An Unwilling Accomplice (25 page)

“Why should you dare to assume that a guest in this house was some lost soul missing from a hospital?” She was suddenly angrier than she ought to be, and I couldn’t quite understand why.

“Because the last sighting we had of this patient was not so very far from here. And for several reasons, he could be considered dangerous. That’s why the man called Maddie allowed me to help him treat the Major.”

That gave her pause.

“A dangerous man? And you’ve misplaced him?”

“Baldly put, yes.”

“I can assure you that he is not Major Findley. I brought him here from Dorset, because he didn’t appear to be recovering quickly enough in that hospital filled with screaming men and a staff too exhausted to care for half of them.”

“And yet there is no doctor available closer than Biddington. Unless of course you consult Maddie. The Medical Corps frowns on patients being cared for in less than ideal circumstances.”

“Are you presuming to tell me that I was derelict in bringing the Major here?”

“Indeed not. It was a kindness. But you can see why I might have mistaken him for
our
missing patient. Under the circumstances.”

She put down the scissors she was still holding in one hand, ready to shorten the stem she held in the other.

“You have a point,” she said, although I thought it was a grudging concession.

As if the little room was suddenly claustrophobic, she gestured for me to follow her, and we stepped out into the very pretty cutting garden.

“What do you mean by dangerous?” she asked when we were out of hearing of anyone in the house.

I had no intention of mentioning murder. “In delirium, men sometimes believe they’re back in France. They will lash out violently, even to the point of laying hands on the Sisters or orderlies.” I held up my arm as a case in point. The bruises had faded nicely to a pea green mixed with yellow. “The same can be true of severe head wounds. If you don’t know what to expect, it can be quite frightening.”

Miss Neville frowned again. I wondered what was on her mind. Something most certainly was. Was she worried about Major Findley? I suddenly remembered what I’d been told about his wandering, and the problem with the goat. They had loomed large when I considered the possibility that the Major could be Sergeant Wilkins. She had seen both as an annoyance. But he had a head wound—and he’d been delirious from the infection in his knee. Was she thinking of her own safety? Someone at the hospital ought to have warned her about the risks of caring for this man on her own, fiancé or not.

She was silent, almost as if she would rather pace than stroll quietly as we moved up one path and down another. It was a full minute before she spoke again. I couldn’t help but wonder if she were weighing the risks of a husband who might turn on her, rather than being ruled by her.

“Will the Major’s leg heal properly? More to the point, will he be able to walk again?”

“I don’t think anyone could answer that just now. If it heals properly, if there’s no additional infection, if he learns to exercise it correctly, that is, without doing additional damage. He could well need to be seen by a specialist.”

“There’s Maddie. He’s cared for everyone in the three villages—the servants here—the tenants on the estate.”

“He’s quite good,” I agreed, not sure what to call him.
Was
he a doctor? Had he finished training? He must have had some experience somewhere. His hands were too sure, his knowledge too extensive. She was a wealthy woman. Why wasn’t she seeing the best men on Harley Street? “But we’ve learned so much about wounds since the war began.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure.” We had reached the gate at the far end of the garden and we turned back. “If he hadn’t been such a fool as to try that wall,” she said then, suddenly irritated, “none of this would have happened.”

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “he didn’t realize what the wall represented. It was one thing to you—surrounding the estate, keeping unwanted strangers out. To him it could have triggered a very different memory.”

She brushed that away as being of no importance. Something else was worrying her or she’d never have allowed me to stay this long. Was it because I was a stranger? Or a nursing Sister? Sometimes people spoke to the medical profession in almost the same fashion as confessing to a priest. With illness or wounds came other worries.

Then it occurred to me that she might indeed be thinking of the future, about marrying an invalid rather than a man who would look after the estate and her wealth and this house as she would want them to be handled. I’d seen very little of the Major. I didn’t know what sort of person he was, what sort of gifts he might bring to a marriage. But I was fairly sure
she
knew precisely what she wanted.

Stopping abruptly, she seemed to realize I was still there.

“Will you find your missing patient?” she asked, surprising me. I hadn’t expected her to care one way or another.

“I expect we will. Eventually.”

“Where is the Sergeant-Major?”

Surprised again—because she’d remembered Simon—I said, “He has gone to Stratford on a military matter.”

We walked on to the door to the flower room and this time she went inside.

“Thank you for explaining matters to me,” she said, dismissing me. “Can you find your way out?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Good day, Sister Crawford.” She picked up the scissors and began to trim the flowers again. They had wilted only a little during our walk and would soon perk up in water. As I made my way through the quiet and empty Great Hall and let myself out the door, I briefly considered risking a run up the stairs to the Major’s room and, if he was awake, speaking to him.

Would this wealthy, strong-minded woman actually consider taking in a stranger found on a hillside and pass him off as her fiancé? Even to protect her fortune and her estate? I was beginning to think it was impossible. On the other hand, I could see that the Major might well have written to Sister Hammond, if he’d been one of her patients, and begged to be returned to hospital, if he had had a change of heart about marrying Barbara Neville. Except when I’d seen her preparing to sit by his sickbed, she’d never given me a reason to think she was madly in love. From her questions just now, she might even have been regretting her choice.

Where then was Sergeant Wilkins?

I had stepped out the door and pulled it shut behind me. Molly was standing quietly, waiting for me. I was just wondering how I was going to mount her when a boy of about sixteen came around the corner of the house, pushing a barrow filled with the oddments of gardening.

I smiled. “Could I ask your help in getting back on my horse?” I said.

He looked around, as if uncertain whether I was speaking to him or not, then came forward.

“That’s Mr. Oakham’s Molly,” he said, putting a hand on her flank as he walked past her.

“Yes, I’d borrowed her to call on Miss Neville.”

He cast a doubtful eye over my skirts.

“She’s rather tall, isn’t she? But I can manage, once I’ve had a leg up.”

He was still looking at me. He was nearly my height. “You tend wounded men?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it like to be wounded, Sister?”

I realized that he was thinking about himself. If the war lasted much longer, he’d be called up. Another year? Boys large for their age often managed to enlist at seventeen.

“It’s very painful. If you survive the wound, if you’re treated in a timely fashion, you’ll be likely to live. But the scar will always be there, to remind you.”

“I broke my leg once. Falling from a tree. It hurt like the very devil.”

“Then you understand what I’m saying.”

“Is there a lot of blood? There wasn’t any when I fell. Except where I hit my chin on a branch coming down.”

“There can be a great deal of blood,” I answered truthfully. “After a while you get used to seeing men bleed, men with awful wounds. Nobody likes it, but there you are. It’s war, and terrible things happen.”

He nodded. “I reckon I can handle it.”

“A brave man always can,” I assured him, trying not to frighten him, but unwilling to lie. He needed to know the answer to his questions. But I felt a sweeping sadness at the thought.

He came forward, linked his hands together, and gave me a boost into the saddle, then stepped back. I was just wrapping my skirts around my borrowed boots when Violet, the maid I’d spoken to in Biddington, opened the door to the house and stopped short, seeing the boy beside me.

She glared at him, and he hastily returned to his barrow, trundling it toward the far side of the house. Violet watched him go.

When he was out of hearing, she reached into her pocket and brought out a folded sheet of paper.

“I was hoping to catch you. The Major told me you’d dropped this in his room while looking after his leg.”

I almost replied that I hadn’t visited the Major this time. Biting my tongue, I smiled. “Thank you, Violet. And please thank the Major for being so thoughtful.”

I’d just shoved the paper into my pocket, as if it had indeed fallen out, when the older housemaid, the one who’d let me in and taken me to Miss Neville, came to the door.

“Why are you standing here, Violet? You’re supposed—” She stopped short as the door swung wide enough for her to see me astride Molly. Her mouth thinned in disapproval of my riding without a sidesaddle, but she said, “Did you require something more, Sister?”

“Violet was kind enough to make sure I could mount again,” I said. “There’s no block here.”

“Indeed, Sister.”

During this exchange Violet had slipped back inside.

I nodded to her, turned Molly’s head toward the gate, and trotted sedately away.

The folded sheet of paper felt like hot iron in my pocket.

I didn’t know how the Major had learned I was in the house. Had someone told him? I wasn’t even sure he remembered I’d helped Maddie lance that leg.

Then who had sent me this note?

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

I
WAITED UNTIL
I was well clear of the house before drawing out the sheet of paper. Pulling Molly to a walk, I unfolded the page.

The writing was a scrawl, barely legible.

For God’s sake, get me out of here.

I sat there, reading it a second time.

Was
it Major Findley who had written to Sister Hammond? I’d already begun to wonder, but here was proof before my eyes. There couldn’t be two people writing to her. But why hadn’t she recalled this patient when she told me about Captain Cartwright?

It was possible that the Major remembered Sister Hammond because she had been kind, even though she’d been assigned to another ward. Or in his muddled state, her name might have been the only one he could recall.

Folding up the sheet of paper again, I restored it to my pocket.

What was I to do about Major Findley?

I felt a surge of pity.

Was he confused, unable to remember where he was, or why? A prisoner in a strange house and looking for rescue? It would explain his odd behavior and his attempts to escape. It was even possible, saddest of all, that the Major might not even remember the woman he was pledged to marry.

On the other hand, I had never actually talked to the man. I couldn’t say with any certainty whether he was halfway to madness or just troubled.

While I didn’t particularly care for Miss Neville, I felt a surge of sympathy for her as well. It couldn’t be easy to know the man one had decided to marry was willing to risk life and limb to flee.

Sympathy notwithstanding, I could do nothing.

I gave the mare the office to move on, and she broke into that comfortable trot once more.

We were drawing even with the burned-out ruins of the old barn. I heard something and thought the goat must have got free again, coming back to where it had been tethered to feast on the brambles and wild shrubs. I pulled up the mare and peered into the bushes, debating with myself what to do if I saw it. Return to Windward and report the fugitive or let the household discover for themselves that it had gone missing again? Certainly no harm would come to it, even if I left it. Someone was bound to notice it gone sooner or later.

I rose in my stirrups for a better look, and the borrowed boots slipped a little. Before I could settle onto the saddle once more, the mare reared and then bucked. Surprised, completely caught off guard, I was thrown.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been tossed from my saddle. My first thought as I went flying over her head was to land well, so as not to break my neck or reinjure that wrist. The next as I collided with the road was, how was I to mount her again?

I hit harder than I expected. There was the heavy
thump
as my right shoulder went down into one of those deep ruts that marked most roads, and I let go of the reins involuntarily as pain erupted down my arm. And then my head struck something immovable that left me temporarily dazed.

As if from a great distance, I heard the mare set out at a gallop down the road toward Upper Dysoe before the darkness came down.

It lasted only a matter of seconds. I was nearly sure of that. But I lay where I’d fallen until the waves of darkness receded and I could look up at the sky and see white clouds billowing overheard in the summer heat.

Taking careful stock, I tested the fingers of my right hand. They moved easily, although there was some pain in my arm and shoulder. Not the pain of a break, I told myself, but it wouldn’t be very long before an ugly bruise appeared.

Drat! I’d just got over the injury to my wrist.

I went on to lift my right forearm, and that went well. Next, I touched my face. A lump, rising fast near my hairline, was sensitive to the touch, but there was no blood on my fingers when I looked.

It was time to sit up before a carter came down the road and found me sprawled ignominiously in the middle of it.

I was a little dizzy at first, but that passed very quickly, and I managed to get to my feet without any trouble. Dusting down my sleeves and skirts was awkward with my left hand, but I didn’t want to press my luck with the right.