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Hastily she pushed off the old shirt and began to pull his arms through the sleeves of the fresh one. Finally, after what seemed like hours, she managed it. For a long minute she sat there, Alex’s body in her arms, his head resting on her shoulder. ‘Oh, Alex darling,’ she murmured, stroking his damp, disordered hair. ‘I do love you.’
As gently as she could she lowered him back to the bed and fastened the shirt, smoothing it down. Then she eyed the canvas trousers. They certainly looked extremely uncomfortable to sleep in and the waistband cut across the bandage on one side. If that got trapped in one position during the night it could chafe very badly and open the wound up.
She bit her lip and reached uncertainly for the crude bone buttons on the waistband. ‘Come along, Hebe,’ she chided herself. ‘You are a rational young woman dealing with a sick patient. And, after all, you have seen plenty of classical nude sculptures: there is nothing to be surprised or alarmed about.’
Naked male flesh was, perhaps, rather more of a revelation than she had bargained for, but Alex was soon wrapped snugly in the softest of the blankets and even to Hebe’s anxious eyes seemed to be resting more comfortably. She tried to coax him to drink a little but only managed to moisten his lips, so she put a pannier of water and a cloth carefully on the shelf close at hand, tidied away all traces of her presence from the hut and began to fit the planks back around the bed-cupboard.
It was a little like doing one of the popular dissected puzzles, but after a brief struggle she worked out how everything fitted and dropped the cross-piece down that effectively held everything tightly in place. She wriggled down into the space beside Alex’s unconscious form, blew out the light and, despite her anxiety and the strangeness of the place, fell instantly into an exhausted sleep.
But her rest did not last long. Hebe was wakened abruptly by a sharp blow and realised that Alex was tossing restlessly in his fever, his arms free of the blankets. She lit the lantern and managed to open the boards up, sliding out of the cupboard-bed and into the chilly darkness of the room. She found her shoes and dragged down the heavy cloak that at least kept her warm while she tried to make him more comfortable.
It seemed hopeless. Whenever she had him covered he would throw off the blankets, his head tossing restlessly on the pillow, which became hot and crumpled. Hebe managed to trickle a little water into his mouth, but she could not rouse him enough to make him drink properly. She became increasingly frightened for him, but odd snatches of conversations came back to her and kept her going. There had been a friend of her stepmother whose son had been very ill with a fever and Hebe recalled her saying how terrifying the nights had been because the fever was always worse then. Sir Robert had told a tale of how one sailor had become completely delirious, throwing off the combined weights of the ship’s surgeon and two of his messmates, yet had made a complete recovery.
Once or twice she managed to nod off, her head resting on the bed, but always woke with a start to find Alex no better. Then he began to talk, muttering at first, then
more and more clearly, although none of it made any sense. Doggedly she struggled on, replacing the blankets, smoothing the pillow, putting wet cloths on his forehead and trying to get a little water into his mouth.
Finally morning came. Hebe heard the sound of bird-song, intermittent at first, then swelling into the full chorus. She got up stiffly, took the water pannier to the door and went out. It was going to be a beautiful day she saw thankfully, for she did not think she could cope if it turned wet and cold. A splash of cold water on her face, a drink and a piece of cheese seemed to give her renewed strength and somehow in the daylight she felt more optimistic.
She left the door wide and went back to sit by Alex, holding his hand, her fingers lightly on his wrist where the pulse raced, and willed the fever to break. He was silent for a while, then said clearly, ‘Of course I love you.’
Hebe gasped and sat up straight. ‘Alex?’ But his eyes were shut and he was moving restlessly, still obviously unconscious.
‘Give me a straight answer,’ he added, then, ‘Clarissa, must you always tease? You know I am serious.’
Hebe dropped her face into her hands and felt the tears wetting her palm. It was one thing to have him tell her that he had made a proposal, quite another to, in effect, hear him make it. It hurt horribly, and it made her feel like an eavesdropper. What more might he say?
‘Shh, Alex, shh,’ she whispered. ‘Do not talk, just rest. I am here, Alex.’
‘Hebe?’ Had he heard her? ‘Hebe, no!’ Then he was quiet again.
She sat down abruptly. What did that mean? It was hopeless to speculate, she thought drearily, but one thing was plain—her name seemed to provoke rejection, Clarissa’s, love.
By mid-afternoon Hebe had managed to work out a routine. She would spend ten minutes or so by Alex’s side, talking to him, trying to get him to drink, bathing his forehead, then she would walk around the terrace, checking that there was no sign of anyone on the hillside, soaking in as much sunshine and warmth as she could. She checked on the mule, moving it to a better patch of grazing, then came down again to resume the pattern she had set herself.
Gradually she felt herself becoming calmer, more hopeful. Alex, although no better, was no worse. She could manage what was necessary and there was enough food for her for several more days yet. She was strong and fit for a young lady, thanks to her frequent walks: when Alex was a little stronger and able to guide her, she would dress in men’s clothes, help him on to the mule and they would climb up to the pass, high above.
She came to this conclusion standing on the edge of the terrace, stretching, her hands in the small of her back which was aching after spending so much time bending over the high bed. Feeling better in her mind made her realise just how awful she felt physically. Her hair was a tangled mass of salt-sticky rats’ tails, her feet were grey with dust, her clothes had not been off her back since she had dressed in haste two—or was it three?—nights ago on board ship.
Hebe ran back into the hut. She paused to lay a gentle hand on Alex’s dry, burning forehead. He seemed quieter. She trickled a little more water between his cracked lips, then began to search the shelves around the bed, finally emerging triumphant with a piece of rough olive oil soap and a length of torn sheet.
A long, cautious scrutiny of the slopes below convinced Hebe that she was quite alone. Standing by the trough she stripped off her stained clothing until she was quite naked in the hot sun, then plunged her arms right into the water. The cold made her gasp and shudder, but she worked the soap into a lather and began to wash all over, finally dunking her whole head in until her hair was soaked. Getting the salt out with the coarse soap took forever, but finally the strands squeaked and she could rake the tangles out with her fingers.
With the makeshift towel wrapped around her she went to sit in the sun on the edge of the terrace to let the sun dry her hair. After perhaps fifteen minutes it was still damp, but she was worried about leaving Alex any longer. Hebe stood up, automatically checking the hillside as she had been doing all day, and froze.
Far beneath her was the unmistakable sight of a column of men beginning the climb she and Alex had made only the day before. She could see the glint of sunlight on musket barrels, the flash of red uniform coats and the dust kicked up by the boots of men and the hooves of mules and donkeys. How many? She craned to see, trying to count as they vanished and emerged between stunted trees, bends in the path and fallen boulders. Twelve, perhaps fifteen.
She spun round and scanned the terrace with fierce concentration: the soap was on the edge of the trough. She snatched it up, rubbing a few suds away. The water flowed clear and clean, all sign of the lather gone. She had remembered to jump over the muddy patch every time so there were no betraying footprints.
Hebe hurried into the hut, replacing the stool by the fireplace, bundling the plate and remains of her lunch on to a shelf in the cupboard. She threw her shoes and clothes on to a shelf, then ran outside to fill the water pannier, taking care not to spill any on the dusty ground.
There was nothing she could do about the mule—with any luck they would pass by the tiny path that led off to its clearing. She left the door ajar, thinking it looked less suspicious, dropped a sack over the mule saddle and climbed into the cupboard.
Her fingers fumbled with the planks, sending splinters into her palms. ‘Steady,’ she told herself. ‘Steady, like doing a puzzle.’ And suddenly all the planks had slotted into place, the locking bar was down and all she had to do now was to slide carefully down the bed until she was lying alongside Alex.
How long would they be, reaching this point? she wondered, wriggling into a comfortable position and pulling a corner of the blanket over her slightly damp legs. She curled into Alex’s back and put an arm across him; he murmured something, then lay still and quiet in her embrace. Hebe let her forehead rest on his back, feeling the strength of his muscles through the thin shirt, the heat of his fever. ‘Lie still, darling,’ she whispered. ‘Just lie still for a little while.’
Time seemed hardly to pass, then there was the alarm call of a jay outside and she began to make out the sounds of the approaching troop. Men calling to each other, the sound of metal striking rock and finally, as they reached the terrace, the jingle of harness.
