Mist rose up from the frosty earth. Jane looked out the window and saw it would be a cold but sunny day. The echoing thud of Seth chopping wood was home-like and reassuring. She turned and made up her little bed quickly. William was still asleep, pale and quiet. He did not wake for the sound of Seth's axe, or for Silas fetching water, or for Letty and Biddy, clattering in the kitchen getting breakfast. Not even the distant call of bugles from the camp could stir him from a deep slumber. With another glance at her husband, she went to the kitchen to help her servants, shutting the door silently behind her.
"Good morning, Miss Jane," Letty greeted her.
"'Morning, honey." Biddy was lifting a baking of corn dodgers from the hearth.
"Good morning." Jane felt it might indeed be good. Her cloak hung from a nail by the door. She threw it on, and walked outside to the privy, brown leaves crunching beneath her feet. Her breath puffed out whitely before her, and the chill made her nose ache. She used the crude facilities with dispatch, glad to get back to the warmth of the kitchen.
This little log house was a home of her own. When Jane had dreamed of independent establishments, she had not pictured an unpainted, plank-sided log cabin in the backcountry, but it was hers to command while she stayed here. No bellowing orders came issued from a forbidding study, no penetrating odor of patchouli and jasmine turned her stomach.
On the other hand, she faced challenges she had never imagined. She had always pictured a sizeable mansion, much like her father's houses (but pleasanter!) when daydreaming about her future. She and William were living in a single room that served for sleeping, sitting, and dining. It was less cramped than she had feared at first, for her servants seemed to find their rooms above and the use of the kitchen quite sufficient, but it had all demanded concession and adaptation from Jane. The little house was draughty, and dirt and wood dust from the unplastered ceilings drifted down continually. The privy and stable were so close that a faint tang of urine and horse manure underlay all the cooking smells inevitable in a small house that contained its own kitchen. Mice were an ever-present plague. Possibly a dog or two about the place might help the mouse problem, if not improve the general odor. I wish we had a cat. But there were none to be had, out here on what seemed like the frontier to Jane.
When they had reached Camden, she had strained her eyes, trying to see the town. Finally, it became apparent that the few scattered houses and stables were the town, which was completely dwarfed by the army encampment and the fine fortifications begun by Lord Cornwallis and completed by Lord Rawdon.
She knew the little town fairly well now: easy enough, when there was no more creditable street than Broad Street (the name was a gross exaggeration, in Jane's opinion). There were a few little shops, a small church, and a great many soldiers. Jane was glad she had arrived after the departure of the majority of the army.
Biddy's wisdom in advising her to buy their own supplies was humbling to Jane. Now she wished she had brought more. The army was on short commons as it was, and did not need additional mouths to feed. She opened the rice cask and set about making some gruel for William. She hated seeing the level lower, day by day, with no guarantee that she could get more when it was gone. It made a very digestible food for an invalid, and Jane was keeping it back for her husband's sole consumption right now. It would last for some months, with care. She had never had to worry about having food before. Now she wished she had brought a box of apples, and spices and raisins and chocolate!
Perhaps that was why she had no trouble eating now. When a bowl of cornmeal mush and molasses was put before her for her dinner, she was hungry for it. Her baby inside her made demands, and she was working harder than she ever had in her life. She could not leave all the housework to Letty and Biddy, and William needed constant care. Perhaps for that reason, she was sleeping well, too, even though it had been difficult, at first, to adjust to the feel (and noise) of sleeping on a straw tick, instead of a feather bed. And if Biddy had not insisted, Jane would not have brought enough warm bedding, either.
She had written twice to her Cousin Mary. The first letter had advised her of Jane's safe arrival. After looking about her, Jane had written again, and enclosed money and a shopping list. Lord Rawdon was kind enough to send her letters with his dispatches. Supplies were still coming in to Charlestown. Her cousin could purchase from the list, and with any luck, the items would eventually arrive. Sooner rather, than later, Jane hoped.
All and all, though, she was happy to be here. There was a feeling of accomplishment in facing danger and surviving it. And William had truly needed her. Odd, how it was easier to call her husband by his Christian name even in her thoughts now. Perhaps it was his frail, dependent state that made him seem more—human—to her. He had been holding his own—barely—when they arrived, but Jane was convinced that a longer stay in the hospital would have ultimately killed him. He was improving now, at least a little. Under Biddy's watchful eye, he seemed to have turned a corner. His color was a little better, and he was awake more of the time. And then Jane had to find ways to keep him occupied and content.
The rice was on the boil now, and Jane would cook it into mushiness, and serve it to her husband sweetened with sugar. An egg or a bit of cream would make it more nourishing, but eggs and cream were hard to procure. She would send Letty and Seth to the shops to see what they could find for ready money. Anything to vary the diet of fat bacon and corn mush would be welcome. Anything, at least, but the maggoty beef that came all the way from England and served for army rations. Jane shuddered, hoping that the day would not come when she was so hungry that even that would seem palatable. Silas and Seth were more than willing to hunt and fish, but for their own safety Jane dared not let them wander too far afield. It was winter, and the pickings were slim.
She poured the gruel into a small bowl, and carefully scraped a little sugar from the loaf to stir in. Their one decent tray was arranged with a cup of tea, the bowl of porridge, and a silver spoon and linen napkin of Jane's. She carried it into the sickroom and saw that William was awake and looking for her. She gave him a smile.
"Breakfast is ready, William."
A wan smile answered hers. "Impeccable service."
She set the tray on the little table, and helped him sit a little more upright. Tavington leaned forward, stiffly and painfully, to allow another pillow to be slipped behind him. He lay back on it with a sigh. Jane pulled the table closer and reached for the bowl.
"I believe I can feed myself today, Jane." Tavington waved off her proffered help and took the bowl and spoon into his own hands. "I need to do things for myself."
That was too true for contradiction, so Jane sat quietly, ready to take the items when he was finished. Slowly, with careful deliberation, Tavington set about using the oddly heavy spoon. Half-way through he was tired, but kept at it doggedly, determined to get well. There was a scant spoonful left when he finished, and Jane scraped it up. "Let me give you this last bite."
"If you must."
The bowl and spoon were set aside, and Jane helped him with the heavy cup. He was glad of the tea. It warmed something deep inside and filled him with new energy. He shifted position and gasped with a sudden pain. He was somewhat amused at his wife's sympathetic wince.
"I would have imagined you'd enjoy seeing me suffer. Haven't you wished for this?"
Jane grimaced impatiently. "Well—perhaps not so much as you might think. I don't deny that from time to time I thought you deserved your share of misery—just not like this, and not with me nursing you."
He smiled, more genuinely this time. "But you do it so well. You've a talent for nursing—or perhaps I'm just happy to see you."
"Really?" She paused, and looked at him thoughtfully. "That hardly seems likely. I was expecting you to be angry."
"No, truly." He reached out to take her hand. "I am very happy and grateful that you came. This is paradise compared with the hospital. I really thought I would die there."
She kept his hand in hers. "Will—William. You're not yet out of danger. Your recovery will be long and difficult, and I imagine you'll be thoroughly sick of me by the time you're well."
"Possibly. We'll find out." He stroked her hand with his thumb, a light caress that threatened her composure.
Don't be sweet and loving now, you wicked, wretched man. I couldn't bear it.He was still smiling at her, his gaze travelling to her swollen middle. "Being with child becomes you, Jane. Your skin is glowing, your features are fuller, your figure altogether improved. Are you quite well?"
"Oh, yes! I'm past the early days when I felt a little discomposed sometimes. I'm quite well."
"And do you," he paused, and a flicker of tenderness crossed his face, "ever feel the child move?"
"Yes." She smiled in her turn, and moved a little closer. "At first it was just a little trickling sensation, like a tiny stream flowing through me, but now I feel real movement. Here."
His hand still clasped hers. She laid it on her belly. "Wait."
They were perfectly silent in the little parlor, hearing only the wind outside. After a moment, Tavington felt a sudden movement that could not be his wife's doing. His eyes lit with wonder and delight. There was his child—a real little person who would someday have likes and dislikes, talents and troubles. He wondered if it would be a boy or a girl, like his dear sisters. While the Tavington family needed an heir, he would welcome a daughter, too. A daughter would be always at home, taught conscientiously by Jane, and would never be banished to the mercies of a schoolmaster. It was an awful responsibility to be a father, but it would be worse to die and leave Jane alone to raise his child. He imagined her remaining in this dreadful colonial backwater with the last of the Tavingtons. At that moment, he felt perfectly certain that he must and would live to help raise his child. That certainty filled him with a sense of calm purpose. He patted Jane's belly, visualizing the child curled snugly inside.
The door opened, and Letty brought in Jane's breakfast, and removed the dirty cup and bowl. Tavington gave the pretty creature a nod of acknowledgement, smiling at her wary curtsey.
Jane said, "After breakfast, Letty, I'd like you to go to the shops to see what you can find for dinner. Take Seth with you, just in case."
"Yes, Miss Jane." She vanished through the door, and Jane sat down to her own plate of corn dodgers flavored with a few shreds of bacon. Dipped in the sweet tea they were not bad. Tavington watched her eat, interested and approving. She finished quickly, and asked, "Would you like me to read to you?"
"Actually, I'd rather have some music. I noticed that you brought your little spinet."
"I'll have to tune it first, and you might find that tiresome."
"No, indeed. I'd like to see how you do it. If you have nothing more pressing—"
"Nothing, of course. But—" She longed to call Letty in to help her, but was nervous about betraying her secret.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Only—" She cleared her throat. "I meant to call Letty in to help. I've been teaching her to play the spinet, and she needs to know how to care for one." There. It was said, and Jane awaited the coming storm.
But Tavington was not angry. "Really? How pleasant to have another musician in the household. Pray send for her at once."
Letty was called back in, and Jane had her practice with tuning fork and key. It was painstaking, delicate work, pulling the strings into harmony with one another, and Tavington's eyes drooped as they worked.
They opened when Jane sat down and played a soft and haunting air, The Two Ravens. He smiled idly, enjoying the moment. When she finished, he expressed his pleasure.
"Charming, my dear. And now, let us hear your pupil."
Nervously, Letty sat in her turn and played Soldier's Joy. It was a short and simple piece, but she played it without error and with some liveliness.
"Very nice, Letty. I thank you. And you, Madam, seem to be as a good a teacher as you are a nurse."
Somewhat flustered at the praise, Jane flashed him a quick smile, and then gave Letty money and instructions for her shopping. And then there was nothing for it, but to play her husband an impromptu concert.
-----
Letty was not sure why Seth was following her at such a respectful distance. Whenever she turned to ask him, he would grin and bow low.
"Get over here!" she hissed. "What's got into you?"
"Yore servant, Missy." He bowed again, and added in a low voice. "I bet these folks would sell to a nice young white lady 'fore they'd sell to a pair of slaves!"
"Seth, we're going to be here for months, maybe! We can't go deceiving folk here!"
"I didn't say nothin' about deceivin'. You just don't tell folk more than they need to know!"
She laughed, and let him have his way. Seth had always been a mischief-maker, thinking of ways to trick the Old Master. She had let him know from the first that she wouldn't have him use Miss Jane so, but he was so lively and full of fun it was hard to be angry with him.
It was an effective ploy. The little country store was low on supplies and high on prices, but the smiling shopkeeper helped Letty find some useful items. Within half an hour, they were on their way back to the little log house with a bushel basket of yams, a little bag containing three nutmegs, and a pot of lard. Jane welcomed them like conquering heroes.
"Sorry we couldn't get no ham or bacon neither, Miss Jane," Seth apologized. "Folks ain't partin' with what they got left in the smokehouses, and can't say as I blame them."
"I can't either, I suppose," Jane agreed. Their meat would not last long at this rate. If only I'd brought another side of bacon, or some hams!
But she must be thankful for what they had. The yams would be roasted, and what a feast that would make! She had put out the word that she would pay good money for eggs, and when she had some in hand she and Biddy would make an Indian pudding, flavored with the serendipitous nutmeg. Housekeeping was more interesting, she reflected, when one had to improvise and make do.
-----
Cousin Mary was her only hope of staying abreast of family news, and her hopes were answered by a letter in late February.
Her cousin was still horrified at Jane's impetuous adventure north. In addition to the usual suggestions as to how to keep warm and well ("Only drink tea, my dear, and avoid draughts."), she had some real news for Jane.
…and of course you will want to know all about Selina's confinement. She was attended by old Doctor Buchanan, and is still weak, but apparently out of danger. There was some altercation after the event, I understand. Abigail Pinckney was there, and told me that Selina wanted to nurse the little one herself, but Ashbury would not have it, going on, Abigail said, in a very coarse way about her bosom being too fine for such a task. Selina was very disappointed, for she seems quite fond of the child, who, by the way, is a boy: a particularly large, strong infant.
She wanted to call him after her grandfather, old Judge William Pinckney, but Ashbury denied her that as well. Abigail said it was all done very smilingly, but you know how your father can be about having his own way. The child has been christened Thomas Pinckney Rutledge and is the apple of his fond father's eye. I do not care much for Selina, but I think after suffering all the pangs of childbirth, a mother should be indulged at least a little. But that is neither here nor there.
I also spoke to Cousin Alice about Selina when I saw her in church last Sunday. Apparently, she is spending much more time with her children than formerly. They are brought to her in the afternoon for a full hour every day. She was always very flighty, I thought, and careless of other people's possessions, but perhaps she is settling down somewhat now. One forgets sometimes that she is not yet one-and-twenty. One hopes that she will handle little Thomas more carefully than she did my figurines!
Of course I felt it my duty to call on Selina and see the child, though that sort of visit gives me no pleasure. She received me in her bedchamber, and was doting on the infant when I arrived. She held the little creature out to me to admire, and looked at it as if it were pretty. No newborn can be so, in my opinion, but I managed some insipid compliments. The women were all hovering, trying to trace a resemblance to the parents in the child's feature. Quite ridiculous. Little Master Thomas looks like every other baby I have ever seen: pink, drooling, and hairless—rather like a wriggling worm.
Your little brother Ashbury the Younger was there, too. Apparently there has been some little jealousy in the nursery, but that day he behaved fairly well-- for a little boy--and proudly declared that Thomas was his! "My own little brother!" At least I am told that is what he said. The other women were cooing over him so loudly, any rational conversation was quite impossible. I know, however, dear Jane, that you are fond of your brother, and so I can assure you that he seems well and happy, and enjoys Selina's new attentions to him very much. He stood by the bed, petting her, and called her "my pitty Mamma." And then all the women cooed again. I left as soon as the quarter hour was finished, and was glad to return to the peace and sanity of my own quiet home…
Jane sat quietly, the letter in her lap, looking at her sleeping husband. Someday she would have to tell him about the birth, but she must command her own feelings before she could do that with suitable composure. She imagined the infant: not much hair, so color could not yet be a determining factor. It was not surprising that no one could really find a resemblance to anyone in the unformed features of a newborn child. Little Thomas Rutledge was simply a healthy little boy who might be either her half-brother or stepson. Even without either claim, he was a helpless, innocent creature who deserved the care and kindness any decent woman would give any child. Jane's quarrel, such as it was, could never be with him. Reading of her father's joy at the birth, she could only give thanks, for the child's sake, that it had been a boy. It would have been too sad to see another little girl neglected. Though perhaps Selina's daughter might have been treated quite differently, she considered. Still, it was for the best. Jane was not convinced that Selina would be the best example for a daughter, anyway.
She grimaced, then, thinking of Selina, all the old dislike bubbling to the surface. So she was paying a little attention to the children. That was all to the good, though she wondered if she would favor Thomas over Ash in the future. There was nothing to be done. She ached for her own Little Ash, and resented Selina's new attentions to him. Ash had always been hers. No longer, I suppose. If we ever get back to Charlestown, he probably won't even remember me. He'll be clinging to Selina's skirts. His "pitty Mamma," indeed!
Angrily, she tossed the letter onto the table, wanting it out of her sight.
-----At least there was plenty of work to keep her occupied. She had sewing and expense before her, if her husband were to wear clothing again.
She had never before understood what defeat meant to the losing side. William had been rescued from the battlefield, but had lost everything he owned that was not on his person or near to hand. An orderly from the hospital had delivered his meager possessions, and a pitiful inventory they made.
His uniform, of course, had been destroyed. The surgeons had been forced to cut it from him when they tended his appalling wounds. All that remained to him were his boots, his watch, a purse of money, a handkerchief, his sword, and a pack of cards. None of the items was in particularly good repair. Seth had applied himself to buffing the boots, and to cleaning and sharpening the sword, which took even more work.
She wondered what had happened to everything else, but Harry Nettles explained it to her quietly in the kitchen one day, when he paid a visit and brought her a gift of game.
"The baggage train was taken by the rebels," he told her, unhappy at the memory. "We had some campfollowers with us and they were cut up pretty badly, but mostly they escaped along with us. I imagine that everything there is now feeding or clothing the opposition."
"But the Colonel had some belongings on his horse--"
"—which was killed at the battle. Everything on the horse would have been taken too."
Jane felt a pang for the poor animal, and another for the beloved telescope, his mother's gift and the means of their reconciliation. It was some rebel's trophy now, or smashed beyond repair. What a terrible waste this war is. Someday I shall buy William a new one, and it shall be even more elegant. She sighed, remembering his pleasure in his silver spoon and fork. His clothing and his books were gone, too, and his private papers and letters from his family. Impossible to replace them!
But his clothing was the first priority, and the easiest loss to remedy. Moll Royston, her invaluable laundress, took her to visit the quartermaster; and with Moll's help and advice Jane was able to obtain two shirts, some stockings, a helmet, and a pair of breeches and a waistcoat that were clean and would fit. She sorted through horsemen's cloaks for the best and least stained one available. A tailor was found who could cobble together a presentable coatee out of two old ones. The quality of the shirts was unimpressive, and so she sacrificed some of the very fine linen not yet used for her baby's clothes. Letty, the best seamstress among them, made him an exquisitely soft and comfortable garment, which would not chafe him while he was still bedridden. After that, there were neckcloths and handkerchiefs to sew. There were belts and trappings of all sorts, and Captain Bordon was a great help in choosing the correct ones.
-----
Tavington was better. He was very much better. The surgeons approved of what they called a "low" diet for men in his condition: thin gruel and broth. Biddy disagreed, and thought it was time he had a better variety. He seemed to thrive on it, and was sitting up by himself—mostly-- now. His wounds were beginning to knit, the surgeon had removed his stitches, and before long he might be out of bed. He was more talkative too, and when he had visitors did not doze off any longer. It seemed a miracle to him that Jane had come. He had no illusions about what fate would have been his without her intervention.
Not only hers, of course. It was Biddy who had known what to do for him. He had grown pleasantly accustomed to the older woman's presence, to her firm, gentle hands, and to her serene air and extraordinary knowledge of healing.
One afternoon, when Jane was busy with a pudding, he had decided to express his gratitude.
"I am very obliged to you, Biddy, for your care. There is no doubt that I owe you my life."
"It's Miss Jane you should be thanking, Colonel," she contradicted, with a smile to sweeten the reproof.
"Oh, I have, naturally. Nonetheless, had she not had you and your knowledge of practical care, she would have come only to bid me farewell. It is you who have saved me. I shall never forget that, and when we return to Charlestown, you—and your daughter—will not find me ungrateful."
Biddy only smiled, and smoothed his hair back. She knew how little this kind of gratitude really meant. When men were sick, or in love, or frightened, they were gentled and softened, and promised all sorts of rewards. Years ago, when she had shared the Master's bed, he had made his share of promises: freedom for her and their little Letty, maybe a small house of her own. Master Rutledge had forgotten her, and his promises were dust in the wind, but it did not good to complain. It was just how the world was. She fluffed Tavington's pillow, with another indulgent smile, and took him no more seriously than she would have Little Ash.
-----
Nettles stopped by again, and this time her husband had a long animated conversation with his fellow officer. Jane sat down with some sewing, trying to pay decent attention to what the two of them had to say.
"I lost poor O'Lavery," Nettles said. He downed his tea and stared at the cup in his hands without seeing it. "He and Hobbs were bringing in dispatches and were set upon. Hobbs was killed on the spot, but O'Lavery nearly made it to the fort before he fainted from loss of blood. We found him two days ago and brought him back. At least he was able to tell us what happened and deliver the dispatches—but you'll never guess where he had hidden them to keep them safe from the rebels."
"Where?"
"Stuffed them into his own wound!" Nettles shook his head in admiration. Tavington winced. Nettles took note of his distaste, and smiled slightly. "Quite awful, of course. In fact, the surgeons told me that his heroism probably killed him. He just didn't want them falling into the rebels' hands."
"A brave fellow," Tavington quietly commented.
"Damned brave, and he'll be missed. Lord Rawdon swears he'll put up a monument to him back in County Down, where O'Lavery came from." He smiled wryly. "As one Irishman to another."
The young lieutenant left soon after, and Tavington sat in silence for some time. Jane could see that he was thinking unpleasant thoughts.
Finally he burst out, "Damn these rebels to hell! I ought to be out there killing the wretches, not malingering here in bed!"
Jane took his teacup from him and raised a quizzical brow. "Hardly malingering, William. But I confess that hopes swells once more in my heart to hear you talk so. You are nearly back to you old self, if you have the strength to plot mayhem. Who would be the first you would avenge yourself upon?"
He scowled—not at her—but at the thought of his enemy. "That swine Martin."
"Benjamin Martin? Is he the one who—".
"Yes—but I'll have my revenge when next we meet. I went into battle wounded---Bordon told you that I was shot during the skirmish in which he was stabbed."
"How horrible for you both. Captain Bordon is a good friend. I hate to think of him hurt."
"I like him too. At least I killed one of Martin's sons that day."
"Which son?"
"I don't know—he has such a litter. The eldest, I believe—blonde, pretty, rather vicious—the one you mentioned in a letter. He came at me with a knife when I was down. Perhaps he meant to scalp me."
"Gabriel." She saw him, in memory, at that ball in Charlestown, He had seemed, as the heir of his father's estate, with his good looks and vitality, the happiest of creatures to her at the time. Now he was dead by her husband's hand. It was sad, really, but such were the fortunes of war. A wicked, stray thought crossed her mind. I would be sorrier if he had ever bothered to ask me to dance.
But none of that mattered at moment: her husband's state of mind did. She sat down. "Do you wish to talk about the battle? You were already wounded—what else?"
He looked at her doubtfully, and then reassured by her interest, warmed to the opportunity. "Cornwallis rushed us north. The men were tired and hungry. He didn't get the intelligence he needed before attacking. The rebels set a trap. I saw Martin and ordered a charge. Cornwallis will say it's all my fault, but the battle was already lost. The regulars were concealed behind the militia. We were drawn in and slaughtered."
"What about you? You say you saw Martin."
"I saw him." He paused, swallowing rage. "I saw him. We fought. God, how we fought. He killed my horse, the cowardly swine."
"I heard your horse was killed under you. Such things happen in battle, I understand."
"No! I mean he killed my horse! On purpose! He was holding a rebel battle flag and speared Troilus with it."
"Ugh." Jane made a small sound of disapproval and disgust. "The poor creature. What then?"
"I crashed to the ground and nearly had him, in spite of my wounds. I was on the point of taking his head when he rolled for a bayonet and stuck me with it. And then he stabbed me with another and swaggered off." He stared into the fire. "I'll kill him. I swear I'll kill him. I can never be happy while that man lives."
Jane got up to help him settle down to rest. "It's very important to have a purpose in life," she said pragmatically. "At least, that's what Miss Gilpin has always told me. I think our little chat has done you good. You look more like yourself, when you think about killing Mr. Martin."
"I feel more like myself," he agreed, and submitted to his wife's pleasant ministrations.
-----
There were too few candles to waste by sitting up late at night, there in the draughty little house. Not long after supper, Seth saw that the fire in the kitchen hearth was out before the servants took their little tapers to see them safely upstairs to bed. Jane banked and screened the fire in the parlor carefully, feeling that a little warmth was needed to keep her husband from a dangerous chill.
After her final, freezing trip to the privy behind the house, she would go to the parlor and shut the door, leaving the candle burning long enough to undress down to shift and stockings and slip into her inhospitable little cot. Every night the same thought crossed her mind: I should have brought a warming pan. Sometimes it was like sinking into a snowdrift, as she lay between the cold, crackling straw of the tick, and the heavy chill of the quilts. She would lie there, shivering, until she gradually grew warm enough to sleep. On the coldest nights, she kept her cloak by to add to her covers. William seemed to be warm enough, with the featherbed and a pile of blankets to protect him. He never complained, at least.
This night, she lay there, reluctant to sit up and expose her neck and shoulders to the frosty air of the parlor, even for the brief time it would take to snuff the candle. The little light made her a tiny bit warmer, even if only in her imagination.
She sighed, and then, looking beyond the candle's little flame, she saw that William was awake and smiling at her, a peaceful smile full of kind amusement.
"You're shivering:, my dear." The whisper was perfectly clear in the deep silence of the little house.
"I'll be warm in a little while," she assured him—not very convincingly—since her teeth audibly chattered.
His smile widened. "I'm rather cold myself."
Instantly, she was on her feet, looking about for another quilt to put over him.
"Jane," he objected, at the point of outright laughter. "I meant that perhaps you would be warmer in my bed."
"Oh." She paused, uncertain. "I am afraid of disturbing you—hurting you even—"
"You won't disturb me. And I know you would never hurt me."
"Once I hit you on the nose."
"Are you preparing to do so tonight?"
"No, of course not."
"Then hop into bed here at once, instead of turning into a snow-woman before my eyes."
Shyly, she blew out the candle approached his bed. In the dim red glow of firelight, Tavington seemed made of burnished gold. He turned down a corner of the downy bedclothes invitingly. "In you come," he coaxed. "It will do us both good, I think."
Oh, the featherbed felt so blessedly, blessedly soft. Jane had almost forgotten how luxurious a bed could be. She cuddled against her husband's side, and gently laid her hand on his right, unwounded arm. She had almost forgotten how luxurious it was to share a bed with him. Her foot rubbed pleasantly against his leg, and the intimacy of the touch filled her with tenderness.
"And next," said her husband, with a reflective air. "I think a proper kiss goodnight would help us both settle down to sleep."
"Now I know you're on the mend."
"Perhaps so. Let us put it to the test."
She leaned over, careful of his bandaged shoulder, and pressed a long, yearning kiss to his lips. She felt him smile, and kissed him again, breaking the contact with a last light touch.
"My dear Jane." His voice was a little rough. "My dear Jane. What an accomplished woman you've become. That was possibly the nicest kiss I've ever received."
She touched his cheek. "Then sleep. If you're better tomorrow, you shall have another."
"An inducement, indeed. Sleep well, my dear."
Cozily warm, she nestled against his side, and was dreaming in less than a minute.
-----
Biddy, coming downstairs to look in on her patient before she started breakfast that morning, was surprised to find Miss Jane neither in the kitchen, nor dressed, nor in her own little bed. Looking around the parlor, she saw her foster-daughter still sound asleep, curled against her husband. She came closer and smiled at the sight of them, looking so peaceful and comfortable together. Things were better than she had ever had any reason to hope.
One of the blankets had slid off Jane's shoulder, and Biddy gently tucked it in. She left them to sleep, shutting the door silently behind her.
-----
Notes: The story of Corporal O'Lavery is true, and is recounted in the official history of The 17th Light Dragoons in America.
Next—Chapter 20: Hobkirk's Hill