Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

Elinore woke Jesse soon, and Sister Maria Josefina escorted him to the room his wife had vacated. The nun asked him something that he agreed to without understanding a single word. He sat there, staring at her stupidly until her beautiful Italian finally penetrated his skull. "You want my clothes,'' he repeated. He took off his uniform blouse and began to unbutton his trousers. He winced at the shrillness of her voice then, until it dawned on him that she preferred him to wait until she left the room, and then put them outside the door. He nodded, but continued to unbutton his trousers. He was stepping out of them when he heard the door slam forcefully.

He took off everything until he was bare and shivering. The distance from the bed to the door looked like the distance across St. Peter's Square in the Vatican. He gave it up as a bad business and crawled into bed. If Sister Maria Josefina wanted his clothes, she could come and get them, or send Lorenzo the slow boy. His eyes closed.

He woke hours later as he always woke, sitting bolt upright, instantly alert and wired like the key to the kite in Dr. Franklin's famous experiment. He knew the moment of absolute panic would pass, reminding himself that if something earth-shattering had occurred in the refectory, Elinore would have sent Harper or Wilkie running.

He sank down slowly into the blankets again, wide awake but unwilling to stir. He glanced at the floor and smiled to see that his clothes were gone. "What a dilemma this is, Hippocrates," he said out loud. "I think I'm chained to this bed until my clothes return."

He knew the thought gave him leave to drift back to sleep, but he couldn't, not with his brain alert now. Instead, he did what he always did and thought about his patients. He lay there, the blanket tight to his chin, watching his breath in the cold room and revisiting every decision, every treatment, every consolation he had extended with his puny arsenal of supplies.

"Hippocrates, I hate my job," he said out loud. "Did you ever hate it?" Tears welled in his eyes. Did you ever stand over living, twitching flesh with blood up to your elbows and wonder why you had to do the world's dirty work? His stomach queasy, he relived every detail of last night's surgery, from Harper's wide-eyed revulsion to Barzun's attempt not to scream as he probed, prodded, retracted, ligated, and set saw to bone. He wondered how many surgeons for how many years would have given their own lives for something to deaden pain in surgery. I would, he told himself, I would.

Despite his doubts, he knew he had done his best. An amputation was a fairly straightforward surgical procedure, if done soon after the injury. Barzun's three-week-old calamity fit all the specifications of worst cases that Sheffield drilled him with during those hours on horseback with the army on the move, or during rare moments of inactivity. Thanks to Sheffield's understanding of rough-and-ready surgery, Jesse knew what to do. Only afterward did the regret seep in and return now to plague his sleep.

There had been one sweet moment, and he owed it to Barzun's insistence on waiting for the priest from a parish close to Salamanca. While Harper had watched with that evident distaste that all Protestants, however lapsed, seemed to feel in the presence of a priest, Jesse had bowed his own head, listened to Barzun's faint confession, and felt the overpowering need to purge his own soul. The priest had taken him to a corner of the small room, and he had knelt beside the man, pouring out all the sins he could remember since his last confession years ago before he left for Milan and medical school. His Spanish was so poor he doubted he could be understood. He switched to Latin, which had been the second language at medical school. He listened to himself speak of anger, directed sometimes at the French, and other times at the cruelty of venal quartermasters and commanders who did not care about their lowborn men. In this modern age of medical science, his scientist's brain may have listened askance at his babblings, but his heart spoke this time.

The list had seemed so long to him, but the priest granted him absolution after penance of but one Hail Mary. Father, did you understand all my sins? he had asked himself as he rose from his knees and opened the door for the priest to leave. He could not deny that his heart was lighter, despite the fact that Philippe Barzun, his enemy, had given him an impossible task. He was not such a hypocrite to pray for a miracle where his scientist's brain told him none was possible. As he picked up the probe and told Harper to hold the surgeon, he only asked for wisdom to remember all he had been taught. In a moment of crystal clarity, his first probe told him that Barzun's surgery was his real penance. Such a wise priest.

I did my best, Mary Mother of God, he told himself. If my hand was steady, all honor to Thee, who watched a dying son and did not quail, and the saint of surgeons, whoever that poor sod is. Hippocrates, I fear you and I have run our course now. In deep peace, he closed his eyes and returned to sleep.

When he woke, the afternoon shadows hung low in the room. He dreamed of water, and sure enough, there was Lorenzo, pouring water with steam rising from it into a tin tub. He sat up slowly this time, wonder of wonders, and looked around. His clothes were laid across the foot of the bed, shirt and smallclothes washed, the uniform brushed as clean as possible. The butcher's apron he had left in the room where Barzun had parted company with his leg was also washed and neatly folded beside them.

The water looked incredibly inviting. He knew Lorenzo hadn't the wit to expect anything in exchange for his services, but he dug around in Elinore's satchel until he found the necklace of blue beads. Forgive me, dearest, he thought as he extracted two beads and handed them to Lorenzo with as much ceremony as he could muster, considering that he was standing there barefoot and wearing nothing but a smile. He waved away Lorenzo's profuse thanks and lowered himself into the warm water. He leaned back in satisfaction, and reached for the soap.

His cleanliness rendered him almost self-conscious when he entered the refectory an hour later, after first searching out Harper and Wilkie and finding them in the toils of rudimentary carpentry, under the command of Sister Maria Josefina. "There's no one to help her except Lorenzo, and he's a bit barmy," Wilkie had explained.

"I have no objections, Private," Jesse said. "Carry on, please."

Harper nodded to him and touched a finger against his forehead in a most casual salute. Jesse felt another twinge of regret at forcing his services last night. He came closer to the hulking private, who was hammering a wooden frame into a ruined window. "Private, accept my apologies for putting you through the mill last night," he said. "I needed your strength more than I needed Elinore's experience right then."

"I know, Chief," Harper said. "We couldn't have her in there, could we?"

"No," he agreed, warm with the confederacy their conversation created. "Never that. As you were, Private. I have a surgeon's lady to visit."

Her back straight, Elinore sat on the stool beside Barzun's cot. The slow way she moved her neck at his approach told him volumes about the tension of her long day; he almost regretted the time he had lavished on himself in the tub. He stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder. She responded by leaning against him, and his cup ran over.

He squatted down beside her. "I hope you understand why I did not ask for your assistance last night."

"When I helped Monsieur Barzun with the urinal this morning, I took a good look at your handiwork," she said, still not taking her eyes from her patient. "I couldn't have held him down."

"No." He nudged her arm with his head. "I know you will argue that you have seen worse after battle."

"That's not the point, is it?" she said quietly. "You cared enough to spare me. For that, I thank you." She looked at Barzun then, and he wondered which of them was more shy. "He is still alive, Jesse. I don't know how."

"Nor I." He stood up then, his training taking over. He found Barzun's pulse with no trouble. "Damn, still thready," he said. "He actually passed water?"

"Yes."

"Kidneys are working. Has he been conscious?"

She nodded. "I don't understand Italian, but it's a cousin of Spanish, at least. I think he asked for you." She indicated the opium bottle. "I gave him a few drops in water when he started moving and scratching his hands. Monsieur Leger sat with him while I ate, but he is gone now. The man whose arm you debrided declares to one and all that he is well enough to rejoin his regiment, and that poor fellow across from him keeps crying for his maman."

"All in all, a typical day in the madhouse, eh?" he teased. He stood up and pulled her to her feet. "It is your turn to think of yourself, Elinore. When I left the room, Lorenzo was filling the tub with clean water." He laughed softly. "Lord, Elinore, I left so much scum in that tub, I think he had to chisel it out."

He sat down on the stool she vacated and watched her leave the room, all the while admiring the graceful motion of her walk.

"I hope you are not seriously planning to spend the night with me, surgeon. You will have a better time with your wife."

He looked around in surprise. Barzun was watching him. His eyes were bright with fever, and his voice dry from little use, but there was no mistaking him. "You seem determined to live," Jesse said, hoping that he did not sound as embarrassed as he felt.

"Someone must protect my patients from the English doctor," he said.

Praise God that he can quiz me, Jesse thought. I can return the favor. He carefully pulled back the blanket. "Mind yourself, surgeon. At least I took off the correct leg."

They looked at each other, and he knew it was the perfect moment between two men with everything in common, including an Oath given in a Milan courtyard. "Did you ever . . ." he began.

Barzun started to laugh. "I set the wrong leg once." He sighed and closed his eyes. "Tell me what you see, Captain."

Jesse looked, lifting a portion of the loose bandage with his long-nosed tweezers. "No streaks. No proud flesh yet. Forgive me for amputating so high, but it was best."

"I'm still alive."

Jesse replaced the mesh basket and settled the blanket around it again. "You are, indeed. And now I will give you more drops, and you will sleep."

Barzun did not object. Jesse raised his head, and the surgeon drank the opium-laced water. You have worn yourself out with conversation, he thought. Why must you French be so voluble? He stood a little longer, then walked down the row, checking each man. To his surprise, Armand Leger sat beside the man with the head wound again. He looked up at Jesse.

"Captain, we do not even know his name," he murmured. "He did not eat today, and look at his eyes, how sunken they are."

"I do not think he will live through this night, monsieur," Jesse said. "Send Harper for me when the moment is near." He stopped by Barzun again, and instructed the nun to come to him if the surgeon needed help in the night. He turned to go, but the surgeon spoke, his voice low and drowsy.

"I did not mean what I said about English surgeons."

"I know you were quizzing me," Jesse said, touching his shoulder. "Now, go to sleep." He changed his mind and leaned closer again. "You're a better Catholic than I am— scuzi, signore—so tell me, Philippe: who is the patron saint of surgeons?"

"We have two, you heretic," Barzun replied. His eyes closed. "Saint Cosmas and Saint Damian. That should be enough, even for you. Buon nozzi."

He said good night to Harper and Wilkie, who had already bedded down on cots by the entrance to the refectory, and walked the length of the hall to the room he shared with Elinore. I suppose there are a hundred things I should do right now, but I am going to bed my wife, if she is agreeable. I hope she will understand, because I just have to.

She was lying down, staring up at the ceiling, when he came into the room. From the frown on her face and the inner look of her, he knew what to say. "Back hurt?"

She nodded. "I want to straighten out my legs, but when I do, it feels like there's not enough skin for the length of me. What a dilemma."

He didn't know whether he had ever heard a more apt description of a backache caused by fractious nerves, and told her so. She chuckled, but the frown was still there.

He came closer to the bed. "I know what'll help. Slide over and lie on your stomach like a good girl." He took off his uniform and shirt, and sat down beside her.

She made a face at him, but did as he said, turning her head to regard him. He could have laughed at the wary look in her eyes, but had the good sense not to. The first rule is not to scare her to death, he thought.

"All right now, I'm going to massage your shoulders." She closed her eyes, but offered no objection, going so far as to tuck the beautiful mass of her hair closer to her neck. He started on her upper back, digging in gently with the heels of his hands. It felt like he was kneading wood. "A little tense, Elinore?"

She sighed, but he felt her silent laugh.

"Give a little in your shoulders, Elinore. You know I'm not a miracle worker."

She did as he said, and his fingers met with less resistance. "Oh, I think you are," she said, and her voice was less wary. "Could you scratch my right shoulder blade?" He did, and she sighed again. "A little lower. Oh, lovely."

He made great progress on the area around her neck, marveling at the lightness of her bones and the softness of her back. One of the hospital stewards had remarked to him once that Elinore Mason had such a fragile air about her. You're so right, he thought as he expertly manipulated her shoulders through the coarse fabric of the prim nightgown that the nuns must have loaned her. He knew the resiliency of the human body as well as any surgeon, but he still felt reluctant to press too hard. She had that gentle air about her that had always impressed him. He knew that even if he were permitted to grow old and cranky with her, he would always wonder how she preserved that gentleness. What is it about women, he asked himself. Or at least, what is it about this woman?

He could have exclaimed in dismay when her back tightened again and she sat up. "This won't do," she said, her voice brusque.

So much for my bedside manner, he thought, then held his breath as she faced away from him on the bed, unbuttoned her nightgown, and pulled it down to her waist. She lay down again without a word. He hoped for just a glimpse of her breasts, and he wasn't disappointed. He resumed his therapy. Her skin was warm, elastic, and she had a small birthmark just to the side of her spinal column. He touched it, then maneuvered his fingers gently down the length of her spine. His reward was another sigh, and the complete relaxation of her arms.

"I wish you would do that a little harder," she said.

"I can, but I'm in an awkward position," he told her.

"Well, then," was all she said, but he wasn't one to kiss away an opportunity. In another moment he straddled her back. He was aroused by now, but he was careful to hold himself high enough not to scare her to death. It was easy then to parallel his hands across her back with a firmer touch.

"Better?"

She nodded, and patted his knee with her fingers.

He probably could have remained at least semi-professional about the matter, except that she did not move her hand from his knee. With a rush of pleasure, he grew firm. As he leaned closer to apply more pressure to her lower back, he knew his member brushed against her hips. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought, and continued his therapy. He just hoped she would not require any conversation, because he knew his respirations were getting ragged.

"I wish you would raise up," she said, her voice even.

He could have cried in absolute misery then, except that the moment became one he wanted to treasure always, though he knew he would never share it with another human. To his unspeakable delight, she rolled over onto her back and lay there looking up at him as he straddled her. Her breasts were truly as lovely as he thought they would be, all white and pink. He touched one, enjoying the give of it. He checked the heft next, his hand under her breast, pleased with the feel of it. He discarded his notion of fragility without a qualm. This was a woman of some substance.

"I suppose they have a Latin name," she said, and raised her arm to touch his face.

"I'm certain you are right, my love, but at the moment I can't even recall my own name," he told her.

She laughed. "It's Jesse Cameron Randall."

"What's your name?" he teased back.

"I haven't a clue," she replied, then rested her palm against his chest. "Do one thing though, please."

He'd have given her half his kingdom then, if she wanted. "If it's simple."

"Blow out that candle. I'm just a little squeamish about this."

He smiled, leaned over, and did as she asked. The moonlight streamed in through the small window. "Can't do anything about that, Elinore. Sorry."

"Well, then," she said again, and he knew that was her prelude now.

He knew better than to tease her anymore, because he noticed that her respirations were becoming almost as uneven as his own. He shucked his underdrawers, while she tugged off her nightgown.

He rested himself on her, and she obligingly moved her legs wider. "My dearest Elinore, this may be a bit of a jolt to your system, but I assure you that people have been doing it for thousands of years."

A more personal massage—one that made her sigh— assured him that she was quite ready for him. She opened her eyes wide and grunted softly when he entered her, but she relaxed again, even moving with him and wrapping her arms around him.

He did not expect her to climax this first time, and she didn't. To his intense pleasure, though, she tightened her legs around him when he did, and pressed her hands against the small of his back, pushing down. Somewhere before his brain exploded, he thought it was a possessive gesture that boded well for the future.

After he finished and was lying there all content on his back, he thought to look for his smallclothes, in the event that someone needed him in the middle of the night. He felt amazingly disinclined to leave the bed and do a reconnaissance. Besides, Elinore had curled up close to him, resting her head on his chest, her hand widespread on his stomach.

"All right?" he asked, and she nodded. He was glad that she seemed equally disinclined to move. The feel of her skin against his was bliss.

She tensed a little, and he could tell she wanted to say something. "Mmm?" He hated that his eyes were closing.

"Will I feel that way, too?" she asked, and to his ears, she chose her words carefully.

"Most certainly. It takes a little practice, I think, for most females."

"No, Jess, I'm a woman," she said. "Females are medical."

He laughed. "So right, woman."

"Don't forget it."

"Lord, I have married a dragon," he whispered, his lips against her hair as she nestled herself into his shoulder. He tightened his arm around her.

"You know if you keep your arm like that, it's going to go to deep," she told him.

"I should move it," he said, but did nothing. What he said must have made good sense to her, because she nodded and cuddled closer.

Hours later, even as tired as he was, the bell summoning the nuns to midnight prayer woke him. Elinore pressed up close to his back now, her leg thrown over him. He woke her and took her again. He could tell she was much closer this time, but his own weariness prevented him from getting her where he knew she wanted to go. I am a selfish beast, he thought as she smiled, shook her hair out of her eyes, and kissed him.

She sat up then, her hand pressed to the small of her back. He lay there and admired the sheer grace of her as she got up from the bed, stretched in the slowest kind of motion like a cat, and then cleaned herself from the tin tub. He watched her, a smile on his face, enjoying her homely actions, and feeling his whole body relax. To his disappointment, she found her nightgown and put it on before she curled up beside him.

It was just as well. He had dropped off to sleep, his face deep in Elinore's hair, when the door opened and Harper woke him with a tap to his shoulder. He was alert in an instant, shushing Elinore when she tensed and tried to rise. "Is it that unknown one?" he whispered. Please don't let it be Philippe, he thought.

"Yes, sir. Chief, I think you should come."

"I'll be right there. Go back to sleep, Elinore."

It took only a moment to find his shirt and trousers and hurry down the dark corridor. All the length of it, he rehearsed in his mind everything he imagined that Philippe Barzun had done for the man before his own accident.

Armand Leger sat by the man, still holding his hand. Without a word, Jesse sat on the other side of the cot until the man gave that familiar sigh that went on forever, then died. From habit he readied for his timepiece to record the moment of death, even though the little watch with the precious second hand had gone to buy food in a nameless town a week ago. "I don't know when he died, monsieur," he murmured.

Armand gently ran his fingers down the dead man's eyes. "Sometime in the night, Captain. That's good enough for us, and I don't think he cares. It's . . . it's just time."

Jesse nodded and stood up, covering the soldier's face, so peaceful now. All I know is that although you were a fusilier and my enemy, I would prefer you alive, he thought. "At least we can leave him in a good place, Armand." He hesitated a moment, then touched Leger's shoulder. "Thank you for staying with him."

He took his own time in the refectory, looking again at each sleeping man. Harper had resumed his place beside Philippe Barzun. "The nun went somewhere."

"It must be Lauds, Private. When she returns, you had better get some sleep. I think we will have to leave this day."

The glance Harper directed his way was dubious, at best. "I'd rather wait a bit until we know this bloke isn't going to be crow food, sir."

"Harper, you've changed on this retreat."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but so have you."

He walked more slowly down the hall, his bare feet cold on the stones. Elinore sat up when he came to bed. He knew he didn't have to say anything, because she kissed him and then wrapped her arms around him as he sat there beside her, still a little numb and wondering from death.

"It never changes, my love," he said softly. "I am astounded by death. It irritates me, and I wonder if he might have lived under better circumstances." He turned to face her. "But you know, he's so obviously somewhere else, and it didn't look unpleasant."

"You are here," she pointed out in that practical way of hers.

"I am," he agreed, touched in an odd way. "What should I do about it?"

"Love me," she replied, and removed her nightgown. He obliged her with real fervor, even as his disordered brain contemplated this curious juxtaposition of love and death within a half hour of each other. She came this time, with a rush of breath against his ear and a straining up toward him that lifted his heart miles from the grave and bound him to her forever, no matter how much life either of them had remaining.

"My goodness," she said, after he left her body but was still as close as he could possibly be. "I had no idea."

He laughed softly. "Perhaps I am a great lover, Nell."

"How would I know?" she replied in that frank way of hers, so practical and at the same time so seductive.

He growled and took a nip at her shoulder. She shrieked and then laughed, and covered her mouth, her eyes wide. "Oh, dear, what will the nuns think?"

"I don't intend to worry about it," he told her as he settled back in absolute comfort and gathered her close to him. He looked at her then traced the contour of her face with his finger. "I love you, Elinore."

"Even if it's not the wisest thing you ever did?" She said it softly, her eyes closed.

He put his hand on her head and gave it a little shake. "Elinore, I fear that in seeing our differences, you have overlooked a way in which we are uncannily similar." When she did not answer, but sighed instead, he continued, "You and I have been given someone's permission to do the world's dirty work. I chose it by going to medical school. You didn't have any choice." It was his turn to sigh as his wife put her bare leg over him. "My choice made me cynical and somewhat irreligious. As far as I can tell, it made you kindly and earnest."

"Earnest?" she repeated with a laugh. "Loverlike words, my boy!"

He smiled. "Earnest, I insist! You worked so hard to please Major Sheffield in the hospital tent from the time you were ten. And kindly because I believe you have always thought we were better than we are."

"But you are," she insisted, her voice muffled now in that space between his shoulder and his chest where she fit amazingly well.

He gave her head another gentle shake. "There you go again. When you were a child, I thought you were charming, if somewhat ill-directed, to think that. When I came back to the regiment five years later and took another look at you, I decided that I wanted to become the man you thought I was. It's as simple as that."

She raised up on her elbow to look at him. "But what will your mother think when you bring home a somewhat shabby daughter of the regiment who—let us face facts, sir—hasn't much education, and no social attainments?"

If she was going to lean over him like that, he was going to have to do something about her loveliness. He kissed her breast, enjoying a little unholy glee at how ragged her breathing became. His lips just brushed her nipple. He was going to chuckle at the way she shivered, except that he was shivering now. "Where was I?" he asked. "Oh, yes. Mother will tell my father how grateful she is that my brains haven't dribbled out, then rush over to St. James the Apostle and burn five or six candles at both ends. Oh, Elinore."

There wasn't anything else to say.