Page 3 of Miss Dignified
A sodden, shivering heap of humanity fell across the threshold. “Thank God. I’m s-s-sorry, Captain, but… th-th-thank God.” Private Bowen Brook lay on his back, his features almost unrecognizable beneath blood and bruising. “Hadn’t anywhere else t-to go. Sorry.”
“Get him out of the wet,” Mrs. Lovelace said. “We’ll need to remove his clothes and get him warm as soon as may be. Use your knife if you have to.”
“These are likely the only clothes he has, and I told you to stay out of sight.” Dylan got Brook beneath the arms and dragged him back far enough that Mrs. Lovelace could close the door. “Lad, can you hear me?”
“Aye, sir. I’m right enow. Just got m’ bell rung.”
Bowen was slight, pale, and half lame, but like most career infantry, he was amazingly tough. Somebody had done much worse than ring his bell.
“What the hell tempted you onto the streets at such an hour?”
“Interrogate the poor man later,” Mrs. Lovelace said, twisting the door lock. “He needs medical attention now.”
Gone was the deference of the conscientious housekeeper. In her place stood the general Dylan had long suspected lurked beneath all those lacy caps.
“Best heed her, sir,” Bowen said as Dylan hoisted the man to his feet. “I wouldn’t want to get the business end of that poker, if I was you.”
Mrs. Lovelace gave Dylan the same sort of look the orphaned kittens had likely given her—defiant, a little hopeful, quite fierce. She kept a steady grip on a heavy wrought-iron poker too.
Of all the confounded, purely female illogic… She had disobeyed a direct order,thinking to come to his aid. But then, an iron poker was a formidable weapon.
“Come along,” Dylan said, securing an arm around Brook’s skinny waist. “Mrs. Lovelace does not tolerate insubordination. To the kitchen with you, and you can make the acquaintance of her palace tigers. I’ll fetch some brandy from the library, and we’ll have you right as a trivet in no time.”
Mrs. Lovelace braced Brook from the other side, and he was soon sitting at the kitchen table, the scent of wet wool perfuming the air.
“He’ll need dry clothes, Captain,” Mrs. Lovelace said, unbuttoning Brook’s coat while he sat inert on the chair Dylan had vacated. “Dry socks, the whole lot. I’d run him a hot bath, but the water will take too long to heat. When you’ve fetched the brandy, please bring my medical box from the herbal.”
Dylan had been given his orders, a curiously comforting reversal of roles. “Mrs. Lovelace, may I make known to you Mr. Bowen Brook, formerly of the 3rdBicksford Regiment of Foot. I will return directly.” He quick-marched for the steps, but paused before ascending. “The kittens can stay, Mrs. Lovelace. I cannot abide the thought of rodents trespassing on your pantry.”
She shooed him off, but Dylan’s artillery had hit its target. Mrs. Lydia Lovelace had, however faintly, smiledat him.
Chapter Two
“I knew Captain Powell wouldn’t turn me away,” Mr. Brook said. “He’s a good sort. Never was much for flogging.”
Lydia’s hands were steady as she dabbed gently at the blood on Mr. Brook’s face. He was a young man, probably not much more than a boy when he’d taken the king’s shilling. About the same age as Marcus would have been. Lydia’s heart ached, to think of those young men and the many thousands of them who had never come home.
“Quiet for a moment,” she said, pressing the cloth to Brook’s abused lip. “The gash on your forehead might need stitches.” His left eye had swollen closed, and a substantial contusion on his jaw was deepening from red to purple.
“Head wounds always bleed something awful, but they usually heal up well enough. Not like my pretty phiz was going to win me a footman’s post.”
This philosophical resignation was characteristic of the men—and occasional women—who called at the captain’s back door. They lived a truncated existence, from one day to the next, one meal to the next, and larger concerns—appearance, politics, weather—mattered only in so far as they affected survival in the short term.
Was Marcus somewhere in London, his life similarly stunted by his military experience? “Hold this,” Lydia said, wrapping Brook’s chilly fingers around the cloth.
She made him a cup of tea laced with honey, because getting him warm and dry mattered almost as much as seeing to his wounds.
“It’s not terribly hot,” she said, setting the cup and saucer before him, “and you probably would rather have rum, but this will warm you up.”
Brook passed her the bloody rag and tried to lift the tea cup, but his hand shook rather badly. “Sorry, missus. Battle nerves. I was always fine when Boney’s men were firing, but then… I get the shakes. Captain said ’tweren’t no matter. Better the shakes than to cast up your accounts like Horrocks did. Regular as taxes, Sergeant Horrible would lose his rations once the shooting stopped.”
Lydia held the cup to Brook’s lips, in part to stop his recitation. She was fascinated and appalled by the recollections Captain Powell’s former associates offered at the oddest moments.
“Did you ever come across a Lieutenant Lord Tremont?” Lydia asked when Brook had drained the cup.
“Never served with Tremont, though my brother did for a time. I always took my orders from Captain Powell. Has a formidable temper, but he never turned it on the undeserving. Saved it for Boney and the generals. Was Tremont your sweetheart?”
Lydia’s hands were steady, despite Brook being the first soldier to acknowledge Marcus had even served.
