With This Ring (3 page)

“
Reading is a bore,” Kitty assured
her as she reexamined her nails for the tenth time in as many
minutes. “Look here, my maid is so stupid. This cuticle is not
pushed down as far as the others. Oh, dear! I did not notice it
until this minute!”

If I throttled my sister, a jury of
rational men would never convict me, Lydia thought as she glanced
at her sister’s shapely, perfect hands. “I think you will be able
to endure this calamity until we return to the house, my dear,” she
commented, then turned her attention back to the book. When Kitty
began to sniff and hunt about in her reticule, Lydia closed her
book in resignation. “If you cry, you will frighten away any
prospects you hope to see here.”

Kitty sniffed back her tears, but
continued to regard the offending fingernail with a mournful
expression. It lasted until she noticed that there was the smallest
scuff on her boots. Her lips, which one or another Devon poet had
called “twin pillows of fairy repose,” drew together into a tight
line reminiscent of Mama. She turned her boot this way and that,
muttering, “I do not know that another person is as mortally tried
as I am, Lyddy.”

Lydia was spared the insincerity of
a suitable reply with the arrival of a barouche, the first that she
had seen this spring.

She pointed out the conveyance to
Kitty, who was still regarding her boots with a frown. “Look,
Kitty, the game’s afoot,” she said. I shall keep a satiric eye, she
told herself, or this whole humiliation will overwhelm me. “My
dear, let us see if they are suitably gowned, coifed, and
sweet-smelling. Oh, yes, let us make sure that their cuticles are
pushed back, or we will have nothing to do with them,” she
teased.

Kitty smiled her dazzling smile. “I
know the care of one’s hands is of vital significance,” she said
with complete serenity. “How good it does me to hear you recognize
the importance of it, too.”

Lydia swallowed the hot words that
rose in her throat. What sense would there be in scolding someone
with so little evidence of a brain box between the ears? She was
murmuring something suitably appropriate when another barouche drew
up beside the first. More elegantly gowned young ladies allowed
themselves to be handed down by equally well-dressed young
men.

“
Kitty, I believe there are enough
of the
Haute Ton
to suit even Mama. Do let us follow them
into the church.”

Kitty hung back, even as she watched
the parade of pastel afternoon walking dresses and modish bonnets
pass their carriage. “Lyddy, you don’t think I will be required to
help the soldiers, do you?”

“
Of course not,” Lydia replied with
a small sigh. “I do not think it is possible for you to do too
little for them.”

That answer, delivered with a
straight face, seemed to satisfy her sister. Kitty allowed the
footman, who had been cooling his heels beside the coachman, to
help her down. With Kitty at her side, they picked their way
through the moldy straw covering the street just in time to bring
up the rear of the elegant party. There are none of us equipped to
help even a butterfly, Lydia thought with embarrassment as they
entered the church. I should rather imagine that sturdy shoes and a
sensible apron would be more to the point than bonnets with
feathers and shot silk fabric.

They were greeted by a veritable
wall of odors that made her take a step back. Kitty turned quite
pale and grabbed her arm. “Lyddy, I can’t go in there!” she
whispered.

One of those rare times wholly in
sympathy with her sister, Lydia patted her hand as Kitty clutched
her. “Then, are you prepared for an evening with Mama’s flutterings
and spasms and accusations if we return without making at least one
or two acquaintances?” she whispered back.

“
N-no,” Kitty stammered, but made no
move to step forward into the nave. She tightened her grip on her
parasol.

Other ladies were hanging back, and
none of the gentlemen looked eager to proceed. It was an easy
matter to join the group.

In a moment Kitty relaxed and looked
around her. “Lyddy, we are
mingling!”
she whispered in some
awe.

Some of the bolder young ladies
stepped forward finally, and they trailed after them into the nave.
Lydia looked around her, careful to raise her hem above the reeking
straw that should have been replaced weeks ago. I would take it all
out and give everyone such a scrubbing, she thought, looking at the
men, some of them still stained with dirt from the battlefield.
Then I would shave them and make them brush their teeth. Their
clothes would be burned, of course, and their hair cut
short.

Thinking about what she would do
gave her the courage to move forward. She left the group, which
huddled together at the sight of all this misery, and stood staring
thoughtfully at the sight before her. I wonder if there is
something I actually could do, she thought as, almost without
realizing it, she loosened her bonnet strings and let her hat hang
down her back. In another moment she had pushed up her sleeves and
handed her parasol to Kitty, who, white-faced, was clutching the
arm of an elegant length of Bond Street
savoir-faire.

“
Lyddy, what are you doing?” Kitty
gasped.

“
I don’t know,” she said over her
shoulder. “I can’t just stand here.”

It appeared that the others could.
With one last look at them, she started down the row toward a man
who looked as though he could be in charge.

He was standing by the cot of a
young man even more pale than Kitty. As she looked on, horrified,
the last of his blood drained out of a neck wound and seeped into
the straw. With a sigh that went on until she wanted to cover her
ears, he died.

The doctor stood there, a frown on
his face as he tapped a silver-handled scalpel against his open
watch. “Time of death, 3:30,” he said, more to himself than her.
“If anyone cares.”

He noticed her then, and she knew
she must look as pale as the dead man, because he took her arm, sat
her down on the cot next to the soldier, and pushed her head down.
“Stay that way until you feel better,” he said brusquely as he
closed the soldier’s eyes and covered his face.

“
I’m better,” she said finally as
she raised her head, wishing that her voice did not sound so remote
to her own ears.

“
I doubt it,” he said. He noticed
the question in her eyes, because he gestured to the corpse. “I do
not understand why it is, but twice his neck wound granulated and
then opened. It was only a matter of time. Well, then, what am I
supposed to do with you?” It sounded abrupt, but his eyes were
kind.

“
May I help?” she asked.

He smiled, wiped his scalpel
absently on his coat sleeve, and looked at the ladies and
gentlemen. “You will be the first who has offered. Damn them all!
War is not a fad!” In that abrupt way she was already becoming
accustomed to, he took her arm and lifted her to her feet,
gesturing with his scalpel. “D’ye see that shaggy man over there?
The one hunched over?”

She nodded. A man with his long hair
pulled back from his face sat on a soldier’s cot. As she watched,
he tried to sit up straight, but only succeeded in wincing with the
pain.

“
That is Major Reed, Lord Laren. I
want you to march up to him and tell him to go lie down, and that
you will be happy, no, ecstatic, to take his place and hold that
dying man’s hand.”

“
Sir?” Lydia asked in amazement.
“Will he let me?”

“
Ask anyone, ask Major Reed! A
surprise attack is worth a frontal assault squared and cubed. Do
try, please. I’d rather not have another casualty. He may look like
a troll at the moment, but he means something to me.”

Surprised at herself, she did as he
directed, skirting another doctor and an orderly who were trying to
hold down a soldier and lance a boil. She looked down at her dress
as she passed the men. To her chagrin, the material must have
served as a wick while she stood by the dead soldier. Her skirt was
stained with blood. Mama is right, she thought, I will never make
it into the better circles, if I do not pay more attention to what
I wear. The absurdity of her situation and Mama’s comment served to
keep her moving through the rows.

She hesitated to address the shaggy
officer who sat in obvious pain on the soldier’s cot. Apparently he
had not noticed her presence anyway. I could probably turn around
quietly right now, retrace my steps, and wait in the carriage for
Kitty, she reflected. No one would notice me, because no one ever
does. But I cannot. She cleared her throat.

“
Excuse me, sir,” she said. “The
surgeon over there said I was to relieve you.”

He said nothing and did not turn
around for so long that she nearly retraced her steps. She repeated
her statement, wondering if she should have addressed him as Lord
Laren. She suspected that even someone with imagination (something
Mama said she did not possess) would have a hard time seeing the
shaggy man with a hunchback as a titled person.

She was about to leave. Her courage
was draining away as fast as the blood from that poor unfortunate
soldier eight rows over. She decided to try one more time. “Major,
I ….”

“
I heard you. It just takes me a
moment to turn around. Don’t leave, please.”

She came closer. Taking great care
of himself, the officer shifted his whole body on the cot, rather
than just his head. “Well, miss?” he asked, his words clipped, his
lips tight.

She thought for a moment that she
had angered him, and then she realized that he was in pain. It
showed in the tightness around his mouth and the way he squinted at
her, even though the room was fairly well lit. Oh, dear, she
thought as she slowly untied her bonnet and set it aside. I do not
know which of you is worse off.

She took a deep breath, which was a
mistake in that foul room, and gestured toward the surgeon. “He
said I was to relieve you here, so you could go lie
down.”

The officer said nothing, but she
knew he was regarding her intently, measuring her. Oh, this is
nothing new, she thought, with a sudden burst of confidence. People
have been measuring me all my life. “The surgeon said that I could
probably hold his hand as well as you can. Sir. Or Lord Laren, or
whatever you choose. You are supposed to lie down now.”

Again a long pause. “Make me,” he
said at last.

Lydia sighed. “You are going to be
difficult,” she observed, more to herself than to him.

“
I usually am. Make me.”

If I even stop to think about this,
I will never act, she thought. So I will not think about it. “Very
well, sir. Since you are so stubborn,” she said as she sat on his
lap, took the soldier’s hand from his, and held it in her
own.

She did not know what to expect, but
she did not anticipate the laughter that rose up from the nearby
cots. “Got you, Major!” one of the men said. “She’s out-thought
you, sir!” said another with an arm missing, who sat up to
watch.

“
Oh, very well,” the major said, and
he did not try to hide the amusement in his voice. “Lads, such an
opportunity, but I will remember that I am an officer and a
gentleman.” The men laughed again as the major patted her hip. When
she rose up in indignation, he moved out from under her. “Very
well, madam, since you are so persistent.” She blushed as he
sniffed her hair close to her ear, his breath warm on her cheek.
“And, by God, you smell better than my stinking soldiers. Sit,
madam, by all means. Hold his hand tight. And then when he’s dead,
you can hold mine.”

She couldn’t think of a thing to
say, so she was silent. In another moment she was stroking the
dying man’s hand, and then wiping his face with a damp cloth near
his pillow. She felt the cot move, and heard the officer behind her
get to his feet. He staggered against her and put his hand on her
shoulder to steady himself. It was a firm grip.

“
It’s a long trip back to officer’s
country, lads,” she heard him say behind her. “If you don’t
mind ….” In the corner of her vision, she saw one of the more
lightly wounded men move to another cot and make room for the
officer. He sat down heavily on the cot directly across from her.
“I’m going to keep an eye on you, miss,” he said, his lips tight
again. “That man’s my gunnery sergeant.”

As he sat hunched over, bleary-eyed,
looking older than her own grandfather, she heard a commotion from
the little knot of ladies and gentlemen whose presence she had
almost forgotten. She looked over in time to see her sister settle
into a graceful faint in the arms of another Bond Street pattern
card. Drat you, Kitty, she thought.

In a moment, another of the young
gentlemen was approaching her, moving warily through the rows,
careful not to brush up against anything that looked like it
wouldn’t wash off, and holding a handkerchief to his nose. One of
the men sitting close to her snickered, and the young gentleman
stopped, confused.

“
It’s all right, sir,” she said
calmly, not releasing her grip on the dying man. “They fed them
this morning, and they won’t bite.”

He blinked at her and raised his
quizzing glass with a shaking hand, which made the snickering and
elbow-poking around her increase. “Miss … ah,
Miss ….”