In His Eyes(18)

An idea struck him, and Westley drew a breath before tugging up the corners of his lips. “I thought perhaps the bedding could be cleaned…?”

Mrs. Preston came around the bed and scratched at the white cap holding down her gray curls. “Well, now, I suppose that could be a good thing.”

Feeling triumph rise, Westley once again shifted weight toward the farthest edge of the bed. The straw mattress could use a good fluffing, and the ropes underneath had begun to sag. He placed his feet flat upon a woven rug. Positioning himself so that the bulk of his weight went to the right leg, he managed to rise and straighten his back.

To be free of that accursed bed! Even if he gained freedom for only a moment he would count it a victory won. Westley began to smile in earnest, until he felt himself start to sway.

Mrs. Preston yelped, and in an instant her stocky frame took up residence under his right arm. “Whoa, there. I think you press the matter too hard, Major. The bedding can wait.”

Westley groaned. “It could use fluffing and tightening, too.”

His nurse stiffened. “Well, I’ve hardly had the opportunity to…” She pointed her finger at him. “Oh, no you don’t. I won’t be goaded by you, boy.”

Boy? A career soldier and at the age of twenty and six years, Westley could hardly be called a boy. But he did not refute her, and would allow her to mother him…to a point. He shifted tactics. “Please, might I at least find my rest in a chair? If I do not get out of that bed soon, it will not only be my leg that ails me.”

His chest tightened and he tried to bury the fear that surged. Each day he had noticed that small things escaped him. Words he could not find upon his tongue, names and places he should know but did not. Perhaps it was superstition alone, but he couldn’t help but feel the longer he wallowed upon the bed, the more his mind slipped away from him.

Mrs. Preston clicked her tongue at him again, but then her shoulders slumped. “The doctor says we cannot know if you sustained any injury to your head, even though we found no evidence of such. And, too, it could come from the fever or the lack of sustenance. But worry not, that too shall heal given the proper time.”

Annoyed at being so easily read, Westley tried to turn the conversation back to whence it had strayed. “The chair?”

Mrs. Preston waved her hand. “Very well. If it will ease this tension about you, then I will fetch the arm chair and put it at the hearth.” She tilted her head to eye him from where she remained underneath his arm like a crutch. “But you will wait in the bed until I return with it, and you will allow me to assist you to the chair. If I find you have attempted to cross this room in my absence…”

Westley nearly chuckled. “I shall not test your patience, ma’am.”

She slipped from beneath him and gripped his arm as he lowered himself to the bed, pretending that even so short a stand had not nearly exhausted him. Curse this weakness.

Mrs. Preston evaluated him with keen eyes, then gave a curt nod. “You will wait.”

Westley stared at her.

She arched her eyebrows. “I’ll hear you say it.”

He unlocked his jaw enough to allow, “I’ll wait.”

Satisfied, she swept from the room in an abundance of plaid skirts. Alone, his shoulders sagged. To be reduced to such a state soured him—wasting away here as the lone patient when the rest of the men had returned to their units. He should be mounted on….

His thoughts stumbled. What was that horse’s name? Panic began to flutter in his chest, but he squelched it as he had been trained to do. West Point taught him that fear only caused a man to be blind.

He focused his thoughts on the horse once more. All he must do is concentrate. A prized stallion of good Kentucky stock. Yes, he remembered that. Black as coal with not the first speck of white to mar him. A beautiful creature he had called…what?

A scraping sound drew him from his thoughts and turned his attention to the door. More scraping. Then a grunt. What in the heavens…?

Westley pushed his toes to the floor and almost attempted to gain his feet when he remembered his invalidity. “Mrs. Preston? Are you in need of assistance?”

Some muttering, and then she poked her head through the door. “You, sir, can offer none, and as there are no others about, the task falls to me.”

Westley frowned. “Forgive me. I did not think through the predicament I asked of you.” He indicated the slatted chair near the bed where she had oft sat to feed him or watch him eat. “This one will suffice.”

A smile bunched her rounded cheeks. “Nonsense. Besides, I’ve already made it thus far. It is closer to the hearth here than back to the living quarters.”

Finding no choice but to remain seated while the woman struggled to shove a worn leather armchair through the door, Westley battled with his loathing for his condition. But there was naught to be done for it than to rest and to ask of his body only what it was yet willing to give.

Finally, the struggle ceased with the proper positioning of his new place of confinement and Mrs. Preston ran a hand over her brow with satisfaction. “There. Now you can rest here by the hearth, and I will fetch you something to read. That will lift your spirits, yes?”

So much hope laced her words that Westley couldn’t help but smile. Where would he be without this woman’s kindness? He owed her more than his bitterness. “Indeed, that would lift them considerably.”