Page 2 of Willow (Out on a Limb #4)

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.

As for herself, she was tired, concerned for her patient, and spent more time than she should at his bedside, just watching him sleep.

The fever had finally disappeared, and he no longer tossed and turned, sweating into his sheets and groaning as he shivered. She’d washed the linens several times, thanking the heavens for providing some sunshine and a stiff breeze to dry them. So far, the weather had held, and the snow was mostly melted.

But spring was still a long way off, and the sea still roared ferociously now and again, a sound that Willow had become accustomed to during her tenure at Madame’s.

Once again, she had to remind herself that it was now her house. Her home, should she wish to live here. What a series of unexpected events. She reminded herself to write to her parents; the roads should be clear enough to get a letter through to Forest Grange, and she certainly had more than enough news for them.

Sighing, she rose from her chair beside the bed, tucked her patient in more snugly, and smiled as he grunted a little at her touch. He should be feeling more comfortable, since the fever had gone, and the poultices had reduced the swelling around his ankle.

She couldn’t help stroking his tousled brown hair, unkempt and somewhat grubby now. But she knew that when it was clean, and in the sunshine, it would reflect chestnut brown lights, a good match for those rich green eyes. A heritage from some Irish ancestor, Harry would say when asked about them. Although he’d never mentioned if he knew which one.

There was no question he was handsome. Women had been falling over themselves to spend time with him ever since Willow could remember. His family had owned Myrtle Manor for many years, but it wasn’t until a few years ago that Harry had really taken it over.

He and Ashe were firm friends, of course, being of an age, and of similar interests. In other words, they were young men, and Willow couldn’t help but smile at the memories of some of their escapades. She knew now that there probably had been many others kept from her delicate ears, but setting all that aside, Harry Chalmers was definitely a fine gentleman with one all-consuming focus.

Horses.

They were his passion, and she’d spent more than a few hours in the parlour at Forest Grange, listening to him extoll the virtues of one of his new mares, or the delight of seeing a brilliant future for a new foal. He kept some at Myrtle Manor, just a few of his favourites. The Chalmers Stables, however, were located a bit nearer London, and were thus more convenient for Tattersalls, and within a comfortable distance from the Surrey downs and the Epsom racecourse.

Harry had been so excited to enter one of his fillies into the Oaks, and the following year he’d had a colt in the Derby. Neither had won, but he did get a third-place finish in the Derby, which he felt was a reflection on all his horses and their jockeys.

Willow wished she could have been there to cheer for his horses, but young ladies of her tender age weren’t encouraged to frequent racecourses. She had settled for an afternoon spent listening to him as he regaled her brother with a description of the event.

Tucked away in a large chair, they’d barely noticed her presence, which didn’t bother her in the least. She was more than content to listen to the conversation, to hold her breath and try not to gasp as Harry took Ashe through the races, painting a picture of excitement, competition, and nerve-wracking close finishes.

She could almost smell the horses and hear the thunder of their hooves. It was difficult not applauding at the conclusion, but she didn’t want the two gentlemen to amend their conversation because of her presence.

They’d forgotten her, which left her free to enjoy the vision Harry’s words painted in her mind.

It was probably on that afternoon that Willow first felt a stirring, an odd ripple that disrupted her normal equanimity.

Since tea was about to be served, she’d risen from her chair just as Ashe and Harry were leaving the room. Harry had paused as she came up to the door and smiled at her. “I’d forgotten you were there, little Willow. I trust I was not indelicate at all in my enthusiasm?”

Willow shook her head. “Oh no, certainly not. I very much enjoyed listening. I felt I was at the track when you described the race, and I’m so glad your horse did well. A good course, a good rider, and a responsive mount.” She paused. “Will you enter again?”

He nodded. “I think so. You should come by Myrtle Manor sometime soon. Take a look at my fillies. I’ll wager you have a good eye for the ones that will run like the wind.”

Her heart thumped at the sweet smile and the warmth in those glorious green eyes. “You are very kind. I would like that very much.”

“In that case, it is a fait accompli.” He chuckled and held out his arm. “May I have the honour of walking you into tea?”

“The honour is mine, Mr Chalmers.”

He leaned down toward her as she laid her hand on his sleeve, and whispered, “Call me Harry, Willow?”

She glanced up into his eyes as he smiled once more.

“All right—Harry.”

“That’s my girl.” He put his hand over hers and squeezed gently.

Three simple words, one wonderful smile, and young Willow Trease had tumbled headlong into love with Harry Chalmers.

Even though she had matured into a sensible young woman, one irrefutable fact remained.

She still was.

*~~*~~*

Lord above, his head hurt.

The pain was excruciating, blinding, and if he’d had the energy, he would have howled at the intensity. But all he could manage was a whimper.

Then a soft hand stroked his forehead, and the throbbing eased.

“It’s going to be all right,” whispered a quiet voice. “Just breathe slowly. You’re safe and will be well soon.”

There was something familiar there, something he recognised, but he simply didn’t have the strength to open his eyes, or the energy to pursue the notion. For the moment, sensing a presence at his bedside, and feeling the warmth of a hand against his skin, was enough.

He slept.

When he awoke once more, he had no idea where he was, what day it was, or—for that matter—who he was.

One thing was evident: he was cold. Shivering, in fact. He managed to open his eyes a little, then shut them again, frowning at the light shining in from a window.

He curled into the blankets and mentally reviewed the situation.

Was this France? Was he still in the tiny village of Port-aux-Brumes? And where were his clothes? He seemed to be wearing some sort of thick cotton nightshirt, but it was very snug and far too short. His feet were definitely colder than the rest of him.

Thoughts chased themselves through his mind willy-nilly, memories of gunfire, the thunder of hooves, a rough ride through bad weather…yes…he’d been riding, pushing his mount for every inch of speed it could manage…

He groaned as the images faded, ran together, made no sense at all…

“Hush.”

Warmth suddenly encompassed him, and he let out a sigh of relief, managing to focus on the hands laying a thick quilt over his body.

“This will be better. I held it in front of the fire for a few minutes.”

“Th-th-thank you,” he croaked, feeling the heat penetrating his bones and the shivering easing as it did so.

A hand moved over his forehead, and he was suddenly reminded of his mother, who used to do the same thing whenever he was sick.

“Where am I?” The words were murmured and faint, but he hoped whoever was tending to him could hear them. “Where are my boots?”

“You are safe,” came the answer. “Safe in England, in Little Witham. It’s on the coast of the Channel.”

He thought about that.

“Not France…”

“No, you are not in France. You’re in England. You’re home. You’ve been unwell.”

He tried to turn his head enough to see who was speaking. It was a woman, and somehow it seemed that he should know that voice.

But her face was a blur in the half light, shadowed and indistinct. “This isn’t my home, is it?”

A slight chuckle answered his question. “It is for now, Harry. Just rest. Everything will sort itself out soon. All you have to do is get better.”

“All right, but I shall need my boots.” He sighed, warm now, turned his head into the pillow and did as he was told.