“Wait for me,” Ann told the child.
She gathered up her cloak and waded into the pandemonium of Monsieur’s kitchen. He was still ranting about wilted leeks, so she waited patiently until he’d cursed Haymarket, English roads, English farmers, and the English sky, which felt compelled to produce English rain at least every seventy-two hours.
“You are holding your cloak,” Monsieur said. “I do not pay you to hold your cloak, Pearson. Somebody must oversee the sauces, and that somebody is you. Do not try my temper this evening, or I shall chop you up and add you to the curry, though there is barely enough of you to make a proper curry.”
Monsieur was handsome in the dark-eyed, dark-haired Gallic tradition, and he would age splendidly, for all he’d become tiresome within a week of taking employment at the Coventry. He was a competent chef, and thus his foibles were tolerated.
Were he female, he’d be making one-tenth of his current salary, and he would have been sacked before the first tantrum concluded.
Ann passed him the note. “A child has been injured, and Mrs. Dorning’s brother has summoned me.”
Monsieur read the missive and handed it back. “Are you a surgeon now, tending to clumsy children?”
Ann merely stared at him. Monsieur well knew Mrs. Dorning’s feelings regarding family, and more to the point, he knew Mr. Dorning’s devotion to that same family.
“Don’t tarry on this errand,” Monsieur said with a sigh. “The leeks are atrocious, Pearson. English leeks are a tribulation invented strictly for penitential purposes, and this lot is truly disgraceful.”
Monsieur had doubtless chosen this lot that very morning after no less than fifteen minutes’ deliberation over the entire wagonload.
“Soak them in ice water, and they’ll revive after an hour or so,” Ann said. “Works for celery as well, if that diatribe is on your program tonight.”
Monsieur smiled—or bared his teeth. “How you wound a sensitive soul who has never wished you anything but good. Be off with you, I must save the buffet from a fate worse than Scottish porridge.”
The child who’d brought the note stood in the doorway to the back hall, watching Ann solemnly. The boy was not impressed with a busy kitchen and was not angling for more food. He was silently begging Ann to hurry.
She settled her cloak about her shoulders, snatched up a straw hat, and retrieved a basket of medicinals from a cupboard. Then she followed the lad into the gathering gloom of the evening and started praying.
Chapter Two
“She’s here!” Louis’s shout nearly startled Rye out of his boots. “I brung the lady!”
“Good work,” Rye said, going to the top of the ladder and peering down into the shadowed stable. “Miss Pearson, if you could join us up here? Louis, fetch the lantern and then see to your supper.”
The stable had grown dark while Orion had waited, and memories had crowded in. How many hours had he spent in the infirmary tents, listening to a dying man’s final ramblings or writing out the last letter the fellow would send home? How many times had he refused a fallen soldier’s entreaty for a single, quick bullet?
“Colonel,” Miss Pearson said, arriving at the top of the ladder. “Good evening.”
Orion took the basket from her and waited while the lady dealt with her skirts and climbed from the ladder into the hayloft. Louis passed up the lantern and tried for a gawk. He climbed back down when Orion aimed a glower at him.
Benny clearly did not want an audience.
“Miss Ann has come,” Orion said. “You will do as she says, Benny, and if she says to send for the surgeon, we send for the surgeon.” No soldier ever wanted to fall into the surgeon’s hands, much less commend another to that torment.
“I ain’t ’avin’ no bloody sawbones,” Benny muttered. “Go away, Colonel.”
“You’re insubordinate,” Orion said, brushing a hand over the boy’s brow. “Mind Miss Ann, or you’ll be scrubbing pots for a week, lad.”
Miss Pearson watched this exchange with an air of puzzlement. “Where is the injury?”
“He won’t tell me,” Orion said, straightening. “Won’t let me move him, won’t stir from his nest, but there is a wound.”
“If you will give us some privacy, I’ll see what I can do.”
Orion regarded the miserable child curled in the hay. “This boy is dear to me. Please spare no effort to bring him right.” He would not embarrass Benny with a closer approximation of the truth: Loss of the child would unman him and send the other five boys howling with grief.
“We need privacy, Colonel.”
“I won’t go far.” Rye could not go far, could not leave a man downed on the battlefield. “Holler if you need anything, and I do mean anything.”
“I understand.” She made a gesture in the direction of the ladder, her gaze calm and direct. Be off with you. I have the situation in hand.
He’d forgotten how petite she was, how serenity wafted about her like a fragrance. “Benny was right to send for you, and thank you for coming.”
“I will render a full report as soon as I’ve examined the patient, but I cannot do that until you remove yourself from the immediate surrounds.”
Orion made himself descend the ladder and busied himself tidying up the horses’ stalls while soft voices drifted down from the hayloft. Benny was holding a conversation, not merely moaning out orders, an encouraging sign.
Night finished overtaking day while Rye worked. Summer had departed and autumn had arrived. Rye’s hip told him as much on the chilly evenings and chillier mornings. Miss Pearson remained in the hayloft, speaking quietly. Benny responded, and the cadence was that of a normal chat, though Orion could not make out the words.
“Colonel?”
“Here.” Orion left off scratching Scipio’s neck and returned to the foot of the ladder.
“The patient will make a full recovery, but I need a set of clean clothes, warm water, and some rags. Also a sewing kit if you have one.”
“Stitches?” The poor lad. “I have some laudanum if that will help.”
“Let’s start with the clean clothes.”
“But that—” Made no sense. Orion’s protest died aborning as Miss Pearson’s skirts appeared at the edge of the hayloft, followed by her person climbing onto the ladder.
A gentleman did not watch a lady descend a ladder, even in the near darkness of a stable in the evening. Miss Pearson wasn’t strictly a lady—she labored hard for her bread—but Orion had at one time considered himself a gentleman.
He turned his back until Miss Pearson was standing before him in the gloom of the barn aisle. She’d taken off her straw hat, and her cuffs were turned back. She smelled good—flowery and fresh—a contrast to the earthy scents of the stable.
“Benny will be well,” she said with calm conviction. “Clean clothes are the first priority. Bone broth, chamomile tea, light activity, and the malady will ease its grip in a few days.”
“You’re sure?” Orion said, peering down at her. “You aren’t a physician, and the boy was clearly in misery.” Showed evidence of serious injury.