A Rose for Major Flint. Louise Allen
Four
Rose opened the kitchen door, uncertain of her welcome. Was she supposed to stay out of the way of the soldiers after their reaction when she had sent them scattering into the courtyard? On this, the second morning in the warm, cheerful house, she was beginning to feel stronger and the scream in her head had grown quiet, almost as soft as the buzzing of a field of drowsy bees on a summer’s day. She had slept in the little dressing room and waited until Adam had left the bedchamber before venturing out.
Maggie was at the hearth, stirring something in a big pot, and Adam and Hawkins were slumped in chairs either side of the table, their backs to her, relaxed like two great hounds after an exhausting chase.
As Rose hesitated on the threshold, Maggie jerked her head towards a battered armchair beside the fire and poured a mug of tea. Rose took it with a smile of thanks and snuggled quietly into the patchwork cushions as Hawkins picked up what was obviously a thread of conversation.
‘If Boney’s beat, then the war’s over, surely? They’ve got the French king all ready to come back, the nobs in Vienna will carry on negotiating and drawing lines on the maps, and what’ll happen to us?’
‘West Indies?’ Adam said.
‘They say it’s a death trap. Getting killed in battle’s one thing, don’t fancy going all that way to die of yellow fever.’
‘Might get ordered home.’ Adam drained his mug and set it down with a thump on the table. ‘We could be Hyde Park soldiers, firing off guns for Prinny’s parties. That would be fun.’
‘Or we’d be harassing rioting industrial workers up north. Not what I call soldiering,’ Hawkins muttered.
‘Me neither, Jerry.’ Adam slumped lower in his chair, his accent roughening. They were like two sergeants together, Rose realised. Mates, not officer and NCO. ‘I’ve been a soldier half my life. This is family.’
There was a brooding silence. Maggie lowered herself into the chair opposite Rose and picked up a sock and darning wool from the basket beside her.
‘East India Company looks the best bet to me,’ Hawkins said. ‘They’re using more artillery, so I hear, and there’s a chance of good money.’
‘I’d been thinking about that.’ Adam sat up straighter and reached across the table to rip a crust off the loaf. ‘Or there’s the Continental princelings. All those German states with standing armies, they need good artillerymen and they’re prepared to pay.’
‘You’d end up a general,’ Hawkins said.
Adam snorted. ‘You’d make major,’ he countered, dragging the crust through the butter and biting into it. ‘And think of the fancy uniforms.’
Hawkins snorted. ‘Yeah, that’s you all right, prancing about like a circus ringmaster, all gold braid and plumed hats.’
‘East India Company, then. Sensible uniforms, a real army with real fighting, good money.’ Adam sounded cheered. ‘That sounds fine to me. Hate not having a plan.’
Rose’s heart sank. India? But why am I upset about that? He isn’t mine... It is so far away.
‘You’ve always got a plan, thank goodness,’ Hawkins said. ‘Puts the wind up me, not knowing what’s happening next. What the hell would we do if we had to leave the army?’
‘Damned if I know.’ Adam dropped the remains of the crust on the table as though his appetite had suddenly deserted him. ‘The army’s who we are, not what we do.’
The door to the yard swung open as he spoke and Moss stumped in, bringing the smell of fresh air and stables with him. ‘What are you two brooding about? Spouting philosophy by the sound of it.’
‘East India Company,’ Hawkins said as he got to his feet and caught the door before it closed, Adam at his heels. ‘The major’s got a plan.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Moss said to Maggie as the door banged closed behind the two men. ‘Suppose that makes sense. It’d break the major, being a peacetime soldier.’
‘He could sell out,’ Maggie suggested, biting off a loose end of wool and rolling the socks up.
‘Flint? You’re joking. He made himself an officer and a gentleman from nothing. He belongs in the army, heart and soul. Not like me, I’d had enough by the time I got out. And I’d got you.’ He winked at Maggie. ‘Him, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.’ He glanced across and saw who was in the other chair. ‘Well, Miss Rose. You’re blooming this morning. You want to give me a hand with the lads?’
* * *
Rose filled the mug with water again and looked across to the one remaining soldier she had not yet taken a drink to, the one with the head wound. He lay quietly on his straw mattress, some of his fitter mates playing cards at his feet. Occasionally one would look at him, murmur a few words of encouragement, touch his leg as if to reassure him they wouldn’t leave him.
She had been avoiding him quite deliberately. Now, as she made herself look at the soldier’s shrouded head, the scream in her head grew louder.
Coward, she told herself. It had helped to come downstairs, to make herself smile and work alongside Maggie and Moss, Lucille and the men. They had accepted her silence and treated her with more respect than she had expected from common soldiers. Their gratitude for anything she did for them seemed genuine.
Now she crouched down beside the still figure and forced herself to touch his arm. He started and turned his head with a jerk and the bandage slipped to reveal the mess of torn flesh beneath. From across the yard came a loud bang.
Gunfire. Then her head was full of the scream, her silent scream.
‘Miss Rose!’ someone shouted. Men jumped to their feet, people ran out from the kitchen. Hands seized her, shook her. She found she was on her feet, trembling violently, held by fingers so tight they hurt.
‘Hysterical,’ a man’s voice said. ‘I’ll have to slap her. Fetch cold water.’
‘Don’t touch her.’ It was a snarl, a familiar, fierce growl. Rose found herself in Adam’s arms, held against his chest. Safe. ‘Rose, what happened?’
‘Dixon’s bandage slipped,’ someone volunteered. ‘And then that shutter on the loose hinge dropped off and she jumped up, white as a sheet, and started shaking. Don’t know why Miss Rose is so upset, sir. She was fine with some really nasty sights—Dan’s leg, for one.’
‘Facial wounds seem to distress her,’ Adam said. ‘It’s all right, Rose. Lieutenant Foster is looking after Dixon, he’s going to be fine.’
He made her walk and then pushed her down and she landed with a thump that jerked her out of the nightmare a little. She was in the kitchen, sitting on one of the hard wooden chairs. Not on the battlefield, not surrounded by mangled bodies and the screaming, twitching wounded.
Rose blinked and the now-familiar faces swam into focus. Adam, Maggie, Sergeant Hawkins, Moss. Little Lucille, the maid-of-all-work, her eyes wide and shocked.
‘Best get her up to bed, Major,’ Maggie said. ‘Look how she’s trembling.’
‘No.’ Adam hunkered down in front of her. ‘Rose, this is not your nightmare, this is here and now. No more shooting, no more dying. The surgeon is here to look after the men. Take a deep breath and see.’
His voice was firm, without any sympathy or softness in it. Adam expected her to be calm and he would not ask anything of her that she could not do. Rose closed her eyes and took the deep breath, then another, and opened her eyes again. That poor man, Private Dixon. She got to her feet and saw Adam wave the others, who had tensed when she moved, back into their seats. The door to the yard seemed a long way away, but her feet took her there, and through and across to the outhouse where the surgeon was bandaging the private’s head.
She