TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

SCHERZO - STAVE XLVII

S T A V E

XLVII

She marches behind the wagon. Heat waves on the road. Sweat in her eyes – Dalrymple's dropping on her as that of all men who had grind on her. Grace aside her with a sallow look. A shot rings out. The wagon burst with splinters. Blood jets from Grace's head. Obedience hits the ground. Yankee soldiers surround her, stabbing her thighs with bayonets. Arms grabbed her shoulders and ankles. Her skirts tossed up to her head. They spread her out . . .

She startled.

The room quiet. The bed curtains open. The door closed.

Locked she hoped, and the room in some distant place; the dream out there with this solitary moment. What had happened? Nothing happened. Nothing. Good to be alone, to be still without emotion. Too much emotion.

Dalrymple with the good sense to go had crept out like a one-night lover. He'd given her a kiss, interrupting her whistling slumber, but with no other stir. She now wiped her cheek, an unconscious gesture and sitting up, found the sheet beneath her wet and a cold ooze between her legs. She jumped from the bed, grabbing the chamber pot. "Damn you," on her lips as she squatted. "Damn you. Damn you. Damn you." With basin and soap, she washed herself hard. Towelled. Washed again. And again. Damn you. Damn you. Damn you. Pulled on her white hose, white chemise and white cap, her body washed clean and ready for her armour. On came the petticoats, the stays, stomacher and gown.

Damn you.

At the mirror, she spied the stained linen and covered it with the chintz counterpane, spreading it smooth, and placing the pillows at the head. Neat and Proper.

Again to the mirror to brush out her hair left flat from the heavy wig and pillow. Brush it out. Brush it hard. Clumps which she threw upon the floor. It refused to untangle. It will untangle and what doesn't, she'll pull out, cut it out if need be. That her hair fall upon her shoulders like a gentle hand. She should wash it with rain water, but no time – a lesson at 9:00 with Tildon. No need to look good for him. She should cancel. Even better not show – leave the letch waiting. Then there's Colonel Howard to whom she is to take coffee – a note she'd received yesterday morning; he'd said nothing of it last night. She must be bright and on her game. The tresses fell soft against her neck. She pinned them up and donned the cap.

Breakfast waited in the kitchen and Mrs. G., discreet as ever, said nothing about Dalrymple out the door at sunrise. She knew. Binah made sure of it. Inevitable – such Dalliances. Wartime breeds them.

Obedience breezed in with a string of Italian exclamations.

"Well, my dear, you're energetic."

"I'm electrified! Slept poorly and awoke in a State, but decided this day is Beautiful and declare it so!"

"A rare quality," Grisham's backhand admiration.

Obedience laughed. "Dio, I shall be late. I'm always late. The pattern of my life." Her smile frantic. "I must be off. Ciao, senora bella." Made it through that gauntlet.

She headed off to Tildon's, the street cluttered with winter's dregs, though Spring coming on. Between her legs hurt. What does it matter? Could be worse – back in the barracks, wretched and hungry . . . Elliot on my tail . . . She grimaced. Basta – Enough. Stupid Italian. Stupid Dalrymple . . . An engagement with Colonel Howard this afternoon; what does he want? Did she let Dalrymple know it? The Shit should be jealous. He deserves so. I'll make sure of it. Howard wants to bed me, he's not said it, but he does. What with his pregnant wife back home about to pop. Put Lord Dalrymple in a stew . . .