Honour's Choice

by Joan Vincent

  “Please do sit, Mr. Cauley. I shall get a crick in my neck if you force me to crane it so looking up at you.”

  Cauley sat, his hat on his lap.

  Sarah took in the large man’s weathered face. Light grey at his temples indicated an age in the forties. His jacket was faded but still the green 95th Rifleman’s with sergeant’s bands. His beard and a moustache were neatly trimmed. She looked at his hands—large and strong with light calluses.

  “It was kind of you to come, Mr. Cauley,” she began. “I was sorry to learn of the reason you returned to England.” Sarah acknowledged his curt nod. “Forgive me if I ask some rather impertinent questions. I shall explain why directly.

  “Did your duties for Major, was it Dunbaden? Yes. Did they include those of a, ahh, personal nature?”

  Cauley fingered the brim of his hat. “I was batman. The usual duties. I tended him when he was wounded in Spain.”

  The pain in the large man’s eyes moved Sarah. “I am certain you did your best. Sometimes there is no help.”

  “Yes, m’lady,” he answered brusquely, and looked away.

  Sarah cleared her throat. “I tend a man who has been very ill-used. Some details of his care are more suitable for a man. I would prefer one who is strong but who will not maul him.”

  “M’lady, I’m sorry but I’ve no taste for nurse-maiding.”

  Sarah stood. “Come. It is time to change his poultices.”

  When they entered the morning salon Cob struggled to massage a spasm from one of the man’s legs while Molly tried to hold him still. The maid’s harassment melted into relief, but she grew uneasy when a stranger followed her mistress.

  “Molly, please prepare fresh poultices,” Sarah ordered as she took her place beside the restless figure. She saw Cauley motion Cob aside and work his large hands up and down the leg.

  “The major was prone to cramp after he took a ball in the hip,” the man said dispassionately.

  By the time the poultices had been changed Sarah respected the former sergeant’s skills. When he managed to get more medicine down her patient’s throat than she had in a full day she knew she must persuade him to stay.

  Cauley’s brow furrowed as he pulled on his discarded jacket. He thought of his major who had died despite his best effort. He answered her unasked question.

  “M’lady, if you’d send Brady to me, I’ll tell him to fetch my belongings. I’ve a yen to learn if this man be villain or victim.”

  Chapter Four

  London April 6 Thursday

  Alighting from the town chaise the Baron de la Croix looked devilishly handsome in the sartorial splendour of his evening dress. This evening’s fête had distracted André from darker thoughts which now returned in full force. Where was Hadleigh? How was he?

  With a light flick of his wrist the well-oiled door to No. 41 Grosvenor opened silently. André walked toward the library unsurprised to see light shining under its double doors.

  His uncle-in-law, the Earl of Tretain, was alone in town. The earl’s oldest daughter, Lady Michelle, had suffered from a severe bout with influenza in December. His wife, Lady Juliane, remained at their country estate with the children in the hope of a complete restoration of Michelle’s health. As yet that hope had not been realized.

  The baron knew Tretain harboured deep concerns about Hadleigh’s disappearance. It had confirmed his warnings against involvement with the War Office.

  That very morning they had discussed the reports on the latest theft outside the small village of Levant in Sussex. The information had disappointed. It failed to shed any light on Hadleigh’s disappearance. This evening’s search for further intelligence on the situation had also proven fruitless.

  André halted with his hand on the library door. The exhausted, careworn features of the earl were hawkish in the flickering candlelight. Tretain sat with his head tilted back against the massive chair behind his equally massive desk.

  In a blink Tretain’s face was transformed into Hadleigh’s. The sense of disaster that had haunted André for the past two weeks convulsively tightened the baron’s hand on the doorknob.

  “There has always been the hint of the feline in your movements,” the Earl of Tretain mused. “Louis will be pleased to learn that you could have murdered me in my chair,” he added opening his eyes.

  Adrian Tarrant took appraisal of the young man he had taken as his own after his marriage to the boy’s aunt. There was little of the six-year-old French waif visible in the elegantly clad negligently graceful young man of one and twenty. Nothing except that haunted look deep in his eyes, he thought.

  “Get us some brandy,” the earl bid. He rose and tread heavily to the pair of chairs beside the fireplace and sat. Tretain took the proffered glass. “How was your evening?”

  The baron flicked back the tails of his dress coat and sat in one fluid motion. He sipped his brandy and then cradled the globe of the glass as if reluctant to speak. After a lengthy silence he asked, “Do you know the Sanderson family?”

  “Sanderson? The Marquess of Mandel? Didn’t think the old fellow went to balls and such anymore.”

  “No. His daughter Lady Lucille, and her brother, Greydon.” The baron took another sip, then met the earl’s steady gaze. “Met Greydon a few days ago. He made a rather odd request tonight on so brief an acquaintance.”

  Tretain saw a mischievous glint rise in the blue eyes.

  “Your reputation carries me far,” André told him. “It is the only explanation why a near stranger, and a very grim one at that, asked that I entertain his sister after he returns to the Peninsula with Wellesley.”

  “He has reason to be grim. Mandel told me his son feels responsible for his best friend losing an arm at Corunna. Web—Web something. Lady Lucille meant to wed him before he was wounded.” He drank some wine. “Juliane would know the whole.”

  André saw the earl’s hand clench the stem of his glass and knew his uncle’s thought. “I will not be in town long enough to do as Greydon asks. I leave Saturday for Rye.”

  “You were there but last week.”

  “Then I shall go to Levant. Mayhaps Hadleigh stumbled onto the robbery.”

  “If he had, his body would have been found with the others,” the earl noted. “You would be better served going to Lewes where it was rumoured the shipment was headed. Find out if anything suspicious has happened there of late.”

  “Hadleigh would have written if he had gone there. No, I shall go back to Horsham and ferret out what direction he took,” the baron said, quiet anger in his voice.

  “Your time would be more profitably spent if you went back to Dover and continued your assignment.”

  “Would you go to Dover if it were Oncle Louis?”

  Tretain held the heated gaze until the ire began to recede. “No,” he answered simply realizing once again how close his two foster sons were. He recalled when he and Comte de Cavilon had run wild over England and France to save émigrés and harm revolutionaries. The earl raised his glass. “To good friends.”

  “To family. May God protect those we love,” the baron finished. Both shied from voicing the melancholy thoughts that weighed so heavily upon them.

  * * *

  Edgerton Manor, Sussex April 8th Saturday

  Mr. Crandall took the unconscious man’s too rapid pulse. His frown deepened. “The tremors?” he asked Bob Cauley who stood on the other side of the bed.

  “Worse at times. Lady Edgerton’s crampbark weakens ‘em. Shutting the drapes calms him.”

  Hearing the rattle of the supine figure’s chest the doctor asked, “Is his breathing more laboured?”

  “Aye. A little worse each day.” At the rustle of skirts Cauley ended, “I don’t know but he’s too—still.”

  “Yes,” Sarah agreed halting by the bed. “Do you remember the Grant case, Gil? It was shortly after you came to Lewes.”

  Crandall’s frown darkened at her use of his given name before a stranger. He said curtly, “You wan
ted aggressive treatment and I did not.” A bitter-tinged chuckle escaped.

  He surveyed his patient once again and added up the symptoms. An unnatural stillness, high spots of colour on an otherwise pale countenance, slight tremors of the legs, and laboured rise and fall of the chest.

  “I should not have let you dissuade me from bleeding him. If he is to survive I must balance the four humours.”

  Bridling, Sarah said adamantly, “No. To bleed him now would only further weaken him.”

  “Then why have you called me to attend him?” Crandall snapped with an irritability born of frustration.

  “Because you have had more training than I.”

  “Cauley, leave us,” the doctor ordered.

  Sarah stopped the batman. “Mr. Cauley, have you seen men wounded in battle in this condition?”

  “Aye, my lady. ‘Tis like the body rest afore it begins its last battle. T’will be terrible fierce I fear.”

  “And lead to death,” said the doctor.

  “Sometimes,” Cauley agreed. “But I’ve seen ‘em live when the man has a strong will.”

  Crandall grimaced. “Keep him sedated, but not too deeply or he will never wake,” he told Lady Edgerton.

  “You are right to think this state unnatural. Ply him with your herbal infusions and decoctions. Who knows but what good they may do. Lord knows I have seen you save some I had given up on,” he said in a rallying tone.

  “Now, I must be off. Promised to stop at St. John’s and tend some children.” Crandall took Sarah’s hand. “Walk me to my gig. The warm sunshine will do you good.”

  Sarah strolled with him out onto the gravel drive. She blinked at the bright sunshine.

  “A beautiful day but you are thinking which of your herbs sprout so you can make stronger treatments,” he chided.

  “No, I was not,” she protested.

  Setting his medical bag on the floor of the gig, Crandall assumed an innocent mien. “How fares Rupert Hale?”

  The doctor was one of two persons besides Darton who knew she corresponded with Hale. Their mutual friend was a physician who studied peasant medical treatments in Italy despite the embargo on travel in countries under French domination.

  “Quite well. He sent a receipt for scabies in his last letter. I am eager to try it.”

  “Have you heard from Miss Amabelle?”

  “Last week,” Sarah answered. Seeing eagerness in his gaze, she hid a smile. “She wrote that she captures spring flowers in watercolours and mentioned a theatrical entertainment. Amabelle will recall all the details when she comes home.”

  “She’s likely to prattle about it no end. Will she be home soon?”

  “The end of the term is mid-May. We expect her shortly after that,” Sarah answered. The faraway look in the doctor’s eye told her he could see her petit blond beauty of a stepdaughter as clearly as if she stood before him.

  Crandall shook himself. “Do take care, Sarah,” he admonished. “I wish you would not take in strays. One day you will catch something beyond curing from one of them.”

  “I never take ill,” she laughed as he climbed into the gig.

  He looked back toward the manor with a frown.

  “Do not fret over him, Gil,” Sarah said. “It is, as Mr. Cauley says, a matter of strength of will.”

  With a grim nod, the doctor urged his team forward.

  Now unaware of the bright sunshine Sarah turned her mind to herbs. A hyssop tincture to drink and its essential oil mixed with almond oil for the chest are beneficial in treating pneumonia.

  * * *

  April 9th Sunday

  “Darton, where is Lady Edgerton?” Elminda demanded with familiar bluntness. “Why was she not in church? As soon as I heard of the stranger, I knew there would be trouble,” Elminda snorted. “Where is she?”

  “My lady takes nuncheon in the south walking porch. Shall I bring a tray for you?”

  “Of course,” she said and stalked away.

  The sharp tattoo of heels across the stone floor woke Sarah. Recognizing the stride, she grimaced.

  “Well you might pull a face, Sarah,” Elminda scolded her sister-in-law. “I should not have to remind you of your consequence. Indeed, that is not why I have come.”

  “Would you like some of cook’s delicious fricassee?” Sarah asked hoping to delay the sermon.

  “Darton shall serve me.”

  Elminda’s disapproving look told Sarah she knew about Bob Cauley and his work at Edgerton Manor. Girding for a lecture, Darton’s reprieving tread prompted a relieved smile.

  After the butler served Miss Edgerton he held the tray before him like a shield. “My lady, Mr. Cauley asks that you come.”

  “My apologies, Elminda, but I must go.” Sarah stood. “I will send word to your cottage when I am able to receive you.

  “Darton, please attend to Miss Elminda.” She left before her sister-in-law’s glare turned to words.

  * * *

  Pressing down on one of the man’s shoulders while Molly held the other Sarah assessed the deep pulling cough and heavy wheezing groans. “When was laudanum last given?”

  “Two hours ago. It’s too soon for more,” Cauley warned.

  “He’s like a demon, my lady,” Molly told her.

  “He’ll hurt himself or one of us if we don’t quiet him,” Cauley said. “If we had wide strips of sheeting we could fasten one to one side of the bed, then across his chest and tie it off on t’other. I’ve seen it done.” He cursed as the man’s knee collided with his jaw.

  “Can’t wait to present him with me bill for loosening me teeth,” Cauley said with a wink at the scandalized Molly.

  Brady appeared at the door. “Darton sent for me,” he said taking Molly’s place. Before he got a grip Hadleigh convulsed.

  “Molly, get sheeting from the linen closet,” Sarah said crisply. “We shall do as Mr. Cauley suggests.”

  They struggled with the patient who battled unseen foes with a surprising show of strength. By the time he was tied down all of his nurses were damp with perspiration.

  At Sarah’s nod, Cauley captured Hadleigh’s head in his hands. With practiced ease he applied pressure to the jaws and forced open Hadleigh’s mouth.

  Slowly pouring in the decoction she had mixed earlier, Sarah rubbed the man’s throat with the damp cloth to encourage him to swallow. “‘Tis a miracle, Cauley. He took it all.”

  “Aye, m’lady, ‘tis common with we fellows of the 95th—miracles that is,” he said, his features dead serious.

  Molly bridled at such bragging, certain he meant to impress Lady Edgerton and hold himself better than an abigail. “Of all the tongue-valiant scoundrels.”

  “Go and rest, Molly. You have done more than your share for this day,” Sarah said. “Go,” she encouraged, ignoring the scathing look the abigail cast at Cauley.

  “Brady, you may also go. Thank you once again.” As both left, Sarah began to unwind the bindings about the right foot.

  Molly halted at the door. “I can help with that.”

  “Ahh, I do miss the army, m’lady. The men of the 95th nev’r shirked an order,” Cauley said. He met the abigail’s aggrieved look with a smile.

  Colour flooded Molly’s cheeks. She strode out of the room.

  “Mr. Cauley, that was quite wicked of you,” Sarah scolded.

  “I don’t think me ev’r saw Miss Molly routed before,” Brady chuckled. At his mistress’s frown he adjusted his features into a forlorn cast. “The best story o’ the day and I’m ta keep me mummer shut again.”

  Sarah glanced from the coachman to the batman. “Both of you should be ashamed.” She hid her smile, thankful that the day’s tension had eased. “Cauley, please apologize to Molly when next you see her. Now, may we continue?”

  Brady watched as the poultice was removed. He shook his head. “That’s going to gangrene.”

  Cauley peered at the foot and then unbound the other. He found it no better. “Do you have a place where lea
ves mightn’t be cleared away after the winter?”

  Clearly puzzled, Sarah said, “By the strawberry bed.”

  “I once saw a poultice of mouldy leaves mixed with Echinacea applied to a festering wound after it was made to bleed afresh,” he explained. “Worked like a miracle.”

  * * *

  April 11th Tuesday

  The clock chimed midnight as Sarah sent Cauley to bed. Her patient restive, she pulled back the blankets, unbuttoned his nightshirt, and removed the flannel pads from his chest. She hummed Soldiers of Christ, Arise as she massaged his chest with a mixture of hyssop, thyme, and almond oil. His struggle for each breath vibrated beneath her hands and his heart pulsed.

  A strong heart. Sarah continued the massage. Sarah sang softly, “Soldiers of Christ, arise. Put your armour on, strong in the strength which God supplies.”

  Hadleigh heard faint strains of a melody he recognized. They were distant, muted by a fierce pounding in his head and the constant flare of pain. Soothing hands eased the heaviness on his chest amidst snatches of familiar words.

  An aura of safety enveloped Hadleigh. He dreamt of that first summer at Trees when he and André had been left on their own because the Tretain’s first child, Michelle, was sick.

  Sometimes they took André’s three-year-old sister Leora with them. As they jousted and fought mock swordfights, the chubby golden haired little girl would watch them in wide blue-eyed wonder, often falling asleep. André always cajoled him into carrying Leora back to the nursery while the baron remained outside. But one day Hadleigh had refused to do so.

  De la Croix shrugged in the Gallic manner that was so much a part of him and the two continued to duel and chase each other through the woods. They completely forgot the sleeping little girl. In the midst of a contest to see who dared to climb farthest up a huge old oak, they first heard the dogs.

  The barks were sharp, angry. Anxious neighs answered them.