Heart in Hiding (The Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington Book 6) Read online

  “I understand. I have seen this disease in my country now and again. We will need to be vigilant, Miss Hecate. For the next few days at least.”

  “I know.” She put the man’s tattered bundle down outside the front door. “I’ll go inside and ready the smaller guest room at the rear, upstairs. Can you manage to rid him of his clothes out here by yourself?”

  “I believe so. He is too thin, but thus quite light and easily maneuvered.” He gently laid his burden down on the front steps. “You might see if there is hot water, Miss Hecate. He should be washed.”

  She nodded. “Yes. We’ll take care of that as well. I’ll tell Mrs. Trimmer to stoke up the fires.”

  For the next half hour, a hushed pandemonium ruled Doireann, since Mrs. Trimmer had some strong opinions on bringing naked, half-starved men into the house, especially sick ones.

  “Please, Mrs. Trimmer,” soothed Hecate as she fussed over her case of medicines. “He’s ill, and he was a soldier. An infantryman, if I recognise what’s left of his uniform correctly.”

  “Oh.” The other woman stopped dead. “Oh, the poor lad.” She rushed to put more logs on the kitchen fire and fill the large kettle that would swing over the blaze.

  Since she’d sent two of her own off to fight Napoleon, both of whom had returned safely, Hecate knew her sympathies would be immediately roused upon learning there was a soldier in need upstairs.

  “I’ll want some extra sheets, I think,” mused Hecate, pulling out a couple of bottles of powdered herbs. “If his fever persists, we must get it down with cold wraps and compresses.”

  “He’ll not be wantin’ food?”

  “We should try and get something into him. It looks as though he’s been starving for quite some time. But perhaps some broth to start with?”

  “I’ll make up a nice batch, Ma’am. ‘E’ll ‘ave it by dinnertime.”

  “Excellent. That will be just the thing.” She closed her case. “Now I have the medicines that I think might be best, and I’m going to take a cup and a pot of hot water. I’d like to get these inside him as soon as I can and start the healing process.”

  Mrs. Trimmer eyed the little bottles. “Yer knows enough ’bout this stuff to ‘elp ‘im get better, then?”

  “I’ve had some time to study the medicinal benefits of our native herbs, yes.” She smiled. “I’m going to give him a little extract from the Tree of Life. It’s excellent for typhus. And this one is powdered fly agaric. A mushroom.”

  “An’ that works?” Mrs. Trimmer’s eyebrows rose. “A bit o’ weed and a mushroom?”

  “Let’s hope so.” Hecate gathered her supplies and rested them on a tray. “Dal has been cleaning our guest up a bit, so that is a good start.” She turned then recalled something important. “His clothes are outside the front door, Mrs. Trimmer. They must be burned. Do not, under any circumstances, give them to anyone, or let anyone take them? It is believed that this disease lurks within infected clothing, which is how it gets into a human. So we have to make sure they’re bundled and put onto the bonfire for Mr. Green to burn next time he comes by.”

  “If’n yer says so, Ma’am,” answered Mrs. Trimmer. “Dunno as anyone’d want ‘em, anyway. Torn ter bits, by the looks of ‘em.” She shook her head. “Ol’ Art’ll be by in a bit to finish up clearin’ out t’ stables. I’ll ‘ave ‘im start a fire, if’n ‘e can in this weather.”

  Leaving the woman to her chores, Hecate took the tray upstairs to the guest room. She was very grateful they’d cleaned up the second floor, since now they could offer private space to visitors, should the need arise.

  Dal had taken over the attic chamber and Mrs. Trimmer was happily ensconced downstairs. Which left Hecate to enjoy her own small suite, and still have plenty of space for family if and when they decided to drop by.

  The rear guest room was the quietest, a good space with a bow window that caught the last rays of the setting sun. Not that there had been many visible sunsets recently, but it was still a pleasant and bright place.

  The bathtub and an empty bucket were outside the door in the corridor, so Dal had been quite busy in her absence, probably heating water over the fire in the room rather than waiting for some to boil in the kitchen.

  She walked in to see their guest lying in bed, his head on the pillow, his eyes closed. He made barely a lump beneath the quilts, yet his feet were perilously close to the footboard.

  “You managed to bathe him?” She put the tray down on the bedside table.

  “It did not take much effort or water since he weighs very little for a grown man. And he did not rouse during my ministrations.” Dal frowned. “He is clean, Miss Hecate, but so thin. And the spots…”

  “Definitely typhus.” She began to make her restorative brew, stirring things into the hot water. “He said Moira, Dal. Did you hear it? When he saw me?”

  “I did, yes.”

  “I wonder why? That was my mother’s name.” She shook her head. “He could well be from Ireland, I suppose, with that dark hair and those long lashes. Not to mention the blue eyes. And I recall reading news in the papers about a typhus epidemic over there. This hasn’t been a good year for food anywhere…and starvation walks hand in hand with disease.”

  “What would an Irish infantryman be doing wandering in our forest, though?” The question was thoughtful, and Dal stared at the unconscious man as he gave voice to it. “His uniform is barely recognisable, what’s left of it, he’s nothing on him to identify him, and his wrists look like they may have been shackled at some point recently. But he is in such poor condition, it is hard to be certain of anything.”

  “Let us hope he can tell us when he wakes.” She moved to his side and sat on the bed. “Can you lift him a little, so that I can get some of this down him? The sooner the better, I think.”

  Between the two of them, they were able to get the man to drink three quarters of a cup of Hecate’s medicine, though it involved pouring the liquid down his throat rather than engaging his active participation.

  “There, that should help,” she said, putting the teacup back on the tray.

  As if in response, the man moaned, and a shiver shook his thin body.

  “Damn,” swore Hecate softly. She touched his forehead. “The fever is still with him.” She glanced at Dal. “There are extra blankets in the cupboard. Would you bring me a couple, please? I need to keep him warm for a while.”

  “Of course.” He found two thick woollen blankets and helped her spread them over and around their patient.

  “I’ll stay. We can do nothing more for now, and if he wakes someone should be here.” She pulled a chair close to the bed.

  “Very well. I will bring tea.” Dal nodded. “And perhaps a biscuit?”

  Hecate chuckled. “I wouldn’t say no. Mrs. Trimmer is making some broth, too. If we can get some of that into him before nightfall, I shall be a great deal more confident.” She would not reveal her concerns, but this was clearly a very sick man. Typhus was debilitating and could be fatal. When compounded with starvation and lack of shelter…well, it was a miracle he’d survived as long as he had.

  After Dal left, she sat down next to him, placed her hand on his forehead and closed her eyes.

  “Attend me, sir. You are safe now. Warm and dry. You must rest, but not let go. Do you hear me? I shall not let you drift away from me…” Even as she spoke the words, she felt something unusual…a tremor passed from his skin to her palm and tingles sizzled upward, flooding her body with a strange warmth.

  In that moment, she knew.

  He was the one.

  *~~*~~*

  The arrival of the unconscious man at Doireann Vale initiated a new routine for its occupants.

  The weather stayed miserable, keeping them indoors, as it did others throughout the country. The few newspapers that made it to Little Beechwood—and eventually to Hecate—spoke of troubles everywhere; failed crops, dwindling food supplies and the increase of illnesses amongst those most drastically a
ffected. In addition to the re-entry of thousands of troops now no longer needed to defend the nation, famine was a real possibility and the Government was vainly trying to cope with the crisis as best it could.

  Hecate sighed as she refolded the news sheets. They were well enough, but others would suffer and for her, it was a difficult reality to accept. However, her particular guest, the one who was at least no longer suffering the weather, had survived.

  Each night, until around midnight, Hecate sat with him. The room was snug, her chair comfortable and often Bub joined her, purring his way into the perfect spot on her lap while she read.

  If all was quiet and he slept on, she would leave for her own room and Dal, who always rose early, would be there to keep watch until Hecate rose again. She ate in the small parlour, and sometimes spent a little time with Mrs. Trimmer, who expressed concern about the new guest, but was soothed by the common sense and medical knowledge exhibited by the lady of the house.

  Hecate did not mind spending hours at his side, since she would have been housebound anyway, so she moved many of her books into the room, along with her stock of medicines, made sure it was as snug as could be, and took up residence near the man who had now recovered his appearance at least. The spots were gone and his fever had abated. His skin was still pale, but no longer showed the unhealthy pallor of starvation.

  His hair was almost black, with the occasion glimpse of blue when the light struck it just right. Long and thick, it glowed now that his body was starting to recover. His face was lean, his cheeks sharp; she had to wonder if his countenance was always this way, with strong lines well defined. The growing stubble of his beard and moustache blurred the outline of his chin, but when one put all his features together, he was decidedly well-favoured.

  His conscious state, however, had yet to fully return to normal.

  He would drink broth if it was held to his lips, and swallow bread if soaked first in the broth. Dal assisted in his personal needs, shooing Hecate from the room during those times. Apparently he was capable of relieving himself, something Hecate was grateful for, since she was making sure he drank nourishing soups and her special teas, both of which were helping his body repair itself.

  The first few nights had been difficult; he tossed and turned, fighting the fever, muttering and mumbling to himself, and occasionally crying out orders to troops who no longer fought at his side.

  She could only assume that he’d been involved in the battle at Waterloo. When his cries turned to sobs of grief, unbearably sad sounds that tore at her heart, that assumption was confirmed. He’d fought, lost comrades, suffered a wound or two of his own, and survived. It was the last which seemed to bother him the most, since his most frequent whispers were questions to God about why he was still alive.

  She ached for him, holding his hand, speaking softly and quietly to him, telling him he was safe, that he was still breathing for a reason. She insisted that his life was important; that all lives were important, but that his must have something about it that set it apart from other lives.

  But her attempts at encouragement met with failure. He remained still, his eyes shut tight.

  She took her seat again this night—a little more than a week since he’d arrived—and leaned over him to check on his condition.

  She bit her lip and frowned. That bump on his head, even though it had gone down considerably, worried her.

  It seemed there might be cause for concern since he barely moved, his breathing slow, his muscles lax. And Hecate stared, afraid, trying to feel the pulse in his wrist, so faint, so thready and irregular.

  She was not going to lose him. Her mind darted through her options.

  Releasing his hand, she turned to her small dispensary, and removed the jar of powdered sage. There were other ingredients as well, one brought back to England barely a decade ago by those who had fought against Napoleon in Egypt. She’d wondered at it, tried it, and found it had some remarkable qualities. Ones which she hoped might help her poor patient through this time.

  She brewed a small pot, and poured two cups, one for her and one for him. Sliding her hand behind his neck, she lifted his head and urged him to sip…and sip again. He did, his eyes closed, his skin cool to the touch.

  “One more, dear sir.” Hecate finished her own cup. “How I wish I knew your name and could speak to you directly. Perhaps then you might listen…” She touched his forehead, troubled at the icy feel. “I shall find you, sir. We are going to talk to each other. I shall demand it of you, so be ready.”

  She slipped another pillow beneath his head, raising it a little. He murmured as she did so and aroused her curiosity. Surely he’d not minded being moved before. Gently she lifted him again and ran her hand delicately over the back of his head. He shifted when she touched the area that had exhibited the lump. Still tender, she guessed, but much reduced in size, thank goodness.

  There was no other obvious reason for that injury…something had struck him hard, very hard to leave that kind of wound…it must have happened sometime during his wanderings in the forest.

  She sighed and put the cups back on the table. “I hope this will work, poor man. You must be so tired being locked up inside your own mind, but if you won’t come out, then I must come in.”

  Tucking her blanket around her knees, Hecate pulled out the few hairpins that secured her chignon. Now she could relax and rest her head against the back of the chair. Then she reached over and took the cold hand in hers, intertwining their fingers.

  She closed her eyes and began the process of what she thought of as “drifting”. Doors opened inside her mind, admitting ideas, memories, suggestions, and feelings. She’d learned to control the flood long ago, but this time, she held the door wide open, seeking those same things—from another.

  Waiting, her body relaxed and his hand grew warm in hers. She smiled as the notion of them sharing a heartbeat flashed across her mind.

  Behind her eyelids, vague images and shapes formed then vanished, some familiar, others mere wisps of thoughts that did not linger.

  Then, slowly, a fog settled, obscuring everything.

  And his fingers tightened around hers.

  Chapter Three

  “I can’t…”

  He wasn’t sure if he’d spoken the words, but somehow he knew there was another presence beside him.

  “Yes, you can.”

  She spoke. It was a woman. Perhaps an angel come to lead him to Heaven. But if so, why was she taking him here?

  The thick fog became a thinner mist and he was able to make out some familiar details. Green hills, waterfalls, lakes of silver and small holdings dotting the landscape. It was Ireland. He was home.

  “My land,” he whispered.

  “Yes,” came the answer. “It’s beautiful. Where is it?”

  He wanted to chuckle. An angel who couldn’t recognise the Emerald Isle? “’Tis Ireland, of course.” His gaze roamed over the distant hills, topped with grey clouds. “The most wonderful place on earth.”

  “And yet you are not happy to be here…”

  He gulped. The view was shifting, blurring, then clearing to reveal his home. “No, I cannot say that I am glad to be here.”

  “Why is that?”

  Always the gentle prodding, the soft questions he felt obliged to answer. “There’s none left. Nobody. My family…all gone…” A sob rose in his throat but he choked it down. “I didn’t know they starved. I didn’t know they fell ill. When I got to them it was too late.”

  “Such terrible things,” murmured the voice. “No one has escaped this tragedy.”

  “Why do I still live? Why am I seeing this? I need to die, to end this misery.”

  “Tell me your name,” said the sweet voice.

  He paused, seeing the images of his home fading away, to be replaced by an empty sea lapping at a deserted coastline. His name…she’d asked him his name… “I cannot remember,” he sighed. “I am no one.”

  “You are someone. You a
re important, dear sir. How should I address you?”

  He frowned. Why didn’t she stop questioning him? Tormenting him for words he could barely form? A tiny lick of anger shot through him and he clenched his teeth, fighting to find something in his head…some sound…some utterance that would silence her.

  “F—F—” he stuttered, “my name…it’s Finn…”

  “There you are. Well done, Mr. Finn. You have a name. You are someone…someone I’d like to know better.”

  He had a name. He was Finn.

  It sounded right, comfortable even. So yes, he was Finn. And he was so tired.

  The images, visions, were fading. Afraid that this was the last time he’d see anything at all, he gripped the small hand that still held his. “Is this the end?”

  “Only for now. You must sleep, Mr. Finn. And you will get well. I promise.”

  A hand brushed his forehead, and the soft scent of something flowery filled his nostrils. Lilacs, maybe, or lily of the valley…he wasn’t sure…and he was too tired to think about it anymore…

  *~~*~~*

  Hecate slumped in her chair, breathing slowly and deeply as she emerged from the psychical link she’d managed to share with the man she now knew as Finn. She’d dabbled in such things before, but never to such a detailed extent.

  And it had drained her.

  She was physically and mentally fatigued, as if she’d run a long race while holding an egg on the edge of a sword. There were so many elements in play when connecting to another’s thoughts; more than some of the simpler experiences she’d come to accept as a routine part of who she was. Her intuitions, which many viewed as predictions, were really just intuitions, but when she believed something might occur, it usually did. Others said the same things, but with less assurance.

  She was no different in that regard, just more convinced that she was correct.