Mrs Evans had not lied when she had excused herself on terms of an engagement, she had merely exaggerated its urgency. It was true that Dr More expected her at the group home, but only in about two hours time.
With am impatient sigh, she decided to go there early, and pay a call to Mrs Baker. The women had formed a tentative friendship over the winter, maybe she would receive her today.
When she readied herself for bed this evening, exhausted from a busy afternoon at the group home, Desdemona smiled wryly into the mirror on the dressing table. All the exhaustion and work had not at all done their purpose, thoughts of the General were still paramount in her mind.
"He has not offered marriage to you, stupid brat," she told her reflection. A single tear slipped down her cheek, and something within her snapped. Desdemona snatched the first object from her dressing table that came into her way and threw it into the mirror, which instantly splintered into a thousand pieces.
Without an outward reaction, Desdemona snuffed her candle and went to bed.
–
General Fitzwilliam nervously pulled at his his sleeves, as he sat in the carriage which carried him across town. This morning, he had awoken with a new sense of purpose, a determination he had not known since that fateful battle back on the Peninsula. He would no longer suffer the state of affairs between the Widow Evans and himself, something had to be done.
Alas, their society was such that women were not supposed to take an active role in such matters, so it fell on him to take up that role. He would pay Mrs Evans a morning call, offer his hand in marriage to her, and take things from there. His cousin Mrs Darcy had once argued that women in their society only had the power of rejection and little more, and only if men executed their power of choice first. With an impish smile she had concluded that this was well, as men feared nothing so much as being rejected.
The General smiled at the reflection.
Today, he intended to execute his power of choice, in order to give the object of his heart the chance to execute her power of rejection.
What had seemed such a perfect plan when his valet dressed him, and even over breakfast, began to worry him now, in the carriage. Once he had been alone in the confinement of the vehicle, nagging thoughts of "what if" had intruded. Impatiently, he waved away a non existent fly, as the carriage came to a halt.
With the air of a man walking to meet his fate with his eyes open, he climbed the steps to Mrs Evans's house. The friendly housekeeper who opened the door, however, shattered his hopes of an interview with her mistress.
"Mrs Evans is out for the day, General," she said, after he had handed his card. "She left about an hour ago, sir."
"Can you tell me when she will be back? May I wait for her? It is imperative that I speak to her as soon as may be." The General tried to keep his voice clear from the disappointment he felt.
"Sir, I do not know when the mistress will be back, it would not be proper for you to wait here, you see," the housekeeper pointed out. "If you want, sir," she added at the General's bedraggled mien, "I can tell you where the mistress is to be found." After all, she had personally cleaned up the remains of the mirror this morning, and at the sight of the General she had put one and one together.
"I would be indebted to you, indeed," the General answered, with new hope.
"She left for the - group home, sir. Mrs Evans often helps there."
The group home! General Fitzwilliam vaguely remembered Mrs Darcy mentioning that Mrs Evans had recommended Mr Brown to Mr Gardiner, who was well satisfied with his new clerk. Gallantly, he bowed over the housekeeper's hand, whose cheeks instantly became infused with red.
"Oh, sir, I am much too old for that!" She giggled, Richard smiled. For a moment, the gallant Colonel Fitzwilliam of old was back. He took his leave, and called out their new destination to his driver.
–
Whatever possessed me to wear my uniform today? Richard thought when he disembarked the carriage in front of the group home. People were shooting suspicious glances at him, and not because of the scar adorning his face. Well, I cannot help it now.
Drawing himself up to his full height, he strode to the entrance.
"General Fitzwilliam!" a female voice greeted him, as soon as he had crossed the threshold of the run down building. He turned to face the woman, and recognised her as one of the women they had met in he park on that awfully hot day a few summers back.
"General Fitzwilliam, what leads you here?" she asked, making him feel acutely how misplaced he was here.
"Mrs Baker," he answered with a bow which sent her into a hasty curtsey, "may I say that you look well today?" Indeed, she looked better than back then in the park. He cheeks were marginally fuller, and her dress seemed less worn.
"Thank you, General, for the compliment," she answered nicely, without dropping her gaze. Richard could see that she was proud of her improved circumstances.
"I came to speak to Mrs Evans, I was told she can be found here," The General said, after some moments of silence.
"Well, General, if you will follow me, I will show you to her rooms," Mrs Baker said and turned the way she had just come.
"Will you allow me to enquire about your family, Mrs Baker?" the General asked, partly to distract himself from the conditions of the building and the people living within.
"We are well, sir, thank you. The children are doing fine, now that Sammy is in employment again," she answered happily.
The General nodded. "My cousin, Mrs Darcy, told me that her uncle was very satisfied with Mr Brown."
"Sammy is working for your kin?" she asked in astonishment.
"We are related by marriage," the General conceded.
Mrs Baker quitted that with a nod. "I will have to hurry now, to get some food on the table before Sammy returns. Here," she gestured down the hall where numerous people sat, obviously waiting, "are the rooms Dr More and Nurse Evans use. I am afraid you will have to wait your turn."
"No, wait, have not come as a patient..."
But Mrs Baker had dropped a small curtsey and vanished before he could end his protest.
Left alone, the General took a good look at his surroundings. What he saw made him swallow hard. There were men, marked by the war just like himself, many had lost limbs. There were women with drawn faces, their eyes full of worry, small children clinging to them. The bigger children were running up and down the corridor, as the cold did not permit extensive games out of doors. Said cold had even seeped into the building, even though indoors the General felt no need to shed his warm overcoat. Another look around told him that most of the people here did not have such overcoats, most women had simply thrown a woollen scarf over their worn dresses.
With a start, the General realized that this could have exactly been his fate, had he not been lucky enough to be born into a wealthy family. He might have thought himself without prospects, but he realized now that he was not. Not at all.
Yet, the atmosphere on this bare corridor in a run down group home was far from depressed. The people talked animatedly amongst themselves, women exchanged news, advice and gossip, while the men did the same, in a much more masculine way, of course.
Every once in a while, the door at the end of the corridor opened and a girl of about fourteen years of age called for the next patient either to come to Dr More or Nurse Evans. One of the waiting group would then tear away and vanish behind the wooden door. In spite of the unruly groupings, there were no arguments who exactly was next, people just seemed to know when it was their turn.
The Fitzwilliam spent about an hour on the corridor, not insisting on his place in the line, and largely ignored by the others. Neither did he make any efforts to interact.
"General Fitzwilliam!"
Again, he turned at the greeting, this time to see Mr Brown coming towards him. The man, too looked a little better than the last time they had met.
"Mr Brown." The General bowed, fully aware of the stares into his back.
"My sister told me that you wanted to see Nurse Evans, and I thought I might have a look whether or not you were still here." The question hung between them unspoken.
"I..." the General hesitated. "I think," he continued at last, "she is too busy to spare me any time. I had better be gone now."
Mr Brown nodded. "Come," he said, "let me invite you to share the evening meal with my family. No," he forestalled the General's protest with a raised hand, "I will have nothing of that. And now come, Isobel will be waiting for us."
Mr Brown led the General through a veritable labyrinth of corridors and flights of stairs, until he came to a halt in front of a door. The General had no means to tell how it differed from the other doors they had passed, but Mr Brown opened it without knocking and entered.
"Calm down," he called to a bunch of children, "we have a guest tonight, I need you to be on your best behaviour! And now come, greet our guest. Children, this is General Fitzwilliam, General, these are my nephews and nieces: Carla, the eldest of the bunch, Thomas and Jeremy, Betsy here, and the shy one hiding behind his sister's skirt is little James. You already know my sister Isobel, and our sister Jennifer."
The General bowed to each of the children presented to him, which made the girls giggle and the boys answer with serious little bows. All, save little James, who would not come out from behind Carla's skirts. Smiling, General Fitzwilliam treated both the Mrs Bakers to the same greeting. He felt more than a little out of place, but he would be polite to these people.
"Everything is ready," Isobel Baker said at last, "now go wash your hands. All of you," she added with a glance at the men. Mr Brown laughed, and herded the children to a basin put in a corner of the kitchen. A mighty splashing and squealing followed, until all the children had washed their hands to the satisfaction of the women, to whom their hands were presented for inspection.
"Nurse Evans recommended we all wash our hands before eating," Mr Brown explained as he plunged his own hands into the basin after the children had finished. "She said it would help to avoid illness. Up to now, it has served us well," he commented with a shrug and handed the soap to the General.
"It is most likely not what you are used to," Jennifer Baker said when she served the General, which brought her a withering glance from her sister in law. Embarrassed, General Fitzwilliam looked at his plate. Indeed, it was not at all what he was used to.
Mr Brown said grace, and every body began to eat.
"Your worry was totally unnecessary, Mrs Baker," the General said after he had chewed a few mouthfuls. "The meal is delicious."
Betsy giggled, at once silenced by the withering glances of both the Mrs Bakers.
"So have you met Nurse Evans?" Isobel Baker asked the General in order to dissolve the silence which had descended on them.
"Unfortunately, no. She seemed... very busy."
Jennifer Baker nodded. "She usually is when she comes here. Nurse Evans is a veritable blessing for us, you see, Dr More did his best but..." Blushing, she stopped.
"I understand," General Fitzwilliam said, "that Mrs Evans comes here often?"
Mr Brown nodded. "At least once a week. She even came when she had business which took her out of London in the winter."
Richard felt as if he had been hit on the head, hard. They had searched all of London to find the Widow Evans, and none of them, absolutely none of them had thought to ask the people here in the group home! Disbelievingly, he shook his head. The stupidity of them all! Kent was near enough for weekly trips into Town! He caught the knowing gaze of Isobel Baker, guessing correctly that she knew or at least suspected that he was said business. Quickly, he applied himself to his plate again.
"How was your work today, Sammy?" Jennifer Baker asked into the silence.
"Just as usual, Mr Gardiner is easy to work for. If only..." he interrupted himself with a slightly embarrassed look at the General.
The rest of the meal passed uneventful, and even though all of the adults tried to keep up the conversation, nothing much was said.
When the General rose, Mr Brown made to rise as well, but his sister put her hand on his shoulder. "I will see the General out, Sammy."
After the General had taken his leave, he let himself be guided to the front door. Mrs Baker did not speak, and neither did he, until they reached his coach.
"Thank you very much for the invitation Mrs Baker," he said, bowing over her hand. She, too was not immune to the gesture. Yet, she heaved a heavy sigh.
"General, as Sammy would not say it, I will now. His work with Mr Gardiner would be so much easier if he could just get rid of those crutches." She firmly looked into his eyes.
The General looked back at her for a moment, and then nodded.
–
The next day over breakfast, General Fitzwilliam mulled over his predicament. He had practically promised Mrs Baker to do something about her brother and his crutches, the best way would be to get the man a wooden leg. Yet, Samuel Baker did not strike him as a man who would accept charity without protest, let alone from somebody so wholly unconnected to him.
Fitzwilliam sighed, drawing stares from his mother, who just entered the room. "Richard, good morning my dear," she said, moving to the side table to fill her plate. "What has you so concerned?"
"Good morning, Mother," the General answered, "think nothing of it, it is just a bit of business which came up yesterday."
Gingerly, Lady Matlock placed her plate next to the General's, took place and covered his hand with hers.
"Were you able to meet with Mrs Evans yesterday?" she asked, softly.
"No," the General shook his head, "unfortunately she was out for the day."
"Unfortunate, indeed," his mother answered, and withdrew her hand to butter her toast. "Are you going to try again today?"
"In the afternoon, perhaps. I have a bit of business to clear up first," the General answered, rising.
"The bit which came up yesterday?" his mother asked.
"Exactly. Good day, Mother." With a subdued sigh, he bent down to kiss his mother's cheek before he left the room.
General Fitzwilliam grimaced when he boarded the carriage, his knee was bothering him very much today. Somehow, he thought wryly, he could have lived without being a breathing weather alert. Glancing at the wintry blue sky, he guessed that the weather would turn before the day was out.
Nevertheless, he was a man on a mission. Before he tried to figure out a way how he would get the new wooden leg on Mr Brown, the General might just use his time to find out where he could get one of good quality.
Normally, he would have sent his valet on such an errand, but old May was getting more and more... well, old. He made a mental note to have a quiet word with May, but was unsure how to go about the business. May was old, but it was obvious that he needed the income his position as valet afforded. Perhaps the General would speak to his father first, to see if May could in any way profit from the annuities the Matlock estate settled on retired servants.
Then there would be the additional task of finding a new valet. The General grimaced again.
–
"Nurse Evans! Nurse Evans!"
Desdemona was greeted such the very moment her feet touched the ground. With a smile she waved at the Baker children running towards her, and turned back to pay the driver of her hackney coach. Not for the first time she thought that it was high time she kept her own coach and team.
"Nurse Evans!"
The Baker children had reached her now, and effectively ended her thoughts.
"Hello, little ones," Desdemona said smiling, and picked up little Jamie. "What has you so excited today?"
"Nurse Evans, you have to come and see!" Jemmy took her free had, and Tommy tugged at her sleeve.
"See what, Dearies?" Desdemona asked, her curiosity piqued.
"Uncle Sammy came home early yesterday," Carla told her, trying to keep her face straight and grown up. "He said Mr Gardiner sent him home and told him not to come to work for the next week." Her eyes betrayed her excitement.
"What?" Desdemona exclaimed, quite undignified.
"Before he was sent home, there was a man taking measures!" Betsy chimed in, no longer wanting to be left out.
"Measures?"
"Yes!" Tommy squealed.
"And this morning he came with a new leg for Uncle Sammy!" Jemmy cried.
Desdemona rose a questioning eyebrow at Carla, who nodded. "Well then, children, I want to see this man for myself."
In no time at all, they were in the Bakers' rooms, where Mr Brown sat on a stool in the kitchen, with a stranger on his knees before him.
"Well now, Mr Brown," the stranger said at that moment, "it is time to try it. Stand up!"
Hesitating only a moment, Samuel Brown accepted the help of his sister in law who stood beside him, and rose, only to loose balance almost instantly, saved from a fall only by Jennifer's grasp.
"Easy, young man," the foreigner said, also rising to his feet, "you will have to get used to standing on two feet again."
"Nurse Evans," Mr Brown said, as if he saw her the first time in his life.
"Mr Brown," Desdemona answered, her voice caught up with emotion.
The strange man tuned towards her, extending his hand. "I am George Russell, at your service, madam. I presume you are the famous wife of Dr Evans?"
Desdemona shook her head. "I do not know about famous, but I am the widow of Dr Henry Evans," she answered, shaking his hand.
With a smile and a nod, Mr Russell turned back to his client. "Well, Mr Brown, as you are still standing, you might as well try a few steps. Remember to be careful, though I am sure your sister here will allow you to lean on her."
Silence fell over the assembled when Samuel Brown slowly, carefully placed one foot before the other. After three steps or so he paused, and looked at his feet in wonder.
Abruptly, Isobel Baker burst into tears and threw herself in Desdemona's arms, her slender body shaken by mighty sobs.
This broke the dam, and suddenly everybody except Mr Russell sported teary smiles, including Mr Brown.
Mr Russell took his leave about an hour later, not without leaving a cane behind which bore the initials S. B. By that time, Mr Brown was able to cross the kitchen in its full length without the help of his sisters, only supported by his new leg and the cane.
"You have to tell me," Mrs Evans said at one point, "how this came about."
Helplessly, Mr Brown shrugged his shoulders. "Mr Gardiner called me into his office yesterday, where Mr Russell was already waiting. He said, Mr Gardiner that is, not Mr Russell, that although he was quite satisfied with my work we needed to improve certain things. I was very shocked to hear that, as you cane imagine, but Mr Gardiner waved away anything I might have said and explained very gently how my crutches hindered my work and that I would need to get rid of them. Before I could get a word in edgewise, he introduced Mr Russell and said that this gentleman would now take my measures for a new leg." Shaking his head, Mr Brown ran a hand through his hair. "I was flabbergasted, and even more when he explained that I would take one week off to get used to walking on two legs again."
"When he came home," Jennifer Baker picked up the tale, "I wanted to know about the cost. Even with the wages Mr Gardiner pays Sammy, we could not afford..."
"I have asked the same, once I was master of my tongue again," Brown said, still shaking his head in disbelief. "Mr Gardiner only said not to worry, all was settled. I could not accept that, but he again waved my protests away, and explained how his motivation was nothing more than self-interest as he expected me to work more efficiently with the new leg."
"I can hardly believe it!" Jennifer Baker exclaimed, tears of joy on her face. "And we have you to thank for, Nurse Evans." Deeply moved, she took Desdemona's hand, who pressed hers in return.
"I must admit," she answered, "I have nothing to do with that."
"Oh, but had you not mentioned Sammy to Mrs Gardiner he would not have come to work for such a generous employer, and..."
Desdemona laughed. "Please, Mrs Baker, I might have mentioned your brother to Mrs Gardiner, but that was all I did. The rest was all your brother's doing!"
They continued a little longer in that fashion, until Mrs Evans took her leave to open up her consulting room.
When she went down the stairs, she could not but wonder why the usually verbose Isobel Baker had hardly said a word.
–
The following week, Mrs Evans's housekeeper admitted General Fitzwilliam just as Desdemona was tying the ribbons of her bonnet, ready to leave the house.
"General Fitzwilliam," she greeted him, hoping that nobody would notice the high pitch her voice had taken on.
"Mrs Evans," the General answered gravely. "I see you are going out," he continued after bow and curtsey had been properly exchanged. "May I offer you a ride?"
"Indeed, I am on my way to the - group home. You need not go out of your way, I will flag down a hackney," she answered a little breathless.
"It would be my honour," the General said with a bow. In all honesty, he had called on Mrs Evans today with the express purpose to do exactly that – conduct her to the group home. A few days after he had heard from Mr Gardiner that their plan had been set in motion General Fitzwilliam could no longer reign in his curiosity, he simply had to see how Mr Brown fared.
"Nurse Evans!"
Again she was greeted by excited voices when she had hardly disembarked the carriage. This time, however, there was no joy in the voices, only worry. "Nurse Evans, it is Ronin again," a plump little woman called out, but fell silent once her eyes met the General's, who had donned civilian clothes today.
"Ronin?" Desdemona asked, starting to walk towards the building, "what has he done now?"
"He is in his cups again, Nurse Evans, the devil knows where he gets his fuel."
"Is Dr More not here, Mrs Patterson?" Desdemona wanted to know.
"No, madam, he is not yet arrived."
"Well then, where is the reprobate?"
"We put him on the bench in the corridor to your room for the time being, madam," Mrs Patterson answered.
When they arrived, a ghastly sight greeted them. This Ronin fellow turned out to be a man in his late thirties, with unkempt brown hair hanging into his face. By the time they reached him he was sleeping noisily, snoring through an open mouth.
"Well, at least he is breathing," Desdemona commented dryly.
Gingerly, she picked up Ronin's blood smeared hands, and inspected them one after the other. How she could get so close to that man without recoiling from the stench emanating from him, the General just could not figure out.
Her inspection completed, Mrs Evans dropped the hands none too tenderly, and pulled a key out of her reticule. Handing the key and the reticule to Mrs Patterson, she asked, "would you mind opening the door to my room? We will have to get him inside for treatment. And a wash."
Turning back to her patient, she slapped him hard across the face, twice more when he did not wake immediately.
"Mr Ronin," she said in a loud and clear voice, "get yourself up!"
Slowly, the man came to, squinting at the woman standing above him. He hardly had the time to gain his bearings when Desdemona grabbed his arm and ruggedly pulled him to his feet. Drawing one arm across her shoulder Mrs Evans dragged more than guided the man to her room, where she eased him onto a big wooden table covered with a sturdy looking linen cloth. Ronin moaned at her rough handling.
"Mrs Patterson, would you have the boys fetch a few buckets of water, please?"
With nothing more than a nod, the woman turned and closed the door behind her.
"General," Mrs Evans said while shedding her outerwear in spite of the chill in the unheated room, this is going to get ugly. You need not stay."
"Uh?" he answered distractedly.
Desdemona shot a smile at him, before she kindled the braziers placed in three corners of the room. "I have safely reached my destination, I do not want to keep you any longer," she explained.
"Oh, you are not keeping me," he waved a hand in the air, peering into Ronin's face with concentration. The man had passed out again.
When Desdemona was done with her work she slipped on a white apron which seemed to be made of the same cloth as the blanket covering the table.
"In fact," the General continued, "I would like to keep you company today, and help you if I can in any way."
Surprised, Mrs Evans looked at him, then shrugged her shoulders. "Well, if you insist you can make yourself useful with this one. But then I will have to ask you to leave, as most of my patients value privacy above all."
The General nodded his understanding. "How shall we begin?"
"As soon as the water arrives, we will have to wash his hands. I suppose he managed to break glass again in his booze, so we will have to look for splinters in the wounds."
"Is he often like this?"
Desdemona shrugged. "He usually manages without drawing blood. Ah, here comes the water. Place it here in the corner, boys!"
With a smile, she put a coin in each of the two boys hands when they had discarded their load.
After they were gone, Mrs Evans put some water into an earthen bowl, and the rest of the bucket into a small kettle which she set in one of the braziers to heat. Then she put a cloth in the bowl to soak.
"Help me to get him to a sitting position, General. We have to get this jacket off. The shirt has to go with it, I suppose."
The General did his best to hold Ronin, while Mrs Evans made short work with the clothes.
"You can put him back down now."
"How do you manage with the..."
"The stench?" Mrs Evans asked without looking up from her task.
"Yes," the General breathed, while he looked on as she gingerly set to rinsing the injured hands.
Desdemona chuckled. "New staff in army hospitals is told to breathe through the mouth and think of roses. You should try that, by the way." Shooting another quick smile at him she picked up tweezers and began to pluck bits of broken glass from Ronin's hands.
"Can you light a candle and hold it here? Thank you."
They worked in silence for a while, until Mrs Evans declared the hands of her patient now glass-free. With her lips pressed into a thin line she applied a liberal dose of medical alcohol on the cuts, a procedure which made her patient moan in protest.
"Are we back again, Mr Ronin?" she asked, without any gentleness in her voice.
Ronin answered with a decidedly ungentlemanly expletive, and promptly sank back into unconsciousness.
"Is he always like this?" the General asked after she had put a stopper on the bottle with the foul-smelling liquid.
"I am afraid he is."
"What happened to him? He does look healthy to me, as far as I can tell in his state."
"Well, General, some carry wounds from the war which cannot be seen in the mirror." Her gaze was hard as she looked up to him. He nodded, understanding, and ran his gaze over the unconscious man.
"What did you say was his name?" he asked, seemingly out of nowhere.
"The people here call him Ronin, but I believe is real name is Robert Hammond. I do not know how he came by his nick-name."
With a sound of disgust the General smacked his flat hand against his forehead.
"General?"
"I know this man. Hammond was assigned my aide-de-camp in Spain, double functioning as my valet. I never knew what became of him when I was wounded." With an almost tender gesture he pushed the hair out of the drunken man's face.
"According to what I have been told he arrived here a few years ago, and kept to himself from the very beginning. Later on, he kept to his drink."
The General nodded.
"Was he wounded?"
"Not on the outside."
"I understand."
Mrs Evans finished the dressing of the wounds, pressed her hands into the small of her back and stretched.
"I suppose we have to wash him, and a change of clothes is also in order."
"Wash him!" The General looked scandalized. "You cannot mean that!"
"Oh, of course I mean that," Mrs Evans answered.
"But..."
"General. I am a nurse, I have washed countless of soldiers, it is part of my profession. I think you remember well the second skin of grime and dirt men tend to acquire in the field. How do you think it comes off in the hospital tent?"
Without wasting any more time she went over to the kettle which still sat in the brazier and put some in another earthen bowl. She mixed it with some cold water from one of the buckets and even produced a bit of soap. "You need not help me, General."
General Fitzwilliam shook his head. "That men saved my sanity more than once with his good humour, this is the least I can do for him."
Together, they freed Ronin from the rest of his clothes and cleaned him thoroughly. When they were finished, Desdemona rummaged in a cabinet placed against one wall of the room, and came up with a set of men's clothes.
"These should fit," she said and threw part of it over to the General.
Just as they finished dressing him up, Ronin opened his eyes.
"Nurse Evans?" he asked, dazed.
"Yes, Mr Ronin."
"Colonel Fitzwilliam? This stuff must have been better than I thought." Still weak, his head sank back against the hard boards of the table.
"No, Hammond, I do not think that this stuff was any good at all," the General replied.
Shocked, Ronin opened his eyes and closed them again with a moan.
"Colonel..."
"It is General Fitzwilliam now, Mr Ronin," Mrs Evans put in. "Can you get up?"
Grimacing, Ronin pushed himself into a sitting position and looked down at himself. Gingerly, he touched his shirt with one bandaged hand. "These are not my clothes. You...!"
"Yes, Mr Ronin, the rags you wore when you arrived here..." Mrs Evans finished her sentence with a wrinkle of her nose.
Ronin turned to the General. "And you..."
General Fitzwilliam nodded, and Ronin's face was instantly suffused by a violent blush.
"Be that as it may, Mr Ronin," Desdemona said in her most nurse-like tone, "as you are back amongst the living I must ask you to vacate that table now. There are others waiting."
With a tenderness which belied her harsh words she put a hand on his arm once he stood before her. "Try to keep those bandages clean, and come to see me the next time I am here."
Ronin nodded his thanks and beat a hasty retreat.
General Fitzwilliam leaned against the window sill and watched silently as Desdemona tided up the tiny room for the next patient.
"I must ask you to leave now, General Fitzwilliam. Thank you very much for your help with Mr Ronin."
"Yes, of course." The General took a deep breath and made ready to leave. He seemed deeply moved.
–
Once outside the room, he looked around himself and tried to gain his bearings. Catching a running boy he asked if he could be shown to the Baker family's rooms. Without great fuss, the boy led the way, his eyes nearly plopping out at the coin the General put into his hands by way of thanks.
With a smile and a pat on his head, the General sent the boy on his way and knocked.
Jennifer Baker opened the door and led him into the kitchen where Mr Brown practised walking. Amidst the merry group stood Isobel Baker, a solemn look at her face. General Fitzwilliam nodded at her, and she nodded back.
–
"I do not know!" Desdemona positively wailed, throwing herself on one of Anne's fine settees. "How am I supposed to know what goes on in this head of his?"
Anne openly laughed at her friend. "Well, amongst the two of us, you are the one with the greater experience." Under the withering stare of her friend, she prepared two cups of tea.
Desdemona had appeared for a morning call a few minutes ago, and had done nothing but complain about General Fitzwilliam's behaviour.
"Have you considered," Anne continued more sober now, "that he might be courting you?" She held out a cup.
"Courting me! Thank you, Anne." Mrs Evans accepted the proffered cup, but otherwise ignored it for the moment.
"Yes, courting you." Anne shrugged her delicate shoulders. "You have not been much out in society since your return from Kent, so he is calling on you at home."
"He is following me whenever I go to the group home!" Desdemona exclaimed with indignation.
"He is showing a commendable interest in your life, your habits and pursuits," Anne corrected.
Mrs Evans's nose puckered. "I suppose."
"Desdemona," Anne said softly, placing a hand on her friend's arm, "you were disappointed that he did not make you an offer of marriage. No," she raised her voice as the other woman made to interrupt her, "do not speak. I know you were. We both know that he would have done the honourable thing had you found yourself with child after that little adventure of yours, but we also know that said adventure should be quite enough to induce him into making an offer."
Desdemona nodded, quietly.
"Now the question is, would you have liked to receive such an offer? Honestly?"
Desdemona took a deep breath, bordering on a heavy sigh. "I suppose not."
Anne nodded. "I thought so. You told me once that you would only consider a second marriage if it was a love match. I trust you still hold that opinion? See?" she continued at another silent nod from her friend, "so how would you have answered to such an offer of marriage?"
Deep in thought, Desdemona rose from her seat and strode over to the window. "I cannot tell," she said after some minutes of silence. "You know my feelings," she said, turning around to face Anne, "but could I have accepted him, all the while knowing that his hand was forced? Could I have believed him, had he professed to love me?"
Anne nodded, calmly sipping her tea for some moments. "Exactly," she said at length. "I cannot say that I know my cousin Fitzwilliam as well as I would like, but he does not strike me as an insensitive man. You should consider the possibility that he wants to show you that you may believe him, once he speaks of love."
Desdemona turned back to look out of the window.
–
On the evening of one exceptionally cold and late spring day, General Fitzwilliam found himself in his cousin Darcy's library, nursing a glass of fine brandy.
Darcy took place beside him.
"So what is it you want to speak to me about?"
The General heave a deep sigh. "Some weeks ago," he said, shifting to find a more comfortable position, "I decided to finally do something about that situation with Mrs Evans. I decided to pay her a call, and finally speak frankly to her, and offer my hand in marriage."
Darcy nodded, giving his cousin leave to take his time.
"When I arrived," Fitzwilliam continued at length, "she had already left, but her housekeeper informed me where she could be found. I followed her to the - group home." He turned to his cousin. "Are you aware that she offers her services to the people there without consideration?"
Darcy nodded. "Mrs Gardiner has mentioned something along that line."
"I went in," the General continued his tale, "and was overcome by what I found. Originally I had come there to solicit a private interview with Mrs Evans, but what I encountered made me think differently. There were so many people waiting to see her, I at once felt my arrogance to think that she could easily make time for me only because I desired it. Later I met an acquaintance of hers, a Mr Brown whom she met in Spain. He invited me to dine with his family. Said family consists of, besides him, a sister, a sister in law and the women's five children. Brown himself lost a leg in the war." He shuddered to remember how exactly Mr Brown's leg had been taken.
"It was obvious that the women did their best to keep their lodgings tidy and clean, but with five active children such an undertaking in such a crammed space is hopeless. It was obvious that an additional eater was difficult as well, yet I never felt so welcome."
He lapsed into silence again, and both men enjoyed the amber contents of their glasses for some time.
"Needless to say," the General continued at length, "I did not pay her my addresses that day. Or any other day, for that matter." He took a generous sip. "Instead I decided that perhaps I should find out more about this woman, about her pursuits, her life. Show her I am truly interested. Bloody hell!" he exclaimed, violently bringing down his fist on the armrest, "I even helped her wash Hammond!"
"Wash? As in... wash?" Darcy was incredulous. "And whom?"
The General waved his interruption away with an impatient gesture. "She is a totally different person when she is Nurse Evans. I have come to honestly admire Nurse Evans." He took a deep breath and savoured another sip of his beverage. "For some days now, I have felt that the time has come to... move forward, so to speak." He paused again.
"Yet you have not spoken to her," Darcy prompted, when the General did not continue for some moments.
"Yet I have not spoken to her. I have come so far and yet-" the General shook his head, "I somehow fear rejection."
Darcy snorted. "As any man in his right mind would," he said, with a sarcastic undertone to his voice.
Fitzwilliam flashed him a humourless smile. "I do not think I have your strength of character, cousin. To propose a second time..." He shook his head, doubt written on his brow. "Elizabeth refused you based on your perceived actions and want of character, it does not matter for the moment that she was misinformed. It matters this: She rejected you on terms you were able to change."
"As hard as it was, I am glad that I was able to change what offended her," Darcy admitted, knocking back the rest of his brandy. "Want another one?" he asked, pointing at his cousin's empty glass.
"Yes, thank you Darcy. The point is, I can think of many reasons a woman might have to reject me which I cannot change. Please," he frowned at his cousin as Darcy made to interrupt him, "please do not comment. Rather, look. I cannot make those go away," he gestured in the direction of the scar covering greater parts of the left side of his face, "neither can I boast of full mobility any more." He placed a disparaging clap on his left knee. "In fact, I am rather a wreck, no longer an able bodied man. You have seen me."
Darcy nodded. "There is no denying those facts," he said calmly, "however I do not think that they hold as much weight with Mrs Evans as they do with you."
"Darn, Darcy!" The General snatched his cane and jumped to his feet in one fluid motion. "Do not tell me that she did not seem to care during that one night at Pemberley. You know damn well that what we accept for one night might as well repulse us if we are confronted with it for the rest of our lives!" Thus wrought up, the General began to pace Darcy's library.
"I was not going to," his cousin answered calmly. "Instead, I was going to point out that I can think of no person better qualified to decide which effect your battle scars have on her."
"So what are you telling me?" Having reached the far side of the room, the General turned and continued his agitated pacing in the other direction.
Darcy sighed. "I am telling you to trust yourself. I am telling you that what you have done over the last few weeks, how you have acted, was enough. I am telling you to trust her."
Fitzwilliam stopped dead, and threw back his head. "I... uh, I do not relish in the prospect of making myself so vulnerable," he said to the ceiling.
"It is far from pleasant," Darcy agreed. "But the effect can be so very gratifying."
Suddenly devoid of energy, the General returned to his winged chair and glass. "I suppose asking her would at least end the suspense."
"Richard..." Darcy began hesitantly, "perhaps you should not focus so much on possible hindrances to the match."
"Think of what you can do instead of what you cannot do?" the General scoffed.
"In a way," Darcy conceded. "Richard, I have never known you so insecure. You were always the more confident of the two of us, you were the one everybody instantly liked. Nothing seemed to be able to stop you. To speak frankly, I envied your ease in social settings more often than not." Darcy savoured some more of his drink on his tongue.
"Those days are over, Darce. Easy manners are nothing compared to the sight I present."
"Do not dismiss yourself so quickly. Actually, I have come to respect and esteem you even more since your return from Spain."
"How so?" Fitzwilliam did not find much to esteem in himself lately.
"You bore everything with true strength of character. Even though you had your weak moments, they were far fewer than any body would have granted you. You never complained about the pain, even though your suffering was obvious during those first weeks at Pemberley. Later, when it became clear that you had reached the best possible state of improvement, you took everything in stride. I know you well enough to have physically felt your pain when it was discovered that you would not ride any more, but you simply turned to accompany Elizabeth on her rambles. I know how you hate to be stared at, and yet you do not hide away at Matlock or Pemberley, you come to Town when ever there is enough inducement."
Darcy paused, slightly shaking his head. "I like to think that I would cope exactly as well as you do, were I in your place, but I am not entirely sure about that."
For a moment, none of them said a word. They both took some time to get lost in their own thoughts, until the General broke the silence.
"I do not think that I have ever thanked you for your hospitality back then. Had you not welcomed me at Pemberley, I would have run mad. You saved my sanity, most likely my life. You are aware that I owe most of what you extolled a moment ago to the supportive care extended to me by you and the yours?"
Darcy accepted the return compliment with a solemn nod. "It was our pleasure."
The two men looked at each other across their glasses in perfect mutual understanding.
–
"I am not asking what became of you, Hammond, or why," the General said, with a serious look on his face. "I am asking: Can you do without the drink?"
Another day on which General Fitzwilliam had not been able to summon the courage to call at the Widow Evans had brought him back to the - group home and into Ronin Hammond's lodgings. With some degree of relief he had found those lodgings in a far better state than his last meeting with the man had made him suspect.
"General..."
"No pretty words, Hammond. Answer me yes or no: Can you do without the drink?" He fixated the other man's eyes with his most piercing stare.
Hammond held his gaze. "I can."
Fitzwilliam nodded. "In this case, pack your things together, you are coming with me."
"General? I do not have the pleasure of understanding you."
"I need a new valet, Hammond, and you are in obvious need of employment."
"Very well, sir."
He had spoken with Lord Matlock a few days ago, who had indeed agreed to settle an annuity on old May. The old valet had been informed and, contrary to Fitzwilliam's expectations, had been relieved to be able to retire and still live comfortably. He had been feeling his age for quite some time now. May had left two days ago, he planned to go live with his brother's family who were tenants on the Matlock estate. His pension would well afford them the additional mouth to feed.
"I am warning you, Hammond," the General continued while his new valet crossed the tiny room to and fro, throwing random items into a valise he had produced from under the bed. "If I catch you drunk once, I will let you go immediately. I will not excuse disrespect of any kind."
"I understand, General. I have known you in Spain, even back then you were not one to overlook misbehaviour."
As there was not much he could pack, Hammond did not take long until he was ready to go. On their way out, they met Mrs Evans, who was herself just about to leave.
"General Fitzwilliam, Mr Ronin, good day to you gentlemen," she greeted them.
"Mrs Evans," the General said, and the customary round of bows and curtseys followed.
Arching a questioning eyebrow at the General, Mrs Evans turned to Ronin. "How are your hands today, Mr Ronin? I see you have taken off the dressings."
Ronin puckered his face a little. "The cuts are itching, madam," he answered, and Desdemona laughed. "This is a good sign, Mr Ronin. In a few days you will have no trouble at all any more."
"I hope so, madam."
"By the way." Desdemona continued, "it is good to see you up and about." The unspoken question hung in the air between them.
"Mr Hammond was just about to accompany me home to my parent's house," the General said before Ronin could say anything. "I gather you were just leaving yourself, may we offer you a ride?"
"Yes, yes, thank you," Desdemona accepted with less grace than confusion.
Leading her by the elbow, the General continued, "I found myself in dire need of a valet, and remembered that Mr Hammond had performed exactly this office for me in Spain. I though I might as well ask him if he was willing to do so again."
"And you were amendable to the idea, I gather," Mrs Evans answered, turning to look at Ronin who had fallen into step behind them.
"Indeed, madam."
Desdemona smiled as they reached the General's carriage. This was the answer to her prayer, she had long since felt that Mr Ronin only needed a purpose in life to pull himself out of his bad ways.
–
A few days later, Desdemona received a note from Mrs Darcy, asking her to call at Darcy house with some degree of urgency.
With a strange feeling in her stomach, she stepped from the hackney coach in front of the imposing building, looking up into the clear March sky. The door was opened immediately, and upon beholding her the Darcys' battle worn butler did not conduct her to the parlour, but handed her over to a maid who led her up the stairs towards the family quarters. Proceedings which did not make Desdemona's queasy feeling abate.
Despite the hour Elizabeth Darcy was not yet dressed, but curled up under a blanket on a settee in front of the fire.
"Elizabeth!" Desdemona exclaimed, "are you unwell?"
Elizabeth stretched out her hand, which Desdemona instantly took. It did not feel feverish, a good sign. With a quick look, Desdemona apprised the state her friend was in, even before Elizabeth was able to say something.
"Desdemona, how good of you to come!" Mrs Darcy said by way of greeting, and pointed out a chair for her friend. "Please have a tea tray brought up, Sally," she said to the waiting maid, and then turned back to her guest. "I hope I have not alarmed you with my note, there is something which I would like to discuss with you." A slight blush and a dreamy smile appeared on Elizabeth's face.
Desdemona lifted an eyebrow. "Elizabeth, are you-?"
They were interrupted by the tea tray, which was duly placed on a little table conveniently close to where the ladies were sitting. "This will be all, Sally," Elizabeth said, "please make sure that we are not disturbed."
After Sally had left, Elizabeth asked her friend to pour the tea. "You see, I wanted to speak to you on a delicate matter. In a way, I would like to consult you." Over her cup, she threw Desdemona a tell-tale smile, which was duly mirrored.
"I hope I am not offending you in any way," Mrs Darcy continued, "but after what we have been through together I could think of nobody else I trust so much."
Desdemona shook her head, smiling. "You are not offending me, Elizabeth, on the contrary. I am honoured by your trust. So I gather you suspect something?"
Elizabeth blushed again, more profusely this time. "Over the last few weeks," she began, "I have noticed that certain foods do not agree with me. For example, fish positively disgust me." Desdemona nodded, understanding. "I have also experienced occasional bouts of seemingly unprovoked sickness in the morning, so that I now have a tray sent up rather than going down to breakfast. Needless to say, it has Mr Darcy worried."
Desdemona nodded again, this time sporting a big smile. She could very well imaging Mr Darcy being worried at his wife's absence in the mornings.
"I suppose you have been spared from monthly visits?"
"Twice now," was the answer.
Now Desdemona laughed openly. "Well, I will have to examine you, but I think we both know what ails you."
The following minutes were spent on a thorough examination of Elizabeth Bennet Darcy.
"Congratulations, Elizabeth, in a few months' time you will present your husband with yet another little one." The two women embraced.
"Oh Desdemona, I am so happy!" Elizabeth, no longer feeling the effects of her morning weakness, flopped back on her settee. "Were you equally happy when you were in the family way?"
For a moment, Desdemona hid her face in her teacup. "We were still on the continent when I was with Alexander, if you remember. While I was happy and excited at the prospect of having a child, I was also very worried. Circumstances were less than ideal, as you can imagine."
She paused to take another sip.
"When Sarah announced her presence, I was ecstatic. We were safely back in England, Henry and I were on better terms than ever, the circumstances were as perfect as they could be."
"What happened?" Elizabeth had caught the shadow which had momentarily passed over the other woman's face.
"When my time drew near, Henry became ill, and was diagnosed with consumption. He separated himself from me and Alexander, as not to endanger us." She took a moment to collect herself. "Henry died only a short while before Sarah came into this world. He never even knew her."
"How sad," Elizabeth said, with a sombre look on her face.
Desdemona shrugged her shoulders. "I admit it was hard at the time, but it is all in the past now."
Elizabeth absent mindedly caressed her still flat belly. "Would you like to have more children?"
With a dreamy half smile, Desdemona turned her head to look into the fire. Slowly, she nodded her head. "If I ever got the chance, I would love to have more children." This was a close as she would get to admit to the dreams of small, fair haired and blue eyed siblings to Alexander and Sarah.
"Do Alexander and Sarah favour their father much?" Elizabeth wanted to know after a while.
Desdemona smiled, fond memories coming up before her inner eye. "Indeed Alexander favours his father very much. He inherited his chestnut hair and brown eyes, as well as his slender built, as far as one can tell by now. His mouth, however, is definitely not his father's."
"Yes," Elisabeth agreed, "I have thought that the only obvious link between his face and yours is the mouth." The women laughed.
"Oh yes, if he continues like this, he will have lips women would kill for when he is grown up! Sarah, on the other hand," Desdemona continued, "favours neither her father nor her mother in looks. You should, however, see the portrait my father had taken of my mother upon their marriage. You know instantly whose descendant Sarah is."
Elizabeth nodded. "My mother always tells me that I favour my grandmother Bennet," she said. "So none of your children have inherited your honey coloured hair."
"No, apparently not." Desdemona shrugged her shoulders. "Not that I care, I do know that they are mine even without great resemblances to the picture my mirror presents."
"Perhaps," Elizabeth suggested, "when you have more children, you will have better luck."
"Elizabeth," Desdemona's voice had suddenly lost all its lightness, "I know that you and Anne tend to consider the General and me practically married, but I have to remind you that he has not made me an offer."
"Would you accept such an offer?"
"Of course."
Coming from a woman who had vowed to enter a second marriage only for the deepest of love, this simple statement held so much more value.