Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

When he woke a few minutes later, he wouldn't leave the room. He did allow Elinore to lead him over to a low bench at the wall, where he leaned back and closed his eyes. "I'm going to stay right here and watch for a while," he told her before he bowed his head forward and slept. She sat beside him and pulled his head onto her shoulder. "I'll watch for you," she whispered.

She watched—hard put to keep her own eyes open—and listened to the low murmurs of the women around the bed as they tended to the new mother in timeless fashion. Sonia slept, too, even as one of the older women helped the infant find her mother's breast. Sonia's eyes flickered open as her child tugged at her, then closed again with a sigh of contentment. How resilient women are, Elinore thought with admiration. Sonia may fool my husband by surviving, but I am not so sure she will surprise me.

She looked at her husband, wishing he could sleep for hours and hours, but knowing that any sound of distress from Sonia or her small daughter would bring him wide awake. Maybe they will both live, she thought. Perhaps our luck has turned. That only led to the view in her mind of the Chief lying face down in the plaza, dead for no good reason.

She was starting to breathe evenly again when she noticed the priest standing in the doorway. He was so quiet, and the room so dim that she wondered briefly if he was real or the imagination of her tired brain. But no, Harper stood behind him, his eyes on Jesse with such a proprietary look that Elinore knew her husband had a bodyguard now, whether he wanted one or not.

She nodded to the priest, so he would know she was awake. He came into the room then, and made the sign of the cross over mother and baby, who both slept. He listened to Sonia's mother, who spoke too rapidly for Elinore to follow and then gestured in Jesse's direction. Just let him sleep, please, she thought. Surely whatever more bad news you have can wait until morning.

No luck. The priest sat down beside her, but he kept his voice low. To her relief, he spoke in English. "Your husband has worked a miracle here, no?''

"Yes, I rather think he has, too," she replied softly. If I say nothing else, perhaps he will go away, Elinore thought, even as she remembered the determination on her husband's face as he struggled to save the mother and the baby, and knew without question what he would expect of her. "Do you need him now?"

"Yes. Will you wake him? The alcalde's family ..." his voice trailed off. "It is a difficult thing."

"Well, then." She gently touched her husband's face. "Captain, there is a priest here who says you are needed."

They had not far to go, luckily, because he was not steady on his feet, whether from exhaustion or pain, she could not tell. She walked beside him, ready to put out her hand, but aware of Harper hovering even closer, ready, she knew, to pick him up and carry him if he should falter. I am amazed, she thought, wondering how only yesterday, she had thought the private a malingerer and a cheat, hopeless of remedy. Well, he is still a thief, she reminded herself, thinking of the money he filched from the quartermaster. I wish you had stolen more, she thought. We could probably use it.

The alcalde's house looked like the others in the village, with a nearly blank wall coming right down to the street, and a door massive but plain. A climbing plant, long through its growing season and limp now in autumn's rain, still clung to the plaster and brick, looking as bedraggled as she felt. The door opened before the priest knocked, and Elinore stepped back involuntarily at the wailing that spilled out into the dark street.

"The alcalde was killed by a British soldier this afternoon," he told her, and she could tell he was striving to keep his voice neutral. "He accused him of holding back the village's food from the commissary requisition and shot him when he denied it."

"British?" She wished she could block out the anguish that seemed to spread across the narrow street like a plague of Egypt.

"Yes, se?ora, our allies." The priest turned to help her husband cross the threshold, but his words were for her. "Now can you understand your reception?"

I never can understand why good men die, she thought, but nodded anyway, because she knew the priest expected it.

"I can do nothing for the alcalde, then?" Jesse asked. "Not unless you can raise the dead," said the priest "Then why ..."

"This way, se?or."

With Elinore on one side of her husband and Harper on the other, they followed the priest past the room where she could see a man laid out on a table and surrounded by wailing women. The priest paused outside a closed door and knocked. The door opened on more tears, to Elinore's dismay. She looked at her husband. His face was calm. I would be such a disappointment to you if you only knew what a coward I am, she thought.

The priest indicated that Harper wait in the hall. She would gladly have hung back, too, except he ushered her forward along with her husband.

"The British have brought such shame to our village," the priest whispered. "This is the alcalde's daughter. After the officer shot our alcalde, he committed a terrible act upon her."

"My God!" Jesse exclaimed. "What was the matter with that man?"

"Perhaps you can tell us," the priest replied, and Elinore knew that the bitterness in his voice was not a trick of her hearing. "Perhaps she will talk to you, although I doubt it. I do think you should try to tend to her wounds."

A girl who looked scarcely fifteen huddled on the bed, then gasped and tried to burrow under the bedcovers as Jesse came closer. Elinore hurried to her side. "Please, my dear, my husband is a surgeon," she said in Spanish. "Will you let him help you?"

The girl shook her head vigorously, her hands trembling and her teeth practically clacking in her mouth. Her face was swollen and bruised, as though someone had struck her. She looked at the woman in black standing beside the bed, who also shook her head. The woman came closer, and in a voice low with anger, began speaking so fast that Elinore could only look to the priest for help.

"She says that you British have done enough and you should all be killed by the French."

Jesse nodded. "You can assure her, Father, that she will probably have her wish fulfilled before too many more days." He looked around, and gestured for Elinore to bring him a stool, which she placed beside the bed, despite a low-voiced objection from the older woman. With a sigh, he sat down. "Tell her that I am too tired to move because I have just delivered Sonia Ramos' baby. Sit down there on the bed, Elinore. Father, tell this child that if she wants to tell my wife what happened, she will listen. I am going to close my eyes. I hope she does not think me rude, but I have had my own share of troubles in Santos."

The priest spoke, and the heavy weight in the room seemed to lift. The girl lay curled on her side in a tight ball, her eyes dull and puffy from crying. Elinore kept her hands tight in her lap and then she asked herself, what would I want someone to do for me? Careful not to startle the girl, she went to the basin near the door. She dipped in a cloth hanging by the basin, wrung it out, and returned to the girl. Ignoring the woman in black who glared at her, she sat by the girl and wiped her face. Elinore felt useless and foolish at the same time, but she gently dabbed the cloth under her eyes and across her forehead, and then even more gently by the bruise near her mouth.

"There now, my dear," she murmured in English. "I always feel better when someone does that for me. Tea would help, but I do not have any. Here, let me wipe under your neck. It's so easy to perspire there, especially when your hair is long." She touched the girl's hair, then smoothed it back from her face. "You have such beautiful hair," she said in Spanish.

To her surprise, the girl raised her chin slightly, then straightened out her legs a little. Encouraged, Elinore began to rub her back, moving closer until she knew the girl must feel the warmth from her own body. She stopped and moved to pull the blanket higher on her shoulder, wanting nothing more than to crawl in beside her and sleep a week or more. "Oh, my dear, please tell me what happened."

Elinore looked at the priest when the girl began to speak. As the words gushed out, the priest waited—his face a study in pain and humiliation—then translated. "She thought it would be like always, when you British retreat, always taking more food and leaving chits that are so hard to redeem." He listened intently. "A regiment had come through earlier, and there was little more to spare. Her father explained that quite carefully, then turned to go into his store. The tall man shot him in the back."

"My God," Jesse said. He sat up quickly, winced, then leaned against Elinore. The girl began to cry again. Elinore wiped her face.

"The same man pushed her into the store, struck her when she struggled, threw her down on the floor and raped her," the priest continued, his voice toneless now, shocked, as though Spain had not been at war for ten years and such atrocities only happened over the next mountain, or beyond the river.

"I'm so sorry," Elinore murmured. She took hold of the girl's hand. "Maybe you will feel a little better, now that you have told me."

"There is one thing more," the girl whispered.

The priest frowned. "What else can there be, my dear?" he asked, his voice gentle.

Her breath coming in gasps, the girl reached up the sleeve of her dress and pulled out a small sheet of paper before she burst into tears again.

"Oh, my dear, please! It is a commissary chit," Elinore said as she glanced at the paper. "I... I don't understand." She handed it to Jesse, who took it, and struggled to sit up again in the face of the girl's increasing distress.

The girl grasped the front of Elinore's dress, her eyes frightful. "He told me it was a chit for my services," she said in Spanish. "I could redeem it for only one peso because I wasn't very good. He stuffed it in my mouth. Ay de mi!"

Elinore felt her face drain of all color. "Only a monster would do such a thing," she replied, when she could speak.

She looked at the commissary requisition in Jesse's hand. "Surely he did not sign his name?"

He stared at the paper in his lap as though he could not believe it, then dropped it on the floor. "Major Bones," he said, when he could speak. "Major Bones."

While the girl sobbed in Elinore's arms now, the priest told the part of the story he knew. "When we found her and her father, she told us that the man who .. . who . .. did this awful deed said that stragglers were following behind him, and that we should shoot them on sight." He could not look at Elinore. "We thought he meant you." He threw up his hands. "What did you do to him to make him so angry?"

I am the cause of this misery, Elinore thought in horror. As her stomach plummeted into her shoes, she looked at Jesse and saw her expression mirrored in his. And you know I am, don't you? There could be no other conclusion, not with such a look on his face. I doubt a man will ever repent of marriage as fast as you will, she told herself. And the devil of it is—considering your kind nature—I hardly blame you.

"We did have a disagreement," Jesse said, his voice shocked and hollow to her ears. "We thought he had already taken out his revenge on us. Didn't we, Elinore?" She cringed inside at his carefully chosen words, and nodded. Looking at him was out of the question. She clung to the girl, who was sobbing in deeper earnest now. If I cry, too, Elinore thought, no one will know. The tears slid down her own face. "Pobrecita, pobrecita," she murmured, hardly sure whether she crooned to the dead man's daughter, or to her own bruised spirit.

Finally, the girl lay limp and exhausted in Elinore's arms, and made no demure when Elinore gently laid her back down and covered her with the blanket. She drew into a ball again, but did not open her eyes.

"I doubt she will be inclined to let me examine her," Jesse said.

"Perhaps not tonight," she said timidly, not sure what to say in the face of her enormous guilt.

"Even if she did, I do not know what I could do for her," he replied, his voice low, but intense. "Should I tell her that maybe in nine months she might have a fond remembrance of Major Bones, eh? Or that every time a man looks at her just a moment too long, she will get chills and a sick feeling?"

"Oh, please, don't!" Elinore begged.

He was silent for a long moment. "Welcome to the war, Elinore. This is a side of it I would prefer to deny," he said at last. "Help me up, please. I'm sorry to be a burden to you, but I doubt I can stand by myself."

You are not half the burden to me that I must be to you, she told herself. She helped him to his feet, held him there until he nodded, then walked with him to the door. In the hall, Harper leaped up from the bench where he was dozing and took hold of Jesse.

"Do you know where Dan and our patients are?" he asked.

"In the church with . . . with Major Sheffield."

‘Take me there."

Elinore winced. Not us, but me, was all she heard. She stood where she was as the two men left the house. "Where do I go?" she said aloud to the painting of Christ looking sorrowfully at her and pointing to his bleeding heart. She looked away.

There was nothing for her to do but follow. She stood a moment by the open door that led into the room where the women were keening over the body of the alcalde. One of the women noticed her, got up quickly, and closed the door in her face.

"There is no love for the British in this house. Come with me."

She looked around to see the priest by the door that opened to the outside. "I told them I would wait for you," he said.

I doubt they missed me, she thought. "Thank you."

She walked with him in silence back to the plaza, feeling her own weariness right down to her muddy shoes. Her dress and petticoats had dried, but now they were stiff with mud. She looked down at the bloodstains on her dress. Poor Chief, she thought.

The church was not large; nothing about Santos indicated much wealth. As they walked inside and she waited for the priest to dip his fingers in the holy water, she thought of the cathedral in Salamanca, and earlier the one in Madrid that she and her mother had visited after the battles, ornate affairs bearing the weight of centuries of gold and silver from the Indies, with massive Stations of the Cross. Here the Stations were merely numbered on the walls, the few statues modest.

"We are not a town with any distinction," he said, interpreting her gaze correctly. He laughed softly. "Not a single conquistador ever returned to Santos with a huge purse and a guilty conscience." His face grew serious again. He touched her arm, pointed down the side aisle, and led her to a much smaller chapel niched in the wall.

She stopped in the doorway, then willed herself to enter. Two bodies lay on rude tables, nearly filling the small space. Chief Surgeon David Sheffield's face was clean, and his hands folded carefully together. His eyes were closed, but by some quirk of nature or biology, his brows still seemed arched in surprise at the unexpectedness of his destruction. The hole in his forehead where the ball had entered looked like a third eye. She was compelled to stare at it, and then at the white cloth behind his head where blood was already turning to rust. "Such a small hole," she murmured. "Ay de mi."

A young priest stood against the wall. The sleeves of his cassock were still rolled up, and he held a cloth. "Thank you for caring for him," she said in Spanish.

He nodded and came closer to stand beside the body on the other side of the table. He touched Sheffield's fingers with the cloth. "He has such fine hands, se?ora."

She looked down at the elegant length of his fingers, so still now, and thought of all care he had administered in the eight years she had known him. "He was a very good surgeon," she said, and hesitated only a moment before she touched Sheffield's hands, cold as marble now. As she did so, she noticed the little ring she wore, the one he had given Jesse to put on her finger in the dead tent. Without a qualm she removed it and placed it on Sheffield's little finger. She could only slide it past the first knuckle, but she knew that nothing would jostle it from his hand now, not where he was going. "Better you should have it back," she told him, then leaned close to kiss his cheek.

I cannot linger here, she thought, then turned her attention to the other table where Private Jenks lay. She almost dreaded to look at his expression, but as she gazed at him in the half light, she felt her heart stop its racing. "You're so peaceful now," she said out loud in English. "What a relief you must have now to be free of that dreadful breathing bellows. Did we do you more harm than good?"

‘I wonder that, too."

She dosed her eyes in shame. "Oh, Captain, I didn't mean it like that," she said without even turning around, cursing herself for compounding her felony, and wishing he made more noise when coming into a room.

"No, Elinore, that's not it. For heaven's sake look at me!"

She turned around quickly, surprised at his impatience. It was not a quality she knew in him. "Sir, I. . ."

He waved his hand to stop her. "Never mind. It's just that you've become afflicted with the chief malady among the staff at Number Eight," He leaned against the trestle that held the chief surgeon, his hand resting familiarly on his mentor's arm. "I was trained in Milan to think and think again." He ran his hand lightly over Sheffield's arm, as if trying to massage him into life. "My maestro told me, ‘Signore, if you do not trust your treatment, and keep trusting it, you might as well wash windows.' So I say to you, my dear, welcome to the club."

She let out her breath in a small sigh, relieved that at least he did not accuse her. She did not want to look at Jenks again, so she kept her eyes on Jesse as he gave the chief surgeon a final pat and came closer to her in the small space of the chapel. He looked toward the small altar. "I confess to you—and isn't this a good place?—that I wish I could do an autopsy on Jenks. I'd give a lot to look at his lungs."

He turned his head toward her, and she could see all the effort that took. "Now what do you think of me?"

Don't blunder here, Elinore, she thought. You're in enough trouble. "I would call you a surgeon," she replied simply. "And . . . and I think Sonia Ramos would, too." She could tell by the flicker in his eyes that he didn't expect that answer.

He was a moment in replying. "Thank you for reminding me of her. I needed that right now."

Shy again, she was spared the embarrassment of a reply when Harper entered the chapel. "Ready, sir?" he asked.

Jesse nodded.

"The others?" Elinore asked.

"They are well, considering. The only one suffering any pain is Dan O'Leary," Jess replied. "He thinks he failed me with Sonia Ramos. I told him, of course he did not, and that it was the very devil of a presentation, but I suppose he must agonize for a while over it." He looked at the young priest, who still stood in silence. "Our friend here also has a good touch. We will leave our patients with him and Dan tonight." He smiled at Harper. "And, of course, Private Wilkie, who has from somewhere already procured an entire ham. What a thieving rascal he is."

She couldn't help but smile, even in that place of the forever-silent men.

"Well, never mind. He may actually prove useful. The older priest—I believe he is called Father Esteban—tells us we have been directed to return to the Ramos house. Come, Elinore, start me in motion."

She touched his arm, and he began to move. She got no farther than Sheffield's body, where she paused again. "I loved him," she said.

"You were loved, too," he replied. "He told me once— I think it was after Talavera, when we were groggy from amputating—that you were the daughter he wished he and Millie had found the time to conceive." He went to the body himself, and tugged out a gold chain around Sheffield's neck. "Look here. He did not give you back all your beads. We'll leave it with him."

She eyed the one blue bead on the chain, and burst into tears again. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, which felt gritty across her face, and could think of nothing to say.

With Harper grasping Jesse's arm, they left the small chapel, their footsteps echoing in the empty space of the larger chapel. Jesse made them stop in the middle, where he made the sign of the cross as he faced the altar. Elinore had never seen him do that before. He must have known she was staring at him, because he managed a smile in her direction. "Elinore, I am a terrible Catholic. I admit it, but you'll agree that we're alive because of someone's grace."

Father Esteban led them back to the Ramos house. "You will stay here tonight," he told them. "Tomorrow we will know where the French are, but someone from this village will be watching to warn us."

The servants had prepared a pallet in a small room off the kitchen for Harper, but he insisted on placing it in the hall at the top of the stairs. Jesse tried to object, but Harper wouldn't hear of it. "I am a soldier, Captain," he replied.

"That will come as a surprise to your commanding officer, once we reach Portugal," Jesse said, but offered no more objections. He opened the door to Sonia's room and stood there a moment. Elinore joined him, letting out a small sigh to see Sonia asleep with her hand under her cheek. Her baby slept in a cradle beside the bed.

"Beautiful," Jesse said, and there was no mistaking the pride in his voice. "Thank God there was some redemption in this sorry day. Is there a patron saint for idiots?"

"Do you think it is the same one for army surgeons?" she joked, and was rewarded with a lopsided smile and a little jab in her ribs.

Father Esteban motioned them toward another doorway. "Here you are. Se?ora Ramos' mother is already asleep, but she told me to make sure you came back here. I will be here early. We must bury your dead as soon as possible." He put his fingers to his lips and started for the stairs.

Elinore stopped him, coming dose. "Father, perhaps this is a delicate question, but is there a father for Sonia's baby?"

He smiled at her. "Of course! There have not been too many immaculate conceptions in Spain in recent years."

Jesse laughed out loud. "Father, I thought I was the only heretic here!"

"War has made a heretic of me," the priest said simply. He made a small sign of the cross on Jesse's forehead. "Go to sleep. In the morning we will conduct our sad business, and I have a favor to ask you. No. No. The asking can wait. You need to sleep now. Take him, se?ora." He turned to go, then looked hack when he was at the stairs. "Se?ora, you are to leave your dress outside the door tonight. The maid will clean it."

"I will be so grateful," Elinore said. "But you have not answered my question. Where is the baby's father?"

"He rides with the guerillas." Father Esteban shrugged. "Beyond that, I cannot say. Good night to you both."

She had no time to be shy over being alone with her husband, or even time to inventory her vast storehouse of guilt over the death of the alcalde and the ruin of his daughter. Jesse had already removed his shoes. Eyes closed, he unbuttoned his shirt and shucked it onto the floor. He tried to unbutton his trousers, and finally just stood by the bed, his arms at his sides, defeated by exhaustion. Elinore unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down. He rested his hand on her shoulder while he stepped out of his pants.

More amused than shy now, Elinore gave him a little push and watched him sag onto the bed, wearing his smallclothes. The coverlets had been turned down. There was only one pillow, but it was wide, plump and inviting. With a sigh he rested his head on the pillow and tried to swing his legs onto the mattress. When he had no success, Elinore obliged him. He was asleep before she raised the blanket to cover him.

Elinore removed her apron, dress and petticoats and set them outside the door. For good measure, she put her muddy shoes outside, too. Turn them all into beautiful clothes, she thought ... I would not mind that. She had no brush, so she pulled out her few remaining pins and ran her fingers through her hair, all the while looking around the room and wondering where she could sleep. The room was small, with nothing but a bed, a chair, a rug, and a tiny altar in one comer. The fire had glowed itself down to embers now, and the cedar fragrance was an unbelievable comfort to her tired brain.

She was starting to shiver, standing there in her shimmy. There was nowhere to sleep but the bed. After a long moment, she crawled under the covers with him, giving him a timid push to move him closer to the other side, and then a firm one when he seemed not to respond. She lay as still as she could, but her feet were cold, and the mattress an old one. She felt herself sliding toward her husband, whose only reaction was to haul her in tight against him and keep her there with one arm.

He was warm, but not feverish, she decided. Elinore relaxed and then cautiously moved her cold feet against his legs. He uttered some objection in a language she didn't recognize, but his complaint didn't cause him to pull away. His arm draped over her seemed heavy at first, and unnatural, and then warm and oddly comforting. As she sank deeper into the mattress, Elinore found herself faced with a new emotion, one she had not expected to feel in this tangled, terrible day. I am tired and I must be wrong, she thought as her eyes closed. We are in a dreadful situation. How is it that I feel safe?

Jesse woke hours later, not because of any pain of his own, but because of some instinct he had acquired beginning with his university days in Milan. Moonlight poured in the window. Elinore lay close to him, with her hair spread across the pillow they shared. She had curled herself into solid sleep, conforming her body to his, and resting the bottoms of her feet against his shins. He smiled, thinking of worse fates for himself in the years ahead than to be her personal warming pan.

His arm rested across her side, his elbow comfortable between that juncture of her waist and hip. He raised up slightly and smiled again. Her one hand that he could see was relaxed in deep, the fingers curling over the thumb like a baby's hand. It was light enough in the room to see the veins in her wrist. He admired the lovely swell of her breasts. Oh, Hippocrates, was ever anatomy so well represented? he asked himself, I know better than most men that she is a conglomerate of skin, blood, tissue, bones, muscles and nerves, but only look how nicely arranged.

He got up slowly, hoping not to disturb her, and trying to keep his head as level as possible. To his relief, she did not waken, but flopped onto her other side. Her shimmy rode up to her hips, and he enjoyed the view. Cautiously, he touched his temple. The swelling had gone down a little. He felt the laceration, crusted over now. Hippocrates, I am disinclined to suture myself. Perhaps Daniel can do the honors in the morning, or perhaps I can get by with a well-placed plaster. Very well, sir, call me a coward.

He groped under the bed for the crock and relieved himself as quietly as he could. In the silent room it sounded to him like Angel Falls in Venezuela, but Elinore did not stir. He found his trousers then and pulled them on. He considered the shirt, but did not think Sonia Ramos would object to his smallclothes.

He nearly stumbled over Harper in the hall. The private sat up, more alert than Jess would have thought possible in a man so unfamiliar with the art of warfare, no matter how long his particular enlistment. "Go back to sleep, Private. I am going to check on Se?ora Ramos."

The door was open slightly, and he peered inside. Sonia still lay on her side, but the baby was curled close to her now, nursing with steady pulls. A man sat on the stool close to her bed, one hand resting on the baby's head and the other on Sonia's head. He looked around, then stood up quickly. Sonia opened her eyes and spoke to him. Jess recognized the word for surgeon, and the man sat down again.

He wanted to ask him how he got past Harper, then noticed the open window. He walked to the window and looked down. A horse was tethered below, tied to a tree that must have served as Se?or Ramos' route. Why is this, he wondered.

"We have all become careful," the man said, as if in answer to his thoughts.

Jess nodded. "Your English is so good."

Ramos shrugged. "If you English in your arrogance will not learn Spanish, what am I to do?"

There is much truth to that, Jesse thought, considering his brother officers who merely raised their voices and spoke English slower, and then wondered why nothing happened. "Indeed," he murmured. "I believe you are right."

The man kissed Sonia, and rose, only to kneel before Jesse, take his hand, and kiss it. "Thank you for the lives of my wife and daughter."

As startled as he was, Jess had the good sense not to jerk back his hand. He helped Ramos to his feet, then put his hands on the other man's arms. "I am glad I was here to help," he said simply. "If I have learned anything from war, it is to cherish life."

"I am in your debt."

Jesse shook his head. "I was only doing what I promised Hippocrates I would do."

"Then, he is a good man, too. Please tell him for me," Ramos said fervently.

You hear that, Hippocrates? Another ringing endorsement. "I will." He turned to Sonia, who indicated that he put the baby back in her cradle. He took the infant from her with pleasure, enjoying the way babies newly birthed contracted into a small space, even though they had the world to stretch out in now. He held her close to his chest for a moment, feeling the steady rhythm of her. "You were determined to live, weren't you, my dear?'' he asked, and then put her on her side in the cradle. He wanted to hold her longer, because he liked that utterly unique fragrance of newborns, but it was late.

He turned back to Sonia. "Con su permiso," almost exhausted his Spanish, but she understood his motions, and lay on her back. He kneaded her abdomen gently, pleased that her womb was already contracting. "Está bien, se?ora," concluded his repertoire.

He started for the door, but Ramos stopped him. "I think you should know that the rather elegant horse hitched to your wagon is the favorite mount of Souham himself," he said, naming the general who had assumed command after Marmont was injured at Salamanca. "Look in the saddlebags and then consider the wisdom of keeping the horse."

"How do you ..." he began, then considered the nature of Ramos' current trade. "Perhaps I shall do that in the morning, se?or. Go with God."

He left them together then, and went back to his own bed, to stand a while on the chilly tiles to admire Elinore, whose shimmy had slipped entirely off her shoulder and exposed one lovely breast. When he thought he could trust himself, he climbed in beside her, and had the pleasure of putting his cold feet on her legs. She mumbled something and settled against him in such a way that he thought it best to turn his back to her.

He contemplated the variety of things he wanted to do with his wife, and allowed himself the luxury of imagining a week or two with time to devote to her alone. Time! He had never had any, not since the University of Milan declared him a surgeon and he plighted his troth with the Medical Corps. I wonder what it would be like to have time, he asked himself. It is your fault, Hippocrates. I cannot fathom such a turn of events. He slept.