Chapter Twelve
Harry could notdeny that he liked Melissa Madeley, but not in the sort of way her mother wanted. She was correct about him being too old for her. Not in age, perhaps, but in experience. His years spent as a military surgeon had aged him spiritually, and he was wise enough to recognize it. She was a sweetly innocent young lady, if a little outspoken, who, if she ever changed her mind about marriage, would require a young man of similar sweet innocence, and preferably one who liked horses as much as she did.
“My particular horse is called Apollo,” she confided, as they walked across the lawns towards the walled garden. “I’ve had him since I was fourteen. Papa quite understood my need for a good horse, although he flatly refused to allow me to follow hounds. He said it wasn’t ladylike and that few ladies ride to hounds. I’m sure that will change one day, and, of course, now Papa is gone, I might easily persuade Mama to allow me to go.” She laughed, a joyous sound that almost made Harry want to join in.
“Apollo is fifteen and a half hands and the most beautiful dapple gray. Of course, he’ll lose the dapples eventually and go white and then after that get fleabites. I have to say that my least favorite horse color is flea-bitten gray or roan. Not attractive at all. What is your favorite horse color?”
Harry had never owned a horse, having been brought up in a town and then been part of an infantry regiment. He shrugged. “I like a nicebright bay.”
“Then you will love Mama’s horse. He’s a little taller than Apollo and the loveliest bay you could ever find, although right now, of course, he’s losing his shine a little with the start of his winter coat coming. As are all our horses.”
He was finding the conversation about horses a little uninteresting. If he had been nursing a fancy for this young lady, her incessant talk of horses could well have put him off.
“My papa’s horse is left in your stables,” Melissa said. “Why don’t you ride him over to visit us at the farm? His name is Lochinvar. One of us could show you some of the glorious rides there are around here. I know Megs would be more than happy to do that.”
Harry indicated his leg. “I’m not sure how my leg would stand up to a long ride.”
She wrinkled her nose. “What exactly is wrong with it?”
He sighed. “Shrapnel, if you know what that is.”
She shook her head.
“When a shrapnel shell, which is sometimes called spherical case ammunition, explodes, it can break into many small sharp pieces that fly around and cause all sorts of havoc. Many men can be injured by one shell in this way, causing maximum damage to the enemy.” To his surprise, he didn’t find it as difficult telling her this as he’d expected.
She nodded. “I see. So you were hit by some of this shrapnel?”
His turn to nod. “I was. It caught my right leg and my back, which probably saved my life. Had I been facing the explosion I would have taken the blast face on.” He paused, unsure whether to give her further details, but as he’d only ever told Hester about this, it felt a little like unburdening himself. So he kept going. She was surprisingly easy to talk to.
“Shrapnel is hard to remove and damages muscles. The surgeon in the field station on the battlefield removed most of it, but some were too deep for him to get at without risking permanent damage or mydeath. I suppose if you were to have a powerful enough magnet, you might find me attached to it.” And for the first time since his injury he found himself smiling about it.
She dimpled at him. “But you are recovering now. So you could try to ride Lochinvar, could you not? To please my sisters and me.”
Why did he suspect there was something behind this invitation? If she hadn’t already admitted she had no romantic interest in him, he might have thought that the reason for her invitation. He’d have to think about this later. “I suppose I could.”
They wandered in the direction of the house and, as they did so, Crawford emerged, his brow creased with concern. He sketched a hurried bow to both of them. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Sir Henry, but I’ve been informed her ladyship has become indisposed. Sir Julian, as he was departing, told me she has a megrim. I felt I ought to inform you.”
Harry nodded. He wasn’t at all sure what a megrim was, as none of his sisters, and certainly none of his soldiers, had ever claimed to suffer from one. He had an uncomfortable feeling it might be something only ladies complained about. “Thank you, Crawford. Perhaps you could inquire if she needs anything.”
Crawford bowed and hurried away.
Melissa had the good sense to wait until he was out of earshot. “Mama is ill? That’s so unlike her.”
Was that her eyes narrowing?
It must have been. “I think perhaps you should take her home in your carriage,” she said, now gazing at him out of limpid blue eyes that appeared to be totally guileless, but probably weren’t. “To save her having to walk that far with a bad head.”
Ah, so it was another word for a headache. He knew all about those as he sometimes had bad ones that lasted hours. Thanks to his injuries. He wasn’t about to start calling them megrims though.
However, that sounded a good idea. The suspicion that she wasn’till at all persisted, but alongside it rose the feeling that it would be more than pleasant to pretend she was and needed his assistance. So he nodded. “We’d best go in and see her ourselves.”
Melissa shook her head with what he could only call steely determination. “No, I think I’ll walk home and tell Betsey to prepare the tisane Mama usually takes for her megrims. Then if you let her rest a short while longer before you order your carriage, the tisane will be ready by the time she gets home.” She paused and once again her eyes narrowed. She would not make a good card player. “Only her particular tisane will help her and it takes time to brew, so there’s no hurry.”
That she was now lying, he was certain. His experience with lying soldiers stood him in good stead. But he played along. “Of course. I won’t keep you. I’ll tell your mother you’ve gone home ahead of her.”
She gave him a sunny smile and took herself off, almost skipping, he noted, down the drive.
He found Miranda still in the parlor, seated on the settee with her eyes closed.
