With This Ring (25 page)

It must have been the funniest thing
the woman had ever heard, because it set her off in a peal of
laughter. “Oh, my, yes!” she declared between wheezes and gasps.
“Aren’t you a silly flibbertigibbet!”

“
Silence, you old crow!” the road
agent called over his shoulder.

Lydia looked at Sam, but he was in
the middle of turning over his wallet to the road agent and she
could not catch his eye. “My dear, perhaps you should give it to
me,” she whispered. “It might go off and hurt someone.”

To her relief, the woman nodded and
opened the bag wider. Shifting Maria to her other hip, Lydia
reached carefully into the reticule and grasped the pistol. In
another moment, it was heavy in her pocket. I will toss it in the
bushes when I have an opportunity, she thought. I can’t imagine
what would happen if the road agents knew the woman was
armed.

Oh, Sam,
do
stop arguing, she
thought, pleading silently with the major as he gave the
long-suffering road agent a generous piece of his mind. She set
Maria down on the ground beside her, waited a moment to make sure
that she would not cry, then started forward to deal with Sam.
Husband, trust me when I tell you that there are times when it is
best not to argue, she thought as she came swiftly forward. I have
a wealth of experience in this.

She knew, even moments after what
followed, that she would never have the sequence of it straight.
All she remembered was the vicar spouting something nonsensical as
she came closer, and then watching in horror as the younger road
agent calmly turned and shot him.

She remembered stopping dead in her
tracks. She must have made some noise because the brigand, his
pistol still smoking, whirled about suddenly to see her close
behind him and raise his weapon to strike her. She heard Sam shout
at her to duck or move, and watched him run toward the road agent,
ready to lean into him with his wounded shoulder.

“
Sam, no!” She knew she said that,
horror in her heart at the pain he was about to cause himself on
her behalf. Quicker than thought, she dragged the heavy pistol from
her skirt pocket, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. Eyes huge with
fright, and then ferocious anger, the man stood directly before
her. His hand was coming toward the pistol to jerk it from her
grasp when she pulled even farther back on the trigger and fired
again. At that moment, Sam threw himself against the road
agent.

She screamed as both men fell on the
ground in front of her, blood gushing from the road agent’s arm. He
shouted even louder than she as he struggled to sit up, Sam a dead
weight on him.

Pray God I have not shot my husband,
she thought, horrified, as she tugged the major off the road agent.
He sat up, his hand clutched to his neck, which was covered with
blood and matter from his wound. “I have done this to you,” she
whispered in great remorse, as she saw the result of his exertions
on her behalf. She dropped the pistol and threw her arms around
him, patting him here and there for signs of a bullet hole, and
finding none.

The road agent lay on his back now,
pleading with his comrade to help him to his feet. The other
brigand stood over his associate and calmly took Sam’s wallet,
putting it in his own bag. Quicker than thought, he snapped open a
small knife and cut the strings on the reticule that dangled from
Lydia’s wrist, nodded to them both, and bolted for the woods. In
another moment, they heard a horse galloping away.

“
God, Lydia, help me lie down,” Sam
gasped. “I hear Maria.”

She did as he said, lowering him
gently to the road, sick with herself for being the source of his
pain. She hurried to pick up Maria, who was crawling toward them
and crying. “Hush, baby, it will be all right,” she crooned, even
as she began to cry, herself. She returned to Sam’s side, kneeling
beside him as he lay on his back with his knees up.

“
He got all my money, Lydia,” he
managed to say.

“
It doesn’t matter, Sam,” she said.
“Please don’t move.”

It seemed like hours, but it was
probably only a matter of minutes before the clearing began to fill
up with horses and wagons, and farmers still carrying their
implements who must have come running from their fields at the
sound of the first pistol crack. The coachman, important now, was
instructing them to bundle the vicar’s body into the coach. It was
followed by the wounded brigand, his arm covered in blood, held on
either side by two especially stalwart members of the farming
fraternity.

“
He’s reopened a wound on his back,
received at Toulouse,” she found herself calmly telling a farmer,
who bent over her husband. “Please, sir, do you know of a good
surgeon?”

“
Happens I do,” the man said. “This
one is going to the inn at Merry Glade.”

“
Ealing is closer,” argued the
coachman. “That’s where I’m headed.”

“
Have you ever seen the surgeon in
Ealing?” countered the farmer. “I wouldn’t trust him with a split
haricot.
I’m
going to Merry Glade.”

The major opened his eyes. “Merry
Glade? Oh, excellent,” he murmured, his voice dreamy, which alarmed
her even more than the blood that oozed steadily from his
wound.

“
Do have a care,” she pleaded as the
farmer and his two young sons picked up the major and settled him
in the back of the wagon. They helped her and Maria in, and she sat
as close as she could. One of the young boys took Maria and cuddled
her to him. Lydia smiled her thanks, settled herself, and rested
the major’s head on her lap, turning him slightly so he was not
lying on his wound.

“
Can I do something, ma’am?” asked
the other son as his father called to the horses and they moved
forward at a spanking pace. She thought a moment. “Do you have a
knife? A sharp one?”

He nodded, his eyes wary. “I do,
mum, but ….”

“
Don’t worry. Just slit his coat up
the back. Mind that you are careful around his neck.”

Without any questions, he did as she
asked, working swiftly, his expression serious. When he finished,
he sat back on his heels.

She had finished unbuttoning his
coat. “Take hold of the sleeve and tug it off,” she
said.

In a moment the coat was off and the
blood-drenched shirt exposed to view. “Oh, Sam,” she murmured,
bending low over him. “You didn’t need to do that for
me.”

“
He was going to hit you,” he said
without opening his eyes, his voice slurred in its dreamy state. “I
told you when I married you … no more hitting. I take what I
say”—there was a long pause—”seriously.”

I don’t deserve that, Sam, she
thought as she rested her hand on his matted hair. He said nothing
more, but his face was serene, his expression composed, as though
he derived comfort from the softness of her body.

They came into the small village on
a dead run. The farmer called to his horses, and they slowed enough
for a son to jump off the wagon and hurry to a nearby house. “The
surgeon,” the farmer explained as he slapped the lines along the
horses’ backs and urged them back to their former pace.

In another minute they pulled up
before the Mill and Glade. The farmer shouted to the innkeeper
inside, and he appeared promptly in the doorway, a cloth and glass
in his hand. He cast them aside without a qualm when he saw the
major in the back of the wagon. He climbed in and called for help,
which brought several customers from the public house. As Lydia bit
her lip and worried, the men carried the major between them into
the inn. She took a moment to hold Maria and steady them both
before she followed them inside and up the stairs.

I have fallen among kind folk, she
thought with gratitude, willingly surrendering Maria to an older
woman who held out her hands for the child and promised to clean
her up and feed her. “And then she’ll need a nap, dearie, so don’t
trouble yourself.” Someone else handed her a damp cloth for her
hands and face, which were splattered with Sam’s blood, or the road
agent’s, she was not sure which. There wasn’t anything she could do
about her dress. The coach with her bandbox and Sam’s campaign
trunk must have continued with the dead and wounded to its
destination in Ealing. She thought about her beautiful bonnet, left
in the dust and blood, then put it from her mind.

“
Here, Mrs., Mrs.—”

“
Mrs. Reed,” she replied, holding
out her hand for the apron offered her by a woman who must have
been the keeper’s wife. It wrapped around her waist twice, but it
was clean and white, and hid the worst of the bloodstains. “This is
Sam,” she said, indicating the major, who was stretched out on his
side now. The keeper was pressing gently on his back with a towel
to stop the blood. “Mr. Wilburn will be here soon,” said the farmer
who had brought them.

“
I can’t thank you enough,” she said
as she sat down on the bed close to Sam’s head, touching him so he
would know she was there. If he knows anything, she thought. “I
wish I could pay you ….”

The farmer shook his head. “Mrs.
Reed, we’ve all been in tight spots before. There’s no remedy for
it except to do a good turn for someone else. Did you say
Toulouse?”

She nodded. “He was a major of
Battery B, Picton’s Division.”

“
Another Toulouse hero in Merry
Glade?” said the farmer. He ruffled his son’s hair. “And here we
were saying only this morning that nothing ever happens, lads, eh?
Today is enough to keep us in conversation until the frost at
least.”

“
There is another veteran of
Toulouse here?” she asked, but no one answered. The people in the
room were looking toward the door now.

“
Unless I am mistaken, mum, that
will be Mr. Wilburn.” He gathered his sons to him, an arm on each.
“We’ll come back later to see how he does.” She must have looked
worried, because he reached across Sam to pat her cheek. “Don’t you
worry, now. Your lad’s in good hands.”

My lad, she thought, as the
responsibility for Sam Reed plopped onto her shoulders with a force
that would have staggered her, had she been on her feet. A clarity
borne of extreme anxiety brought to her mind, clear as water, the
words she had said only two days ago. ‘“Wilt thou obey him and
serve him ….’ ” She leaned over Sam and spoke in his ear. “Mr.
Reed, I am not obedient, but I can serve you,” she
whispered.

“
Mr. Reed?” he replied, opening his
eyes for the first time since the farmer picked him up from the
dust of the road. “Still angry with me for arguing?”

She kissed his temple, appalled at
the strong smell of blood, but unwilling to be far from him. “I
should be, Lord knows. Hush, now, Sam.”

She looked up, and there was the
surgeon. She sighed with disappointment, unable to hide her
chagrin. He was older than anyone in the room, with eyes milky from
cataracts. His bulk was impressive, too, and he seemed almost as
tall as he was wide. He smiled at her, and extended his hand to her
across the body of her husband. “Edward Wilburn, ma’am,” he said.
“And this must be our poor unfortunate.”

She took his hand and felt the heart
go back inside her body again. His fingers seemed to belie
everything else about him. They were long and handsomely veined,
and his grip tight. These are surgeons’ hands, she told herself,
and felt tears of relief well up in her eyes. “Lydia Reed,” she
said quickly, hoping to speak before she cried. “This is
Sam.”

Mr. Wilburn nodded, then looked
around the crowded room. “Dave and Maudie, you’ll bring me hot
water and towels, won’t you? Have ye an old sheet in the ragbag? I
could use it.” He looked at the others, and shook his head. “I’d
love you to stay, laddies, but ye know I work best when I have room
to swing my elbows.” He bowed elaborately to them, with surprising
grace.

The others laughed and left the
room, nodding to Lydia. Soon just the three of them remained. She
touched Sam’s head, feeling protective of him.

Her gesture was not unnoticed by Mr.
Wilburn. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll take as good care of him as
you would.”

She looked at him, wondering how
delicately to broach the situation. “Sir, I do not doubt your
abilities. Indeed, everyone in the room seemed quite comfortable
with you. Mr. Wilburn, this is a war injury, and I doubt your
expertise extends to much battle in Merry Glade. Forgive me if I am
rude, sir, but ….”

“
You love him, don’t
you?”

It was simply asked, but it took her
off guard. I suppose I do, she thought in quiet surprise. “Oh, my”
was all she managed to say before the responsibility of that piece
of news settled right alongside her other newly earned
stewardships.

“
Help me off with his clothes, and
we will wash him when the Innises—good people, by the way—return
with water and towels,” Mr. Wilburn said as he removed his coat and
rolled up his sleeves.

Impulsively she took his hand again.
“I must know if you can do what he needs,” she asked, not even
trying to disguise her anxiety.

He kept her hand in his firm grasp.
“Mrs. Reed, thirty-five years ago, I was surgeon to Banastre
Tarleton, possibly the worst British officer who ever ravaged
through the Carolinas. It’s even possible that we hated him more
than those pesky Colonials.”