by Wilma Counts
“Awright. Long as Tootie can come.”
“Of course,” Hero said, swinging her legs out of bed.
Although strangers sometimes initially mistook the child as being Hero’s daughter, the truth was Annabelle was a ward—of sorts. As one of two midwives in the town and surrounding area, Hero had helped to deliver the child whose mother, a young woman known only as Barbara, had unfortunately died giving birth. At the time, Barbara had been one of four young women or girls then lodging in the home of Weyburn’s other midwife, the widowed Sally Knowlton. For years Mrs. Knowlton had taken in young women and girls who were “in trouble.” The whole town knew of the situation, and occasionally someone made a snooty remark, but mostly these “fallen women” were tolerated or ignored, since they pretty much stuck to the grounds of the Knowlton home. The young mothers were of two sorts: either daughters of upper class, even aristocratic families, or servants who had been seduced—or, in some cases, raped—by males in such households. The babes were most often placed with foster families.
Hero found it deplorable that always it was the women—and their babes—who paid the price for a situation that, after all, required two in the beginning. The men—or their parents—merely paid money to cover it up, but women and children paid the full price emotionally and socially. Hero simply hadn’t much time for the men of England’s social elite. She had known some fine men—her father and brothers, for instance—but her own experience, coupled with that of “Mrs. Knowlton’s waifs,” had shaped her view profoundly.
With the death of Barbara, her babe was first placed with a local farmer’s wife to wet nurse. When it came time to place the child in foster care, Hero could not bear to see that happen. So Annabelle entered the Whitby household and proceeded to steal everyone’s heart.
“Please take her down to the kitchen, Clara, while I dress for our ride. And please tell Mrs. Hutchins I’d like some toast and coffee.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ya-ay.” Annabelle danced out of the room, still clutching Bitsy to her chest.
Annabelle chatted throughout the ride. She praised the antics of her pets and other animals on the property; she asked dozens of questions beginning with how or why; and she retold the plots of her favorite tales from the Bible and other bedtime stories. Hero, preoccupied with the problem of her still unresponsive patient, only half listened, but managed to participate appropriately. Once again, she was impressed with the extraordinary depth and breadth of the little girl’s sponge-like mind. She was also amused to hear sage-like pronouncements, some of which she recognized as having originally come from herself. Hero smiled at hearing Annabelle admonish Tootie, “We must treat our animals with respect ʼcause they give us so much of themselves.”
Afterwards, as they left the stable, Hero said to Annabelle, “I want to check on my patient in the clinic.”
Having retrieved her precious Bitsy, Annabelle slipped a small hand into Hero’s and skipped beside her. “Can I come too?”
“May I?” Hero corrected.
“May I?”
“Yes, but you must be very quiet. The man is sleeping. And do not touch anything.”
Davey, the youngest male servant of the Whitby household, rose from where he had been sitting beside the patient’s bed.
“Any change?” Hero asked, moving to the head of the bed. She felt the man’s forehead for temperature and the hollow at the base of his neck for pulse.
“Not much as I can see,” Davey replied. “Ever’ once in a while he cries out, but then he jus’ mumbles.”
“I am worried that he has remained unconscious for so long,” Hero said.
“Is the man sleeping, Auntie H’ro?” Annabelle asked, standing on tiptoe to gaze at his face.
“Sort of, darling. And we need to have him wake up to get well.”
“Kiss him,” the little girl said.
Davey grinned at this idea and Hero said, “Wha-a-t?”
“Well,” Annabelle said, sounding very practical, “that is how the prince woke Sleeping Beauty.”
“Ah. So it is.” Hero took the child’s hand and led her toward the door. “What works in storybooks does not always work in real life.”
“But maybe—sometimes—it does?” Annabelle looked up at Hero, who hadn’t the heart to simply squelch the child’s eagerness to help.
“I suppose it does—sometimes…”
“Well, then?”
Hero shared an amused glance with Davey and said to him, “Continue trying to get water into him—or maybe some of that broth. He needs nourishment too. I showed you how to dip the corner of a cloth into liquid and then dribble it on his lips. Sometimes you need to part the lips slightly.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hero watched as Davey demonstrated that he had mastered this process, then she tugged Annabelle’s hand and said, “Come along, my little miss. Let’s you and I find a snack.”
“Bread and jam!” The child’s attention was now firmly diverted.
“And perhaps some cheese and apple juice.”
They sat at the kitchen worktable for this repast as Annabelle regaled Mrs. Hutchins and the kitchen staff with a full, detailed account of her morning. Hero was going over in her mind yet again what she might do to bring the patient around.
Later in the day, Hero relieved Dorcas early from her stint at the patient’s bedside.
“He still don’t say nothin’ that makes any sense,” Dorcas said.
“At least he is trying to communicate with us,” Hero said. “That is a good sign.”
As Dorcas left, Hero set about what was now routine for her: seeing that the patient got water and lately some broth as well, then wiping his brow, his face, and exposed limbs with a damp cloth. Eyes closed, he turned his head and emitted soft groans or grunts.
“I do so wish you’d wake up,” she said. She stood gazing at him, taking in the clean lines of his features. He truly was extraordinarily handsome, despite three days’ growth of beard. His body reminded her of the Greek statues she had seen in Lord Elgin’s collection in London. What else might we possibly do? she wondered. She smiled at remembering Annabelle’s suggestion. Maybe…No. That is ridiculous. Fairy tales, indeed!
She sat and took up her knitting, but that ridiculous idea would not leave her alone. Should have brought my book, she told herself. But it occurred to her that yet another method of stimulation just might—possibly—work. ’Twas worth a try, was it not?
Dismissing the idea as patently silly, she noticed he was turning his head rather vigorously and groaning. She stood to give him more water, then she caressed his face and patted his shoulder, trying to calm him. His beard was just long enough now to be soft rather than bristly. The cedary-spicy smell was still there, but very faint.
“Shhh.” She bent near his ear and murmured, “You are safe. Everything is all right now.” But his movements increased.
Later, she would chastise herself as several kinds of fool, but suddenly—impulsively—she kissed him!
His lips were dry and warm, and, surprisingly—perhaps instinctively—they responded to the touch of hers. She quickly drew back. His eyes fluttered open and she gazed into their clear but unfocused blue depths. He moaned softly and his eyes closed again, but he seemed quieter now.
Oh, good grief. Whatever possessed me to do that? She stifled a groan of her own and sat back down again. He began to try to thrash around, but they had bound him tightly to the bed to prevent his further injuring himself. She caressed his arm and shoulder, murmuring to him as she did Annabelle when the child was ill. Then she sat and held his hand. Finally, he seemed to sleep again, and, when Stewart came to relieve her, the patient had been quiet for at least half an hour.
Some two hours later, Hero was in the stillroom with Mrs. Hutchins, sorting dried herbs and putting them in labeled jars.
“We are very low on willow bark,” Hero observed. “So useful for ordinary pain, you know.”
“You have plenty of laudanum, though,” the housekeeper said, replacing a container on the highest shelf.
“Good. If our patient ever wakes up, he will likely need it.”
The stillroom was located near the kitchen and the servants’ hall, just off a hallway that contained a system of bells to notify servants when they were needed elsewhere on the premises. Ordinarily, a given bell sounded once or twice. Now, however, one of them clanged repeatedly and erratically. Mrs. Hutchins, closest to the door, looked out to check the source.
“Goodness. It’s the clinic, Miss Hero.”
Hero dropped a handful of dill and hurried out. Dorcas was the watcher of the moment and Dorcas was in a panic. The maid frantically clutched the bellpull at the head of the patient’s bed with one hand as she tried ineffectually to control the man’s moving about by pressing her hand to his shoulder. A strap across his waist and another across his chest under his shoulders held him on the bed. Another stabilized his injured leg.
“Oh, thank God, you’re here,” Dorcas said. “I think he’s wakin’ up. He keeps movin’ about and he talks real loud sometimes.”
“Go and find Stewart,” Hero said calmly. She wished her father were here, but he was making house calls in town this afternoon. She took Dorcas’s place near the man’s head and shoulders. He was moaning fiercely, moving his head side to side and up and down, trying to lurch up. Pain and the straps restrained him.
“God damn it,” he said clearly and then emitted a fine sampling of curses in English and at least two other languages. She recognized French and thought another was Spanish. He waved one arm around and kicked out with his uninjured and unconfined leg.
“Shh.” Hero placed one hand on his brow and patted his nearest shoulder comfortingly with the other. “Please try to be calm.”
His gaze focused on her face and the body movements seemed less frantic. “Who—? Where—?” The words ended on a groan. He closed his eyes tightly against a wave of pain.
“You have been injured,” she said. “Rather badly, I’m afraid. But you need to lie still.”
Stewart was suddenly at her side. “How can I help, Miss Hero?”
“Hand me that cold cloth and try to keep him from kicking that bad leg,” she said in the same steady voice. She placed the cloth on the patient’s brow and continued to speak softly to him. “You’ve a broken leg and possibly some broken ribs, as well as a nasty bump and cut on your head.”
His eyes were open now and focused in the direction of her voice. “Did we hold them, Ollie?” His voice sounded fuzzy to Hero.
“You held them,” she assured him.
His gaze was clear and held hers now. “You’re not Ollie.” He sighed. “Of course you’re not. Ollie’s dead. So are they all. All dead.” He was silent for a moment, then asked quite lucidly, “Where am I? How did I get here?”
Hero exchanged a look of triumph with Stewart. “You are a patient in Dr. Whitby’s clinic in Cornwall.”
“Cornwall.” His brow wrinkled in question.
“Actually on the border of Cornwall and Devon. The town of Weyburn.”
“Weyburn,” he repeated without apparent recognition. His expression deepened.
“You have been seriously injured, but you will be all right now, I’m sure.”
“How—?”
“We think you were set upon and robbed and beaten on your way to Weyburn Abbey. Three days ago.”
“Abbey,” he repeated dully.
“In Cornwall,” she said, trying to trigger his memory with familiar place names. “Can you tell me your name? We should notify your family.”
He moaned incoherently and seemed to be trying to think. “Thirsty,” he mumbled.
“Of course.” She gestured for Stewart to hand her a cup of water and removed the damp cloth from his forehead. She slipped her arm under his neck to help him raise his head enough to swallow the liquid. His hair was matted and perspiration gathered on his forehead. His skin felt warm against her arm. She could still discern a now faint whiff of his shaving soap blended with a smell that was—well—just him. He gulped the water and turned away, his eyes closed. She placed the cup on the nightstand.
“Sir?” Hero said firmly. “Are you still awake?”
His eyes fluttered open. “Mm. Yes. Pain. Hurt all over.”
“I know. I will give you something for the pain. But first—please—tell me who you are.”
“Who?” he repeated dumbly, his eyes closing again.
“Yes. Who are you?” She raised her voice slightly.
“I…uh…I…” He opened his eyes. His gaze darted around, panicked. “I…I don’t know. I. Do. Not. Know. How can I not know my own name?”
She patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Never mind. It will come to you. Temporary amnesia sometimes accompanies a severe blow to the head.” She said this with a false sense of confidence, for she had only yesterday read it in one of her brother Michael’s medical books.
“Amnesia.” He seemed to understand the term.
“The head wound,” she said. “Do you remember what happened? You arrived in our clinic three days ago with a quite appalling bump on your head. Also broken—or very badly bruised—ribs, and your right leg is broken about five inches above the knee.”
“The femur,” he said almost tonelessly.
“Why, yes,” she said, surprised, for few patients would know the term. She tried to be encouraging. “See, your memory is still there. Do you remember how you got these injuries?”
He lay very still for a moment, his eyes closed, the muscles along his jaw clenched.
“Sir?” she prompted.
“No.” His voice was hoarse and it was clear to Hero that he was putting up a valiant fight against pain. “I…I do not know. Not Waterloo…”
“No. Not Waterloo.”
Just then Mrs. Hutchins bustled in carrying a tray. “I’ve brought some fresh broth for his lordship.”
“Thank you,” Hero said as Stewart brought a small table close for Mrs. Hutchins to set the tray on, then went back to his post near the patient’s feet. Hero noticed the tray also held a small bottle of laudanum. “You did say you’d have need of that too.” Mrs. Hutchins stepped back and put her hands on her hips. “So? How’s his lordship doing?”
At the sound of this new voice, a frown creased the man’s brow and he turned his head to gaze in that direction, but pain abruptly stopped the movement. “Ugh.”
Hero, still standing near his head, touched his shoulder. “Don’t move. Let me help you up a bit. Those pillows, please, Mrs. Hutchins.” She gestured to a sideboard.
As Hero leaned over him, he grabbed her hand and whispered fiercely, “Get these damned restraints off me.” In a less intense tone, he added, “Please.”
“Now that you are conscious and aware, we can do that,” she said.
“The wrapping around my chest too.”
“But, sir. That is standard treatment for broken ribs.”
“I’ve had broken ribs before. They will mend on their own.”
Seizing on this, she said, “When? Do you recall when?”
He closed his eyes again. She could almost hear him trying to remember. After a moment, he opened his eyes again and seemed to grope for a right answer. “Spain? Yes. Spain. Badajoz.”
“Oh, good. Very good.” Hero shared a smile with Stewart and Mrs. Hutchins. “Now. Do you remember who you are?”
There was long pause as he seemed to be trying to come up with an answer. “N-no. How…why can I not…”
She touched his arm. “Never mind. It will come to you. For now, we will get those straps off and maybe get some soup into you.” Hero loosened the strap under his shoulders and motioned for Mr. Stewart to de
al with the one across his waist. “Is that better?”
He nodded.
“We must keep that leg stabilized, though,” she said. Hero helped him raise his head and shoulders; Mrs. Hutchins removed the soiled pillow, put it aside, and pushed two others into place. Hero held the bowl of broth close and tried to spoon some into his mouth.
He turned away, wincing at the pain of doing so. “I’m not hungry. The pain—”
“You have had hardly any nourishment for three days.”
“I am not hungry.” He sounded testy and grunted in pain. “Leave me alone.”
“If you will eat at least half of this broth, I will give you something for the pain.”
He glared at her, but opened his mouth as she offered the spoon again. Mrs. Hutchins clucked in approval as he did so.
Finally he said, “That’s it. I cannot do any more.”
Hero prepared the laudanum in a glass of water and held his head up as he drank it. As she released him, he lay back and said, “You’re a hard woman, Mrs.…Miss…”
“Miss Whitby.” She could see that the medication was already taking effect. She removed one of the pillows under his head. “We shall leave the rails in place, though,” she said, even as she observed that he was already lost to them in genuine sleep.
Chapter 4
He was awake. Had been for at least two hours now, watching as dawn slowly drove the gray from the room, racking his brain, trying to recall…anything—anything of immediate significance. To little avail. He could remember snatches of battles—isolated but vivid scenes. Badajoz: Collins shot in the face as he climbed a siege ladder; Pamplona: the thunderous sound of an exploding munitions depot; Vitoria: Wellington furiously threatening to hang the next looter he caught; Toulouse: a battle that need never have been fought—and so many dead lying there on a muddy field. Finally, Waterloo: Ollie and Fitz both dead—again a muddy field of battle. Why was death always so dirty?
He even dredged up scenes of life in London after Toulouse. And, a year later, after Waterloo as well. Being congratulated in gentlemen’s clubs. Congratulations, back-slapping goodwill—for killing people? Flirting women in gaily colored gowns at balls. Fawning hostesses. Drinking. Gambling. Whoring. Anything to forget broken bodies, countless dead with their staring, accusing eyes: Why am I dead while you live? Broken lives—including his own.