stood and turned.
Daniel was already on his feet and a moment later they left.
Andrew pushed aside the pillows that propped him up, sinking onto his back. He held the mirror so he could examine the thin patch of whiskers remaining. He glowered at himself. “You really are all charm.”
~*~
Rachel stared straight ahead as Daniel turned her toward the road. Though she knew Cowden wouldn’t have said anything, she couldn’t help but wonder if the topic of their conversation had influenced Daniel’s visit. She didn’t want to talk to him alone. Not when she was still angry with him.
“If you have something to say, shouldn’t we find Joseph?” she asked.
“I’m not here to talk to him. Only you.”
The trails marking the main route of travel this side of the river had been deepened since the last storm, but the surface crumbled to powder under their feet. Birds filled the tops of the trees, their songs uninterrupted.
If only Rachel could unwind enough to enjoy them.
At least Daniel didn’t seem any more comfortable. His temples glistened with perspiration and his spine extended as though a board were attached to it.
She wouldn’t shorten his torture by asking what he wanted. If he had something to say, he would have to spit it out on his own.
He rubbed his hand over his mouth and made a sound in the back of his throat. “I’m sorry, Rachel.” His feet paused, but she kept walking. A moment later he again reached her side. “I’m trying to apologize.”
“For what, exactly?”
“You make it sound as though I’ve made more than one offense.”
She glanced at him and raised an eyebrow.
“The only thing I am guilty of is losing my temper—though I had reason enough for it. All the same, I’m sorry for what I said. I should have held my tongue, but sometimes you frustrate me.”
“Pardon me?” Rachel stopped, turning to him. “I frustrate you?”
His brown gaze remained steadfast on her face, but flickered with uncertainty. “We used to be...friends. Now it seems as though you’d rather have nothing to do with me. Even before we got into the disagreement about the…you know.” He released his breath in a gust. “I don’t understand.”
Sighing, she lowered her gaze. Though a bandage bulged under his sleeve, his wound no longer appeared to bother him. But how would she have felt if he, like Jarrett, hadn’t survived Oriskany? “I didn’t mean for you to feel that way. Please understand, my world has been turned on its head, and I’m simply trying to figure out what to do next.”
“Then you’re not angry at me?”
She shook her head and bit back a smile. “Not anymore.”
There was a little too much relief in his eyes. Hope.
“So tell me, why is Rodney Cowden so intent on you going north with him?”
The relief fled. “What did he say to you?”
Rachel shrugged and began walking again. “Mostly that he had plans and hoped you’d come along.”
Daniel grunted what sounded like disapproval. “I honestly think he just wants someone along to do the grunt work. He talks about land, but he’s not a farmer. He’s always off and about, making plans instead of settling in and making a life. Sometimes when he talks, I wonder what’s really going on in his head.”
“So you don’t want to go with him?” The more she thought about it, the less it surprised her. Daniel’s family was here, and there was something about the Mohawk valley, a beauty, a serenity, that held on tight to a person once it got a grip.
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
A chuckle broke from her throat. If he had asked that an hour earlier the answer might be very different. “Of course not, Daniel. You’re friendship means a lot to me. And Joseph.”
“Friendship.” He mumbled the word, his fist tapping against the side of his leg. Daniel glanced behind. “The...your patient seems to be recovering well.”
“Yes, he is.”
His mouth drew a taut line.
“But he’s still quite helpless, and his memory has yet to return.”
“And what will happen when it does?”
She tensed. “What do you mean, exactly?”
One look answered her clearly.
Rachel shook her head. This wasn’t a discussion she wanted to have with him right now. Not after they’d just made peace. “He would never do anything to hurt us. He knows he is indebted to us for his life. And I don’t believe he’s a violent man.”
“But he is a British officer. His injuries don’t change that.” Daniel reached up and straightened his hat. “Sooner or later, you have to get rid of him.”
Get rid of him? She closed her eyes for a moment. Andrew’s face lit the shadows of her mind. Even after he left, how was she supposed to ever be rid of him? “I know.”
~*~
When Rachel returned to the cabin, Andrew lay on his good side, elbow tucked up under his head. She closed the door and leaned against it, taking in the smooth line of his jaw, his features sharper than she remembered. So much more attractive. “I see you managed well enough without me after all.” She smiled, but part of her wanted to cry. He needed her less and less. Soon she would be of little consequence to him.
When he didn’t reply, Rachel collected the items placed neatly on the chair. The razor had been cleaned and folded into the leather sheath. She left it beside him. “You may as well keep this so you can shave as often as you like. Joseph has his own, for the little he employs it. This was my father’s.”
“Thank you.”
Taking everything else to the table, Rachel circled to the far side and pulled a knife from the wall. With no time to cook the bird whole as she had planned, she would fry smaller pieces. Removing the first leg, she glanced to Andrew whose focus appeared to be the wall. “On what would you like to converse while I prepare supper?” She mimicked his proper English tone, exaggerating it, to lessen the tension filling the space.
He didn’t even look at her. “I think I would prefer to rest, if that is all right.” Though not in his voice, his mood seemed to darken the whole room.
Or perhaps that was only the shadow of her own feelings. She brought down the knife in a swift chop, shearing off the second chicken leg. “Of course it is.” She continued to prepare the chicken, setting each piece in the skillet. With every inch filled, Rachel turned to set it over the fire...that she hadn’t built yet. She had to get her mind focused on the tasks at hand and less on the man across the room. Even now she couldn’t help stealing a glance at him and his pensive gaze.
He looked away.
Setting aside the skillet, Rachel crouched to unbury the coals from that morning. If they were still alive, she could forgo fiddling with the flint and steel.
“Dare I inquire what your friend desired to discuss with you?” A caustic edge tainted Andrew’s voice.
She cracked the blackened remains of a log in half with the poker, and gently blew. A trace of red glowed in the center. Perfect.
“I am sure it is none of my affair.” Irritation was no longer present in Andrew’s speech.
“He wanted to apologize for his behavior the last time he was here.” Rachel twisted to answer.
“Understandably.”
“He’s a good man.”
“I do not doubt it.”
She turned back toward the embers and then looked to him again.
Andrew’s eyes were closed. After everything he’d done today, it was probably best to let him rest.
18
Rachel set the basin of warm water on the chair beside the cot and stepped back. “Your whiskers barely show. You mean to shave again already?”
“After a day and a half it can hardly be shocking.” Andrew worked the soap with his hands. “I used to shave every morning.”
“Are you just saying that, or do you remember?”
A smile announced itself in his dimples, and then stretched across his face. “I remember.” He applied the soap to his jaw. “Strange, the things that return, while other, more important memories remain hazed.”
“I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before you remember everything.” She handed him the mirror and moved to the table. If he liked his independence so much, she would allow him what she could.
“Thank you.” The rumble of his voice caressed her.
“I did very little, but I do appreciate your graciousness.”
He chuckled. “In a situation such as mine, everything is of consequence and greatly appreciated. Besides, ‘Sweet is the breath of vernal shower, the bee’s collected treasures sweet, sweet music’s melting full, but sweeter yet, the still small voice of gratitude.’”
Putting out the morning fire before it made the room too warm, Rachel rehearsed the words silently. “It seems the Bible is not the only works you have memorized. Thomas Gray?”
The razor paused. “Yes. I’m surprised you recognized him.”
“And I’m surprised you remembered him.” Rachel straightened and gave a coy smile. “Why does it surprise you? He’s a known poet. Is it because I live so displaced from England? Or from polite society? I told you my mother brought volumes of poetry with us.”
“So you did.” Andrew’s gaze remained fixed on her, warming her cheeks. Then he glanced away, a more serious expression pulling at the corners of his eyes. He maneuvered the blade down his jaw without utilizing the mirror. His frown deepened as he scraped the soap from his face.
Rachel waited.
“Polite society,” he finally said.
“What about it?”
“My brother.” Andrew still didn’t look at her. Instead, he stared at nothing, as though searching the air for the answers he sought. Clues to his past? “My brother attended Oxford...as did I. It…irritated me because he didn’t study. He didn’t care. He was always off to Bath or London, wherever the cream of society and his friends led him.” Andrew lowered the razor to his lap and pressed his forefingers into his temples, massaging. “I remember being frustrated. He was immature and irresponsible. He held little respect for propriety, so long as everyone believed him above reproach.”