Margaret Dashwood's Diary

by Elliott, Anna

  Jamie opened one eye, a quirk of humour about his mouth, and said something in Romany.

  “What did you say?” I asked. “I don’t think I know any of those words.”

  He started to answer, then stopped. “On second thought, maybe I’d better not translate. There are probably equivalent sayings in English about women’s sharp tongues.” He ducked the acorn cap I threw at him, exhaling a laugh, and said, “So young Joanna is back home safe with her mother, then? How long do you think it will be before we’re out here hunting for her again?”

  He seemed to have a fairly accurate measure of Joanna’s character, despite the brevity of their acquaintance. I smiled. “Well, with any luck, the memory of the fright she gave her mother today will keep her safe at home for a week, at least. But after that, I imagine all bets to be off. Thank you for helping me to find her,” I added.

  Jamie brushed that aside, pulling himself to his feet with a visible effort. “I’m glad I could help—and that nothing worse happened than that her mother had a fright.” Standing, he looked at me more closely and raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t been crying, have you?”

  Watching Joanna—too tired to voice her usual objections to kisses—snuggle into her mother’s arms, my eyes had stung suspiciously. “Of course not!” I said indignantly. “What do you take me for, some sort of girl?”

  Jamie grinned and there was a silence between us that lasted until, by unspoken agreement, we had started on the path leading towards Jamie’s camp. Then I asked, “How did you know that Joanna would be there? In the clearing with the boulder?”

  “I didn’t,” Jamie said. He was walking ahead of me, the nameless dog trotting ahead of us both. “But I knew the great rocks were there—and I thought it was the sort of place I would have liked for a hideaway at five years old. It’s an odd thing,” he added. “Makes you wonder who might have shifted them all there and why. It’s the sort of place that my grandmother would have called mule-vi—somewhere you can reach the world of the dead.”

  Of course I have heard of stone temples or shrines—remnants of whatever ancient people once lived in Britain—being found; I had wondered from the first glimpse I had of the clearing whether the toppled stones might once have been such a place.

  We walked in silence for a space more, and then I began, “Jamie?” I hated—hated even more than I had expected, actually—to break the easy feeling of camaraderie between us. But I also knew that I would never feel entirely easy again unless I asked. “What is it that you are not telling me?”

  Jamie glanced back at me again over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

  “You were worried today—more worried than just a simple search for a missing, headstrong child warranted. And you asked me to promise to tell no one of your presence here. And now that dog”—I pointed to the hound up ahead of us, just bounding off the path to chase after a squirrel. “You said that the dog was not yours. But he knows you, it is clear that he does.”

  Jamie stopped walking and turned more fully to face me. He shaded his eyes from a shaft of sunlight, drew in a breath and then let it out again—and then abruptly pitched forward and crumpled to the ground.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake,” I said irritably. “If you are so very much averse to answering questions, you could just say as much, without resorting to overly-dramatic—”

  I broke off, the words freezing in my throat as I crouched down at Jamie’s side. He was not, after all, dissembling or clowning to avoid queries too awkward to answer. The amber-gold sunshine of late afternoon showed his face an even more sickly grey than before. But it was not, as I had first thought, a mere return of the fever. Another wet patch had blossomed amongst the other patches of sweat on the back of his shirt. But this one was the sticky scarlet of fresh blood.

  In a gothic romance—the kind that I used to sneak away from Marianne and climb trees to read in secret—I suppose that would be another marvellous place to end a chapter. But since this is real life and not, after all, a gothic novel, I will finish the story—despite feeling so tired that my eyelids are as scratchy as though they were filled with sand.

  I have never—luckily—been made especially sick or squeamish by the sight of blood. But even still, I must have knelt there beside Jamie on the path for a full half-minute, staring at him blankly and wondering what on earth I was to do. It was the dog that finally roused me—coming back to nose at Jamie’s slack hand and whine, high and anxious, in his throat.

  It seemed to rouse Jamie, as well. Not to full awareness, but at least I saw his eyelids flicker.

  “Jamie?”

  His eyes opened, blinked, and focused on my face. He gave a raspy cough. “I’m—”

  I forestalled him. I could feel my heart hammering rapidly against my ribs. “Do not even think of telling me that you are fine. ‘Fine’ is a word that describes someone who is not half-dead of a fever and bleeding, besides.”

  Jamie’s eyes pinched closed again. He reached up and touched the sticky wet patch on his back, and then swore under his breath—making the dog nuzzle him and whine anxiously again.

  I touched Jamie’s shoulder and said, more quietly, “I am going to fetch someone to help. I ought to let everyone at the mansion house know that Joanna has been found in any case.”

  “No!” Jamie’s head lifted with a jerk.

  “But you need—,” I started.

  “Please.” Jamie set his jaw—and then with a grunt of effort, pulled himself up to sitting. He swayed a moment, but then steadied and said, “Margaret, please.” His eyes were bleak and pleading on mine. “I haven’t got the energy to explain right now. But I beg of you—please, can you trust me when I tell you that you cannot fetch anyone to help me? That it would be dangerous—both for you and for anyone else who saw me?”

  I bit my lip, but finally let out a breath and nodded. “I … all right. But what do you want me to do, then?”

  I saw Jamie’s shoulders go momentarily loose with relief. But then he straightened, gritting his jaw. “Just … help me to stand. I can make it back to camp—it’s not that far.”

  It was not in fact especially far—no more than a quarter mile, perhaps. But far enough, still. Jamie consented to lean on my shoulder—proof, if any were needed, of how truly dreadful he must have felt—but he was unsteady enough on his feet that he fell three times along the way.

  The third time, he tripped over a fallen branch and went sprawling with enough force that I was dragged down, too, and landed beside him in the half-rotted leaves of the forest floor. “God, Margaret, I’m sorry—are you—,” he started to say.

  “I’m not hurt.” I had had the breath knocked out of me, but I scrambled upright and knelt beside Jamie again. “But what about you? You could have broken your ankle, or sprained it, or—”

  “No. No broken bones.” Jamie’s face was still blanched with pain and illness, but he tested the ankle and then grimly put his weight on it again. “Which I suppose is more than can be said for some other bad days I’ve had.”

  That made me laugh, if shakily. “If you are speaking of the time you fell from the top of the highest tree in my father’s orchard and cracked your collarbone, it was your own fault for accepting a dare to climb so high.”

  “My fault?” Jamie was pale and sweating, but he raised an eyebrow. “It was your dare!”

  “There you are,” I said. “When did I ever dare or pester you into doing anything sensible?”

  But my hands felt clammy with sweat, and I did not feel at all like teasing anymore by the time we finally stumbled within sight of Jamie’s ragged tent. Jamie collapsed onto the ground in front of the ashes of the campfire, and I sat down beside him, struggling to catch my breath—both relieved and still utterly uncertain of what I ought to do.

  “Take off your shirt,” I said.

  Jamie cocked an eyebrow at me again, and I realised how the words sounded. I felt the blood come into my cheeks, but I said, “If you refuse to have a surgeon, someone
ought to look at the wound, at least. Unless you can swivel your head around like an owl, you cannot do it yourself—which leaves me. So take off your shirt and let me see.”

  Jamie sighed—but with another suppressed grunt of pain, he pulled the bloodstained shirt over his head. And I sucked in my breath.

  I had assumed that he must have somehow got hurt during the search for Joanna—even if I could not imagine how. But beneath his shirt was a makeshift dressing, wrapped bandolier-style across his chest and back and fashioned of dirty torn linen. And the wound it covered was plainly some days old, for the bandage was stained with both old and fresh blood. Biting my lip again, I peeled the cloth away. I heard Jamie’s breath hiss in through his teeth as the final layer, stuck on with blood, came free.

  I felt sickness lurch through me. The wound was just above Jamie’s shoulder blade—and small enough in itself. A bloody hole in Jamie’s back not even the size of a sixpence. But it was beginning to fester, plainly—the skin all around was inflamed, swollen and angry red. Plainly, too, this explained the source of the fever; it was no wonder he had not seemed to improve these last days, with the wound spreading slow poison all through his veins.

  “Jamie.” I swallowed—forcing my voice to sound brisk and practical, instead of shaken and frightened as I felt. “How did this happen?”

  Even without touching him, I could feel Jamie’s body radiating feverish heat. He let out another breath and did not answer at once—but he was too tired to equivocate. “A musket ball,” he said. “It was nearly spent when it struck me—fortunately, since otherwise I would probably be dead now. But the ball is still lodged in the wound. That is what is keeping it from healing, I think. But positioned where it is”—he grimaced—“I cannot reach to dig it out myself.”

  “A musket—” I think I must have looked at him blankly for another full half-minute, my gaze travelling from his face to the ugly wound in his back. But then I cleared my throat and said, “Then I suppose I will have to do it for you.”

  Jamie started convulsively again, his head jerking up to stare at me. “You cannot—”

  “The options seem to be somewhat limited,” I said. “You cannot get the musket ball out yourself. You say it is imperative that I not fetch a surgeon. That leaves only me.”

  Jamie’s lips tightened. “Such an undertaking is … That is, you will not like—,” he started to say.

  My precarious grip on my temper slipped, slightly, at that. I snapped, “Like it? I am absolutely certain that I would very much prefer to live the entire remainder of my life without having to dig a musket ball out of your back. And given my lack of expertise, I am more or less equally certain that you will not enjoy the process any more than I. But plainly, the wound will kill you if it continues to fester in this way. And since I do not intend to sit by and watch you waste away by slow degrees, I do not see what choice either of us has. You were in the army as a surgeon—if a veterinary one. You ought to be able to tell me what to do.”

  Jamie was silent, jaw clenched. But then he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and nodded. “Yes. I can tell you what to do. But not tonight,” he added, as though anticipating my next words. “The sun will be setting soon, and there won’t be light enough for the job. Besides, you should be getting back to the mansion house. Your sister will be worried about you—wondering where you are.”

  His voice was calm, perfectly even. And no one seeing the grim line of his jaw, the hard ridges of muscle that rippled across his chest and flat stomach could have said that he was not changed from the boy I had known. And yet at that moment, something in his expression brought back my memories from years ago—reminded me of the boy my father had called too serious by half, the one whose too-thin shoulders had been accustomed to bearing the responsibility of his father and brother—and all their family business, really—all alone.

  I felt the same ache of sympathy I had felt back then, the same wish that I could reach him inside whatever dark, lonely place he had gone. I touched his hand and said, “Jamie? How did this happen? How did you come to be shot?”

  I had spoken quietly, but I felt all Jamie’s muscles stiffen at the question, and he instantly shook his head. “No.”

  “But—,” I started to say.

  Jamie cut the words off, though, leaning forward as his fingers closed around mine. His gaze was dark, intent. “You said before—implied, rather”—he pressed his eyes shut as though searching for words—“that you were willing to trust me. Will you trust me again now?”

  I was startled by the question. But I heard myself say—even before I fully knew how I was going to answer—“Of course I will. I always have.”

  I saw Jamie’s eyes flare, as though I had surprised him with my answer, as well as myself. But then the line of his mouth tightened again, and he said, “Then if you do trust me, please do not ask me to answer that.”

  Sunday 13 June 1802

  I am sitting on the window-seat in the parlour. I suppose it is better than pacing the floor. And besides, so long as I am occupied with writing, there is a (slight) chance that Charlotte will not try to talk to me.

  I have been desperate all morning to slip away and go to Jamie, as I promised last night that I would. But I have not been able yet to get away without occasioning questions—which I dare not risk. However much my every nerve feels twitching with impatience to be gone.

  This morning at the breakfast table before we left for church, the talk turned naturally enough to Joanna and her safe return.

  “Pernicious young hoyden,” Mr. Palmer grunted, buttering his third hot roll. “I hope her mother spanks her soundly for the inconvenience she caused us all.”

  Which was rather amusing, because the only ‘inconvenience’ Mr. Palmer himself suffered was finding that all the Delaford servants were out and occupied with the search when he rang the bell yesterday to ask for a glass of lemonade.

  For once, though, his wife actually did not laugh at his speech or tell him how droll he was. Charlotte ignored her husband completely and said, “Poor mite, I am so glad that she was not harmed. I would have gone out to search for her myself, if it had not been for my ankle.”

  Then Marianne looked up from the head of the table where she was reading through her pile of morning correspondence. “I called at the cottage myself yesterday evening, Margaret—but apparently you had just left. Joanna said that you and ‘a nice man’ had found her and brought her home.

  Internally, I said an extremely rude Romany word. I had thought I had forgotten most of the language I learned as a child—but seeing Jamie again seems to have brought back some of the words he taught me. Although, strictly speaking, he did not actually teach me this one; I heard him utter it only once, when a spirited stallion kicked him in the chest.

  I met Marianne’s gaze with what I hoped was a guileless look. It did not even occur to me to swear Joanna to secrecy about Jamie’s presence yesterday. Though it is some consolation to feel certain that it would not have done any good even if I had, Joanna being utterly incapable of keeping secrets about anything.

  “Yes, a boy from one of the tenant farms helped me to carry her back home again when she was too tired to walk,” I said.

  “Oh?” A slight frown appeared between Marianne’s brows. “Which boy?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. He only said that his name was John, and that he was a hired hand on a place near here.”

  I crossed my fingers under the table as I spoke. If I am not thoroughly acquainted with all Colonel Brandon’s tenants, I at least know that there must be upwards of ten Johns to whom that vague description might apply.

  Marianne’s gaze lingered on me, and I willed a flush of guilt not to spread over my face. “Is that a letter from Colonel Brandon?” I asked, gesturing at the sheet of paper in her hand.

  Marianne glanced down and nodded. “Yes. He writes to say that he will be home again for another visit in two weeks’ time.”

  The convers
ation turned, then, to Weymouth—and smuggling in general—and Charlotte’s friendly wishes for Colonel Brandon’s safe return. “For I might have married him, only think, if Mama had wished it—and of course if he had seen me more than twice in his life before I was married myself. But I shall be making Mr. Palmer jealous.” She giggled as she glanced at her husband. “And besides, I am sure that dear Colonel Brandon is much happier with you, Marianne.”

  Marianne said gravely that it was very amiable of Charlotte to say so. And I let out a surreptitious breath of relief.

  It is not merely a question of my promise to Jamie, now. I have a fairly good imagination—but even I cannot think of a harmless scenario that ends with being shot by a musket ball. The wound in Jamie’s back speaks of danger, of a far greater degree than I realised—because someone must have tried to kill Jamie. And not many days ago.

  Later

  It is very late—but I am sitting up even later again, so that I may write this.

  I finally managed to get away from the house late this afternoon. Marianne said that she meant to drive down to the parish to see Elinor—but I begged off accepting her invitation to come along, saying that I had a headache.

  I was not actually lying; a combination of nerves, impatience, Charlotte Palmer’s conversation, and the heat of the day was making my temples throb.

  Marianne’s carriage had scarcely rolled down the drive, though, when I was out of the door—a package of sugar, apples, and fresh carrots in my hand so that I might use the excuse of taking them to Star if anyone asked.

  I met no one, though, on the way to Jamie’s camp. Though for one heart-pounding moment when I first arrived, I thought that I was too late—because the camp appeared deserted, the fire cold, the crumpled bedding inside the tent bare. But then I caught the sound of a low whistle, coming from somewhere through the trees—and following the sound, I found Jamie sitting on a tree stump and throwing a stick for the nameless dog to fetch.