With This Ring Part 13

"And spoil your efforts?" she said. "Years and years ago, the government should have sent you to negotiate with Napoleon!"

The mother superior led them into a well-lighted, clean room with baby beds lining one wall. Children of various ages crawled or walked about, or sat at play. The room was austere in the extreme, but there was nothing of squalor or filth. She loosened her grip on the major's arm as she watched the young novitiate roll a ball to a little girl, who looked up when they came in, her eyes bright with interest.

"Oh, do let me," she said as she knelt beside the young sister. The woman smiled and moved away as Lydia rolled the ball to the child in front of her.

Like the others, her dark hair was cut quite short, but it was a riot of curls. Her eyes were brown like Lydia's. She was dressed in a simple, straight dress of sacking that came to her ankles. Sam squatted on his heels beside her and looked from her to the child and back. "She does look a bit like you. Pretty enough," he said. "Do let us look around, Lydia, before we decide." He reached out and touched the baby's curls. "She's a pretty minx, though, isn't she?"

Reluctantly, she allowed the major to pull her to her feet, and she followed him dutifully about the room. The little girl started to crawl after her, but her dress got in the way. Her face wrinkled up, and she scrubbed her eyes with her fists. "Oh, the poor dear," Lydia said, left Sam's side, and picked up the child, who promptly nestled against her shoulder.

The mother superior smiled. "Mrs. Reed, it appears that you have been chosen."

"How old is she?" Lydia asked.

"We do not know. She was brought here during the winter, when it was so cold, and none of the poor could sustain themselves. We found her beside the road." The nun fingered the child's curls. "There was no note. I do not suppose that her mother or father could write one. She will be walking any day, I am certain."

"Her name?"

"We call her Maria, but you may certainly name her anything you choose. Of course, there is another room of babies."

Lydia looked at her husband. "Sam, I do not care if there are ten more rooms. I'm not going to put her down."

He looked at them both, a smile on his face. "You're the manipulators, my dears. Lydia, you and this little minx are both looking at me with the biggest brownest eyes! What am I to do?"

"She is?" Lydia asked in delight. "Sam, I doubt I will run into another door or thing ever again. Oh, please!"

"I'm certain of that," he said. "Very well, then. Sister, we do believe we will be quite happy with Maria here. Do I sign some papers? Pay you anything?"

He did both while she held Maria, who had not loosened her grip about her neck. One of the sisters returned with a cloth bag of clothes and nappies. "She doesn't have any shoes, but it is summer," the woman said, her tone apologetic. "You are taking a great favorite," she said simply.

Lydia smoothed back the little girl's curls. "Then, why has no one claimed her before us?" she asked.

"Perhaps because few are as generous as you," the woman said quietly.

Oh, ouch, Lydia thought. She took the bag. "There is a towel doll inside," the nun said. She kissed the child quickly, then hurried silently down the corridor, not looking back.

In another moment, Sam was through. His face as serious as her own, he picked up the cloth bag. "Would you like me to carry her?" he asked as the porter showed them out and the gate closed behind them.

She shook her head. "She is light, but I do not think you should be carrying anything, Sam, not with your back the way it is." She stopped in the road, unmindful of the other people on the street. "Sam, we have just done something awfully big!"

He nodded, took her arm, and sat with her on a bench by the road. "We did yesterday, too, Lydia. I ... I think I am done with big things for a while." He smiled. "I suppose we should be grateful that the war was not longer, or Percy would have given us more children."

She didn't say anything, but they sat close together on the bench, Maria cuddled to her. I do not think I have ever felt so frightened in my whole life, she thought. She s.h.i.+vered. "Do you know, Sam," she said finally, trying to choose her words, but finding none. "Oh, I don't even know what I am trying to say."

"It will keep, Lydia. It will keep."

They sat together in silence until the major stirred finally and looked at his watch. "We could catch the mail coach and get into Warwich. I am thinking, Lydia, after we find some food."

She nodded, and held Maria away from her. "Are you hungry, my dear?" she asked. "Oh, heavens! I don't even know what you eat."

He tickled Maria and took a close look when she smiled. "My dear, imagine yourself dining with seven ... almost eight teeth, and plan accordingly."

Sam was right, of course; she shouldn't have doubted it. Maria ate mashed potatoes with cream and a little applesauce, followed by milk with oil of peppermint stirred into it, "To keep her sound," the serving woman a.s.sured them. "All eight o' mine had a wee dram every day, and aren't they all healthy now?"

"We shall enter that in our catalog of skills for new parents, Lydia," the major said as they settled themselves on the mail coach. "When in doubt, take the advice of women with the most living children."

"Especially when they are emphatic," she added.

Wonder of wonders, the coach was not crowded, so they were able to put Maria between them. Covered with Lydia's shawl, and holding her towel doll, Maria went to sleep. "The sleep of the innocent," Sam murmured as he touched her.

"You're destined never to know what that is," Lydia said.

Sam grinned at her and closed his eyes, too. She watched them both, her hand on Maria to keep her from rolling off, but her eyes on her husband. I wonder, Sam, are you not aware how bound I am to you now by the addition of Maria, or are you so supremely self-confident that it would never occur to you? For no reason discernible to her, tears winked behind her eyelids. Yesterday, I think I entered into this marriage with the idea somewhere that I could wriggle out of it quite easily, even between here and Northumberland, she reasoned with herself. With Maria, I know I cannot, no matter what happens. She stared at the child in frank amazement. I cannot believe how rapidly she has become mine. One look at her, and I was gone. She gazed at Sam then. I wonder, sir, will you become mine, or am I the means to an end?

They stopped that night in a small inn outside of Coventry, to her relief. Maria was behaving well enough. Indeed, she had found her way onto several laps, and had earned a wooden horse intended for someone else's granddaughter, and a peppermint lozenge from travelers easily charmed by her sunny good humor. It was the major who worried her again. He became quieter and quieter through the long summer evening, doing his best to continue conversations with others in the coach, but unable to keep his attention fixed for long. He is in pain again, she thought. Surely he cannot make it all the way to Northumberland. We have only traveled a half day on the coach this time. How long will he last tomorrow?

They stopped briefly at a small village whose name she could not recall even a minute after it was announced. "Horse threw a shoe," the coachman announced. "We'll be fifteen minutes."

"We're stopping here tonight," she announced as she retrieved Maria from a vicar who had been entertaining her with a puppet glove.

"It's not a regular stop, Lydia. We'll have a hard time finding conveyance in the morning," the major said. His voice sounded almost normal to her ears, but she knew he had been gritting his teeth for the last ten miles at least.

"Here, Sam," she said quietly. "Don't argue with me, or try to tell me you do not hurt. I refuse to go another mile with you in pain."

He did not argue, but got down slowly from the coach. She followed with Maria and her cloth bag, and saw to it that the major's trunk and her bandbox were removed, too. "I know what I am doing," she told the coachman, who towered over her, and who would have frightened her to death, only two days ago. "My husband needs to lie down."

"Verra well, ma'am," the coachman said. "You'll forfeit the rest of that fare. It's only another twenty miles to Coventry."

"Then, I will take the loss," she said. "I am adamant."

Finding a room was simple, since the inn was not frequented by the mail coach route. After a quick dinner, she asked the innkeeper to help the major upstairs. "Does he need a surgeon?" the innkeeper asked her in a whisper.

"No, he does not!" Sam declared. "I am not deaf, you two! I just need to lie down, my good man. Thank you for your trouble."

Without a word, she set Maria on the floor with her doll and helped him from his clothes again, almost dreading the sight of his shoulder, swollen and hot to bursting again. "Let the innkeeper go for a doctor," she urged.

"No," he said sharply. "I just want to get home."

It will take forever if we can only travel half a day at a time, she thought as she unb.u.t.toned his trousers and pulled them off. Oh, Sam! I wish you were not so stubborn. "Very well, sir," she said, "but I am going downstairs to get a poultice for your shoulder, and if you argue I will ... I will ...."

"Will what?" he asked, his eyes teary with pain.

"Nothing," she said simply. "There is not a thing I can do, if you choose to be stubborn. But if you do not allow this little thing, I will sit on your back and make you keep it on."

He stared at her. "I believe you would, Mrs. Reed," he said finally. He lay quiet on his stomach while she went downstairs, carrying Maria with her.

The innkeeper's wife knew just what to do. "Now you go upstairs and put that little sweet one to bed, and I will have a poultice for your husband."

Almost weak with relief, Lydia went back upstairs. Sam appeared to be asleep, so she did not say anything to him. Silently she washed Maria as best she could, tied her into another nappie, and found a nightgown of sacking that was almost b.u.t.ter-soft with was.h.i.+ng. She sat on the bed and held Maria close to her. "My dear, you have been well tended," she whispered. I hope I can do half so well as the Sisters of Charity, she thought. She looked at Sam, and then back at Maria. How odd, she thought. I who was useful to no one have suddenly become quite a necessity. I refuse to be frightened by all this responsibility. People depend upon me now.

After a couple of deep breaths, she put the drowsy baby down next to the major. "Sam, I am going downstairs for that poultice," she whispered into his ear. "Maria is here with you." He nodded, and she covered them both with the bedclothes.

It was a mash poultice, hot and steaming. The innkeeper's wife helped her wrap it in a towel. "Just put it on his back for about ten minutes, taking care you do not burn him," she instructed Lydia. "Then take it off for ten more minutes, and then put it back on. It should be cool enough to stay on all night then." The woman smiled at her. "Do not look so glum! He looks like a healthy man otherwise. Soon he'll be up and about and bothering you again, miss, and won't you wish him elsewhere!"

She blushed, thanked the woman, and hurried upstairs. In another moment she had placed the poultice on the major's shoulder, careful to keep it covered with the towel. He flinched, then sighed as the heat went deep into the wound. She sat on the pillow close to his head, her hand on his hair, smoothing it back, and then just pressing firmly. He returned to sleep. By the time she had applied the poultice for the final time, he was snoring softly, Maria curled in his arms.

One more thing managed, Lydia thought as she took off her dress and petticoat, peeled down her chemise and washed herself. I think I would almost kill for a bath, she thought as she soaped herself. I would have hot water up to my neck and shampoo, and I would sit there until I was wrinkled. She dried off quickly and found drawers and a fresh chemise in her bandbox. There was a light breeze coming from the open window, so she closed it and looked down at the cot that the landlord had thoughtfully provided for Maria. It's a good thing I am short, she thought as she pulled back the blanket.

"Good night, Lydia."

She froze. Good Lord, was he awake and watching me the whole time I was standing there? she thought. She shook her head. I do not want to know.

"Good night, Sam."

He was better in the morning, and she could only marvel at his resilience. The swelling was greatly reduced, but even to her inexpert eye, there was more redness. Oh, I do not like this, she thought as she touched the wound. "Sam, can we not ...."

"No," he said firmly. "Two more days entire will see me home."

"You are unbelievably stubborn," she told him in a whisper. Maria still slept beside him, her arms and legs thrown wide with that casual abandon of the comfortable.

"I do not bend with every wind, Lydia, unlike ...." He stopped, and sat up.

"Unlike me," she finished. "I know I am no bargain, Sam. It was what my mother said all along."

"Lydia, I didn't mean ...." He looked at her. "I was rude. Forgive me."

No, you are in pain, she thought, and this is making you short-tempered. "Forgiven," she said simply. She took his hands. "Sam, please."

"No," he repeated. "I can make it home. Ho, there, Maria. You're a slugabed. I wonder that the Sisters of Charity tolerated you." He smiled at the little girl, who was looking up at him. She stretched in that stiff-legged way of the compact, and Lydia sat on the bed to watch her. "You're changing the subject, Mr. Reed," she said, even as she smiled at the baby.

"Oh, now I am Mr. Reed?" he asked. "Hand me my pants, Lydia."

"I should hide them like General Picton does," she said.

"Then, you would certainly be embarra.s.sed to sit with me on the mail coach, Mrs. Reed!"

Getting out of the village proved to be as aggravating as the major had predicted the day before. To his everlasting credit in Lydia's heart, he did not say, "Didn't I tell you?", but continued patiently to pursue all avenues, while Lydia and Maria sat in the kitchen with the landlord's wife. Luckily the woman liked to talk; with only a few judicious questions, Lydia was able to glean all manner of information about taking care of small children.

Her mind was also on Sam; she could not help herself. I think men are even more difficult than children, she thought, for all that they profess to know so much. She fell silent, thinking about the major, unable to get the sight of his poor back out of her mind.

"But you are worried about your husband, aren't you?" the innkeeper's wife asked, interrupting her own flow of conversation.

"Oh, I am," Lydia said. "He just refuses to consider any more tinkering with his wound until he is home." She fingered Maria's curls, and kissed the top of the baby's head. "I, for one, cannot blame him, but I wish I could convince him to let a doctor look at his shoulder."

The women looked at each other. "Lord, they are stubborn," the woman said. She found a tablet and stub of a pencil and wrote out the recipe for mash poultice, then gave it to Lydia. "At least get someone to mix this for you tonight."

It is such a feeble remedy, Lydia thought as she pocketed the recipe. She looked up then to see the major standing in the doorway.

"Good luck to us," he said. "I have arranged for a gig to take us to the next village ...."

"Marbury Down," said the landlord's wife.

"Yes, that is it. There we will catch a smaller conveyance that will take us to Leicester, where the mail coach stops," he said. "Are you ready, my dear?"

She nodded. "At least I am not still Mrs. Reed," she whispered to the woman as she put Maria on her hip. "He does not like to discuss his ailments!"

An hour's travel in the gig-which Maria enjoyed enormously, but the major did not-they arrived at Marbury Down in time to catch the local conveyance to Leicester. Lydia eyed it dubiously. The vehicle may have been a mail coach in an earlier working life, but there was little to recommend it now, beyond wheels that turned, and horses approaching the geriatric.

The major startled her by putting his arm around her waist. "My dear Lydia, if the wheels fall off, we can always eat the horses."

She laughed, relieved that his irritation had dissipated. "I suppose you will tell me that was common fare in the Peninsula."

He nodded. "I've eaten horse every way except on the half sh.e.l.l. On a long fork over a fire is best, if the fuel is dried cow dung. It adds a certain piquancy not unlike the addition of pepper. May I give you two a hand up?"

He did, and she was charitable enough to overlook the pain that she knew it caused him. He also helped in an old lady with a bulging reticule, and a vicar who appeared to be suffering from prolonged contact with communion wine.

Lydia settled Maria on the seat with her toy horse and towel doll. The major closed the door after him but leaned forward to watch the coachman take his seat. He leaned back finally. "Interesting," he commented to no one in particular.

"What is?" she asked.

"The coachman has a man seated beside him with a pistol."

"Heavens," Lydia said. She leaned close to her husband to whisper, "I hope that does not startle this little lady across from us."

The lady across from them snorted and patted her reticule. "I always travel this stretch with a remedy for road agents."

"A bad area, eh?" the major asked, trying to make himself comfortable on the seat, which was slick from years and years of pa.s.sengers' rumps. He winked at her. "Do you hit'um with your reticule, madam?"

She laughed and wheezed in equal parts, winked back and settled herself for slumber. In another moment she was snoring, to Maria's fascination.

The vicar stirred from his corner and spoke in a voice that almost sounded soggy. "The coachman swears he sees road agents, but I think he just drinks too much." He closed his eyes again.

"Well, you would likely know," the major commented. "Think of the adventure, Lydia."

She nodded, then looked at him shyly. "Thank you for not being angry about the traveling arrangements."

He gazed at her for a long moment, then shrugged. "What would be the point? You were right to make me stop last night." He put his forehead against hers for emphasis. "And I do feel better this morning."

"Very well, then," she said softly. "Mama would have scolded me for hours or ...." She paused.

He took her hand and ran his finger over her ring in a gesture that was becoming familiar to her. "Those days are over, Lydia." She s.h.i.+fted her gaze and leaned back, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and looked away.

"What, Lydia?" he asked finally. "You're miles away at the moment, and I know I am coming up short."

I sit in a carriage with people I do not know, and I have to tell you something so personal, she thought. I cannot do it, but I must. She took Maria in her lap so she could move closer to him. "Sam, I could tell Mama things and she would ignore me, or shout, or worse."

"I told you those ...." he began, his voice as soft as hers, so she forgot her fear.

"They're not over, if you ignore me. I know that you need to see a surgeon now. If it angers you, I am sorry, but I tell you this from two or three weeks of actually looking at wounds like yours!"