Tarleton's Wife (15 page)

“You should have been with us in Spain,” Julia approved with sincerity.

“Miss Upton, you are a Trojan,” Jack declared with a grin. “No fever would dare come near one of your patients.”

“Would that were true,” Sophy demurred. “If you avoid the fever, Mr. Harding, more likely it will be due to the brandy Dan Runyon poured over you than to any of my mixtures. But Julia used the last of the army’s styrax ointment on you last night and that comes from the Far East, so we must make do with what we have.”

“Even if I’d lost half the blood in my body, Caldecott would have bled me,” said Jack with scorn. “’Tis the only remedy he knows. Though what I’ve done to deserve the kindness of two such fine ladies is beyond my understanding.”

“You are to be quiet, young man,” Sophy ordered. “Fever is inevitably exacerbated by agitation. You are perfectly safe here and so are we. Julia, my dear, I have left an infusion of mint and thyme which you may use to bathe his face and arms. I judge it more to his taste than the violet which was all I had ready last night.” With a promise to send up a simple broth for the invalid’s lunch and return in person by early afternoon, Miss Upton departed by way of the stairs and thence through the cupboard door into the storeroom.

A wounded, semiconscious Jack was one thing. A living, breathing six feet of maleness clad only in a nightshirt which had been cut open to allow easy access to the wound in his shoulder was quite another. Jack lay back against the pillows and regarded Julia from under his eyelashes as she wrung out a cloth in the cool herbal mixture Sophy had left. When he became aware she was carefully avoiding looking at him, he was patient. And amused. Obviously, she could not avoid him much longer.

There had been very little pampering in his life. If asked the day before, he would have termed the actions of the women at The Willows as “feminine fussing”. It had not taken long to discover he was wrong. Being locked away in a room with a handsome young woman who was bathing your forehead and cheeks, lips, neck, and upper chest with the heady scent of herbs was enough to convince him that a fever—a slight fever—would not be such a bad thing. The thought of lingering here for several days was no longer anathema.

Deftly, Jack caught the hand that was spreading Miss Upton’s soothing balm under his chin. He turned the soft female flesh of Julia’s inner wrist into his lips. With a small cry she jerked her hand away, scattering a shower of drops from the cloth onto the bed covers, onto herself. A wicked gleam filled Jack’s eyes as she stood and glared at him, bristling with anger.

“Behave yourself, Mr. Harding, or I shall leave you all alone here ’til Miss Upton returns.”

Jack slumped against his pillows, the gleam transmuted into a wan smile. His long golden lashes fluttered down over his slightly feverish cheeks. “I cannot believe you’d be so cruel,” he moaned.

Julia wrung out a fresh cloth as if it were Jack’s neck, sloshing the fragrant water over the side of the bowl. Grimly she pushed up the sleeves of his nightshirt and finished the job.

“My fever is rising,” Jack pronounced mournfully as she straightened her cloth and laid it out to dry. “My forehead hurts.”

Julia met his limpid gaze with suspicion. No kicked puppy had ever looked more in need of love and reassurance. No wonder Captain Hood had been so successful at dissembling. He was an actor of no little talent. “I shall bathe you again in twenty minutes,” said Julia sternly. “And only if you do not go beyond the line.” Why Sophy should choose to disappear and leave her alone with him she could not imagine.

In a lightning transformation Jack the quick-witted was back. “May not a poor wounded man indulge in a bit of fun?”

“Let us change the subject,” Julia said firmly, seating herself in a chair pulled close to the bed. “Have you done anything about accounting for your absence?”

“I told Rob and Jem—the ones you found so charming last night—to spread the word that I have gone to London on business. I do escape occasionally to the city, so that should come as no surprise, though I fear the militia may not be wholly free from suspicion. Bastardy does have its good points, however. The militia will think very carefully about arresting the son of an earl, even one born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

Julia frowned in concern as Jack closed his eyes, obviously wearied by his long speech. “You should not have done it,” he whispered with fierce intensity. “You should not have taken such a risk.”

“Helping someone is not something you think about, Mr. Harding. It’s simply something you do. In the army I did it because I wished to be of service, because it seemed the right thing to do. It was part of following the drum.” She paused, searching for words. “Otherwise, I was a child. I was spoiled, heedless. Except for the death of my mother I had suffered little. The challenges of life with the army were part of a vast game in which I was one of the privileged players. I had no inclination to analyze or contemplate my way of life. The arrogance, the indulgence of being the daughter of the regiment would, of course, go on forever. Or so I thought.”

Julia broke off with a mocking sigh. “But in Spain I discovered reality. And in the weeks since I came to The Willows, I’ve had plenty of time to think. I have wonderful people about me but I am alone. In the midst of all this splendor, I am alone. And I find I can recognize others who are the same. We build tall fences, you and I but in time of need it’s to each other we must turn for help.”

“It’s a privilege to know you, Julia Tarleton,” Jack said, the intense light in the depths of his eyes saying all that was necessary. He had not been fooled by her self-deprecating words. But if she did not care to be a heroine, he would not press the matter.

“I have said far much too much,” Julia declared briskly, rising to her feet, “and worn you out. Someday, when you are feeling better, I shall tell you of my ghosts. And you may tell me of yours. But for now, I must pay penance for speaking of sad things. Close your eyes and I shall bathe your face again, as promised.”

As weak as he was, Jack almost he kissed her. But he made the mistake of closing his eyes as he was told and when he sneaked a look through his lashes, his vision had changed. He saw not Julia Tarleton but a pale-faced young woman clad all in black, her eyes bleak, brow furrowed in inner pain. He saw the face of his friend’s widow. Nick Tarleton’s wife. So he lay back, content for the moment to indulge in the comfort and sensuality of her ministrations.

The week passed, as did the fever, amid the pungent odors of herbs, sweetly soothing washes and long hours of caring, highlighted by reading, conversation, revelations and soul searching. Each lonely soul had ghosts and in the end each saw through the other’s eyes. Their relationship took on the intimacy of old friends, their actions never more than that. No flirtatious glances. Not so much as a kiss of the hand. Nicholas Tarleton towered between them.

“Miss Upton and the good Mrs. Peters are to take your place today,” Jack announced to Julia on a morning eight days after her vigil had begun. “I doubt you’ve seen the sun in a week. Spring in Lincolnshire is not to be missed. Daniel has arranged an outing, so put on your cloak and be off with you. If you promise to stay away the whole day, I shall allow you to tuck me in tonight.” At her outraged expression Jack’s lips twitched. “Off with you, my Jule. If that isn’t just like a woman to keep the horses standing. Go on, girl, Daniel is waiting.”

Looking for support for her protest, Julia encountered only smug smiles from Sophy Upton and Jane Peters. “He’s right, my dear,” said Sophy. “You’ve been seen so few times this week past that the servants are convinced you are shut up in your room suffering from some dire melancholy or dread foreign disease. So you must go out for the sake of appearances, if nothing else.”

“’Tis a lovely day, ma’am,” Mrs. Peters added encouragingly. “There’s a right touch of spring in the air.”

Julia threw up a hand in the fencer’s acknowledgment of a hit. “Very well, I can tell when I’m not wanted.” She opened her eyes wide, affecting enormously wounded sensibilities. She even managed a very credible sniff.

“Shame, shame,” Jack murmured, “you will have them both crying into their aprons. “Shoo! Go on. Away with you. Or else I shall suffer a relapse.”

With a sudden flashing smile to all, Julia whirled round and was gone, not forgetting to slide the door into the upper corridor firmly into place.

Meg O’Callaghan was already dressed for the outdoors and waiting with Julia’s cloak, a stylish black bonnet and gloves. The two young women started sedately down the stairs, only to find their feet flying as they skimmed the final steps. They were close to running by the time they reached the front door. Jeffries, the footman, did not quite manage to keep his face straight as he threw open the portal to bright sunlight and the piquant odors of new grass, budding leaves and damp earth warming in the sunlight.

“Whose idea was this?” Julia demanded as Daniel handed the two women into the coach.

“I wish I could say it was mine but,” Daniel lowered his voice, “’twas our friend upstairs who thought you were looking pale. A good man, he is. I’ve grown right fond of him.”

“We all have,” said Julia simply, unwilling to allow herself to dwell on how well she had come to know Jack Harding in a week’s time. Unlike most men whose irascibility in illness was legendary, Jack had been a model patient, refusing only laudanum for his pain and clamping his lips tight shut over only one of Sophy Upton’s more daring decoctions. He steadfastly maintained his good cheer and never repeated his earlier flirtations. Julia reluctantly recognized that if she had a heart to lose, it would have been in grave danger.

The coach set out to the east, in the opposite direction from the city of Nottingham. It soon passed through the narrow streets of Grantley with its fine old church and array of shops, past the continual bustle of The Bell and Candle. At the sight of the imposing Georgian front of the suite of offices Ebadiah Woodworthy had built as a monument to his importance, Julia turned her face away, loftily studying the bow-windowed shop fronts on the opposite side of the cobbled street. The town fell away behind them as the coach moved steadily downward toward the coast. Gently rolling hills gave way to mile after mile of nearly level countryside.

Julia’s eyes danced as she took in the greening fields surrounded by darker hedgerows, stands of trees sprouting the fresh pale green of new life, herds of quietly grazing cows, signs of early planting. It was a world she had scarcely known, a world of lush beauty totally foreign to the dry plains of India or Spain. Or the sickroom. A world where life was not harsh. A world which held promise of better days to come.

“Are we going to a particular destination” she inquired eagerly as the coach rattled across a stone bridge over a gently flowing stream, “or are we simply exploring?”

“Well, now,” said Daniel, “I handed the coachman his instructions but Jack wrote them out and, to tell the truth, missus, I don’t know what he’s got planned. Except the inn where we’re to have lunch. He was right sure of that. His treat, he said and no argument.”

“Argument! I should think not.” Julia favored Daniel with a beatific smile. “I cannot remember the last time I felt so free.” She pressed her nose against the glass as she drank in the springtime glory of Lincolnshire. When they stopped at last, her step was spritely as they entered The Crown Arms for a midday meal.

The landlord ushered them into an oak-paneled private parlor in the fifteenth century inn, favoring them with an obsequious welcome. A striking contrast to their greeting at The Bell and Candle two months earlier. The coach had failed to shut out the decided nip in the spring air and Julia sank into an ornately carved chair with a small sigh, holding her hands toward the fire. “Do you remember the march through the mountains?” she murmured. “I thought I should never be warm again.”

“Ah, miss…” Daniel choked and toed the edge of the hearth with his boot, words failing him.

“No, no, don’t be upset. I am having a splendid time but when I see the three of us once again in a strange inn in a strange town, I can’t help but think of other inns and other towns, other countries. I am infinitely grateful we have come
such a remarkably long way from our last journey together.”

“You have the right of it, ma’am,” Meg vowed, not mistaking her meaning. “Dame Fortune has surely smiled on us at last.”

“Speakin’ of fortune,” said Daniel, “I heard a rumor last night at the inn. ’Tis said the lads have sailed for Portugal. The whole lot of them. Under Wellesley.”

“They’ve gone back?” Julia’s eyes shone. “And you sat in the carriage this whole morning and said nothing. Daniel Runyon, I could skin you alive!”

“Ah, well,” he shrugged. “Sure an’ I was torn, I was. Afraid of casting bad memories into your fine outing. But now seemed a likely moment. Thought you’d be glad they coaxed the general out of his sulks and got him to go back.”

“And why shouldn’t he sulk?” Julia exclaimed. “When that fool Dalrymple sent the twenty-five thousand Frenchmen we captured back to France and had the effrontery to use British ships to do it!”

“Seems Horse Guards have come round to agreeing with you,” said Daniel dryly. “If there’s anyone can beat the Frenchies, it’s Wellesley.”

“Godspeed to ’em,” said Meg with fervor.

“Amen!” breathed Daniel.

The landlord returned to announce their meal, closely followed by his good spouse and two maids bearing the promised array of succulent ham and hearty roast beef, roasted potatoes and onions, snap beans and applesauce of the landlady’s own preserving. There were loaves of bread fresh from the oven, creamy butter just out of the churn, dishes of raspberry and peach jam. When the table was groaning with the inn’s finest offerings, Julia dismissed the landlord and his minions with sincere thanks.