Healing Grace (13 page)

“The Wish”

From fields of yellow, green and white,

On splendid wings, a bird takes flight,

To look upon what lies below,

And casting through, like falling snow,

Not three, but one to grant unseen,

And rid these walls of all that’s mean,

Oh, fairy flittering high above,

Leave behind the good kind of love.

“It looks worse than it is,” the colonel said. “A bandage will do.”

Carefully, though his hands shook, the boy stripped away the colonel’s torn coat. The white sleeve beneath was drenched in red. So much red. Through the shredded fabric, the boy could see the nasty gash, deep in the colonel’s flesh.

The boy’s heart thumped harder. He could barely breathe. “This…this needs stitches,” he stammered. Already he was bolting for the door. “I’ll get the doctor.”

“No,” the colonel said firmly, stopping the boy in his tracks. “The other men need him more. If you think it needs stitching, then you do it. I trust you.”

The army had taken over a farmhouse to use as its headquarters. They were in the colonel’s quarters now—a bedroom they shared on the upper floor. The skirmish a few miles away had begun hours before, and as always, the boy remained behind, sometimes praying, sometimes restlessly pacing. Most of the time he’d been huddled on his bedroll with his eyes squeezed shut and hands over his ears, waiting for the distant booms to fade and the colonel to return.

“Whiskey,” the colonel mumbled as he wearily dropped to sit on the bed. “Bring me whiskey before you start sewing me up.”

The tremors in the boy’s hands didn’t lessen as he dug the bottle out from the dresser. If anything, they worsened. The colonel rarely imbibed, and when he did, it was merely a sip or two. The bottle had been in the drawer for months and was still almost full. This time, however, it was necessary—to ease the colonel’s pain.

While the colonel swallowed from the bottle, the boy gathered what he needed—needle, thread, a basin of water, strips for bandages. Because dusk had started to fall, he lit several lamps. Only then did he sit on the bed beside the colonel, beside his injured arm, where the boy needed to be to tend it. By then, the colonel had removed his bloodstained shirt. He’d balled it up to hold against the wound.

“I trust you,” the colonel said again, and he smiled. “Don’t worry.”

In his mind, the boy tried to picture the doctor stitching other men so he could copy what he’d seen the doctor do, but the sawbones’s hands never shook like the boy’s. Each time he pierced the colonel’s skin, he flinched. The colonel, however, didn’t make a sound. He just sat there, silently, watching.

The colonel wasn’t watching what the boy was doing. The colonel’s eyes were roaming over the boy’s hair, his face, his arms, his hands. It felt like the colonel was studying him, but the boy didn’t mind. He was used to it.

The boy had first noticed the colonel’s stares a few months before. At first he’d pretended he wasn’t aware of them. Then one evening, the colonel teased, “Do you know you’re growing up? You’re not a kid anymore. I guess I’ll have to find myself a new errand boy.”

This made the boy think maybe the colonel stared because he was worried the boy would leave, even though the boy assured him he wouldn’t. By then, he’d been with the colonel for more than two years and he didn’t want to be anywhere else. But if the colonel worried the boy would leave, it meant the colonel would miss him. And if the colonel would miss him, it meant the colonel cared about him.

The realization was similar to what the boy felt when the colonel brought him new clothes, or made him eat more at supper, or insisted he be nowhere near the front lines. Rather than being self-conscious, the boy began to feel important and special. Instead of trying to hide when the colonel looked at him, he did things to keep the colonel’s attention.

During meals, he chewed slower and used his napkin more. While reading, he changed positions frequently, sometimes slinging a leg over one arm of the chair and arching his back over the other. He put off sweeping until the colonel returned in the evening. He did this because he knew the colonel’s eyes would follow him as he pranced about with the broom.

Never though, was the colonel’s gaze more prolonged than when the boy bathed. This was why, while drying off, the boy took his time. When he draped the towel around his hips, he tucked it loosely so it would fall. Then he pretended he couldn’t decide which of his three pairs of britches to wear.

Summer nights provided another way. The boy knew the colonel often laid awake thinking and planning. Stifling heat was a perfect excuse for the boy to fling his blanket aside. Sometimes he stripped out of his underwear, too. If he became too chilled, rather than covering up again, he got up to close the window. Once there though, he stood looking out, knowing the moonlight cascading through the glass would give the colonel a better view.

Of course, his body wasn’t anything special, not like the colonel’s. Because the boy prepared the colonel’s baths and helped him dress, he knew what the colonel looked like under his clothes. He knew how broad the colonel’s shoulders were and how sculpted the muscle running beneath his skin.

By contrast, the boy was scrawny. In the last year he’d grown another inch or two, but he still wasn’t nearly as tall as the colonel. The only thing protruding beneath the boy’s skin was bone, and although lines had formed around his pectoral muscles, his chest wasn’t thick and rock hard. It didn’t have wiry dark hair on it, either. The boy didn’t have hair on him anywhere really, except between his legs and under his arms, and his hair was pale compared to the colonel’s.

The boy didn’t understand why he was so compelled to keep the colonel’s attention. And he certainly didn’t understand why the colonel would want to look at him, but since the colonel did look, it followed that giving him the opportunity to look longer was the right thing to do.

To stitch and bandage the colonel’s arm, the boy had to be close. He was so close, he could smell the whiskey on the colonel’s breath. He hated that smell, but for the colonel’s sake, he ignored it. Instead he concentrated on the musky scent of the colonel’s sweat, and though he tried to focus solely on what he was doing, his eyes kept diverting. He was aware of each rise and fall of the colonel’s chest. He was aware of the cords in the colonel’s stomach, and the bulging muscle in his arm. That sinewy strength reminded the boy of something that had happened a few weeks before.

It had been a muggy night, perfect to sleep with no clothes or blankets. He was awakened by a voice yelling, “Wake up! Wake up!”

The colonel’s mighty presence in the darkness was a giant shadow, but that wasn’t what caused the boy’s terror. He was sucking in breath after breath, trying to find air that wasn’t there. His heart was thudding so hard he felt it in his temples.

“You were screaming,” the colonel said.

The boy barely heard him. He started to gag and choke and although he tried to hold it back, he couldn’t. He threw up on his bedroll, his blanket, himself. Some of it even got on the colonel’s foot. The next thing he knew the colonel picked him up.

The colonel carried him to his own bed, laid him down and drew a blanket over him. Seated beside him, the colonel lifted him so he could drink from a glass of water. Then tenderly, the colonel wiped his face, his hands, his arms, his chest, with a cool damp cloth. The boy lay there, listening to the colonel’s reassuring words, feeling strange and unfocused, and trying desperately to stop the quivers racing through his body.

“Try to go back to sleep,” the colonel said softly.

The boy didn’t think he could sleep, but he closed his eyes because that’s what the colonel told him to do.

In the morning, the colonel was standing beside the bed, already dressed and ready for the day.

“Don’t get up,” the colonel said. Briefly he laid a hand on the boy’s forehead. “You don’t seem to have a fever. Do you still feel ill?”

The boy shook his head and glanced around the room. Everything was straightened and tidy. Even his bedroll in the corner was clean and made.

The colonel smiled, tucked the blanket in around the boy’s shoulders, and asked, “What were you dreaming about?”

“I don’t remember,” the boy said. He didn’t remember dreaming. What he remembered was feeling like bricks had been piled on top of him. He’d been buried and suffocating.

“It must have been an awful nightmare. You were carrying on something fierce, calling out for your daddy, and I couldn’t wake you. You scared me.” With a gentle hand the colonel brushed the boy’s hair back, and he asked softly, “Did something unfortunate happen to your father?”

The boy shook his head. His heart began to pound.

“Well, it’s probably a good thing you don’t remember. Nightmares like that are better left forgotten.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” the boy cried. He was frantic. “I didn’t mean to make a mess. I didn’t mean to take your bed. It won’t happen ag—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” the colonel interrupted. “Let’s remember, I put you in my bed. There’s no reason to apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong, and I’m not upset. I’m concerned. You’re to stay right there and rest today. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

After the colonel left, the boy had to get up. He was desperate to relieve himself. But until he pushed the blankets off, he’d forgotten he was naked. Blood rushed to his head as he remembered how the colonel had held him. The embarrassment was short lived, however, as his thoughts drifted to the colonel’s awesome strength. The colonel had whisked him off the floor like he weighed nothing.

Carrying the boy had been easy for the colonel because his arms where so thick. They were three times the size of the boy’s. Even wounded the colonel was breathtaking to behold.

With the stitching done, the only thing left for the boy to do was bandage him. As gently as he could, he wrapped the colonel’s arm and tied the dressing off.

“All done,” he murmured and looked up.

Their eyes met and held, and the boy could have sworn somehow they became locked together. It was as though neither of them could look away. The boy had never felt anything like it before. It was suddenly hard to breathe, and he was overwhelmed with the urge to lean closer, to kiss… to kiss the colonel’s stubbly cheek.

Abruptly the colonel wrenched away. Like a bucket of water had been poured over the boy, he knew he’d done something wrong, but wasn’t sure what it was. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say.

“I’m tired,” the colonel murmured. “I think… I think I need to rest.”

“Do you want more whiskey?” the boy asked.

The colonel shook his head.

The boy helped the colonel take off his boots, and then the colonel slipped out of his trousers and lay down. Because he didn’t get under the covers, the boy retrieved a spare blanket and spread it over him.

“Thank you,” the colonel whispered.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” the boy asked.

“No.”

He took care of the colonel’s clothes as quickly as he could. Then he pulled a chair over to the bed. While he sat there, studying the colonel’s unruly hair, he remembered how when he’d been very young, his mother used to tell him stories and kiss his cheek, and he thought maybe, because he’d wanted to kiss the colonel, it meant he loved the colonel—a love like his mother used to have for him.

Not mean love, but good love.

Not like the kind of love a boy should have for a father, because that thought just didn’t sit right in his mind, and the colonel wasn’t old enough to be his father. Not like for an older brother, because that didn’t seem right either, but maybe like a best friend. The boy had never had a best friend.

He wondered too, if the colonel loved him.

Not mean love, but good love.

The boy told himself the colonel didn’t love him and it was a stupid thing to wish for. But he did wish it. That night and many that followed, while he lay on his bedroll, he thought the same thing. He knew, of course, that the colonel would never love him, but he couldn’t stop wishing it.

Not mean love, but good love.

“Look at dese, Unka Eddy. Dey’s pwetty,” Lauren chirped.

“He’s not looking for dresses, dummy!” Jules snorted.

“Jules!” Etienne reprimanded. “Don’t call your sister a dummy.”

How he’d ended up with uncle duty, Etienne didn’t know, but here he was with Jules, Lauren, Daniel and Rebecca. They’d wanted to know why he was sneaking up to the attic. When he told them he hadn’t brought enough clothes and needed to borrow some from Trent’s old stash, they’d followed him up the narrow staircase, spouting out offers to help.

Quite a few trunks lined the stifling space. Most held keepsakes, fancy dishes and other random stuff ladies didn’t like to part with, but there were plenty with clothes, as well. From one of these Etienne had pilfered the smelly outfit he’d been donning for the last four nights. Aside from it being filthy and now also reeking of sweat, he’d wanted to see if he could find something that hadn’t been packed with a camphor wood. But he supposed he wouldn’t get lucky in that regard. With every trunk lid standing open—thanks to the children—the pungent odor permeated the entire attic. The young people didn’t seem to notice.

“Look at this one,” Becca announced. “I’m going to try it on!”

“I wanna, too!” Lauren echoed.

“Jules and Daniel are too chicken to wear a dress!” chortled Becca.

Etienne supposed he should have stopped them, but he didn’t. Before long, clothes, shoes and every other accessory known to man were strewn everywhere, and not just Emily’s things. The children were no less experimental with Trent’s. After several dress changes, Rebecca put on her father’s soldier uniform. Following suit, Lauren wanted to wear ‘Unka Twent’s’ boots. Etienne could no longer count the number of buttons he’d done up or cuffs he’d rolled. He could no longer count the number of hats that had somehow landed on his head, either—and yes, quite a few were bonnets.

He was still so adorned in one with an elaborate assortment of fake flowers and feathers on top, when Lauren heralded, “Dis one dwess will fit you, Unka Eddy! It’s fer a fat wady.”

Etienne’s young niece, in an attempt to hold up this monstrous thing covered in polka-dot-like blooms, tripped and went sprawling right into his lap. It took a second to untangle her from the limitless fabric and set her on her feet.

“Momma wore that when babies grew in her belly. She wasn’t fat!” Daniel scoffed at his cousin, then to Etienne, explained, “She was pregnant. That’s what it’s called.”

“This whole trunk is full of Momma’s baby dresses,” Becca shared. “When I grow up she’s going to give them to me so I’ll have dresses to wear when I have babies. I’m going to have lots of babies, just like Momma.”

“I’s gonna have watts of babies, too!” Lauren chimed in.

“Is that so?” Etienne laughed.

“Try it on, Uncle Eddy!” Jules spouted.

“Yeah, Uncle Eddy!” echoed Daniel.

“Yeah!”

“Come on, Uncle Eddy!”

“Pweeeese!”

To appease their giggles—or to escalate them—Etienne did manage to wiggle himself into the maternity gown. Of course his arms and shoulders were too large to fit the sleeves, but with the extra fabric at the waist, at least some of the buttons in back could be fastened. The children were only too happy to help him in this regard.

Next they stuck a fan in his hand. When open, it resembled peacock feathers. Apparently while with child, Emily had never been without a fan. To finalize the ensemble, they insisted on shoving a pillow underneath the skirt so he’d have a nice round belly.

Such costumes were evidently triggers for future stage actors. Etienne was still bonneted, gowned, stuffed and sitting propped against a pile of musty old carpets, fanning away, when Jules let out an ear-piercing shriek and fell prostrate. It was quite a well-performed swoon.

“Don’t make fun of my teacher!” Daniel yelled.

Whether that was Jules’s intent, Etienne didn’t know, but it reminded him that every day this week he’d seen her—the schoolteacher.

Constance.

On Monday evening she’d come to Grace Manor to check on Archie, and of course Emily had invited her to stay for dinner. It was the only day this week Etienne had shared the family meal. He didn’t know why he had, however. The schoolteacher had barely spared him a glance.

He’d seen her next on Tuesday poised on the schoolhouse stoop waiting for her students to arrive. She did this every morning. Just as he waited outside every afternoon for her to open the doors and let her charges free for the day. While they shuffled past, she remained on the stoop, but as soon as the last one was through, she went back inside. The only acknowledgments he’d received were miniscule nods.

Intuition screamed she wasn’t normally so abrupt and cold. She certainly hadn’t been the night they’d played chess. This only made her message—that she didn’t want anything to do with him—all the more spearing. Rightly so, he supposed, but it rankled.

“A damsel in distress!” Sergeant Rebecca rushed over to collapsed Jules, brandishing a whittled cane as a sword. “I’m D’Artagnan! I’ll save you, milady!” Emily, or someone, must have read
The Three Musketeers
to her.

“Daddy!” Lauren shrieked a second later. Clodhopping her way, trampling clothes in the process, she barreled toward the attic door.

Etienne whipped around to see not just Julien, but also Jessica poised at the top of the attic stairs. His sister-in-law had both hands covering her mouth, obviously to keep from bursting. As it was, her eyes were glistening. How long the two of them had been standing there, Etienne had no idea.

“Becca, you got it wrong.” Julien smirked as he lifted his daughter up. One of his eyebrows rose and with his free hand he pointed. “That pink flower bush over there is the real damsel in distress.”

The next thing Etienne knew, four small bodies pounced, simultaneously proclaiming, “I’ll save you, Uncle Eddy!” It was a good thing he had a pillow for stuffing.

But alas, it was time for dinner and little ones needed their sustenance. Etienne was left to clean up the extraordinary mess they’d made by himself. He didn’t mind, though. Monotonous activities like folding and repacking provided plenty of time to deliberate.

In addition to figuring out who had murdered Luther, it was of utmost importance that he uncover the identity of the new spook. By now, he knew it wasn’t Sam. Somehow Sam had become warden of his little brother and was busy dealing with that fiasco. No, the new spook wasn’t Sam, and he wasn’t one of the many men who worked for Trent. Over the last several days, Etienne had questioned each of them. Regardless, initial instinct had told him the new spook wasn’t an enemy. What niggled at the back of his mind, however, was that if the man was indeed an ally, then why the secrecy?

Five nights, Etienne had tracked this precipitous character. Whoever he was, in addition to the Murphy farm, something about the Klan’s former barn held his interest. Almost every night, on or near the road that went past the barn, Etienne had fleetingly spotted him. Twice now, he’d also caught sight of him near Grace Manor, and this wasn’t comforting. Rather it was leading Etienne to believe his initial instincts had been wrong. Whoever was pretending to be the spook wasn’t doing so to help investigate. Quite the opposite. The man could very well be the same person who had cornered Luther and pulled the trigger.

The problem was, of course, that the new spook and his mighty winged horse couldn’t be caught. The only option left was to devise a trap. Today, thanks to the children, Etienne had come up with a brilliant one. To carry it out, first he had to wait for the family to go to bed, and fortunately they did so early enough. Then and only then did he sneak back to the attic. It didn’t take long to gather what he needed. He’d left the gear within easy reach. Finally he and Igore, with saddlebags full to bursting, were on their way.

The spot Etienne chose to execute his plan was not far from the abandoned barn. The stretch of roadway was fairly straight with trees to one side and a field to the other. The woodland was ample for shielding Igore and the rest of the area was open enough for moonlight to provide visibility. The last thing Etienne wanted was to be trampled.

Once Igore was secure, he got busy. Instead of donning the disguise over his clothes the way he had in the attic, he stripped out of his shirt and trousers. He stepped into the skirt, pulled the bodice up and fastened the buttons in back as best he could—not an easy thing to do without the children to help. It also didn’t help that he’d not bothered to bring belly stuffing—the waist section was quite large. A petticoat was next. He’d not worn one in the attic, but it was necessary to give fullness to the skirt and make the whole costume more authentic. Of course, the gown was so short, his boots were exposed from mid-shin down, but there was nothing he could do about that. Changing into ladies’ slippers wasn’t an option. None from the attic fit.

Next he yanked out the wig. It was a men’s hairpiece and an awful thing—puffy white hair with two coiled curls at each ear. His guess was that it was at least a century old and an heirloom from Emily’s great-grandfather. The style, however, didn’t much matter because over top Etienne secured a modest pink bonnet—not the flowered monstrosity he’d had on earlier. With wisps of white hair protruding, he’d look like an elderly woman, and that was all the better.

The last thing he needed to do was deal with the sleeves. It wouldn’t work if it appeared he had four arms, two extra skinny ones growing out from his armpits. Earlier he’d figured he could just tuck them down the sides, but looking down at himself, another idea came to mind. It took some folding and re-arranging, but the second attempt, after turning the sleeves inside out, worked. His chest was no longer wrinkled and flat. He had full-fledged, albeit slightly lumpy, bosoms!

How exactly he would lie in the road was another dilemma. If he was in the ditch at the side, in the darkness the spook might miss him. It would be better to be straight across. He couldn’t lay on his front though, because the spook might notice most of his buttons weren’t fastened. On his back his feet stuck out too much, so he ended up turned at the hips, with his knees bent and legs tucked up as much as possible within the confines of the petticoat.

The shawl was big enough to cover his shoulders and most of his arms. It took some adjusting, but eventually he managed to flip one end up to hide the bulk of his face and still be able to peer out with one eye. The position wasn’t comfortable, and neither was the pebbly roadway digging into one shoulder blade, but he was ready.

Despite Etienne’s concern about the spook’s nefarious activity, he had to believe the man was a gentleman, and for a gentleman, this plan was foolproof. For no man of honor could simply ride on past a fallen damsel!