“I need a razor,” he announced, still eyeing his appearance.
Ada whipped her attention back to him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I look like white trash. No wonder you despise me,” he drawled softly.
Her jawline twitched. “I don’t despise you. I just disagree with your lifestyle.”
“So for that, you let me look like a vagabond.”
“How dare you! I, I,” she stammered. “I don’t have those tools in my reserve.”
“You have a straight razor. I saw it. When we get there, I will have use of it.”
Her lips contorted. “It’s not made for your whiskers.”
That made him laugh. “By God, woman, yes, it is. Granted, Southern whiskers might be stronger than any Yankee—”
“Hush.” She glanced around. “We don’t need you to start a battle here, on the train.” She settled back, a smile hinting at her lips. “You are on a Yankee train, after all.”
It was her smile that took his breath away, making her words more of a whisper. But it did sink in and he returned her grin, though his was a bit more chagrinned, and he sat back, dropping the hat she’d given him over his eyes. He’d sleep. It was the only way to beat this battle with her. Though he hadn’t lost. He’d have that razor and soon.
It was the longest train ride of her life. Ada had to keep from clenching her armrest as the miles slowly rolled by. First off, she’d hadn’t dressed up in years, or so it seemed. She’d spent the last two years, barging her way into the army hospitals, adhering to their rules, which included mundane dresses. She wasn’t sure she’d fit into her traveling clothes and was pleasantly pleased when she could cinch herself up fine. In fact, the waist on this dress was a tad too big.
The next obstacle had been to get him up and dressed and out the door successfully. His ankle swelling had dissipated, and she had to note how frigid wrappings were beneficial. Granted, most of the time, the army had no ice or cold water with Southern temperatures heating it too fast, but it was worth recording. With the three-inch straight piece of wood she’d pulled from the fireplace, she managed to get his injured foot into the boot, stabilize it with the wood and with ties, make a make-shift support with which, along with the use of the cane, he’d done very well.
Yet his remarks on his looks did strike home with her. He did look a mite ill-kempt. His analogy of white trash was perhaps a bit overdone, though she believed she could understand. Her straight razor was for medical aid, though she doubted his whiskers would ruin it, plus he could sharpen it on her leather strap for that, easier than she could. The hair, though, she mulled over. Perhaps a visit to the barber would be in order. It could be the best treatment as she was well aware that patients often improved if they felt better about themselves.
Her insides tightened. She recalled his looks when he’d arrived last month. He was handsome, even with the dirt from fighting all over him, mixed with the black streak across his jawline from the black powder. She’d seen that too many times, along with the blacked gums too. Add to that the weeks of tending to him, seeing him minus clothes. As a doctor, she’d trained herself to focus, but the memory of his trim, muscular figure now revisited her. For a planter, he was very much solid, his abdomen lined, along with his shoulders, arms and legs, with muscles, the type that formed from days of riding and maneuvering in the saddle. The recollection made her heart skip a beat and a fire burn inside her. She fanned herself harder, trying to push those thoughts away. She was spoken for, she reminded herself. But even memories of Richard were faint next to the image of Francois in her head.
Irritated, she wanted to be far away from him, only to find herself more like his private physician. A personal doctor to a slave-owner. Anger boiled deep, making her hands fist even though she stared out the window at the passing scenery. This needed to change. Two weeks. She’d have him walking and independent by then, or she’d turn him back over to the Federal authorities, her own reputation shredded.
It was that focus that drove her once they made it to New York City. She managed to get him up from slumber and moving, her inner self-arguing that sleep helped in his recovery and her rude awakening was uncalled for, but then, they had to exit, so she shushed the inner voice up. Hailing the first carriage, she directed it to Sweet Briar and prayed.
Francois had not been to New York in years, but it hadn’t changed. Way too crowded, too many horses, too much smoke from the factories, the type that made breathing hard and seeing more difficult. When they’d made it off the train, the congestion made him gag and he’d almost suggested they get back on and ride it further north, to Albany or Rochester, but his lady-doctor walked ahead of him, hailing a carriage. That rubbed his dignity, for he was the gentleman and it was his duty to call do so, but then again, considering the circumstances, he couldn’t complain. The sight of policemen along the busy street easily reminded him that he was a runaway rebel, one whose capture would easily propel a policeman’s career forward.
He found if he kept a steady pace, slow but even, using the cane in stride with the injured foot, he could manage well. Not fast, but moving. She had a carriage waiting by the time he’d caught up. The driver didn’t move off his box to assist him climbing into the vehicle, so Francois swallowed the cussword on his tongue, threw the cane into the carriage and
