Page 2 of The Baron Takes a Wife

“I think he realized—”

“You should have come to get me right away. I could have explained to him—” In his mind’s eye, he heard a man scolding the angel. Even though he did not know her name, he could not allow the man to speak to her that way. Summoning all his strength, he opened his eye. In his line of vision, he saw an older man with red-gray sideburns and a thick mustache, whose head quickly snapped over to him. The man, whom he could now see was wearing the golden sleeves of the physician’s uniform, walked closer to him.

“You remember your name?”

“David Pierce.”

“The year?”

“The year of our Lord 1855.”

“What monarch sits on the throne of England?”

“Why, that would be the good Queen Bess.”

The man looked simultaneously concerned and unimpressed at David’s weak attempt at diffusing the tension.

“Queen Victoria,” David muttered.

The man appeared to weigh upbraiding him but decided to look stern.

“Lieutenant, you are at a hospital at Kadikoi outside of Balaclava. I was told you received a serious injury, as I was not here when you were brought in. The burns on your face were treated, but I found some injury to your spine and, thus, your legs.”

“Which is why I cannot move them.” He swallowed. He knew this moment might be coming but wasn’t sure he was ready to face it.

The angel looked between them.

“I need to go find Mrs. Raeburn. Excuse me.” She did that half nod again to both of them, as if unsure how to address them, and left, vanishing behind one of the shoddy screens. As she left, David felt as if all the warmth had gone from the room, even though the day was hot.

The doctor cleared his throat. “It is unclear if this will be a lasting injury. Your spine appears to be damaged, but not by a bullet or shrapnel, thankfully. Your body likely landed at an odd angle during the blast or explosion that burned your face. Do you remember anything that might provide me with more information?”

All David could remember was the charge and then nothing. He was fortunate that his head was not otherwise injured from the blast. One small mercy. He shook his head.

“Would you happen to know of my men or Major Rattison?”

“I believe that most of the injured from the assault were transported to Scutari, though some might be at Castle Hospital, and the uninjured are regrouping. I do not know of others from your company still at this hospital. I will need to examine you now that you are awake. Then, I will be able to judge your condition better.”

David nodded absently. He wished he could return to when the angel was telling him about her family less than an hour before. Before he knew what he could never not know.

****

The doctor, whom he learned was called Dr. Austin, thoroughly examined David, and his diagnosis was inconclusive and not particularly hopeful—he had heard of other patients with spinal contusions recovering, though not many. Because he would not likely walk any time soon, if ever, David would be invalided out and transported to Plymouth, not Scutari, when transport was available, which was also unclear. Thinking back to what he knew of the geography, Kadikoi was near the railway lines, so he hoped that would eventually take him to Balaclava Harbor and away from this dismal place. Many questions and very few answers just clouded David’s already muddled head. Dr. Austin attempted the awkward conversation that David knew might be coming—that if he could not move his lower body, he would not have use of anything below his waist. For a moment, David was in relatively good humor for a gentleman who had just learned that he might never enjoy that particular pastime again. But suddenly, a wave of anger and self-loathing drowned out his rational mind. He was no longer a man if he could not walk, ride, or make love to a woman, a hateful voice in his head goaded him. What good was he to anyone? He warred with himself as the sanguinity that had always gotten him through life and the utter hopelessness of his situation fought a bitter battle, and he drifted off to sleep in a mix of laudanum and self-pity.

****

He woke to the same soft humming and a gentle hand leaving his temple. He slowly opened his eye, watching as the angel pulled back the makeshift window curtain, and light again flooded the wing as he faced a ramshackle window much too muddy to see out of. When the muted light shone behind her, it illuminated the gold in her hair and skin. It was funny when he thought of a golden girl before he would have envisioned a shrinking blonde debutante. But this girl, this woman, was golden and warm, like a late afternoon sun, and something about her was her keeping him from complete despair. As she turned and saw him watching her, he attempted to school his expression to blankness. She cocked her head.

He couldn’t hold it in any longer. He had to talk to someone about it. "I don’t know if I shall ever walk again.” He hated the self-loathing he heard in his voice, but instead of pity, the angel just nodded solemnly.

"I’m so sorry, I was worried about that. I will pray for you.” She seemed to reach to her chest reflexively but checked herself when she realized what she was reaching for wasn’t there. A cross, perhaps? Even in his state, he could not ignore the warmth she had worried about him brought to his chest, but grief swiftly overshadowed that pleasure. He could not bring himself to tell her the rest. To say it out loud when he hardly knew her, a gentleman did not discuss such things with a lady. Though, he knew those in the drawing rooms of London might not consider her a lady. Truly, he knew almost nothing about her, just that she helped keep him from delirium.

“What is your name, my lady?”

Her golden-brown eyes widened in surprise as if she was unused to being addressed so formally. “Elena, I am called Elena.”

“Elena, a version of Helen. Were you named for Helen of Troy?” He smiled, or at least tried to smile. This kind of conversation was his forte, and he needed familiar ground. “Is this the face that launched a thousand ships…” he began to quote, then stopped himself at the blank look on her face. “Marlowe, he was a playwright, like Shakespeare? Never mind.”

“I do not know this Marlowe, but I do know Helen. She ran away with Paris, which started the great war. I always rather pitied her. One bad decision, and all that death and destruction.”