“I do.” Anthony raised the tankard and drank the ale down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She wrote to me asking for help.” He took the letter from his pocket, but didn’t open it. He threw a few coins onto the table.
“The Bourget farm lies within an hour’s ride. Take the Rouen road.” The innkeeper pocketed the money, picked up the mug and then ran his cloth over the table to wipe up the spill. “She’s a good woman. What would she want with you?”
Anthony pushed back his chair and stood. “Nothing to concern yourself about, my good fellow. I wish her no harm, and if you do not speak of this, you will not harm her either.”
He rode away from the small cluster of whitewashed cottages, past a reedy duck pond and down a long straight road. Close to a half hour later, just as the inn-keeper had described, was a sign for fresh eggs at Bourget’s Farm. He guided the horse into a narrow lane, bordered by apple trees, the air sweet with the smell of blossom, which reminded him of Verity. The hum of bees sounded loud in his ears. He straightened in the saddle and shook his head to clear it of distracting thoughts. Riding on, the lane led beside a meadow where a black and white cow grazed.
Beyond a copse of trees smoke rose from a chimney. Keen to see Phillippe, Anthony nudged the horse’s flank and broke into a canter, his eye on the smudge of smoke dispersing into the blue-gray sky, unsure what awaited him. The lane led to a whitewashed cottage with a high, red-tiled roof with a weathered barn nearby. The front door opened, and a comely young woman with thick coils of black hair stepped out. She shaded her eyes from the sun.
Anthony dismounted and tied his horse to a post. He removed his hat. “Mademoiselle Bourget? I am Lord Beaumont.”
Her dark eyes were red, and shadows lay beneath. She looked exhausted. Had she been crying? His heart was in his throat. “You wrote concerning my brother-in-law.…”
“I am relieved that you are here, my lord.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Please come inside.”
The small room was simply furnished with a wooden table and two chairs. A wooden hutch contained china. The narrow wooden stairs led to the attic room above. He searched the woman’s eyes, fearing what he would find. “Philippe is here?”
She gestured upstairs. “The wound became infected…” she began.
Anthony leapt up the stairs taking them two at a time.
Philippe lay in bed in the attic room a sheet covering his naked chest. He muttered incoherently, moving restlessly, his right shoulder bandaged. The table, the rug on the bare boards, everything spotless including the bedsheet. Anthony sat on the chair and leaned over Philippe, felt his forehead. Dry and hot.
“How long has he been like this?”
“Two days. I wanted to call the doctor, but I don’t trust him. A band of soldiers of the Republic have been combing the area.”
“Is he improving?”
“It’s too early to tell. I pray the fever will break soon.” She shrugged. “Even if it does, he will not be well enough to travel for some weeks.”
“Is it safe here?”
A Gallic shrug. “Is anywhere?”
“Then we must wait. May I see the wound?” Anthony removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.
Mademoiselle Bourget fetched scissors and carefully removed the bandage.
Anthony was heartened by what he saw. The ball had gone clean through the soft part of the shoulder. Entry and exit rounds showed no sign of infection. “Missed the lung, and no broken bones. But any wound is dangerous if it becomes infected.”
She bandaged the wound again with quick deft fingers. “I made a poultice with herbs, apple brandy and crushed garlic.”
“You’ve done well.” Anthony stretched wearily. “Will you fetch me water and a cloth?”
“You must be hungry. I’ll prepare food.”
After some of Mademoiselle’s excellent coffee and a tasty omelet, Anthony ordered her to rest. He remained at Philippe’s side during the night, constantly replacing the cold compress on Philippe’s brow. During the early hours, Philippe quieted. When Mademoiselle came and insisted Anthony rest, he stretched out on the rug with the blanket and pillow she gave him. He woke to the cock’s crow at first light and rolled over to find Philippe’s dark eyes resting on him.
“How are you?” Anthony drew up the chair.
“I’m a little better. I’m surprised to find you here. Was that wise?”
“Not everything we do has to be wise.”
Philippe gave him a wan smile. His breathing sounded too labored for Anthony’s liking. “Coming from you, Anthony, a man who rates wisdom above most things, that is quite a surprise.”
“I’m beginning to discover I’m capable of change. Are you up to telling me what happened?”
