A Mistress for Major Bartlett (Brides of Waterloo)

‘Yes,’ she said with a shudder. Then took a deep breath. ‘I’ve decided,’ she said, getting back to work, ‘that if the men in my family can go about claiming they can do whatever they like to make sure they come out victorious, because of a couple of words engraved on the coat of arms, then so can I. From now on, I will be Always Victorious. In this case—’ she swallowed as she set yet another stitch ‘—I will do my best for this poor wretch. If, for example, I am going to be sick, I will do so after I’ve finished patching his scalp back together.’

‘That you will, miss,’ Dawkins agreed.

Though miraculously, and to her immense relief, she wasn’t sick at all. True, she did stagger away from the bed and sink weakly on to a chair while the men slathered a paste that smelled as if it consisted mostly of comfrey, on to the seam she’d just sewn.

She wished she had some brandy. Not that she’d ever drunk any, but people said it steadied the nerves. And she certainly needed it. Needed something...

‘We’ll go and fetch the Major’s traps now, miss,’ said Dawkins as soon as they’d finished covering her handiwork with bandages.

‘What?’ And leave her here, all alone, in sole charge of a man who looked as though he was at death’s door?

‘You won’t be long, will you?’

‘No, but—’ They exchanged another of their speaking looks. Oh, lord, what news were they going to break to her this time?

‘We’ll be back with his things in no time at all, miss. But we can’t stay after that. We have to report back.’

Her heart sank. When they said they’d help her, she’d thought they meant until he was fully recovered. But they had only spoken of lifting him and cleaning him up, hadn’t they? And they weren’t civilians who could come and go as they pleased. If they didn’t report to someone in authority, they would run the risk of being treated as deserters.

‘Yes. Of course you do.’

‘Nothing to do for him now but nursing, anyhow. You can do that as well as anyone. Better, probably.’

She leapt to her feet. ‘No. I mean...I have never nursed anyone. Ever. I am not trying to back out of it, it’s just that I won’t really know what to do,’ she cried, twisting her hands together to hide the fact they were shaking. ‘What must I do?’

‘Whatever he needs to make him comfortable.’

‘You’ve got meadowsweet to make a tea to help bring down the fever, if you can get him to drink it.’

‘Fever?’

‘He’s been lying outside in the muck, with an open wound all night, miss. Course he’s going to have a fever.’

Oh, dear heaven.

‘Bathe him with warm water, if that don’t work.’

‘And if he starts shivering, cover him up again,’ said Dawkins with a shrug, as though there was nothing to it.

For the first time in her life—she swallowed—she was going to have to cope, on her own, without the aid of a maid, or a footman, or anyone.

But hadn’t she always complained that nobody trus

ted her do anything for herself? Now she had the chance to prove her worth, was she going to witter and wring her hands, and wail that she couldn’t do it?

She was not. She was going to pull herself together and get on with it.

‘Give him the medicine,’ she repeated, albeit rather tremulously, ‘bathe him if he gets too hot, cover him if he gets too cold. Anything else?’

‘Landlady will have a man about the house to help when he needs to relieve himself, I dare say.’

Yes. Of course she would. There were a number of servants flitting about the place. She wouldn’t be all alone.

‘And we’ll tell the company surgeon where the Major is, so he can come and have a look.’

‘Oh.’ That would be a relief.

‘But don’t think he’ll do anything you couldn’t do yourself, miss,’ said Dawkins.