Will stood, running his fingers through his hair, scanning the ward. The half dozen remaining patients were asleep, or so it appeared, so he kept his voice low.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“What?” She now stood. “Will, please!” She paused then a shocked look passed over her eyes. “You can’t return him to the war. He’s a prisoner!”
“Shhh,” he reminded her. “I can’t keep him with you, either. Dr. Waxler reported your worn out appearance to Dragon Dix.”
“That old biddy can just calm her horses,” she snarled. “I am fine.”
“Just a warning. Go home and we’ll talk in the morning.”
She gave him a nod, her quick acquiescence to his order unnerved him more. She was sinking in a pool of mire with that man and running herself ragged here. One day, she’d raise hell on him for this and that could end his career…
It was another gruesome day. Ada blew the strand of hair that had managed to come loose from her tight bun sometime during the day and strongly considered cutting it all off, since hats, combs and any other ‘adornment’ was prohibited by Dorothea Dix, but then, she’d be cold with no hair. She was tired, disgusted and constantly feeling like she was beating her head against a brick wall. Oh, she smiled when she talked to someone, especially the patients, often swallowing the bile that threatened when she looked at the wound that simply refused to heal. Despite Will’s, and every other doctor’s opinions, she was sure the puss that formed from that poor private’s stump was an infection and, sure enough, it killed him.
Another death for a race to beat those slave-owners and cure that infection!
She inhaled deeply. The cold air on her walk home chilled her and brought her own fervor down to sociably acceptable levels. She needed to conquer what she’d endured to get through tonight. And what if that man had the housemaid in his room again? That made her stomach twist. If Mrs. Turner was still up and at the front parlor, Ada couldn’t walk in like a warrior, ready to tackle anyone in her wake. Working to control her features, she drudged up the stairs to the front door and entered.
It was the laughter to the right of the hall that caught her attention first. She stopped and turned to find Mrs. Turner seated near the fireplace and across from her was that man, Monsieur Louisiana. The snake in her stomach coiled. What mischief was he up to this time?
“Good evening, Mrs. Turner,” she greeted her hostess, her gaze still locked on the soldier sitting across from her. Her quick assessment surprised her. He was upright, dressed remarkably well, in black pants and white shirt with a maroon waistcoat. She swallowed the saliva in her throat, unaware she’d held it, and her breath, overwhelmed by his transformation. His hair was combed and pomaded back, his face shaved and those sapphire blue eyes shone with glee. He was enjoying her unease.
“Ma chère, so pleased you have returned.” The mischievous smile that hinted at his lips nearly undid her.
“How did you….” She realized her thoughts jumped ahead of her. “I’m pleased you’ve recuperated enough to manage to make it here. Surprised, as you can imagine, but pleased.” At the odd look from her hostess, she added, “My dear.” Hopefully that affectionate phrase worked with his. Will had told her he’d informed Mrs. Turner they were siblings. While she doubted the old woman would think that way, as they looked anything but related, she played the game.
“Mrs. Turner here was so kind as to bring me a cane, seeing as Miss Turner informed her how I had fallen.”
She saw the stick leaning against the chair, the silver knob on top barely noticeable with the fire in the pit burning. It was much fancier than the one she’d brought him. Then she noticed his shoes. One brogan peeked out from under the pant hemline. That made her frown. His foot had been swollen last night…
“I just couldn’t fathom a grown man pleased to be confined to bed,” Mrs. Turner gushed. “Mr. Turner was barely able to sit and yet, refused to be bedridden, God rest his soul. So, I found his cane and offered it to your husband.” She grinned.
It took every ounce of energy she could muster not to let her jaw drop open. Husband? Another swallow.
“How very kind of you to do so, Mrs. Turner. I’m sure it was well appreciated.” She glanced at her patient. “I didn’t think you were up to moving yet. That wound was severe.”
“Yes, I was telling her how that horseshoe nail had been difficult to see when I was loading our trunks.” He turned toward Mrs. Turner. “I’m sure she’d been so busy, helping the boys in blue at the hospital, she neglected to say much. She’s such a dedicated soul.”
Ada nearly exploded. A horseshoe nail?
“Another hard day, my love?”
Spoken in English, the affectionate term was too much. Her heart was taken by another man. A more worthy one, she might add. Her skin crawled that this southern rebel might think he could compete with him!
“Just a lot of patients,” she stated as casually as she could. Re-pasting the smile that had fled back on her face, she added, “Many are improving.”
“Good,” Mrs. Turner replied.
“Yes, indeed.” Her patient grabbed the cane and using it as a lift, managed to raise himself upright. “Mrs. Turner, thank you for the cane and the splendid company. The tea was enjoyable.”
“Oh, you are welcome, Mr. Fontaine.” She smiled, red cheeked and squinting. It made Ada want to retch, seeing how her landlady was swooning over him.
He was grinning ear to ear. That sparked an angry thread inside her. The desire to slap his cheek and snap him out of this sent tingles down her arms.
He hobbled
