Temptation (8 page)
Authors: Leda Swann
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Erotica, #Historical, #World Literature, #Australia & Oceania, #Romance, #Romantic Erotica
Come morning, they would have to bury their dead, load as many of the wounded into carts as they could, and limp back to camp, defeated.
Beatrice twisted her fingers together as she stared down at the letter in front of her. Captain Carterton had written it to her the night before his regiment had been sent away on extended patrol. Both he and Teddy had been on the front for weeks now. Since she had received the letter the evening before, she had been up most of the night, worrying.
News from the front had been reaching England from telegraphed messages sent from South Africa. The news was all bad for the English. One by one, they had lost every battle in which they had been engaged. The casualties on the English side had been horrific. Every day, more telegraphed messages arrived with the names of the dead inscribed in them.
Word was that the Boers had lost barely a handful of men. They were invincible. The best regiments of English soldiers had been set against them, but not all the might of the English regiments could defeat the handful of ragtag Boer farmers.
And both Teddy and Captain Carterton were charged with fighting them.
Would Teddy ever come home, or would he find a grave in the barren South African lands, along with so many of his fallen comrades? And the Captain? Would this be the last letter she ever received from him? Would her fantasies be buried out there in the veld along with his body?
Their names hadn’t yet appeared in the lists of the dead, but she hardly dared hope they were still alive. So many new names were added each day. In times of war, the life of a soldier was so precarious.
A tear fell, blurring the ink on the paper in front of her. She blotted it carefully with the tip of her finger. These might be the last words she ever received from the captain. She would not let them be spoiled.
Bronkhorstspruit, Transvaal, November 1880
Dearest, lovely Beatrice,
Truly you have a wonderful spirit to write such a daring letter. I read it every night and every morning, I’m sure I could recite it word for word without a glance if I did not enjoy so much holding in my hands the paper which you yourself have also held.
And the small lock of hair! What a wonderful, wonderful gift. I have carefully placed it in a small envelope that I made especially, and keep it in my breast pocket so that it is directly over my heart. I save it for special occasions when I am alone (I’m sure you know what I mean) and brush my lips with its softness. I imagine I can smell your scent on it, lingering long after it was cut.
It is just past sunset and there is not much light in my tent, my haste and the darkness are combining to cause my penmanship to be not to its usual standard. I fear things are getting a bit sticky here. We have been given orders to pack for a march and assemble in a column at dawn tomorrow. I should be seeing to my men, but I have taken a few moments to scribble a last letter to you, for I do not know the destination of our march, nor do I know for how long we will be absent from our base
.The Boers are making noises of independence and resent our presence. I feel sure there will soon be some sort of uprising where blood will be spilt. I guess that our marching orders were given to neutralize a new Boer threat. Of course we shall win, with our superior tactics and discipline—the Boers are merely a bunch of ragtag farmers with old hunting rifles
.Worry not for me, my love. My rifle is clean and ready, my ammunition pouches are filled with live ammunition, and my kit is packed ready for the morning with your letters safely wrapped in an oilskin cloth. But I do often wonder at the reason we are here
.If it were not for English hubris in claiming this scrubby desert land we would be at home with our families, I am sure. What do we English want with this land? It is fit for nothing, and scarcely allows the Boers, who have made it their home, to maintain a livelihood. If they will attack, we shall repel, and who will be the losers in this? I’ll tell you who, it’s the mothers and fathers who
lose their sons, and the daughters and sons who lose their fathers. They will be the real losers
.Centuries ago the Dominican priest Aquinas wrote of three rules for a war to be just. It must be started and controlled by the authority of state, there must be a just cause, and the war must be for good, or against evil. This impending fight (call it a war, for what else is it when men kill each other in large numbers) does not, in my opinion, seem to meet all of Aquinas’s rules. We English are fighting for dominion over a wasteland that no one but a people as desperate and unsociable as the Boers could possibly want. How can this then be a just war?
Of course I will do my duty, and fight for Queen and Country, but I cannot help but wonder at the justice and the waste of such actions. Surely diplomacy and negotiation are far cheaper in both money and lives
.Oh, what a depressing line of thought! If this is indeed my last letter for a while then what a miserable one it is! I shall dwell no longer on such negative thoughts, and in my last minutes of private time I shall think of you, of our lives together in a halcyon future
.I dream we are in a comfortable bed, the sheets are in disarray, and the eiderdown has half fallen to the floor. The curtains are open and the warm sunshine falls on our naked bodies. Outside it is a lovely summer morning, the hills are green and the air is peaceful and quiet
.I can’t tear my eyes away from you, your eyes are closed and your breasts rise and fall with your soft breathing. But I don’t think you are asleep. Earlier you woke me with a kiss to my cock, I was hard within seconds of your soft mouth engulfing me. I tasted and nuzzled you, and your smell was just as I imagined from that small lock of hair you sent me a lifetime ago
.Alas I must leave my dream there, the light has all but gone and I have things I must do before we march at dawn. By the time you read this it is likely my life will be different. Most probably there will be a battle with the Boers, and most probably I will have killed someone’s son, or I will take the life of some poor child’s father. But I pray not, and I pray that reason will prevail
.My next letter will tell of a peaceful resolution or of a violent one. Until then I will be thinking of you every hour of every day
.All my love
,
Percy
By the time she had finished, her eyes were awash with tears. The sun was bright now, but her spirits were heavy. Wearily, she threw off her dressing gown and put on her uniform. Though she was exhausted in mind and body, there were patients at the hospital who needed her.
Her first patient of the day was a badly burned young man. She put up a screen around him before she pulled back the covers to wash what was left of his mangled body. The poor man deserved some privacy for his hideous burns, received from an accidental blast at a gunpowder factory where he had been working. He had been carried in to the hospital on a makeshift stretcher by his workmates the day before, more dead than alive.
Though her duty was to save lives, she hated having to save his. He was so badly burned he was unlikely to live for long, and even if he did, his injuries were so severe he would never work again. When he was awake, he moaned with pain and begged to be set free from his suffering. All she could do was give him enough laudanum to dull his pain and to send him off to sleep. At least in his sleep, the pain and horror of his burns was masked from him.
How she hoped that if Teddy or the captain were to die in battle, they would find a swift end. She hoped they would not know such pain, and the agony of knowing that it would end only with their death.
When she was halfway through her task, the screen was moved aside and Dr. Hyde poked his head through. His eyes widened with displeasure when he saw her. “Beatrice, why have you closed the curtains? It is not seemly that you should be alone with a male patient. Particularly not one who is in a state of undress.”
She dragged the screen back around her patient again. “He is badly injured and deserves his privacy.” She was too tired and overwrought to mince her words. “It is less seemly that he should be exposed to the gaze of whoever passes by.”
“Safety in the hospital is paramount. Hiding behind screens is a foolish act, and puts you at unnecessary risk. You could be in danger from him, and no one would see what was happening until it was too late.”
Sometimes Dr. Hyde could be so annoying. Annoying and impractical. She wiped a loose strand of hair off her face with the back of her hand. Her shift had barely started and already she was exhausted. “He is badly injured, and what’s more, he’s taken enough laudanum to knock out an elephant. I am in no danger from him.”
He did not back down. “Your reputation is.”
“I am a nurse,” she snapped. “Of course I see naked men in the course of my duties. I can hardly wash a patient with all his clothes on.”
That made him take a step backward. “You should not talk of such matters.” His voice, though controlled, vibrated with anger. “It is unseemly in a young woman, even if she is a nurse.”
Oh dear, she had really offended him now. She suppressed a sigh. She would have to flatter him and make him feel like a hero again, or he would sulk for a week. “But we are both professionals, aren’t we,” she said with a tired attempt at a winning smile. “I can say things to you that I would not say in society. You are quite different from the common run of men.”
Her words had the desired effect. His face lightened and he gave an almost-smile of approval. “You’re right, of course. Doctors have to see the bigger picture. We cannot be bound by the same rules as the rest of society.”
“Indeed, no,” she agreed, wanting him only to go away so she could carry out her duties in peace.
“You were right to remind me of the special position we hold. I shall leave you to your task. But may I call on you this Sunday afternoon for a walk in the park?”
Beatrice smiled dutifully, though the thought depressed her. Why couldn’t he do something different for a change, instead of being so predictable? “That would be lovely.” He took her acquiescence for granted. Couldn’t he ask her what she wanted to do for a change, instead of expecting her to accede to his wishes all the time?
Dr. Hyde smiled. “I do like to get out of the hospital on Sundays, and be surrounded by fresh, green nature. I’m so glad you enjoy it as I do.”
He withdrew his head from the curtain and Beatrice listened to his footsteps walking away down the ward. Ha, if only he knew how much she was bored of the park and had spent all year wanting to go to a comedy musical show instead. But she had never brought up the idea and he had never bothered to ask her what she wanted to do.
He thought she was happy with his choice of amusement, and so he was happy, and even applauded her for her superior tastes that exactly matched his own.
Really, men were so easy to manipulate, and Dr. Hyde, for all his book learning, was easier than most. Being married to him would be easy enough as long as she took the trouble to make him think he was in control.
Easy, but dull. Marriage to him would condemn her to sedately promenading in the park with him every Sunday for the rest of her life. Had she been too hasty in encouraging his courtship?
She sighed and went back to caring for the ruin of the man in front of her.
He was young and had been handsome once, more’s the pity. She could trace his once fine features through the ruin of his face. It was so badly maimed now that even his mother would be hard-pressed to recognize him.
If the war in South Africa continued to go badly, there would soon be many more such casualties hitting the hospital for her to care for. Young men with broken bodies and broken minds, reliving their worst moments over again in their nightmares.
Some of the older nurses had told her stories about the men that had come back from the Crimean War. Some of them, though their bodies were unmarked, had damaged souls and would never be the same again. A few had been unable to bear the strain of what they had become, and had done what the enemy had failed to do, and killed themselves.
It was a tragedy, a double tragedy, that even when the war was over, young men continued to lose their lives.
How she hoped neither Teddy nor Captain Carterton were among the dead or wounded in this war they were fighting in South Africa. She was worn out from hoping it. Until yesterday she had consoled herself with the thought they were far away from the fighting and were sitting out the war barricading a fort in relative safety. Now she knew without a doubt they had been given their marching orders.
There had been no point in her writing a reply to the captain’s letter—she would not have known where to send it.
Even when she had thought Teddy and the captain were safe, she had scanned the pages of the daily newspapers every evening, hoping to find only the names of strangers in the growing list of soldiers killed in the line of duty. So far, she had been lucky. After receiving yesterday’s letter, she was terrified that her luck would not hold.
Her patient groaned, the noise bringing her back to reality. Carefully, she spooned another dose of laudanum into his partly open mouth with shaking fingers, and stroked his throat until he swallowed. Then she pulled the sheet back over him and removed the screen. She had done all she could for that poor man to ease his passing.
There was no use in fretting over what she could not change—it was a foolish indulgence of sentiment and did no one any good.
She would heal where she could, and comfort where she could not heal.
And only hope that death was merciful and passed her loved ones by.
Percy Carterton clambered onto the deck of the ship, then turned and waved with his good arm to the few soldiers who stood on the docks. Only those in his regiment who had remained unscathed were remaining in South Africa, the rest were being sent home to England to recuperate. He was one of the lucky ones—he had walked up the gangway under his own steam, with only an arm in a sling. Most of his comrades, if he hadn’t left them buried in the dusty soil of the Transvaal, had been carried on to the ship in stretchers, groaning under the burden of shattered legs or gaping head wounds.
