The Wild One (46 page)

"Oh, and Amy, since you're doing the washing
today, don't forget my blue petticoats. There are mud stains on the
hem and they look positively dreadful," added Ophelia, coming
downstairs and going straight to the looking glass on the wall.

"Yes, Ophelia. Yes, Mildred," sighed the
thin figure, stooping nearly double beneath the lintel of the
keeping room's massive fireplace. Pushing the iron crane off to one
side, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and,
kneeling on the sooty bricks, began shoveling ash from out of the
pit beneath the bake oven.

Ophelia, vainly fluffing her blond curls
until they haloed her face, turned from the looking glass and
regarded her half-sister with disdain. "And make sure my petticoats
are ready by tomorrow afternoon. Matthew Ashton has promised to
take me for a drive, and I want to look my best."

"Matthew Ashton?" hissed Mildred, outraged.
Already a bold and enterprising young sea captain, Matthew would
someday inherit his father's Ashton Shipyards — and was probably
one of the best catches in Newburyport. "How dare he ask you and
not me!"

Amy thought it fine time to interrupt before
things degenerated into a cat fight. "Perhaps Matthew will ask you
next week, Mildred," she soothed.

Mildred turned on her. "Just because your
one and only friend on this earth happens to be Matthew's sister —
that bad-mannered little hoyden, Mira — don't think that makes you
an authority on Matthew."

"Or an authority on men," added Ophelia.

"Amy? An authority on men?" Mildred shrieked
with laughter. "The only men Amy might ever become an authority on
are the sort that work along the docks and ogle her!"

Both Mildred and Ophelia guffawed, pitiless
as Amy's cheeks reddened beneath their sooty glaze of ash
smoke.

"I don't know how you can stand there and
laugh, when Will's still not back from Uncle Eb's and for all we
know, something awful might've happened to him," she said, thinking
of the rider who had galloped through Newburyport late last night
with the news that fighting had finally broken out down at
Lexington and Concord between the redcoats and local militia
groups. "Cousin Tom was in the Woburn militia. They were in the
fighting, and you know as well as I do that where Tom leads, Will
is sure to follow."

Her half-sisters stared at her coldly. "My,
my, aren't
we
the righteous one," sneered Mildred, hands on
her hips. "Instead of fretting over Will, why don't you worry about
poor Ophelia and me
and let out my jacket
?!"

"If she wasn't down at the harborfront
dreaming of places she'll never go and men she'll never meet, she'd
have gotten it done yesterday like she was supposed to," said
Ophelia, with a haughty glance at the gaunt figure still on her
knees on the ashy firebox. "You'd better get your head out of the
clouds, Amy, because you have a better chance of snaring the moon
than you do a respectable man, and don't you forget it."

Amy went silently back to her chores. They
were right, of course. She was wasting her time, dreaming about
things that would never be. But how could she
not
dream,
when reality was nothing but boredom and drudgery? She was resigned
to the fact that she would live and die a spinster, just as she was
resigned to the fact that, for the remainder of Papa's life, she —
less than a daughter, yet more than a servant — would keep house
for him, cook his meals, and help him write his sermons now that
his eyesight was beginning to fail. In return, she would always
have a place to live. Hers wasn't such a bad lot, really; after
all, she had a roof over her head and decent food in her belly. But
lately, she found herself wanting more, and long after the
household went to bed, she would lie beneath the covers and dream
of what her life would be like if only she were pretty and
respectable like her sisters.

If only she was like the other young women
of Newburyport, entitled to the same dreams that they had. . .
.

Finally, breakfast was ready. The Reverend
Sylvanus Leighton, pale and haggard from an obviously sleepless
night, joined them in the keeping room and gave thanks for the
meal, adding a special prayer for Will's safe return. Then,
painfully aware of the empty place that Amy had set for his one and
only son, he stared dejectedly out the window. The cornmeal mush,
fried to a rich, golden brown and cut into slices, lay undisturbed
on his plate, floating in the maple syrup like boats at low
tide.

Amy could not stand seeing him suffer so.
She reached out and impulsively put a hand over his, knowing, even
as she did, that he would probably pull away.

He did.

She drew her hand back and pasted a smile on
her face to hide her hurt. Why should she have expected any
different when it had always been this way? "Eat, Papa," she said
gently, tucking the offending hand between her knees and trying to
pretend the incident hadn't happened. "Starving yourself won't
bring him back to us any sooner."

Ophelia snapped, "Maybe he
would
eat,
if only he had some fresh butter for his breakfast —"

At that very moment, Will's dog Crystal —
who'd been sulking ever since Will had left for Woburn to help
Sylvanus's brother Ebenezer with the spring planting — shot out
from beneath the table, and, paws skittering for purchase on the
wide-boarded floor, tore through the parlor. Barking joyously, the
dog flung herself against the door.

"Will!" Amy cried, leaping up and nearly
upsetting the table as her half-brother ran inside, Crystal barking
and tripping up his feet. All out of breath, he charged into the
keeping room.

"Where have you been?" Sylvanus demanded,
worry and relief making his voice harsh.

"Look at you, you're covered with dirt!"
shrieked Ophelia.

"And
blood
!" wailed Mildred, clapping
her hands to her cheeks.

"I just came in off Ashton's schooner, up
from Boston . . . I was in the fighting yesterday," he panted,
grabbing his father's hand and pulling him back toward the
still-open door. "You've got to help me, Pa, got to send Amy to
fetch the doctor! I brought a friend home with me and if we don't
do something to save him, he's going to die!"

~~~~

"Should've called the undertaker, not me,"
said Dr. Plummer, as he watched Sylvanus and Will carry the man
through the door. "That young fellow's deader than dead."

"He ain't either!" cried Will, head twisted
round to look behind him as, his arms locked beneath the stranger's
armpits, he backed into the keeping room where Ophelia and Mildred,
busily crunching bacon, gave shrieks of horror and leaped to their
feet.

"William Leighton! How dare you bring that .
. . that
man
into this house!" they screeched. Neither rose
to help, and neither moved their chairs out of the way to ease the
trio's progress to the table.

That task fell to Amy, who did it hurriedly
and without needing to be told. Standing back, she glanced
anxiously at Will's friend as they brought him near. His hair,
which had been combed back and tied at the nape with a black
taffeta ribbon, had come loose and now hung in bloody swatches over
his face, concealing all but the tip of his nose from Amy's curious
gaze. He wore muddy breeches of white leather, and a sleeveless
waistcoat of ragged olive-green homespun was loosely buttoned over
a bloodstained shirt. His frame was lean, his build powerful, wide
across the upper body, narrow at the waist and hips, and so long in
the leg that she knew his feet would hang over the edge of the
table when they set him down. Probably a farmer, she thought,
accustomed to hard work.

But as they carried him past, the his
dangling hand brushed her skirts, and Amy's eyes went wide. No
farmer
she'd
ever met had hands that looked like that. Long,
elegant fingers. Clean skin devoid of dirt and scars. Short,
well-scrubbed nails that were filed smooth and obviously well cared
for.

Her gaze lifted to Will's — but he and Papa
were already hoisting the fellow up onto the table. As they set him
down, the lolling head fell back over Will's arm and revealed a
face that took Amy's breath away. Her hands flew over her
mouth.

He was breathtakingly handsome.

Absolutely, positively, indisputably,
beautiful.

Dr. Plummer, however, took no notice of the
fact. "What happened to him?" he asked, bending over the man's
face, lifting one eyelid and peering into the sightless,
rolled-back eyes.

Blue
, Amy thought, noting their
extraordinarily clear color before Plummer let the eyelid slide
shut once more.
Oh, God, don't let him die — with those looks,
he'll make all the beautiful angels in heaven envious and there'll
be war up there all over again.

"He — he f-fell during the fighting and hit
his head," Will stammered.

"How?"

The boy shrugged, his gaze darting away.
"Don't know."

"How long has he been out?"

"Since yesterday, when it happened."

"
Yesterday!?
"

Will reddened. "Y-yes, sir."

"This man should've been seen to
immediately! Why the devil didn't you get him to a local doctor
instead of lugging him all the way up here?"

For answer, the boy only swallowed and hung
his head. He looked absolutely miserable.

Ophelia, however, had no pity for either her
brother or his injured friend. "Really, Will, I don't know what's
got into you, bringing him here when you should've just let him
there to die. After all, America needs good, competent men
defending her, not clumsy oafs who injure themselves at first
opportunity."

"Maybe he injured himself so he wouldn't
have
to fight," scoffed Mildred. "The coward."

"He wasn't a coward!" Will exploded. "He was
a fine man, with more courage than a dozen lions!"

Dr. Plummer impatiently motioned for them to
be quiet, then laid his finger on the injured man's wrist, feeling
his pulse. He straightened up, frowning. "Well, he's alive all
right, but if I can save him I doubt he'll be a-thankin' me for it.
Come, come, let's turn him over so I can have a better look at the
back of his head. What's your friend's name, anyhow?"

"Er, Adam. Adam Smith."

"Well, let's get Mr. Smith settled
comfortably on his stomach with his head turned slightly to the
left. Yes, that's good. Perfect. Now, someone get me a candle so I
can better see what I'm a-doin' here."

Adam, his right cheek pressed against the
oak tabletop, did not look quite so handsome from the back. In
fact, he looked downright terrible, and Amy gasped as they all got
a good look at the wound that had felled him. Low down on the back
of his head and slightly off center to the left, a gash, nearly
three inches long, was still oozing blood out into the tangled
blond hair and down his neck. Plummer drew his bushy brows together
and began probing the wound. A moment later he straightened up,
wiping bloody fingers on his leather apron.

"I'll have to trepan him," he declared. "His
skull is fractured and chances are there's blood pooling just
beneath the break. If we don't drain it off the brain, he'll
die."

There was a temporary silence as everyone
digested Plummer's words.

"Maybe we ought to just . . . let him die in
peace," Will mumbled, his cheeks coloring as he heard the
callousness of his own words. As Amy and Sylvanus turned horrified
stares upon him, he added, lamely: "Especially since he isn't going
to make it, anyhow . . ."

Plummer blew out his breath. "Well,
Reverend?"

"I say trepan him — and let the decision
rest with God, not us, as to whether he lives or dies."

"He won't be the same as he was before this
happened to him," Plummer warned, resting a possessive, almost
affectionate hand over the gaping wound as though he couldn't wait
to get started on it. "You know that, don't you?"

"We have to give him the chance. After all,
the poor fellow did do what he could for America, didn't he?"

Amy was the only one who saw her brother
wince as though he'd been struck. Ophelia and Mildred were too busy
making their exit. Sylvanus was still looking at the stranger. And
Dr. Plummer was laying things out on the table: a linen rag, a
razor, two long metal retractors with hooked ends, and the trephine
— a small, ring-shaped saw with a handle in the center and deep,
jagged teeth designed for grinding a small plug out of a person's
skull. Amy looked at it and felt her knees go all wobbly.

Don't you dare get squeamish!
She
berated herself, fiercely. She gazed down at Adam, whose long
eyelashes just brushed the table. Poor Adam with the blue, blue
eyes that might never open again.

Her heart ached with pity for him. "I'll
help you if you need me to, Dr. Plummer," she said quietly. "Just
tell me what I have to do."

Five minutes later, Sylvanus, who couldn't
stand the sight of blood, made his excuses and Amy found herself
pressed into service. Under Plummer's direction, she fetched a bowl
of warm water and a pillow from her bed while Plummer went outside
to have a few pulls on his pipe — no doubt to steady his own
nerves, Amy thought. Racing back downstairs, she gently lifted
Adam's head, put the pillow beneath it, and then eased him back
down so that his brow was cradled on soft down instead of oak.
Involuntarily, her hand smoothed the hair back from his temple, as
though she could comfort and encourage him for the ordeal that lay
ahead; then she dampened a rag and washed the wound, trying not to
look at the blood and water running in halting pink streams through
his pale hair.

Plummer returned, rolling up his sleeves and
grimly eyeing his patient as though trying to determine the best
way to approach the task ahead of him. Amy's heart begin to pound
with apprehension.