Carla Kelly (8 page)

He was about to reply—what he wasn’t sure—when he saw Nell Mason, her face white, in the shadow of the dead tent, listening to their conversation. As he watched in horror, she swallowed a couple times, as though trying to keep her composure, then looked at Colonel Ipswich. “It only has to be to the Portuguese border, Colonel Ipswich,” she said. “That’s as far as anyone’s charity needs to extend.” Jess could hardly bear the hurt in her eyes as she stared at him. “Obviously I was not blessed with parents as fastidious as yours. You’re free to change your mind.”

He didn’t know what to say; couldn’t think of anything to ameliorate either Ipswich’s remarks, or whatever Nell was imagining about him. “I wouldn’t dream of changing my mind,” he said. He winced a little at how firm the words came out. Were they directed more to her or to Ipswich? He wasn’t sure himself. He only knew how much he loved Nell Mason, and, at the moment, how little she would believe that if he told her. Not that he could, not a man as shy as he. Not with Colonel Ipswich—how could he ever have thought him a good man?—hanging on every word.
“Just let me do this.” He came closer to her, concerned that she could look so pale. “Please, Nell. There simply isn’t any other way that we can think of to offer you protection from Bones.”

She was about to reply, when Major Sheffield came to the door of the dead tent and gestured to them. “I think we had better hurry this, Jess.” He lowered his voice. “The chaplain is in a hurry to leave, and this tent has to come down.”

Without thinking, he took Nell’s hand and pulled her into the tent with him. She offered no resistance, and his heart rose a little. He looked around, grateful that the bodies had already been removed.

With a small feeling of relief, he recognized the chaplain, a man who had sat with him now and then through two years of shocking days of battle and long nights in the Peninsula. Jess liked him because he was calm, and never engaged in theological debate, unlike some of his brethren who considered Jesse Randall an especially tempting target. “Mr. Faircloth,” he said, and held out his hand. “A special occasion, eh?”

“It is, indeed,” Faircloth replied matter-of-factly, as though he spoke from the comforts of a parish sitting room in the country. “Nice to have a pleasant occasion.” He looked at Nell. “Are you sure you will have this one, Miss Mason?” he asked not unkindly. “I believe he is famous in this army for being the shyest man in Picton’s Division.”

“I will have this man,” she replied quietly, and Jess felt his heart stir.

“Mr. Faircloth, you know I am not a Protestant,” he began.

“Nor are you a particularly good Catholic, if memory serves me,” the chaplain said, a smile taking what sting there was out of his words. “We will overlook that detail in the interests of expediency. Here now lad, get yourself over to this side of the future Mrs. Randall. Bear her up, if you will. She looks a little frightened.” He smiled. “As to that I am not sure which of you looks more frightened! Hang on to each other now. Since I have your attention, I always like to give a few words of advice.” His smile broadened, even as the rear of the tent dropped with a whoosh and Nell moved closer. “I’m certain you will not remember it, but perhaps Major Sheffield here will remind you later.”

And so they were married. For all that the service was in English, and much shorter than weddings of his own faith, Jess Randall knew he would recall little of the contents, beyond his own quiet “yes,” and Nell’s, hers even quieter. He held his breath for the few seconds that she paused, then let it out with a rush when she agreed.

He had no ring, so shook his head when Mr. Faircloth came to that portion of the ceremony. “It will have to wait for Portugal,” he said.

“Not necessarily.”

His chief surgeon came forward. He fumbled at the thin chain about his neck, pulling it out from his shirtfront, after loosening his neckcloth. “After all these years,” he began, his voice unsteady, “I have finally found an excellent use for this little thing.”

Sheffield removed the ring that Jess knew had never been off his neck in the years he had known the chief surgeon. Sheffield had made few references to the wife who had not survived beyond the first year of his duty in India with the much younger, untried Wellington. “Oh, sir,” he began, but Sheffield silenced him with a look. Tears filled his eyes as his chief, with steady fingers, extracted the ring from the chain.

“What say you, Millie?” Sheffield asked softly. “Did I find a good enough cause?” He smiled and handed the ring to Jess. “Put it on her finger, lad. When she wore it, Millie wasn’t any older than Nell is now. It might even fit. They are much the same size.” He turned to Nell, who was sobbing in good earnest. “Oh, hush now, my dear. You might even look back on this as a happy occasion.”

Jess took the ring that his superior held out to him, willing his hand to be as rock steady. Without another word, he slid the ring onto Nell’s finger. Quickly he kissed her cheek and then nodded to Sheffield. “I think it almost fits.”

The older man kissed Nell, too. He took her hand, and touched the ring as she sniffed back more tears. “We’ll wind a little string around the back. Jess can have it altered when you get to Lisbon.”

The chaplain seemed to be having a problem with his nose that required his face be engulfed in a large handkerchief. “Drat this pollen,” he murmured.

Jess didn’t think it was the time or the place to mention
that the weed and grass season was long over in north Spain. “I could give you something for that, except that my medicines are all packed, Mr. Faircloth.”

The chaplain blew his nose again more briskly, then shook his head. “It will pass.” He cleared his throat and consulted his well-worn book again. “Oh, my stars, I have not concluded.” He looked over his shoulder, where soldiers were rolling back the tent. “A little quiet back there, please!” When the men stopped working, and after a battery of light artillery passed, he took both of their hands in his. “Now I pronounce you husband and wife for the period of your mortal lives.”

He said some more, but heavy artillery was passing. Unsure of himself again, and feeling more shy than a roomful of shy people, he merely watched as the chaplain signed his name to the marriage lines, and then held out the paper to Major Ipswich for a witness signature. It went next to Sheffield, who signed his name with a flourish.

“That will do,” Sheffield said. He gave Nell another kiss, then turned and left the tent without another word.

The chaplain waved the paper for a moment until the ink dried, then handed it to Nell. “Put it in a safe place,” he admonished. He kissed her cheek, too. “Cheer up, lass! This might be the best thing that ever happened to both of you!”

He turned then to whisk the cross and altar cloth off the packing crate, open it, and stow them inside, along with his prayer book. In another moment he had stripped off his stole and chasuble, folded them with an efficiency that told Jess he had been a long time with the army, and arranged them in their appointed places.

Jess came closer. “You’re sure that was entirely legal?” he asked, his voice low.

The chaplain beamed at him. “Oh, you Catholics! Just because we are not awash in incense, dizzy with Latin, and weary with hours and hours on our feet doesn’t mean it won’t take!”

“Well, I…” Jess came closer. “I know there were no banns, and there is no special license.”

“Hush, lad,” the chaplain said. “There are certain expediencies available to members of the clergy engaged in the pursuit of war.”

“Oh?” Jess asked. He didn’t mean it to sound skeptical.

“Ye of little faith,” Faircloth scolded. “I think it’s good for forty or fifty years at least.” He winked at Jess. “After that, I’m not sure. Good luck to you both.” He turned to Nell. “My dear, make sure he does what you say.” He shook Jess’s hand. “This may be the smartest single act you ever committed.” Faircloth gave him a push toward Nell. “Give her a better kiss than that beggarly peck, Captain. She’ll think you’re not serious.”

Jess was serious. He was equally aware that to express himself in words was impossible. Even if, in his supreme shyness, he stammered out his love for her, considering the speed of the wedding, he knew she would not believe him. But there she was, her cheeks wiped clean of tears, but her beautiful eyes still brimming with emotion. He had stood close to her before, but not this close. He couldn’t trust himself to say anything, but he put his arms around her and kissed her.

He didn’t know what he expected. He knew his own distrust of strong emotion in front of others, something trained into him at Milan, and through years of war and his own shyness. None of it mattered right then as he enjoyed the softness of her lips, and the small sighing sound that escaped her lips as her arms went around him.

He wished the moment could have lasted longer, but Nell leaped away from him in surprise when the side of the dead tent came down with a rush of canvas. The chaplain uttered a most unclerical expression heard commonly enough in the army, but probably not in a typical Anglican parish. “You soldiers have no sense of aesthetics!” the man exclaimed, which only brought laughter from the laborers.

Jess took Nell’s hand then and led her from the tent. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say, but the matter was taken from him by a shout for help from the direction of the quartermaster’s compound. He only stood still a moment in surprise as Colonel Mumford, quartermaster general of Picton’s Division, waved to him frantically. “I say, Randall! Hurry over here! We have a bit of a problem! Oh, do hurry! I think I shall faint!”

Hippocrates, I will wager that you never had to deal with a man milliner like our dear quartermaster, he thought. He tugged Nell along with him toward the quartermaster, who
stood wringing his pudgy hands. His face was alarmingly red, but Jess had heard from Sheffield of the enormous quantity of brandy the QM always seemed to have in stock, even when no other officer could find a bottle. Drunkards are devotedly to be ignored, he thought, even though his training took over and he ran toward the man.

What lay before them in front of the quartermaster made Nell gasp, and Jess to recoil briefly, before he went down on his knees beside the prostrate man lying on his side. The soldier’s hands were clutched around a knife in his stomach. Jess carefully moved him onto his back, then sat back on his heels in amazement as he stared at Private Wilkie, he who had gone missing earlier in the day.

As the quartermaster moaned, turned away, and threw himself into a folding chair, the private opened his eyes and gave a long, slow wink. While the QM fanned himself vigorously with one of his numerous order books, Wilkie whispered to Jess, “Sir, me and Harper have solved your money problem. If you can get me to Number Eight before the QM takes a good look, we’ll solve your problem.”

Why is none of this registering, Jess thought as he stared at Wilkie, surprisingly cheerful, despite a knife deep in his gut. Gingerly he pulled back the private’s blood-drenched shirt. Wilkie’s hand clutched the blade. He groaned out loud, which set the quartermaster to uttering anxious twitterings of his own. Jess leaned closer over the wound. “Private, you need to let go of that blade.”

Jess’s eyes widened in surprise as Wilkie chuckled. “It was Harper’s idea, and wasn’t it a good one?”

“What on earth…”

Wilkie moved his hand away, and Jess stared at the blade, which, from all appearances, had been carefully inserted into the mouth of the little fistula that formed Wilkie’s amazing wound. “Cow’s blood, sir,” the private said, his voice low in a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re slaughtering’m out back for the retreat.”

“What have you done?” Jess asked in a fierce whisper of his own, even as the quartermaster began to whimper and call for smelling salts.

Wilkie continued to grin at him. “Sir, I have the other fifty pounds! You don’t need to do anything drastic!”

“N
ell, she what you can do for the quartermaster,” he said, then looked up to see that Nell was already at the man’s side. He turned his attention back to Wilkie. “You are a disgrace to your uniform,” he snapped, keeping his voice low. “Where is Harper?”

“He’ll be here directly, I am sure,” the private said, then groaned again for good effect. “The QM ’ere—Lord love him—sent ’arry inside the tent to find some cotton wadding for me wound.”

Hippocrates, I wouldn’t trust ’arry in a roomful of Jesuits, Jess thought sourly. “Harper!” he bellowed. “Show yourself!” He glanced at Nell, who gave him a reproachful look, and returned her attention to the quartermaster.

In a moment Private Harper came out of the quartermaster’s tent, his hands full of cotton wadding, with a righteous look on his face. “Captain, remember how you never could get any of this stuff from the quartermaster? He has rolls of it.”

As Jess glowered at the private, he couldn’t help ask himself if he was more irritated at Harper, or the quartermaster. He turned his attention to Private Wilkie, who began to writhe about as a small crowd gathered. “Do give him room,” Jess ordered. “Surely all of you have something better to do.” Oh, Lord, I am encouraging these two thieves, he thought as he carefully grasped the knife, gave it a yank, and played along.

The knife came away quite easily, as he knew it would, because it barely rested inside Wilkie’s curious abdominal fistula. The quartermaster shrieked, which only earned the man a hard stare from Nell. Well, Hippocrates, did
you
ever fall among thieves? he asked himself as he daubed at the wound, allowing the cotton wadding to soak up the cow’s blood that had pooled so dramatically under Wilkie. Hating himself for such malpractice, Jess directed Harper to hold his hand tight over Wilkie’s spurious wound while he dug in his medicine satchel, extracted a good length of bandage, and wrapped it quickly in place. “That should do until I get him back to the hospital,” he told the quartermaster. “You won’t mind if I take along this wadding, will you? I thought not.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Harper to make another rapid reconnaissance of the QM’s tent to look for laudanum and new scalpels, but he resisted. Instead, he motioned for his stretcher bearers, and wondered what else the enterprising private had liberated from the QM’s too-abundant stores.