Page 44 of Earl of Excess
Chapter Twenty
“Sinclair, what areyou doing here?” Matthew said, his voice dry and strained.
“Your father became worried when he stopped hearing from you before the New Orleans battle,” Sinclair replied.
“He checked often and feared for your safety. When I heard what had happened at Villeré, I had to find you. Word had gotten out there were dead British soldiers everywhere for at least a quarter of a mile.”
A lump formed in Matthew’s throat. He remembered the general going down. He had seen two other high-ranking officers fall before he was injured. Laying there, the world had gone dark for him. “I wrote to him, but we could not frank our letters. Bart handled it,” he said, turning away. The last he had communicated with his family was following the Battle of Plattsburgh in September 1814. The letter must never have been posted.
“Bart is your batman,” Sinclair nodded.
“Was,” Matthew corrected softly, keeping his head turned. Bart had lost his life in the most brutal of ways. Little remained of his friend.
“Oh.” Sinclair was silent for a moment. “I gather your dad had been depending on those dispatches, and when they stopped, he scrambled to get a word from Horse Guards—but it was probably hard, being a continent away, and with the Napoleonic wars. This war has been one of the most bizarre affairs I’ve ever witnessed. The Americans do not fight like the Europeans.”
“I know. They fight better, smarter. If we had learned from the first war forty years ago, we would have not lost so many.” He probably should not have spoken so, but he meant it, by God! And he felt like crap. The British were powerful, regimented, and respected. The Americans were scrappy, and only somewhat disciplined. However, with their winning display in this last battle, he had to begrudgingly admit they were due some respect.”
“I understand the sentiment,” Sinclair admitted. “Just do not voice that to many people,” he said, giving a wry smile.
“Yes, I hear you.” Matthew tried to laugh before coughing and choking.
“Easy. Settle down. This virus is difficult on your lungs and digestive system,” Sinclair began.
“You speak as if you know,” Matthew said, raggedly.
“I survived it, but it was a long haul. I was sick for longer than the week, many had speculated. It was touch and go. The illness is not known to our country, and I had ignored the headaches and digestive issues until the virus took hold and was well and fully upon me. I nearly lost that battle. But a lovely woman... Lizzy...” He stopped. “I feel terrible, Romney. I was rough on your friend, Miss Phillips. Rude, actually. Of course, I apologized, but until this moment, I had not realized how I would have felt if someone had spoken so to Lizzy... Miss Pritchett—the woman that helped me get through the yellow jack.”
At the thought of Bethany, he could feel his body struggle to improve. He wanted to be well, wanted to fish with her—anything, if he could be with her. “Bethany has been very good to me. She risked her life and the life of her small dog to save my life. I believe we came here to keep me out of danger of being discovered. She has endured much to help me. Please try to make amends,” he entreated. “She is a good person.”
Exhausted, he focused on his body, limb by limb—mentally willing each one to relax. He could feel himself sinking further into the feather mattress beneath him. It was a trick that Bart had taught him. He had learned it in India, although where, exactly, escaped him at the moment.
“Can you help me get words to Bart’s family? I just realized that I never wrote to them. I stopped writing when he died, I think.” He reached for the glass of water near the bed, suddenly very thirsty.
“Let me.” Sinclair picked up the water glass with his right hand and helped Matthew lean up with his left. “I can try my best. I think I will also frank the letter that your Miss Phillips wrote,” Sinclair said.
Matthew pulled back from the water glass and gave a dry, cynical laugh. “Youwere the one that stole it from the Trading Post. You probably saved our lives, as I think of it.” He took a deep breath. “The owner of the establishment... came to tell Bethany and...” Drained, he leaned back against the pillow.
“I think we have talked enough, Romney. You need rest. The women will not let me see you if I exhaust you.”
Matthew nodded, understanding. “Bethany... can be firm,” he rasped.
“Yes. I have seen evidence of her courage and spine,” chuckled Sinclair. “I must return to New Orleans to check on arrangements, in the event I can return you to your country and your family. I should not be away too long.”
Matthew rubbed his eyes sleepily. “I will be here.” He noticed that his vision had improved, but his body felt like a horse had kicked him. He was alternatively hot and cold, sicker to his stomach than he could recall having been in his life, had a headache, and his body hurt... ached. But he could see... at least better. Things were still fuzzy.
The door opened and a woman with dark hair, lightly greying and worn in braids, spoke from the doorway. “Mr. Sinclair, perhaps the Colonel should rest.” He recognized the voice as Aunt Theodosia, amazed that she looked a lot like the image he had conjured in his mind when he could not see much except her silhouette.
“I think you are right,” Sinclair said. He turned to Matthew. “I should like to talk to your hosts, and I will leave, but will be back as soon as I can, Romney.”
“Thank you, Sinclair,” he ground out, hoping he did not sound ungrateful. “Right now, all he wanted to think about was sleep... and maybe, Bethany.” Matthew’s eyes closed, and he fell into a deep sleep.
*
Romney’s weak appearanceworried Sinclair. He had seen him only a day or so before looking much better. The virus had already begun extracting its toll.
“I know you must be worried. We are as well. We can do nothing but treat the symptoms and hope his body is strong enough to carry him through this, Mr. Sinclair,” the woman said. “I am Theodosia Rand, Bethany’s aunt. Her grandmother, Angelica, is my sister.”
“I appreciate the help you have given him. In conversation with Lord Longueville, I reminded myself that I am only here because of the generosity of a woman that helped me. Had I not met her, I would probably not be here, myself.”
