As the butler left to get the tea, she turned toward Francois and found him grinning. “What has you so amused?”
“In my part of the country, ladies would be swooning, with their mothers demanding smelling salts and a priest for nuptials for having so ‘invaded’ their daughters. You? You appear to brush off such conformities and worry how I am.”
“I am a doctor, and you are my patient. My goal is to have you recover, not reprimand you for falling during therapy to restore your abilities to walk.” She wrapped the shawl around her tightly, the flush that spread all over her from his warm smile made her uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t explain.
With a heavy sigh, he bent to pick up his worn-out boots and hobbled to the chair to sit. She watched him put the shoes back on and inwardly grimaced. Since they’d been hacked down to accommodate the injured foot, they barely worked as a shoe. And frankly, she determined, he’d need better support, especially when she saw the seam ripping apart on the sole.
James reappeared, followed by a maid carrying a tea tray. In the butler’s hands was a pair of brogans.
“Miss Ada, perhaps Master Leonard’s shoes might aide you at this time.”
The man was a good servant.
“Thank you, James. What an excellent suggestion.” She took the shoes to Francois. “Perhaps this will help. They are not falling apart.”
Francois frowned. He hadn’t noticed the commotion of the servants. If nothing else, he’d been fumbling at putting on his own shoes and not doing well at it, as his blood raced hot from the contact with her on the floor. A myriad of emotions swirled in his head, ranging from angry at his inability to walk to feeling like a clumsy oaf to a man wanting to kiss her. So now, he stared dumbly at the pair of shoes she handed to him, trying to rationalize his thinking and failing.
“Yes, perhaps.” He reached for them but she’d already dropped to her knees, the skirt pooling around her on the floor as she gently removed the torn pair from his feet.
“It doesn’t appear to be swollen from the fall, which is good.” She guided the foot in and loosely tied the lacing. “I think that is all of the training we shall do today.”
“Good. It doesn’t feel too bad, just tired.” He offered his hand to help her back up as she struggled to gather her skirts to find her footing.
“Thank you.” She straightened her skirts once upright.
Francois smiled. But she didn’t return one to him. If nothing else, she appeared agitated or worse. Her tension was something he couldn’t pinpoint. He was recovering but not near perfect. Perhaps it was her trying to hide him that drove her mad. Or was it something else?
She said nothing during their lunch. He was too worn out to push the conversation. Besides, what would they talk about? With her attitude and her strong dislike of his southern heritage, that left little on which they could converse. Or maybe, he didn’t care at the moment. He ignored the throb in his foot. These shoes were better for his coordination, so he hoped his recovery might be smoother.
Yet it was definitely the entire issue of him recovering that stuck in the mud in his head. He had a private physician as it were, one that wanted him well for her own agenda, but the tension between them was drawing tight. The lines were drawn between attraction, for he knew she felt it too, as well as the sectionalism that had caused this war. She could turn him in to the authorities in a heartbeat, or help him walk again. How could he bridge that gap?
Watching her over the wineglass at lunch, he decided to make an attempt, even if it’d cost him in the long run.
“Miss Ada, perhaps fresh air would do us good.”
She stared at him hard. “Fresh air? You mean, outside? You do realize it’s winter and cold, right?”
He laughed. “Yes, I can tell the chill in the air.”
“And we’re in New York, a truly Yankee state? Not the area for your type.”
Her tone turned condescending on that and it irked him. He wanted to see her smile, not snarl at him. “I’m well aware where we are. It might surprise you, but I’ve been to New York on several occasions. Granted, not generally during the winter, but still.” He crooked his lips upward, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. “I just was thinking it might be nice to step out in the breeze, as it were, and with a longer space, stretch my legs some. Being confined makes exercising it sore.”
That made her giggle. “You realize, that makes no sense.”
He shrugged. “Ole Doc Williams used to urge us young’uns to go out and stretch our limbs, when the growing pains hit. Mama encouraged it. I think it helped, in its own way.”
Shaking her head in disbelief, she gave him a glowing smile that was like a gold Spanish coin. “All right. Let’s get our coats and do so.”
With more gusto then he thought he had, Francois took her hand, devouring her feminine charms like a dying man. Only vaguely did the ghost of a Southern belle seem to whisper to him…
Chapter 22
“From this time on till the end of the war, a soldier was simply a machine, a conscript…All our pride and valor had gone, and we were sick of war and cursed the Southern Confederacy.”
—Sam Watkins, Maury Grays, 1st Tennessee Regiment, CSA, on extended enlistments, requiring all ‘able-bodied white men, 18-25 years old, to serve for 3 years’, summer 1862
The man puzzled her.
Ada braced as another blast of cold rushed over her as they ambled down the sidewalk in New York. Her woolen
