Cherished Moments

by Anita Mills

  But something was wrong. It was winter; she could feel the cold in her bones and smell the smoke from a winter’s fire. Rousing, she stared about her, seeing the heavy shadows, the faint, familiar outlines of the furniture in her cottage. The wind must have shifted, for despite the glowing coals in the hearth, the room was chilly, the blanket inadequate.

  Rising, she wrapped the blanket about her and hobbled on nearly numb legs to poke at the fire. What she needed was to lie down, to curl up in a bed for warmth. There had to be some other wrap, something else she could use.

  Tiptoeing to her open bedchamber door, she listened for a moment, hearing only silence. Alarmed, she crept into the room and walked closer to her bed. The wick in the cruzie lamp was drowning, a small, valiant flame flickering its last in the sea of oil.

  “My lord,” she whispered, “are you quite all right?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Her hand touched the blanket where it lay over Dr. Alstead’s nightshirt. “You were quite the best of the lot, the grandest buck of your day, you know. We all thought so. There wasn’t a female amongst the ton who did not cast out lures to you,” she recalled softly. “But I expect war changes a man, doesn’t it? The old things no longer seem so very important, I suppose.”

  Reluctantly, she drew her hand away to rub warmth into her arm. Moving stealthily to the other side of the bed, she reached down to pull out the truckle, hoping to find another blanket. Her cold, stiff fingers felt the feather mattress, but it was too heavy to pull out without waking him.

  He’d never know she’d slept in there, she reasoned. Or if he did waken, she could say he’d called out, that she’d been afraid she might not hear him the next time. Parting with the small warmth of her worn blanket, she added it to the one on the truckle, then slipped under both of them.

  Slowly, even so slowly, the cradling featherbed warmed, giving back the heat to her body. The sound of rain beating steadily upon the roof combined with that of Rexford’s rhythmic breathing to lull her. And this time when she slept, there were no dreams to plague her.

  Moaning in his sleep, he tried to turn over. But his wound pained him. Cradling his head on his hard saddle, he listened to the sounds.

  Somewhere in the distance, the church bells still tolled for the dead. As he lay there in the darkness, he could hear the screams, and he could smell the awful stench of burning flesh and of blood. It was hot, close, stifling within the confines of the tent. His leg burned as though someone had thrust a hot poker into the hole in his thigh. Gentler hands pushed his away from the bandage, while a soft voice told him he was going to live. But he knew she lied. He could hear the screams everywhere. Everywhere. He could smell the blood. He heard her summon the surgeon, he heard her say he was far too hot.

  The light. The light was too bright, the tunnel leading to it oddly dark. He was being sucked into it, but he would not go, not yet. Bracing his legs against the pull, he struggled to stay. He could hear his own voice shouting hoarsely that he wasn’t ready to die.

  She heard him scream, and she came awake with a start, rolling her tired body from the truckle. The wick in the cruzie had gone out, leaving the room in darkness, forcing her to grope for the edge of his bed. She found one of his clenched hands.

  “Too much blood…lost too much blood,” he gasped, his fingers closing painfully over hers. “Hot…too hot…”

  In truth, his hand was ice cold, and he was shivering uncontrollably. She leaned over him. “You are all right,” she said soothingly. “You are all right.”

  “Benson…Benson took a ball…saw him…took his head…”

  “Shhhhh. You have a broken leg, ’tis all, my lord. It will mend, it will mend,” she repeated over and over.

  “Got to…stop the blood,” he mumbled. “Losing too much blood.”

  “No, the wound has been closed.” With her free hand, she brushed his hair back from his temples as one would for a fretting child. “You are all right, my lord,” she whispered yet again.

  “Thirsty…so thirsty…”

  She glanced at the laudanum bottle and saw that it was nearly empty, indicating that he’d taken too much. Disengaging her hand from his, she tucked the blanket closer about his shaking shoulders, promising, “I shall get you a drink of water in a trice.”

  “Don’t go—don’t leave me to die—don’t…” He fought the blanket, tearing it away, grasping for her arm.

  “You are not going to die, my lord, you have a broken leg,” she said more loudly. “You are not in the peninsula, you are near Whitby in Yorkshire.”

  “The Frogs…”

  “We beat them.”

  “Cotton—did Cotton…?”

  “It is over. We won at Salamanca, sir. We pushed them back all the way to France. We have beaten the French, and it is over. Boney’s gone into exile, and the czar has been here to celebrate our victory.”

  “The rain…I still hear the rain,” he mumbled. “Worms everywhere—in the tents—everywhere.”

  “The rain you hear is on my roof,” she answered patiently.

  Clearly he was as much out of his head as he’d been when he lay in the road, and it was no use to try making him understand anything just now. She tucked the blanket about him again and rose to get him his drink of water. There were still enough live coals in the fire to give the main room an orange glow and outline the doorway. Shivering herself, she crossed her arms over her old nightgown, holding in what little warmth she could.

  She put another log onto the waning fire, then felt along the mantel for her box of wicks. Finding it, she drew out one and took it to the lamp. With her fingertip, she fished out the black speck of the last one before inserting the new one. The oil was low, but it ought to burn a little while. Carrying the lamp back to the fire, she lit a piece of tinder, then the floating wick.

  When she returned with lamp and cup, he’d tossed the covers from his shoulders again. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she tried to rouse him.

  “I have brought you some water, my lord. You need to drink, for you have taken too much of the opium.”

  “Give it to Thompson…or one of the others,” he rasped out. It was as though she were in a room of ghosts. “They have already had their share,” she said firmly, putting her arm beneath his shoulders, lifting him. “It is your turn to drink.”

  The flickering flame from the lamp reflected eerily in his glazed eyes, frightening her. “You’ve got to drink,” she said again, holding the cup to his lips. “You must drink as much as you can.”

  He swallowed obediently, then pushed the rest away.

  “No, take some more.”

  “The others…”

  “They are being tended also,” she murmured soothingly. “Come on, just a bit more.”

  He took another drink, satisfying her for the moment. Sinking back against the pillows, he closed his eyes. “Hell—I have seen hell,” he whispered hoarsely. “’Tis war. War is hell.”

  “You are dreaming merely,” she said, persisting. “And you are freezing cold. In truth, so am I.”

  He nodded as though perhaps he understood her. She sat there until she could stand the cold no longer. Rising, she reached into the truckle bed and struggled to pull off the feather mattress. Straightening, she peered intently into his closed face.

  Still fearing the overdose of laudanum, she spread the mattress over the bed, then she crept between it and the blanket that covered him. Turning against him, she reached out to pull the featherbed over both of them.

  Someone was pounding loudly at the cottage door. She stretched reluctantly beneath the weight of the feather mattress, until she felt the body next to hers. It all came back to her then. Embarrassed, she gingerly eased away from him and sat up.

  Light already came through the small window. She looked back at Rexford, but he was breathing evenly. Grateful for that at least, she rose and dressed quickly behind the cabinet door. Taking the blanket above the mattress, she hurried into the outer room, wher
e she dropped it into the chair, then went to answer the door.

  It was Dr. Alstead with two crude crutches and what appeared to be short slats. She pushed back her tangled hair and stood aside. “’Tis rather early, indeed, but I wasn’t expecting you,” she murmured. “I’d thought Mr. Beggs or Mr. Tittle—”

  “’Tis nigh to eleven o’clock. And both of them have already left for Durham. Neither wished to face Lady Rexford alone,” he recalled dryly. “I collect she is a Tartar of the first order.” His gaze went past her to the dead fire. “Quite an unpleasant night, eh?”

  “Yes. I think he overdosed himself, for he believed he was at Salamanca, and I could not convince him otherwise.”

  He nodded. “Best not to try. Fever’s not up, is it?”

  “No. Quite otherwise, sir.”

  “He was chilling?” he asked, frowning.

  “I think it was that the hearth does not heat the bedchamber. I finally put the mattress from the truckle over him.”

  He glanced to the blanket that had slid from the chair. “You must have frozen yourself.”

  “I had the fire,” she lied.

  “Is he better this morning?”

  “I don’t think he is awake yet.”

  He set aside the crutches. “I forget sometimes that the nobs are slugabeds. Don’t encounter too many of ’em myself.” He measured the narrow pieces of wood appraisingly, then apparently satisfied, he murmured, “About the right size, I’d say.” Carrying them with him, he sought his patient.

  “Feeling more the thing, eh?” she heard the old man ask.

  To her surprise, the earl had pulled himself up in the bed. For a moment, he regarded Alstead balefully.

  “Which complaint would you hear first?” he countered sourly.

  “Miss Winslow said you had a bad night. Leg pains you, I suppose.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the head?”

  “Like the very devil.”

  “How long since your last dose of laudanum?”

  “I don’t know,” Rexford muttered. “God, but it feels like an army marched through my head. And my mouth tastes as though I have drunk all the rotten rum in London.”

  “A little vinegar in water will take care of that. Any problem with nature?”

  Rexford looked up at Charlotte’s red face before he answered. “No. Where’s Beggs?”

  Ignoring the question, the physician laid the slats on the bed.

  “You are going to splint the leg,” Charlotte decided.

  “Aye.” Alstead addressed Rexford. “Going to hurt, no two ways about it, but you’ll feel better when ’tis done.” He lifted the feather mattress and blanket off, then removed the makeshift dressing. “Hmmmmm. Well, it looks better than I had expected. A little warm to the touch, but that is the body’s way of healing a wound.”

  Charlotte peered curiously over his shoulder. Where the jagged bone had protruded from the skin, there was an irregular row of stitches and a large bruise.

  “Got to keep it dry.” As he spoke, the doctor opened his bag and took out the can of basilicum. “Infection breeds in moisture,” he murmured, dusting his handiwork. “No baths until ’tis healed. Oh, no harm to a wet cloth now and then, but always dry the area after,” he went on conversationally. “Can’t keep a wound too dry.” He took out a rolled bandage and began wrapping it around Rexford’s lower leg. “Don’t make a mess of it. Got to overlap it just so. There. Ought to keep the splint from rubbing.”

  Picking up the slats, he lined them up on both sides of Rexford’s calf. “Thought I had measured about right,” he observed with satisfaction. “Miss Winslow, as you have assured me you aren’t missish, would you please hold them in place?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Just get on with it,” the earl gritted out.

  “Even with these, I don’t want any weight on the leg,” Alstead said. “Nothing short of a miracle you are alive,” he murmured as he worked. “Way I see it the Almighty must’ve knocked you the other way for a purpose. Divine intervention, I’d say. Ever think of that, my lord? Ever consider there might be a purpose?”

  “No.”

  “Always wondered why a nob like you wanted to risk getting your head blown off in the war,” the physician went on. “Ponsonby went, but then that was expected. Long military tradition in the family. I suppose the same could be said for Lord Longford,” Alstead admitted judiciously. “Mad Jack’s son, after all. I guess some of you fellows go for the excitement, eh?”

  “I don’t know,” Rexford gasped.

  Feeling that the physician had overstepped his manners, Charlotte spoke up. “Perhaps his lordship chose to serve his country against Bonaparte.”

  His face white, the earl managed to measure out his words. “No wars are just, and only fools fight them.”

  Alstead straightened up. “Well, it’s not precisely pretty, but it’ll serve to get you to the privy and back, I think. Seeing as Miss Winslow is an unmarried female, she won’t have to worry over the pot, eh?”

  “Alstead,” Rexford growled, “you are over the line.”

  The doctor shrugged. “A pot’s a pot, and without a maid to do it for her, I expect she’s not entirely ignorant of my meaning.” He turned his attention to her. “He will need help to stand, for he cannot bear weight on that side.”

  The earl shook his head. “I’m too heavy for her. ’Twill have to be Tittle.”

  “Yes, of course, when he gets back, my lord. But for now—”

  “Beggs, then.”

  “Both gone to Durham.”

  “No, by God, they have not!” The earl looked toward Charlotte. “Is this your doing?” he demanded furiously. “I told you I had no wish to see her!”

  “I sent them,” Alstead answered for her.

  But Rexford wasn’t listening. “I gave you no leave to meddle in my affairs, Miss Winslow!”

  The vehemence in his words stunned her. “Whether I sent them to tell her or not, she is your mother. She has a right to know you have nearly been killed, doesn’t she?”

  “No!”

  “Here now, sirrah!” the doctor snapped. “I had it of your coachmen that you were on your way to Durham to see the countess.”

  “To send her packing to her own property!”

  “Of all the ungrateful—Lord Rexford, Dr. Alstead may have saved your leg for you!” Charlotte reminded him angrily. “We both thought you meant to visit her!”

  “Visit her! My mother, Miss Winslow, is the last creature on earth I should ever wish to see,” he declared, biting off each word and spitting it at her. “And do you know what you have done? She’ll be here fawning over me in a trice!”

  “She’s your mother!” Collecting herself, she tried to speak more rationally. “If I had a son, I should wish to know if he were hurt.”

  “Very affecting, but you don’t have a son, do you?” Rexford reminded her sarcastically.

  “No, of course not.”

  “See here, sirrah!” Alstead snapped. “’Tis enough, I say! I am sure Miss Winslow has done nothing more than is proper. If Lady Rexford comes, no doubt she will give the appearance of propriety.”

  The earl’s jaw worked visibly before he spoke. “Whether she comes or not, let me make one thing plain to the both of you. No matter what is said, hell will freeze before I succumb to matrimony. I will not be trapped by some ridiculous notion of honor again. Not ever.”

  “And I have not the least notion of trapping anyone,” Charlotte replied stiffly. “Now, if both of you will pardon me, I have quite a lot to do. I do work for my living.”

  As she walked out, Alstead continued to look at Rexford. “That was quite uncalled for, my lord.”

  “I don’t want my mother here,” the earl muttered, looking away. “I cannot abide her or the silly creatures she is forever trying to foist on me. One wigeon for a wife was quite enough, thank you.”

  “I fail to see where that touches Miss Winslow. You are, after all, dependent just
now on her charity.” The elderly physician snapped his bag shut and turned to leave. “If nature should call, I expect you will have to fend for yourself, though how you will manage emptying that chamberpot while on crutches, I am sure I do not know. But then, that is your dilemma, isn’t it?” he said more mildly. “Good day, my lord.”

  “Wait!”

  “I am sure I am not the one in need of an apology, sir.”

  “’Tis not that.” When the old man hesitated, Rexford took a breath, then asked, “What do you know of Miss Winslow?”

  “Very little. If you would pry, I suggest you inquire of her.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “For all that she lives alone, a situation I cannot approve for a female, I know of no scandal,” Alstead admitted grudgingly. “She came here without so much as a maid or female relation, possibly eleven or twelve years ago, causing a great deal of comment at the time. Somehow she managed to persuade Mr. Jenkins, then owner of this land, to lease this cottage to her—it was empty then. I believe Mrs. Bottoms said she pays twelve pounds per year. Not a princely sum, but no doubt ’tis all she can afford.”

  Despite his earlier anger, Rexford was appalled. “I see.”

  “Anything else I could say would be purely speculation, my lord, so I shall choose to leave it at that. Good day, sir.”

  After the doctor left, Rexford lay back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling. In the outer room, he could hear her moving about, maintaining a steady conversation. He had to listen for several minutes before he realized she was talking to an animal.

  Miss Charlotte Winslow had come to a sad pass, he reflected soberly. The pretty, smiling girl who’d once spoken of books and roses was not only on the shelf but also she was eking out a living on the wild Yorkshire coast, reduced to living in a twelve-pound-per-year cottage. As much as he tried not to think of her, his thoughts turned to his dead wife.