Carefully unfolding the fabric, which turned out to be a man’s heavy cloak, she pushed it away and then unwrapped what looked like a filthy scarf from the muffled head. Gingerly, she pulled it aside, only to catch her breath on a choked gasp.
“Oh sweet heavens…Harry…”
Chapter One
In Which Miss Willow Trease Hurriedly Invents a Husband
“Thank you, Mrs Smithers. I am so grateful for your kindness and your wisdom.”
“Oh, now, dearie, don’t you worry none. That husband of yours will be right as rain before too long. Just keep giving him a little of this tonic every day and if his fever starts up again, use the other powder like I showed you. And keep that ankle wrapped. All right??”
Willow nodded at the cheerful woman on her doorstep. “I will, I promise. Thank you again.”
She closed the door behind the kind-hearted neighbour and sighed with relief.
What a mess she was in.
Several days had passed since someone dumped Harry Chalmers on her doorstep, and he remained unconscious.
She’d known immediately that he had a fever. His forehead was burning hot, he was tossing and turning, and he was mumbling words she couldn’t make out, half in French and half in English. Or at least that what it sounded like.
However, there were no serious injuries, which was a relief. His ankle was swollen and bruised, but as near as she could tell, it wasn’t broken.
And then there was Mrs Smithers, who had seen the odd circumstances of Harry’s arrival, and tapped on the door not long after, offering help if needed.
Willow, caught in a dilemma with little time to think, had said the first thing that came into her head. “It’s my husband. He’s not well, not well at all…”
That was all it took.
Mrs Smithers, a woman of considerable strength and determination, manhandled the barely conscious Harry into the bedroom at the rear of the house, stripped him naked (Willow averted her eyes, mostly) and tucked him under the covers, declaring she’d be right back with some willow bark tonic that would set him to rights in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.
“Nursed too many young men,” she said, boiling a kettle in the small kitchen. “War takes its toll, dearie.”
Willow got a mug. “You have relatives in the fighting?”
“I do,” she nodded soberly. “Lost some of ‘em, already. But a couple come back home with nasty wounds, and so I helped with their healing.”
“And how are they doing?”
“Well enough, I thank you, and one of ‘em, young Samuel, helps me with the herbs and such,” she smiled. “He’s got an eye for ‘em in the forest, so you don’t need to worry I’ll run short of anything.”
Silence fell for a few moments. “You’re a nice girl. I watched you with Madame. She didn’t let just anyone in here, so I guessed you’d be someone special.”
“You’re too kind,” Willow blushed. “Madame was indeed a very special friend.” She swallowed. “I miss her most dreadfully.”
“Well, now your husband’s home. And I know enough not to ask where he’s been to get so sick.” She poured the water onto the tea and shook some of the willow bark powder into the cup. “I’ll put the poultice on him in a moment. Why don’t you add a lump of sugar to it, if you can spare it? Make it go down better.”
“Yes, ma’am. Right here.”
“He looks poorly, I know, but I reckon he’s just got a touch of influenza. It can be a killer, but he’s here, warm, and with a wife to look after him. And I’m guessing he’s usually healthy. I don’t see any signs of something lingering…”
“Oh no,” Willow blinked. “No, I think…I mean, he’s quite healthy normally.”
“There you go then. Couple of days he’ll be getting back to himself.” She grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “And you’ll be getting on your back, I’ll wager. Pretty wife like you? Nothing like a bit of marital fun to help a man get better.”
“Ah.”
That somewhat embarrassing conversation had taken place a week ago, and even though Harry’s fever had all but disappeared, he still seemed weak and disoriented.
