Beneath the Major's Scars(4)

Zelah put her hands to her cheeks, mortified.

‘Oh dear, he really should not be bothering Major Coale with     such things, or you.’

‘Lord love ’ee, mistress, the boy ain’t doin’ no ’arm,’     exclaimed Mrs Graddon. ‘In fact, I think ’e does the master good.’ She paused,     slanting a sidelong glance at Zelah. ‘You’ve probably noticed that the major     shuns company, but that’s because o’ this.’ She rubbed her finger over her left     temple. ‘Right across his chest, it goes, though thankfully it never touched his     vital organs. Took a cut to his thigh, too, but the sawbones stitched him up     before he ever came home, so his leg’s as good as new.’

‘But when he walks...’

The housekeeper tutted, smoothing down her apron.

‘He’s had the very finest doctors look at ’im and they can find     nothing wrong with his leg. They say ’tis all in his head. For the master don’t     always limp, as I’ve noticed, often and often.’ She sighed. ‘Before he went off     to war and got that nasty scar he was a great one for society—him and his     brother both. Twins they are and such handsome young men, they captured so many     hearts I can’t tell you!’

‘You’ve known the family for a long time?’

‘Aye, miss, I started as a housemaid at Markham, that’s the     family home, where the master’s brother, the viscount, now lives. Then when the     master decided to set up his own house here, Graddon and I was only too pleased     to come with him. But he don’t go into company, nor does he invite anyone here,     and I can understand that. I’ve seen ’em—when people meets the master, they look     everywhere but at his face and that do hurt him, you see. But Master Nick, well,     he treats the major no different from the rest.’

Zelah was silent. In her mind she was running over her meeting     with Major Coale. Had she avoided looking at his terrible scarred face? She     thought not, but when she had first seen him she believed he was attacking Nicky     and she had been in no mood for polite evasions.

The housekeeper went off and Zelah settled down to keep watch     upon her patient.



As the hours passed the house grew silent. She had a     sudden yearning for company and was tempted to go down to the kitchen in the     hope of meeting the housekeeper, or even a kitchen maid. She would do no such     thing, of course, and was just wondering how she could occupy herself when there     was a knock at the door. It was Mrs Graddon.

‘The major asked me to bring you these, since you likes     reading.’ She held out a basket full of books. ‘He says to apologise, but they’s     all he has at the moment, most of his books being still in the crates they     arrived in, but he hopes you’ll find something here to suit.’

‘Thank you.’ Zelah took the basket and retreated to her chair     by the fire, picking up the books one by one from the basket. Richardson,     Smollett, Defoe, even Mrs Radcliffe. She smiled. If she could not amuse herself     with these, then she did not deserve to be pleased. She was comforted by the     major’s thoughtfulness. Feeling much less lonely, she settled down, surrounded     by books.



It was after midnight when Nicky began to grow restless.     Zelah was stretched out on the bed prepared for her when she heard him mutter.     Immediately she was at his side, feeling his brow, trying to squeeze a little     water through his parched lips. He batted aside her hand and turned his head     away, muttering angrily. Zelah checked the bandages. They were still in place,     but if he continued to toss and turn he might well open the wound and set it     bleeding again.

She wished she had not refused Mrs Graddon’s offer to have a     truckle bed made up in the room for a maid, but rather than wring her hands in     an agony of regret she picked up her bedroom candle and set off to find some     help.

Zelah had not ventured from the yellow bedroom since she had     followed Nicky there earlier in the day. She retraced her steps back to the     great hall, too anxious about her nephew to feel menaced by the flickering     shadows that danced around her. There was a thin strip of light showing beneath     one of the doors off the hall and she did not hesitate. She crossed to the door     and knocked softly before entering.

She was in Major Coale’s study, and the man himself was sitting     before the dying fire, reading by the light of a branched candelabra on the     table beside him.

‘I beg your pardon, I need to find Mrs Graddon. It’s     Nicky...’

He had put down his book and was out of the chair even as she     spoke. He was not wearing his coat and the billowing shirt-sleeves made him look     even bigger than she remembered.

‘What is wrong with him?’

‘He is feverish and I c-cannot hold him....’

‘Let me see.’ He added, observing her hesitation, ‘I have some     knowledge of these matters.’

Zelah nodded, impatient to return to Nicky. They hurried     upstairs, the major’s dragging leg causing his shoe to scuff at each step. It     was no louder than a whisper, but it echoed through the darkness. Nicky’s     fretful crying could be heard even as they entered the anteroom. Zelah flew to     his side.

‘Hush now, Nicky. Keep still, love, or you will hurt your leg     again.’

‘It hurts now! I want Mama!’

The major put a gentle hand on his forehead.

‘She is looking after your little brother, sir. You have your     aunt and me to take care of you.’ He inspected the bottles ranged on the side     table and quickly mixed a few drops of laudanum into a glass of water.

The calm, male voice had its effect. Nicky blinked and fixed     his eyes on Zelah, who smiled at him.

‘You are a guest in the major’s house, Nicky.’

‘Oh.’ The little fingers curled around her hand. ‘And are you     staying here too, Aunt Zelah?’

‘She is,’ said the major, ‘for as long as you need her. Now,     sir, let me help you sit up a little and you must take your medicine.’

‘No, no, it hurts when I move.’

‘We will lift you very carefully,’ Zelah assured him.

‘I don’t want to...’

‘Come, sir, it is only a little drink and it will take the pain     away.’

The major slipped an arm about the boy’s shoulders and held the     glass to his lips. Nicky took a little sip and shuddered.

‘It is best taken in one go,’ the major advised him.

The little boy’s mouth twisted in distaste.

‘Did you take this when you were wounded?’

‘Gallons of it,’ said the major cheerfully. ‘Now, one, two,     three.’ He ruthlessly tipped the mixture down the boy’s throat. Nicky swallowed,     shuddered and his lip trembled. ‘There, it is done and you were very brave. Miss     Pentewan will turn your pillows and you will soon feel much more     comfortable.’

‘Will you stay, ’til I go to sleep again?’

‘You have your aunt here.’

‘Please.’

Zelah responded with a nod to the major’s quick glance of     enquiry.

‘Very well.’ He sat down at the side of the bed and took the     little hand that reached out for him.

‘Would you like me to tell you a story?’ asked Zelah, but Nicky     ignored her. He fixed his eyes upon the major.

‘Will you tell me how you got your scar?’

Zelah stopped breathing. She glanced at the major. He did not     look to be offended.

‘I have told you that a dozen times. You cannot want to hear it     again.’

‘Yes, I do, if you please, sir. All     of it.’

‘Very well.’

He pulled his chair closer to the bed and Zelah drew back into     the shadows.

‘New Year’s Day ’09 and we were struggling through the     mountains back towards Corunna, with the French hot on our heels. The weather     was appalling. During the day the roads were rivers of mud and by night they     were frozen solid. When we reached Cacabelos—’

‘You missed something,’ Nicky interrupted him. ‘The man with     the pigtail.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Major Coale’s eyes softened in amusement. In the     shadows Zelah smiled. She had read Nicky enough stories to know he expected the     same tale, word for word, each time. The major continued. ‘One Highlander woke     to find he couldn’t get up because his powdered pigtail was frozen to the     ground. A couple of days later we reached the village of Cacabelos and the     little stone bridge over the River Cua. Unfortunately discipline had become a     problem during that long retreat to Corunna and General Edward Paget was obliged     to make an example of those guilty of robbery. He was about to execute two of     the men when he heard that the French were upon us. The general was extremely     vexed at this, and after cursing roundly he turned to his men. “If I spare the     lives of these men,” he said, “do I have your word of honour as soldiers that     you will reform?” The men shouted “Yes!” and the convicted men were cut     down.’