“Cakes made for St Catherine’s feast day, which isn’t actually until the twenty-fifth of November, but they’re so nice most people make them more often. They’re delicious.”
Mrs. Bannerman put a plate of them in front of Harry. “See they’re like a wheel? Tis supposed to be the wheel St Catherine died on. A Catherine Wheel, so called round here.”
He put out his free hand, annoyed to find it still shaking, and took one. They were still warm and, when he took a cautious bite, quite delicious.
Miranda pushed the teacup towards him again. “Have another try.”
This time he was able to drink his tea without fear of dropping or spilling it. But that didn’t lessen his embarrassment in any way.
However, feeling a little recovered, he smiled at Mrs. Bannerman, determined to leave her with the impression he was fine. The last thing he wanted was rumors spreading that he was sickly, or touched in the head, or anything worse. “Excellent cakes. I can see I’ll have to call again on bake day, if you don’t mind.”
Her laugh held genuine pleasure. “It’ll have to be early, or my little ones will’ve eaten them all before you get here.” And she passed one broken in half to the two little girls.
Harry finished the cake and drank a second cup of tea, mainly out of a desire to illustrate that he was back to normal. Only he wasn’t. He was angry with himself. Why had that had to happen when he was out instead of in the privacy of his own home? What would Mrs. Bannerman be thinking of him? Miranda, too. He drained the cup, the tea at least soothing.
Time to go, though, before anything else untoward happened. “I’m very pleased to have met you, Mrs. Bannerman, and your children. And I’m glad to be able to inform you that I have no wish tochange anything about your tenancy. Unless, of course, there’s anything you and your husband might wish to raise? You’re welcome to think about it and come and see me at the Hall if you’re discontented about anything.”
Her relieved smile told him everything. She must, of course, have been worrying about a new man taking over and wanting to raise the rent she and her husband paid for their farm. “I’ll have a word with Mr. Bannerman when he comes home tonight, Sir Henry. When he’s at the ploughing he always takes a clanger with him. Saves him having to bring the horses home at midday.”
Harry looked for help from Miranda, an eyebrow raised.
She chuckled. “A pastry with meat at one end and something sweet, like apple, at the other. All made as one pie. Very common around here although I must admit I’ve never tried one.”
“Your lasses have,” Mrs. Bannerman said with pride. “Often round here asking for one, they are, though not so often since their father died.”
Harry stood up, acutely aware of the aches in his leg and back and desperately hoping neither would show him up. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Bannerman. And don’t forget. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to come up to the Hall to talk about it.”
She was on her feet as well, and bobbing him another curtsy. “I’ll tell my Herbert just what you’ve said, but we’re more than happy here with the way everything is, so I doubt you’ll be seeing us until Michaelmas Quarter Day, although that’ll be upon us soon enough. And thank you again for your generosity towards my boys.”
Back out in the yard, a chair was provided for Miranda to mount from and Harry, throwing caution to the winds, also made use of it. His leg was aching with a vengeance now, and the thought of it embarrassingly giving way overcame any worries he had about being thought feeble for not being able to mount without the chair.
Having left her children inside with a few dire threats about behavingin her absence and not going near the fire, Mrs. Bannerman held Lochinvar herself as he mounted. As he found his other stirrup, she leaned closer, one hand on his saddle. “Mind you look after yourself, lad.” Her brow furrowed with concern. “And don’t you forget that any time you’re passing there’ll be a Cattern cake in here for you, or a clanger, or just a cup of tea.” She winked at him. “Mum’s the word.”
Instinct told Harry that not only did she mean her words, but that what had happened in her house today would go no further. He covered her hand with his for a brief moment. “Thank you, Mrs. Bannerman, I won’t forget your kindness.”
She stepped back and, hands on hips, watched them ride away. At the yard gate, Harry looked over his shoulder and she raised a hand to him.
He made a vow to avoid all talk of the war and doctoring, lest it bring back further bad memories. Mrs. Bannerman might be trustworthy, but others might not be so considerate.
By the time they’d seen Farmer Seth Crawford, his butler’s older, and very similar in appearance, brother, and his wife at Tally Ho Farm, then Mrs. Haddington at Church Farm, and he’d had to dismount and remount two more times, Harry was, to his disgust, exhausted.
“I think we’d best call it a day,” Miranda said as they rode out of the yard at Church Farm, where they’d been pressed to eat a luncheon of pork pie, cheese, pickles and home-made bread. Mrs. Haddington’s youngest son closed the gate behind them and ran off across the yard, his boots clattering on the cobbles. “I’m feeling positively drained by all this conversation and having to be nice to everyone. I haven’t been out to any of the farms since Geoffrey died.” She glanced across at Harry. He couldn’t miss the concern in her eyes.
“I’m all right,” he said, perhaps a little too abruptly for politeness. “I’m not an invalid, so please don’t treat me as one. Every day my condition is improving.” Anger welled, probably due to his tiredness. “I’m not made of porcelain.”
She drew her horse closer to his, her brow puckered, but not appearing at all put off by his shortness of temper. “You may not be an invalid now, but I know quite well that you were one until very recently.” Her tone was an odd mixture of the abrupt and the conciliatory. “And you know it too, so please don’t get into a high dudgeon just because people care about you. We should have stopped at just two farms today. The third was too much for you.”
He shifted in his saddle, annoyed by how correct she was, and unwilling to let her see his discomfort. “It’s just a little twinge.”
She shook her head. “Rubbish. I can see it’s not. We have nearly two miles to ride back to the Hall. Why don’t you tell me what caused your injuries? I’m a good listener, you’ll find. And I might even be able to help in some way.”
Harry leaned on the pommel in an effort to ease his leg, but that only made his back ache more. He might as well tell her. She’d find out one day so it might as well be now. He had to hope so doing wouldn’t bring on another of those waking nightmares. It was bad enough having them at night without having to suffer flashbacks during the day as well.
“Shrapnel. It’s a shell that explodes into little bits and thus damages the most amount of people. Very useful, so long as it’s not used on you.” He managed a grin, determined not to conjure up any images in his head. “I was inside what’s called an infantry square. It’s defensive. Wellington fought quite a defensive battle. He let Boney’s men do the hard work and come to us through the mud. I don’t know if you know, but heavy rain fell for two days before the battle, and the whole place was a quagmire. Bloody Belgium. Hate the place. Just mud and rain and more mud.”
She nodded. “I’ve heard some of that. News travels fast. Especially of such a resounding victory.”
“Not quite the resounding victory you might have been led to believe. The weather played a big part in our win. That and the badadvice of Boney’s generals.” He shifted again, the ache running up from his ankle to his hip. “Wellington ordered us into defensive squares to withstand the cavalry attack. It’s a hollow square, with two lines of soldiers facing outwards on all four sides, about twenty strides by twenty strides. The front line on one knee, bayonets forming a spiky wall, the men behind with loaded muskets. The orders were not to open fire until the enemy cavalry was a bare thirty yards distant. The best accuracy but also the most dangerous for the defenders. If a cavalryman and his horse aren’t downed there, they’ll hit the square full on. Hence the bayonets.”
