With This Ring Part 4

"You won't like it," he murmured.

"I'm sure I won't," she agreed.

"I extracted a promise from him to stay in bed, if I would find a way to fetch you from Holly Street." He took her arm then. "He did mention that your parents were less than in charity with the idea."

She nodded, wincing to think of what Corporal Davies must have reported to the major after his return from her house last night. "I am glad that he finds me useful," she said.

"Or something," the general said, with a smile of his own.

They went up the stairs. She took a deep breath before entering the chapel, and let it out slowly, looking around. To her surprise, there were other women moving between the rows this morning, but they wore ap.r.o.ns and appeared to have a purpose, unlike the fas.h.i.+onable fribbles she had accompanied yesterday. And she noticed again, as she had noticed yesterday, that despite the great suffering, horrible smells, and dismal conditions, there was order.

"My division surgeon over there will tell you what he wants you to do," Picton said, gesturing toward the surgeon she remembered from yesterday. "But I suppose I had better fulfill my agreement by taking you to Major Reed first."

"Are you afraid that he will jump out of bed and break his promise if you do not, considering how insubordinate you say he is?" she teased.

"That will not happen, ma'am," Picton replied, the picture of a.s.surance. "I took into account my experiences with his usual creativity and had Corporal Davies hide the major's trousers and drawers!"

She laughed out loud, noticing as she did so that the sound of her laughter brought smiles to the faces of the wounded who were able to respond. General Picton noticed it, too.

"By G.o.d, we soldiers like a woman's hearty laugh," he said as he released her arm to edge his way down the narrow aisle of cots. "Nothing makes my bowels cramp up like a giggle from a silly chit with more t.i.t than brain!"

Sir, you are amazing, she thought as she followed him down the row, heading toward the lady chapel. She paused while he stopped to talk to his men, cajoling one here, patting a hand there, or standing in silence, head bowed (but top hat firmly in place) as another man took his place in death. His profanity astounded her, but the men who could, only grinned.

"My boys, G.o.dd.a.m.n them," he said simply when they reached the smaller chapel.

As they came closer, Major Reed propped himself up on his elbow to watch their progress. Lydia smiled to herself. And you, sir, intend to extract more work from me. Well, I would rather do your dirty work today than mend Kitty's flounces.

He looked so sour that she nearly laughed, but she chose instead to hold out her hand to him. "Don't get up on my account, Major Reed," she said. "Good morning, sir."

General Picton laughed. "Manners, Sam, manners! Or would you rather not display the family jewels?"

Reed pulled the blankets higher and held out his hand to Lydia. "Thank you for coming, Miss Perkins. Sir, you are unscrupulous."

"Any time, Sam, any time." The general's countenance was serene. He turned to her and bowed. "Miss Perkins, if he makes any move to rise or even reach for pen and paper, get me word, and I will break him right down to powder monkey, and turn him out in his s.h.i.+rt."

"Yes, sir," she said as she removed her bonnet and set it on the altar. "And where can I reach you, if this happens?"

"Why, at Horse Guards, naturally!" he said, as though surprised. "Someone has to irritate those supercilious sons of b.i.t.c.hes who would make water if they ever had to make war." He came closer to the major and touched his arm. "Be easy, laddie, and heal," he said, his voice almost compa.s.sionate. "It wasn't a bad bargain."

Another nod, and General Thomas Picton was gone, working his way back down another aisle. Reed shook his head. "He's a scoundrel."

"Precisely what he said about you, sir." She shook out the ap.r.o.n she had carried into the church and put it on, cinching it firmly at her waist. "Now, then, Major, since you purchased probably every flower in London and worked a great scheme on my mother, what will you have me do?"

"Were they pretty?" he asked as he struggled to sit up.

She took him by the arm to help. "I never had flowers before."

He stared at her. "I find that hard to believe."

"It's true," she allowed, dabbing at the sweat on his face from the simple exertion of sitting up. "Unlike you-according to General Picton-I never lie, cheat, or steal."

The major flinched. "If I could have sent someone else to retrieve you, I would have! A man has no secrets with Picton. Sit down a moment, Miss Perkins." He moved his legs. "No, right here, please."

Of course it was not proper, but the nearest stool was occupied by a soldier in the middle of a dressing change. "Very well, sir," she said as she sat on his cot and folded her hands in her lap.

She had not been this close to him before, and the morning light that streamed in through the clerestory windows showed her a fine-looking man, despite his ragged hair, whiskery chin, and hospital pallor. His hair was a marvelous chestnut color and his eyes brown like her own. His nose was almost too straight and gave him a severe appearance intensified by his thin lips. His cheeks were on the thin side, too, and she couldn't decide if that was due to his hospital stay or the unreliability of meals in Wellington's army. He had the look of a man who would fill out nicely, once he had the opportunity to put his legs under his own table again.

He wore a nights.h.i.+rt that looked soft with many was.h.i.+ngs. He sat leaning forward to take the strain off his back, his knees up, his arms draped gracefully over his knees. What wonderful hands, she thought, with long fingers and veins that looked almost chiseled. Too bad his fingers were discolored.

The major noticed the direction of her gaze, and held out a hand to her, palm up. "I have played so many years with gunpowder that it is engraved upon me, Miss Perkins. I suppose it will wear off someday." He wiggled his fingers. "At least they're all present and accounted for. I've been a lucky son of the guns."

"Luck or skill, sir?" she asked. "General Picton mentioned your ability."

He made a face, tried to sit up straighter, then leaned forward again. "I'm sorry to subject you to his company for a prolonged interval, but he owes me favors, and I knew that he could accomplish my goal."

"Your goal?" she asked.

He looked her right in the eyes, his glance never wavering. "The goal of getting you out of that house and back here to work, Miss Perkins."

She looked away in embarra.s.sment. "I cannot imagine what Corporal Davies told you."

"He said it was not a pretty sight." He touched her arm. "I blame myself. I apologize for keeping you so long here yesterday. I am sorry they were so angry, and took it out on you."

"No one compelled me to stay, sir," she replied, her voice equally quiet. "It was the first time in my life that I felt useful." She paused. I should say nothing more. I do not know this man. She looked at him, and under the whiskers, the hair, the pain, the pallor, was an expression so kind that it compelled her to continue, even before she was aware of it. "I was doing something for myself, instead of fetching and mending for Kitty, or staying away from Mama's tongue," she explained. "It ... it was nice to be wanted and needed, even if only for an afternoon." How bald that sounds, she thought, horrified with herself. And to think I just said it to a total stranger.

The major was silent, and she knew she had overstepped her bounds. Perhaps Mama is right, she thought as she got up from his cot. Perhaps I am a stupid and gawky woman who will always be a burden and an embarra.s.sment to her family.

"I'm sorry, Major Reed," she said, not able to look him in the eyes. "Mama tells me every day that I am a trial. Tell me what it is you wish me to do, and I'll leave you in peace."

"I am in peace, Miss Perkins," he said quickly. "You're no trial. You could sit here all day and talk to me, but that would irritate my men, who have taken rather a fancy to you."

"To me?" she asked in amazement.

"If I am to believe their comments, Miss Perkins. I propose that you wash their faces and shave them. We're all tired of being dirty. It will be as good as medicine. And if you were to talk to them, too. Ah, bliss."

"But ... but I've never ...." She stopped. He gives me something to do, and I am a pain about it.

"Shaved a man? Talked to one? My dear, you may practice on me." He glanced toward the altar, and she noticed a shabby campaign trunk with the initials SER. "My kit finally arrived. Heaven knows where it was."

"What does the E stand for?" she asked without thinking.

"Elliott. Open it, Miss Perkins. You will find my shaving gear in a leather bag. If you will overlook the quant.i.ty of dirty laundry, I will overlook your supremely silly relatives."

She frowned at him, and he gazed back with a virtuous expression. "You do not know them, sir. How can you say they are silly?"

"Anyone who thinks you are a trial is silly," he declared. "Orderly! Bring us some hot water. Miss Perkins, I am yours to practice upon. If I should begin to bleed, do staunch it. I haven't come this far to perish at the hands of a pretty barber."

Chapter Four.

"Major, I am far from pretty," she told him as she went to his campaign trunk, kneeling down to open it.

"That's true," he agreed, "but if I said you were beautiful ...."

"... that would be a bigger falsehood," she interrupted, lifting up a layer of s.h.i.+rts stained with sweat and gunpowder.

He laughed, and she looked at him in surprise. "My men think you are an angel, and protestations aside, I did hear the word beautiful once or twice."

"They were delirious," she retorted.

"Not noticeably," he replied. "I've always considered them to be observant and factual, but then, I have only known them through six years of close company."

How odd, she thought, not daring to make another comment. She found the shaving kit under a handful of letters, plus a bottle of Spanish cologne.

"Oh, that, too," he said. "I'll smell divine."

She smiled at him. "Perhaps."

"Miss Perkins, there is a rumor that an attempt is being made to locate tin tubs from somewhere. If that is the case, then the whole lot of us will be much more pleasant."

She brought the shaving kit and cologne to the major's cot. "You are an officer. Can you not find better accommodations than this wretched old church?"

"I can," he agreed, "except for this one, niggling detail. My dear, I have shared the vicissitudes of war with my battery. We have slept together under caissons, drunk b.l.o.o.d.y water from empty sh.e.l.ls, and eaten our own tired horses. I cannot leave them until they are settled."

She looked around the lady chapel, which was not crowded with officers. "Others can, it appears," she murmured.

He handed her his shaving soap and brush, and a pair of scissors. "I am not other officers."

She could readily believe it. "Now, sir, I think we need a towel."

"None in sight. I used my last one at Toulouse on my poor gunnery sergeant. You recall him from yesterday, I believe."

She did. "Then, I will use one of your old s.h.i.+rts." She rummaged in his trunk again and found one with frilly cuffs that had no powder ground into it. She tied it carefully around his neck. "I think you will have to sit straighter, if you can, sir," she said. "A chair would be best, but we have none."

"And besides that, you would have to endure the sight of my hairy legs, and other accessories," he said as he stropped his razor. "You may blame General Picton."

Is there anything you won't say? she thought in embarra.s.sment. "We will manage," she said when she composed herself. She smiled her thanks to the orderly who brought hot water in a basin, secretly enjoying the way he blushed and stumbled over his feet when he hurried from the lady chapel. "Now, sir?"

With the scissors, she cut his weeks-old beard, then lathered his face and set to work. He did not bleed, beyond a nick beside his nose that she stopped with a bit of cotton wadding. She grazed a small mole she did not see at his temple hairline, and he only commented that his regular barber-dead at Toulouse-used to do that all the time.

He had to remind her once or twice that she needed to carry on some conversation, particularly since he was supposed to hold his face still. After several starts and stops, she told him about home in Devon, and their trip to London to find a suitable husband for Kitty, who was beautiful beyond words and entirely too gorgeous to waste on a red-faced, paunchy squire, or a mere vicar. She had never talked so much before, and she knew she was telling more than Mama would approve of, but for some reason unknown to her, she knew he did not mind. Nor would he store it up to pa.s.s it on. How do I know that? she asked herself. I just know it.

"Mama says if I am lucky, I might find a vicar, or perhaps a widower who is not too choosy," she said as she concentrated on that spot beside the major's mouth, where he had, drat it all, another mole. "Oh, do hold still," she ordered as she navigated the razor around the obstacle. "I do not know why you are so grim about the mouth. My job would be less onerous if you would relax. I have not killed you yet."

"Perhaps it is because I do not precisely understand why your mother has such a low opinion of you, my dear," he said, then tilted his head so she had a better view of the problem mole.

'Thank you. Sir, I am not beautiful enough for Mama to bother with," she concluded in a matter-of-fact voice, then stepped back. "I believe you are done, Major." She wiped the soap off his face, admiring her handiwork.

To her amazement, she heard applause behind her and whirled around to see all of the major's men who could walk standing or sitting at the entrance to the lady chapel. She blushed and frowned at Major Reed. "Sir! You could see them! Why did you not mention that my first-ever barbering had an audience?"

"Perhaps I wanted witnesses, in case you slit my throat, Miss Perkins! Well, lads, will I do?"

They cheered this time, which brought over the surgeon and one of the ap.r.o.ned matrons, who shooed them back to their cots. "You're next, lads," he called after them. "Mind you, behave yourselves!"

She laughed and cleaned his razor, then handed it back for him to strop again. He obliged her, then ran his hand over his face and sighed with contentment, to her amus.e.m.e.nt. "I am amazed what a difference this makes in my outlook. Anything is possible now. Perhaps I will even be able to walk upright soon, and not drag my knuckles like an ape."

"You will if you stay in bed and mind yourself," Lydia admonished him. She was still smiling as she patted his face with cologne, an overpowering lemon fragrance that no Englishman except a soldier would wear, and even then only on a foreign sh.o.r.e.

He sniffed it. "Better and better, Miss Perkins. I almost cannot smell myself now. Let us devoutly pray that the tin tub rumor is true, or I'll be out of my stash of Limon de Aranjuez much too soon, and you will run in terror."

"You may be out of it sooner than you think, sir," she replied as she stoppered the bottle. "I intend to use it on your men, too."

"Madam, it is two quid a bottle!" he protested.

"Thank goodness that you get a major's pay," she declared as she held it out of his reach and gathered up his shaving gear. "Now, take a nap and behave yourself."

There were ten wounded men in Battery B, and she took her time with each one, shaving him, and chatting such endless trivialities that she knew she was related to Kitty. The ones who were too broken to shave, she sat with, holding their hands if they had hands, or just resting her own hand on their chests when they did not. She knew she was boring them with her homely stories of Devon and the seash.o.r.e, but no one objected. When she finished with Battery B's wounded, she continued down the next row, tending to the shattered men as best she could.

Other women were doing what she did, working quietly among the rows. She wondered at their serenity, then discovered late in the afternoon when her back hurt so much from bending over that she wanted to cry, that it was her serenity, too. She decided that it was a day's work to be proud of.

"I have learned a trade," she teased when Corporal Davies came to find her. "Where have you been?"

"Finding tubs."

"And pine tar soap and fine-tooth combs, I trust," spoke up one of the other ladies. "There's not a man here who isn't lousy."

That gives me pause, Lydia thought as she returned to the lady chapel. If I bring home lice, Mama will not be placated, even if Major Reed were to buy every flower in Europe, Asia, and South America. The thought made her smile, where yesterday she would have trembled in fear.

Major Reed was asleep, so she tiptoed to his campaign trunk and replaced his much-used razor. The cologne was gone; perhaps he had another bottle. She looked inside the trunk, moving aside the letters, but could not find one.

Curious, she picked up a letter. I am such a snoop, she thought as she looked at the direction on one envelope. "Lord and Lady Laren, Major Sam Reed, Third Division, Battery B," she read to herself. This is odd, indeed, she reflected. Corporal Davies tells me yesterday that the major is not married, and yet here is a letter to the happy couple. How singular. One would not think him to be so absentminded as to forget a wife.

The thought made her smile. She looked at the major, who lay on his side, breathing steadily. He's not a handsome man, but he should show to better advantage with a haircut, she decided. She went closer. The afternoon sun was almost gone now, and the lady chapel was chilly again. She raised the blanket higher to cover his shoulders.

He opened his eyes, then yawned. "Well, are you a proficient barber by now, madam?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

"I am, sir, thanks to you. If I find myself a burden to my parents, I shall strike out on my own and open an emporium."

He laughed and closed his eyes again. "You'll return tomorrow?" he asked.

"With scissors and comb," she a.s.sured him. "I already fancy myself good at cutting Kitty's hair, so you have merely to tell me how to arrange your ringlets, and whether that ma.s.s at the back of your neck would look better in a chignon or a top knot."