Chapter Four

God knows Jake tried to fight off slumber. He had fallen asleep before when Captain Baldwin was droning on and on about his gallantry, which was a total hum and lie. If Jake was honest with himself (and he sometimes was), the past few days of travel by post chaise from Plymouth to near Leeds had been somewhat beneficial, in that he could snatch little naps while the captain nattered away.

He wanted to stay awake, because Miss Pritchard was interesting. Like everything else about his detestable patient, Baldwin’s rude comments about his fiancée’s odd appearance were simply not true. Her “defect” was ptosis , a drooping eyelid. It drooped more than some, but that was all. He’d seen it before, and Miss Pritchard’s was typical. Jack thought it rather charming, as though she was half-winking at him, which only made him want to wink back.

There he was, though, sinking into a really comfortable sofa. The fire in the grate had warmed the sitting room to the perfect temperature for a snooze. To compound the felony, Miss Pritchard’s voice – when George Baldwin shut up long enough for her to comment – was low and soothing, with that little lilt so pleasant in Yorkshire women.

She was easy on the eyes, too. He had seen too many woman in Spain skinny to the point of emaciation to never want to see such again, because it meant hunger and deprivation. Miss Pritchard was round in all the right places, with a smallish waist. Her skin was rosy in hue and he admired her dark hair neatly braided at the back of her neck, suggesting to him a wondrous fall of wavy locks when it was unfettered.

All he wanted to do was sleep. He fought it, swallowing down yawns and blinking his eyes, but in vain. He was so tired. If some villain had held a dirk to his neck and demanded to know when he had last slept soundly or he would slit his throat, it wouldn’t have made a difference, because he could not remember.

Talavera, Ciudad Rodrigo in a siege or two, Badajoz the same, Bussaco, Salamanca, Burgos, Vittoria, retreat, retreat, then finally Toulouse. It was all noise and dust and stink and terror, and too few resources, and too many needing too much. Exile to Elba promised some relief from the Tyrant of Corsica, but it proved to be only a recess from conflict.

Worst of all was Waterloo, even though it was the last clash of two mighty armies that had been slugging it out for years. In some way, the final victory was worse, with the victors returning to frenzied, welcoming throngs. How easy it was for the fickle public, also war weary, to forget the wounded and near-dead languishing in Belgium and the Low Countries. The wars of a generation were over, except they weren’t over for the surgeons and physicians who still fought against inadequate supplies and a government quite happy to forget about those convalescing in foreign places.

All those emotions seemed to come together as Surgeon Jacob Frost sank lower into a comfortable sofa that seemed determined to finally wrestle him into submission, but gently. As he sat there, nearly paralyzed with exhaustion, he felt his brain turning into butter. His shoulders seemed to relax and lower for the first time since 1810.

He thought Miss Pritchard said something to him, but he had no words to reply. He tried to open his eyes, but it was hopeless. He thought Captain Baldwin shook him and tried to rouse him from the comforting arms of Morpheus, but it must have been Miss Pritchard who demanded that he stop. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was firm. “Leave this poor man alone,” he heard most distinctly, before everything went dark and he slept.

He struggled to open his eyes when he heard what sounded like a low-volume quarrel. He winced to recognize Captain Baldwin’s whiny voice, but more impressive was the woman’s voice, calm and measured––he had no idea what she said––but indominable. He winced again when the door banged shut, and tried to sit up, but it was as though some supernatural power had trapped him in the most comfortable sofa in the universe. He could not resist it and did not.

Time had no meaning. He had a vague notion of someone raising his legs so he could stretch out on the sofa, and someone removing his shoes, loosening his belt and unbuttoning his trousers. He hoped it wasn’t Miss Pritchard, then, oddly enough, he hoped it was. Someone arranged a softer pillow behind his head, and covered him with a blanket. He heard a door close, and then, nothing.

Morning came, and with it, the immediate concern for his patients above and beyond those of the final campaign. With considerable speed, his mind worked its way through a series of battles and surgical results before he opened his eyes.

When he did, there was Miss Pritchard, embroidering. The sun was up. She sat close to the fire. Somehow, someway, it touched his heart that her half-open eye was his view. She knows I don’t think it odd , was his only thought, before he returned to sleep, strangely comforted, as though someone watched over him.

His bladder woke him an hour later and could not be ignored. What to ask this serene miss still embroidering? “Um, I…”

“Larch will help you,” she said, gesturing to the door, where an attentive fellow in domestic livery stood. “Then he will direct you to the breakfast room. You do like breakfast don’t you?”

“Best meal of the day, Miss Pritchard.” What a woman.

He knew it had to be long past the hour of breakfast. His timepiece had stopped at some point, but there were bacon and eggs on the sideboard, plus toast. He filled his plate, loading on the bacon until he should have been embarrassed, but wasn’t, since Miss Pritchard seemed to like bacon, too.

“My word, this is good,” he said, as he munched.

“Our cook loves pig,” was all she said, which was so funny he laughed.

He filled up eventually, and pushed his plate back, which he knew was bad manners, but oh well. Miss Pritchard was sipping tea by now. He knew he needed to apologize for his gigantic lack of manners, but where to begin?

“Miss Pritchard, please excuse my inexcusable breach of decorum,” he said, which didn’t begin to convey his mortification. She didn’t seem too appalled, so he took the light touch. “I blame your sofa. It grabbed hold of me and refused to let go.”

“When did you last have a good night’s sleep, sir?” she inquired, but kindly.

He thought back. “P’raps four years ago. Yes, that was it. Before we left the lines of Torres Vedras and returned to Spain to fight again. 1811.”

Her cup came down with a noticeable click on the saucer. “Surgeon Frost, if you ever hear me whine and complain, just...just stop me, please.”

Her comment seemed to imply that this wouldn’t be his last encounter with Miss Pritchard. He wondered if she meant more by it, or was merely engaging in routine small talk. Whatever it was, he appreciated plain speaking.

“It was a hard slog through Spain.” That was enough. She would probably think him remiss if he didn’t ask about his current responsibility, considering that Captain Baldwin, not present now thank the Lord, was her fiancé. “I was derelict last night. How did Captain Baldwin get home?”

“I sent George home with Larch, the under footman.”

“Poor Larch,” escaped him before he could stop it. His comment brought out her dimple below that half-open eye. God, she was charming, but he didn’t know what to say. “Well, I…” was the best he could do.

Maybe the less he said… He put lemon curd on the last piece of toast and stared at it, hating to think he had squashed her conversation with his rudeness. He got brave enough to look at her, and noticed her hesitation. “Um, is this where I say, ‘Shoot me now?’” he asked, hoping to turn the conversation to something lighter until he could escape and leave her alone.

She smiled at that, then waited a measured moment, before glancing around and leaning closer. “Tell me, Surgeon, was he even wounded?”

“A miniscule piece of shrapnel passed through his right calf, striking nothing important. Two stitches on the points of entry and exit were enough to close the wound,” he said, trying to maintain a detached air. “I turned him over to my assistant to patch him up.”

“He winced and gasped when Larch helped him to his feet,” she said. “I’m surprised he didn’t wake you up. It seems he wanted to. It took Larch and our butler to get him to the carriage for the ride to Summer’s Edge.” She sat back and looked at him. “Why is he doing this?”

She seemed not to mind words with no bark on them. Besides that, he doubted he would be invited back for another breakfast before he quitted these environs. “He is a coward and a malingerer.” Should he? Yea or nay? Yea. “Miss Pritchard, you can do better than George Baldwin.”