TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

SCHERZO - STAVE LVIII

S T A V E

LVIII

The Grenadier Company on Evening Parade. The trees about afire, as brilliant an Autumn to be seen – the Woods, the Hills, the Palisades. Such majesty. But not the grenadiers – queues affright and too few clean shaven; clothing, patched and stitched, fit for scarecrows. Too much idling. That'll be settled once on Campaign. Howard sat his horse as he would on Horse Guards – a gesture to see them off; 1st Battalion to board ship tomorrow, 2nd Battalion to follow the next day – going south with General Leslie to support Cornwallis. The baggage had been loaded, provisions stored and the Women to Accompany, reduced by strict order, had been picked out – Four per Fifty. Today was for Leave-Taking, an indefinite separation, spouses and lovers may never meet again – men into battle and women into lost time. Each their Casualties.

As Sergeant Webb finished the roll, a woman in finery appeared on the parade ground's edge and stood out among the New Yorkers come to watch. Colonel Norton, now company commander, ordered the grenadiers to Ease Arms, and the men, now free to look about, caught sight of her with a start.

"Molly Lungs," they whispered.

Geordie's heart nearly stopped, though Tim had warned him she'd eventually come and a day he'd Regret. But the sight of her made the injury numb and he puffed so she could see. And when she did see, she locked onto him and never looked away.

She came in her finest for all to see. Defiant. Howard would notice her new Brunswick, bought with her own Cash, honouring their goal of making Money; how she would like to meet Lady Suffolk when the conflict was over. The scrape on her chin was not covered – let them see and wonder. Elliot would see she's unafraid. But enough of them, she came for Deorsa. How beautiful he was, tall and glorious, even in his patched, threadbare issue like a wounded man.

Wounded indeed, she thought, as sure as by bayonet or ball. Maybe worse, some wounds in want to heal. And she delivered them, though not her fault completely. Providence has its Way. The Dharma of it all as the Nabobs say. And yet, a Blessing . . . One that may kill you if not embraced. And yet, with a dose of guile; it's a Fool who surrenders wholeheartedly – a sin upon your Dignity . . .

Howard apprised the Company – a rendition on Bravery, Honour and Esprit de Corps. The grenadiers, in high spirits, shouted their huzzas, then snapped smart on the order to Right-About and Dismiss.

Geordie broke for her. The platoon watched, some hooting. Elliot averting his eyes and Tim shaking his head. She walked to him with raised arms. The strength it took to do this again, and there he was racing to her as if no barrier had been between them.

She took his mouth, a tender yet ostentatious kiss, for him and the crowd.

"What happened to your face?" he gasped, wanting to touch it.

"It's nothing," she said so natural. "I slipped on the granite steps going into the

Grisham's. They were wet and rushing about as I do, not paying attention. You know me –"

"Does it hurt?"

"A little. Ugly isn't it? I'd think you wouldn't want to kiss me."

"That will never be."

Her lips bowed bittersweet, stretching the scab wider. "Well too bad for you."

"I shall kiss it."

"And make it go away?"

"So it doesn't hurt."

She took his hand. "If only you could."

"I've missed you so."

"And I you," she said with a lilt.

"We embark tomorrow. I was afraid you would not come."

"I considered not to."

"Tim said you would."

"Did he?" Tim watching. "Your good friend." She lifted Geordie's hand for Tim to see and kissed it. A dare. Dare to what? She stroked Geordie's hand possessively, regretfully.

"So much unsaid," his response. "Should we say it?"

"It does no good."

"How do we breech it?"

"Not with words." She gestured to his firelock. "Go put that thing away."

She took him to Grisham's, through the front door. Mr. and Mrs. invited them to table and there, they sat, as if they had always sat, insular in their world. And which the Play? And for Whom? "Such a fall. I was lifting up my dress not to trip on the step, when the soles on my shoes slipped . . ." So much for Story – Finis – Done. Matthew Grisham, in a manner politic, inquired as to the brigade and the grenadier company, Geordie's opinion on the war. And at Seven of the O'clock they were done. The Grishams scuttled out: Mrs. to her sampler and Mr. to the Lodge. Obedience and Geordie upstairs.

She sat him in a chair and undressed and laid upon the bed with arms and legs, like a Maja, spread. "Now you."

And there – the muscle and sinew, bone and hard edges. He hid his back.

"Turn 'round."

"No."

"Let me see."

He turned and she sucked a breath.

"Come here."

She laid him facedown and moved her lips over each contusion, starting at the small of his back – tongued them – propitiation, and when done, laid herself over that rough finish.

"Deorsa," her whisper.