Battle at Guilford Courthouse
Guilford County N. Carolina
15 March 1781
The aftermath of a battle was always the same; he thought as he lay among the torn, bleeding bodies of men that he had ordered into battle only hours earlier. The smell of death would hang heavily over the once - green fields until one could smell nothing else. There were times when he wondered if he would ever rid himself of the stench.
It had been a pitched battle, with the Colonial forces putting up a good fight. But the King's men had won the day in the end and Colonial Maj. Gen. Nathaniel Greene had been forced to retreat. His attack, however, had left a heavy toll on Lord Cornwallis' forces.
He, too, had been left for dead - but only because he had pretended to *be* one of them, lying across a pile of men much younger than he - young men who would never live to see another pretty face, or to enjoy a sunrise from the top of a hill. The heavily bleeding wound in his shoulder had convinced Cornwallis' men that he was indeed not long for this world. Not wishing to tarry longer in this place, Cornwallis had instructed the remaining forces to continue to the north - toward Williamsburg, where he knew they would camp for the night to bind their wounds and regroup.
As night began to fall, he gathered what meager supplies he could find from the dead - including a pistol. Not knowing what he might find once he left the battlefield, he stuck the supplies into a makeshift pack and set off across the field - heading toward the setting sun.
Even though he knew that if he were caught by other British soldiers, he would be shot for desertion; and if caught by Colonials he would be shot as a spy; he had no further inclination to join in the fray. He had had enough of the stench of death. His only reason for joining the Army in the first place had been to escape his older brother's stranglehold.
Here in this new country, he could begin again. He would change his name and no one would ever know that he was the younger son of the late Earl of Hempstead. Lord Cornwallis would report back to his brother, who was now the Earl, that Remington Steele had died bravely in battle, fighting off the "Colonial riff-raff" as his Lordship often referred to the men from whom Remington had seen a fierce, unwavering determination to gain their freedom from the Crown even at the expense of their own lives.
He doubted that his half-brother Harrison would even miss him at all, Remington thought as he walked, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and the growing weakness from blood loss. With nearly ten years difference in their ages, Harrison had never forgiven his father for marrying after his first wife's death from a fever. Their father, while knowing he had by tradition and law to pass the title and all that went with it on to his elder son, had managed to leave a sizeable inheritance for his younger, more favored child.
But once their father had gone, Harrison had refused to release the bequest, insisting that it belonged to the estate and could not be given away. So Remington had a choice of remaining under his brother's cruel thumb as a 'poor relation' or striking out on his own. He had tried the latter back in England, only to discover that people were too frightened of the new Earl to give him a chance.
So when he discovered that Lord Cornwallis was looking for officers, he had convinced Harrison to recommend him to his Lordship - knowing full well that his brother would be hoping for exactly this end to Remington's military career: death in battle.
Remington stumbled, dropping to one knee, jarring his shoulder and causing further pain. A noise from nearby caused him to go still and gather what strength he had remaining. The sound had come from the other side of a hedge about ten feet to his left. Cautiously, he stood and moved toward the hedge, pulling the already loaded pistol from his belt, and priming the pan as he moved.
Pushing the hedge aside slightly, he nearly laughed out loud when he realized that the sounds he'd heard were those made by a horse's whinny. The bay stallion looked only slightly worse for wear, and was eating some grass nearby.
Circling the hedge, Remington approached the animal, not at all surprised when the stallion gave him a wary look and stepped back. No doubt he had been part of the battle - ridden by one of the men who now lay dead behind him. Grabbing the reins, Remington spoke softly, trying to calm the frightened animal.
"There you go, boy," he said. "It's okay now. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm trying to get away as well." The horse calmed, allowing him to check for injury. He seemed stout enough, no open wounds that Remington could feel in the darkness. The saddle needed tightening, and he lifted the stirrup, pulling on the cinch before placing his left foot into the stirrup and carefully lifting himself up into the saddle.
The horse sidestepped a few times, becoming accustomed to the unfamiliar weight of his rider, and then went still again. Getting into the saddle had used most of Remington's reserves of strength, and he gave the animal its head, hoping he would find someone who could help him with the wound in his shoulder. At least the ball wasn't still in there. He knew enough about medicine to understand that the risk of infection would have increased had it been. As it was, his biggest fear was loosing too much blood. He could feel the blood on the back of his red coat, soaking it as the front was similarly soaked.
~~*~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
Holt Plantation
Northwestern N. Carolina
16 March 1781
"I wish you wouldn't go out again, Miss Laura," the dark-skinned man said as twenty-six year old Laura Holt entered the kitchen. "It's dangerous."
"I don't have any choice, Nate," the young woman said. "We need supplies."
"I'll go get them for you," he said. "It's not right, your being out in public dressed like a boy."
Laura looked down at the rough breeches she was wearing, topped by a worn chambray shirt and an old jacket that had belonged to her brother once - before his death in one of the early battles of the war. Her long chestnut hair was coiled atop her head beneath a wide-brimmed hat that had seen better days as well. "I'd prefer to know that you're here taking care of things, Nate," she insisted. "As long as they think I'm a boy, they won't hurt me."
"They might try to conscript you into doing their fighting for them," Nate pointed out.
Laura picked up the pistol that Nate had been loading for her when she'd entered the room. "If they try, they'll have a fight on their hands," she declared, placing the barrel of the gun into her belt. "I should be back by morning. If I'm not -"
"You best be coming back, Miss Laura," Nate said in his deep, solemn voice that had terrified her as a small child but that she now found soothing at times like this. "I don't want to have to explain to your mother what happened to you."
~~*~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
When he first saw the dim light in the distance, Remington thought he was seeing things. The pain in his shoulder was a constant companion now, and he could tell by the horses' gait that he was growing tired and need to rest.
But the light seemed to urge them both forward as though it were a beacon promising fresh food and water - and warm place to spend the night. As he approached, he saw the darker shadow of a large house, with only that single, beckoning light in a small window on the bottom floor. Without that light, he might have missed the house completely, he realized, bringing the animal to a stop as a door opened and someone appeared, bathed in the light from inside.
The person, who looked like a young man, turned toward the sound of Remington's horse as it whinnied for attention. "Who's out there?" the young man asked, reaching toward his belt, and Remington frowned, surprised at having misjudged the young man's age. He sound *much* younger than he should have been for his size.
"I mean you no harm," Remington managed to say as he threw a leg over the horse's back and slid to the ground - collapsing into a heap as his legs refused to support him. "I am looking for a safe haven for the night -"
The young man approached carefully, a pistol in his hand, as another man - this one a tall Negro appeared in the still open doorway, a lantern held high. "What's going on Mi-?"
The young man turned to look at the older man, silencing him with a move of his hand. "It's a stranger, Nate," he explained. "I think he might be injured. Help me get him inside."
Remington groaned as the younger man came around and grabbed his left arm, sending a fresh wave of pain through out his body.
"Let me take him," Nate suggested, handing the lantern to the young man, revealing that he was a fair as Remington himself was. Nate carefully lifted Remington's arm over his head and across his shoulders, pulling him to his feet. "Can you walk, sir?" he asked.
"I - I think so -" Remington said just as everything went black.
Laura was mesmerized by the way the lantern light had reflected in the man's blue eyes, and gasped as he collapsed against Nate's side. "Hurry, Nate," she urged. "Let's get him into the house."
"He's wearing a red coat, Miss Laura," Nate pointed out, following her into the house where he placed the unconscious man into a chair at the table. "He's a British soldier. There might be more of them about."
"No," Laura said, shaking her head as she pushed back the blood-soaked coat and unbuttoned the man's shirt. From the markings, she could tell that he was a lieutenant.
"Miss Laura - it's not proper for you to be doing that."
"He'll die if we don't help him," she said in a firm tone that Nate knew meant her mind was set on a plan of action. "Go and wake Letty, tell her to bring her herbs and some bandages."
She removed the hat she was wearing, freeing her hair to fall softly against her back in a long braid. Realizing that Nate was still standing there, she said again, "Go." The man left the kitchen for the living quarters that he shared with his wife, leaving Laura to complete her examination of the wound, her face so close to that of the injured man that she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. Standing in front of him, she pulled him gently forward, removing the ruined jacket as she heard a startled gasp from the doorway.
"Who is he?"
Laura barely glanced at her mother as Nate returned with Letty, a thin, dark-skinned woman with a sad smile, her once black wiry hair now liberally mixed with white. "I don't know, Mother," she answered, stepping back as Letty examined the wound herself. "I found him outside with a horse. He's been wounded."
Seeing the coat laying on the table, Abigail Holt's eyes widened in fear. "He's a redcoat, Laura. He's the enemy. How can you help someone who could have been the one to kill your brother?"
"I doubt he killed Laurence, Mother," Laura sighed.
"If he's around, there are bound to be more of them," Abigail fretted. "We'll all be murdered. I know we will. Oh, why did your father have to leave us alone at a time like this?"
"Father had a job to do," Laura reminded her, turning to tell Nate, "Go put the horse in the stable, please."
"What about the coat?" he asked.
"I'll remove the buttons and then toss it into the fire," she decided. "We can bury the buttons so that no one will know he was here."
Nate nodded, still looking uncertain as he left the kitchen. "How is he?" Laura asked Letty, who was working on creating a poultice to apply to the wound.
"He's lost a lot of blood, Miss Laura. And there could be some infection setting in. He's feverish already." Laura confirmed the woman's words by placing a hand against the man's forehead.
"He's burning up with the fever," she clarified.
"Your father's job is to take care of his family," Abigail declared, taking up the argument that Laura had heard almost every day since Major Lucas Holt had left to join his old friend General Washington to fight the British five years ago. "Not to go gallivanting off playing soldier, maybe getting himself killed just like Laurence. He and Donald both," she sighed, ignoring the fact that neither her daughter nor the other woman was paying her any heed.
"What's going on?" another voice questioned, and Laura smiled at the sound of the voice, turning to look at her Aunt Mildred. "My goodness," the plump woman asked, pulling her dressing gown tight around her body and moving forward. "Isn't he handsome?" she said, eyeing the man's dark hair and face.
"I hadn't really noticed," Laura lied. "He's been shot."
"Oh my," Mildred Krebs said, placing a hand to her throat. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"You can see that Mother gets back to her bed," Laura suggested, giving her father's widowed sister a pointed look that turned into a frown when she heard another voice approaching the kitchen doorway.
"Mother? Why is everyone awake at this hour? Has there been word about Donald or Father?" Frances Holt Piper's husband and father of her three children had gone to serve as Major Holt's aide - much to the consternation of his wife and mother-in-law.
"No, Frances, dear," Mildred assured her niece. "Your sister found a wounded man outside -"
"Wounded?" Frances repeated, her face growing pale as she finally noticed the bloodied shirt and medicinal preparations on the table. "Oh, my," she said, placing a hand to her chest. Suddenly her eyes widened as she recognized the jacket. "He's British?"
"He's wounded," Laura said firmly, finding a knife to begin removing the gold buttons from the red jacket. "His blood is the same as ours, Frances. Now please, return to your beds and allow us to do what we must."
"There could be more of them," Frances insisted. "We could all be murdered in our beds."
"I told her the same thing, Frances," Abigail said. "But as usual she refuses to listen to any kind of reason."
"Mother, *please*," Laura sighed, running the back of her hand across her forehead. "If there were more British soldiers in the area, we would already know of it. I'm certain that this one simply lost his way because of his injury. Return to your beds. We will discuss this tomorrow."
"What in the world are you wearing, Laura?" Frances asked, and Laura winced, suddenly recalling that she was still dressed for her earlier planned foray into the countryside.
"I will explain tomorrow, Frances," she promised as she carried the coat and shirt toward the huge stone fireplace set into the wall. As she inspected the pockets, she found a piece of paper, which she slipped into the pocket of her coat before placing the jacket into the fire.
"Come along, Abigail, Frances," Mildred said, turning them both gently toward the door. "Laura is correct: we should be in bed."
Laura sent her aunt a look of gratitude as she used a poker to push more of the garment into the fire as Nate returned. "The horse is stabled, Miss Laura," he informed her, taking the poker from her. "I'll do this," he said. "And then I'll bury those buttons so that they can't be found."
"Thank you. I don't think we'll have to worry about them, but it might be the safest course," Laura agreed, turning back to where Letty was placing her drawing poultice onto the wounded man's shoulder.
"If you could hold him, Miss Laura," Letty said, picking up the bandages from the table. "I need to wrap his shoulder."
The man's skin was heated from the fever, and Laura, who had never seen a man without his shirt, much less touched one, felt a flush creeping into her cheeks. "Is he going to recover?" she asked.
"It's too soon to know, Miss. There doesn't seem to be any severe damage to his shoulder. He's a very lucky man. I've seen wounds like this that mangle bone and flesh so badly that the arm is useless."
Laura watched Letty tie the bandage off, securing the man's arm across his chest. "Is that going to happen to him?"
Letty placed a hand on the man's left arm. "The flesh is warm. If the damage was too great, it wouldn't be."
Laura touched his hand, feeling warmth. "I see what you mean. He should be in a bed," she decided. "Letty, would you go and open Laurence's room? I'll try to help Nate bring him upstairs."
"Yes, Miss Laura," Letty agreed, giving her husband a long look.
"Miss Abigail and Miss Frances aren't going to like him staying in Mr. Laurence's room, Miss Laura," Nate pointed out.
"They will just have to become accustomed to it," Laura declared. "Go on, Letty."
Letty nodded and left the kitchen. As Nate approached the man in the chair, the man began to moan and show signs of regaining consciousness. Nate froze in place, and Laura recognized his protective stance. Laura touched the man's shoulder.
"You're among friends," she said in a quiet, soothing tone and those blue eyes opened, focusing with difficulty on her face. The voice had sounded vaguely like that of the young man he had seen earlier. Probably her brother, he decided. If angels had brothers, that is. "You've been shot," she continued. "Do you think you can walk with assistance?"
Remington nodded in response to her question, wincing as even that slight movement caused pain in his shoulder. "Hurts," he said.
"Letty will administer some laudanum once you're in bed. It will ease the pain and help you sleep."
The large Negro man appeared in Remington's vision, lifting his arm over the broad shoulders before smoothly pulling him to his feet. For such a large man, Remington mused; trying to recall the name he had heard earlier - Nate? Yes, that was it. - Nate was surprisingly gentle. They moved slowly from the room into a hallway that led to a flight of stairs.
By the time they reached the landing, Remington could feel a return of the lightheadedness and feared that he would be unable to keep from pitching face forward but not for Nate's support. The angel - for that had to be what she was - had gone ahead of them, and as they passed a doorway, Remington saw it open and the faces of three curious children appeared before Nate spoke in a strangely quiet voice.
"You three children get back to your bed before I tell your Aunt Laura that you're gawking at a guest."
The children, swallowed, their eyes wide with fear and the door closed immediately.
Remington's knees buckled again, and Nate tightened his hold, sending a pain through the injured shoulder. "Sorry, sir," Nate apologized in his deep, rumbling voice. "With your permission, I'll carry you the rest of the way -"
Remington barely had the strength left to nod before Nate scooped him up into his arms and carried him quickly down the hallway and into a bedroom. The angel, seeing them, gasped and lifted her warm brown eyes up to him, revealing her concern. "What happened, Nate?"
"I think climbing the stairs was too much for him, Miss," Nate answered, placing the now barely conscious man onto the bed. He stepped back to allow Letty and Laura to finish their work.
Laura tucked the covers around the man's feverish body while Letty poured a measure of laudanum into a glass. "He'll have to sit up to take this, Miss," Letty told her.
Nate moved forward again to carefully lift the man's head and shoulders into a more upright position as Letty held the lips of the glass to his mouth, "Now you drink this, sir," she said. "It will make you feel a whole lot better."
"Thank you," he murmured, his eyes already closed, and Nate lowered him onto the pillows.
"Someone should stay with him, Miss Laura," Letty said. "If his fever continues, he'll need cold compresses applied."
"I'll stay," Laura said. "If he takes a turn for the worse, I'll wake you."
"It's not proper, Miss Laura," Nate insisted.
"Nate, is it proper for this household to be foraging for food and basic necessities? Is it proper for my sister's children to not know if they will ever see their father or grandfather again? Truthfully, I'm uncertain as to what *is* proper now. Letty, if you would remain here while I go change out of these clothes?"
"Yes, Miss Laura. What about the supplies?"
"I'll go tomorrow night instead. It's nearly dawn now." Smiling at Nate, Laura said, "Don't frown, Nate. You've known me all of my life. Have I ever done anything to make you ashamed of me?"
Nate grinned. "No, Miss. Except for maybe that time you insisted on climbing that oak tree and got stuck."
Laura's lips curved upward. "I would have been fine if I hadn't been wearing a dress," she told him. "I won't be a moment, Letty," she promised, leaving the room.
Letty looked across the four-poster bed at her husband. "Miss Abigail's going to throw a fit when she finds him here in Mr. Laurence's room, Nate."
"I know. But are you going to argue with Miss Laura about it? She's as stubborn as a mule at times when she gets her mind set on something." His dark eyes fell on the man lying in the bed, a shock of his dark hair even darker against his pale forehead. "I don't understand why this man is so important to her. He's a British soldier. Just like those who killed Mr. Laurence."
"Sometimes, Nate, such things aren't of importance." Seeing his confused frown, she shook her head and smiled a secretive smile. "Never you mind, Nate Johnson."
~~*~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
Laura pulled a chair up beside the bed, wanting to be close enough to keep a close watch on the patient. His fever seemed no worse, but it was also no better, which troubled her. As the sun began to come up over the far hills, his sleep was restless, and she feared that he would re-injure his shoulder, or cause it to begin bleeding again. At last she rose from the chair and sat carefully on the edge of the bed, placing a hand against his uninjured shoulder, and the touch seemed to calm him.
"I wish I knew a name to call you," she whispered. "Your coat revealed you to be a lieutenant, but that's not a proper name." Recalling the paper that she had found in his coat before placing it into the fire, Laura thought that perhaps it might yield some clue as to the mysterious man's identity. With the intent of going to retrieve the paper, Laura started to rise from the bed. But when she removed her hand from his shoulder, he stirred again, muttering under his breath, the incoherent ramblings of an injured man.
There was a noise near the door, and Laura looked up to see her nephew and two nieces looking through a crack in the door. Placing a finger to her lips to keep them quiet, she then motioned fro them to come inside.
Daniel was almost eleven, with his father's dark hair and serious eyes. He and his sisters, Melanie, who was eight, and Laura Elizabeth, six, entered the bedroom and moved to stand beside the bed, their curious eyes on the man lying in the bed.
"The three of you are up very early this morning," she noted from her place on the edge of the bed.
"Who is he, Aunt Laura?" Daniel asked. "I overheard Mother talking to Grandmother that he's a British spy."
"He's no such thing, Daniel Piper," Laura said, moving to pull her namesake into her lap for a closer look. "And you should not be listening to the conversations of your elders."
"Mother is angry that he is in Uncle Laurence's room," Melanie added.
Laura took a deep breath. "There was no other place for him to stay," she pointed out. "He's badly wounded and needs a place in which to recover. See? His shoulder is bandaged."
"How was he wounded?" Daniel wanted to know.
"By a pistol ball. It went through his shoulder." All three children winced as they imagined the pain that would inflict.
"He's very handsome, isn't he, Aunt?" Melanie said, looking at the man's face.
"Yes," Laura agreed. "He is."
"What are you children doing in sickroom?" Frances questioned, sending all three children scurrying to stand before their mother.
"They've done no harm, Frances," Laura assured her sister. "They were curious and I invited them in for a moment to satisfy their curiosity."
"They should not be in here all the same," Frances declared, glaring at Laura. "And I will remind you again that they are *my* children. Just because you've chosen to be an old maid does not mean that you can steal my children."
Laura saw the children's horrified looks and gave Frances a pointed look to remind her that they were hearing every word. "Go downstairs, children. Letty has your morning meal ready."
"Yes, Mother," Daniel said obediently as he and his sisters left the room.
"You spoil them terribly," Frances accused.
"They could stand a bit of spoiling with their father away," Laura countered.
"You should not be sitting on his bed. It is most improper."
"Did you have a reason for coming in here, Frances?" Laura questioned.
"How dare you bring that man into *this* room when he could have been the one who killed our brother."
"Laurence was *my* twin, Frances," Laura pointed out evenly, touching the man's heated forehead. "As such, I felt his death more deeply than most. This man was not responsible for Laurence's death."
"You cannot know that with any certainty, Laura."
"Yes, I can," Laura declared, turning to study the finely chiseled features of the man's face.
"I came to tell you that Letty will shortly be here to relieve you of your nursing duty."
"Thank you."
Giving a disdainful sniff of her nose, Frances turned and left the room, leaving Laura alone with her patient once more.
~~*~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
Nate came with Letty to help her with lifting the patient while she checked the wounds and rebound them, leaving Laura free to go to her room and retrieve the note from the pocket of her coat - her fingers stilled on the worn leather, recalling how proud Laurence had been of this jacket. It had been his favorite - which explained the heavy wear it had seen before his departure to join the Army four years ago only to be killed by Tarleton's men in what had become known as Buford's Massacre almost a year ago.
Picturing the face of the man now laying unconscious in her late brother's bed, Laura found it impossible to believe that he could have had a hand in the inhuman actions of Lt. Col. Banastre Tarleton and his men on that horrible day. One hundred and thirteen Colonial soldiers run through with bayonets; fathers, sons, husbands, brothers. One of the survivors who had managed to escape had returned to tell them about the horrors he had faced - and to deliver the news that Laurence Holt had died bravely, never begging for his life.
Laura opened the letter, blessing her father for his insistence that both she and her sister be able to read and write as well as his son. The flowing hand was easy for Laura to decipher. It appeared to be a letter, dated a week ago, and addressed to someone named "Mary". Seeing the feminine name, Laura suddenly realized that she had not considered the idea that the stranger might be married, or have someone otherwise important to him.
Sitting in the window seat, she read the words. "Mary, we are moving northward again. I know it would be considered treason were this letter fall into the wrong hands, but the longer I stay in this country, the more I find myself understanding why these people are so willing to fight for their release from the King's hold. It is a beautiful country, green and fair, with hills and valleys the likes of which you shall in all likelihood never see. And the people - the people themselves are a strong, sturdy stock, well adapted to the building of a new country. Three of the men in my command fell over the last week. Thomas Harman, George Kitchener, and Theodore Twilling. I know that their families will miss them greatly. Lord Cornwallis has greatly underestimated the determination of the Colonials. He will be defeated in the end, if for no other reason than his own ego. I can see you smiling as you read this - if you ever do. If I fall in battle - this letter, if found would most likely be destroyed or used against Harrison. But even if I do not fall, my dear Mary, I will not be returning to England. I have decided that when the opportunity next presents itself, I am going to run away. I can no longer face the death which surrounds me on a daily basis. I would not go during a battle, but after, when things are disorganized, it would be a simple matter to slip away behind a copse of trees or over a hill. The only difficulty then would be in evading the locals if it were discovered that I had been a part of his Lordship's Legion. Feeling against the British runs high for good reason, when one considers the butchery of Tarleton and his men. I must go now. We are moving toward a place called Guilford County with a view to continue northward still. I will write more later if possible."
Laura finished the letter with a sigh of frustration. She knew a little more about the man down the hall, but still had no name to give him. The letter to Mary was as yet unsigned. At least she understood how he had come to be so far from Lord Cornwallis' troops: he was a deserter. If he were discovered here by other British troops, he would be shot immediately.
A gentle tap on her bedroom door roused Laura from her reverie and she called out. "Who is it?"
"Aunt Mildred, dear. May I come in?"
"Of course," Laura said, slipping the letter back into the pocket of the pinafore which covered her gown, smiling as her aunt entered the room.
"Letty has finished tending to the stranger, Laura. She's sitting with him until you return. I can sit with him if you need do other things," she offered.
"You wouldn't mind?"
"Oh, no. It's not as if I've never been in the sickroom," she pointed out. Her husband's death from typhoid ten years ago had been difficult.
"You're just hoping to avoid Mother and Frances," Laura teased.
"So you've discovered my secret," Mildred replied. "Letty has work to do about the house, and you usually help Nate as much as possible outdoors during the day. And I know that you intend to go out foraging tonight. You should rest, since you got precious little of it last night."
Laura's mouth opened for a moment. "You know about that?"
"Dear, I might be old, but I'm neither blind nor deaf. I've seen you sneaking out of the house on several occasions. I wish I were young enough to get away with such a thing."
Smiling, Laura embraced her aunt. "What did Letty have to say about our mysterious lieutenant?" she asked.
Mildred's smile faltered slightly. "His fever has risen - and the wound is infected. She placed a fresh poultice on the wound and bandaged it again. He's sleeping."
"He woke?" Laura questioned, fretting that she hadn't been there.
"Not totally. But he was moaning and calling a name."
Placing her hand into her pocket, Laura asked, "What name?"
"Letty was unable to tell. She thought he might be afraid of dying because he was talking about angels."
"Angels?"
"That's what she said."
"Oh, my."
~~*~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
Laura was moving toward the front doors when her mother called from the sitting room. "Laura? Is that you?"
"Yes, Mother," she replied, turning her steps toward the doorway. Her mother and Frances were seated working on patching a quilt.
"I was hoping you would join Frances and me to work on this quilt. I would like to have it finished before your father returns."
Laura felt her jaw clench. Her mother knew that she was terrible with needle and thread. "I'm sorry, but I have work to do."
"Nonsense. That's what Nate is here for."
"Nate is only one man, Mother. He's not a young man any longer, for that matter."
"How long is that man going to stay in my son's room?" Abigail asked.
"Until he is well," Laura answered.
"Your father would be shocked by your actions, Laura. That man is a spy."
"Mother, why would a British spy be *here*?" She thought about the letter that was resting inside of her chemise. "It would be more likely that he simply left his fellows and headed west to escape capture."
"Deserted?" Frances questioned, her eyes huge.
"It happens, Frances," Laura pointed out. "Now, if you will excuse me, I -"
"Just one moment, Laura," Abigail said, and Laura stopped, sighing. "You have yet to explain why you were dressed like a common stable hand last night."
Laura whirled to face her mother and sister, suddenly tired of trying to constantly protect their delicate sensibilities. "At least once a week, I dress in that fashion to go out into the countryside and look for supplies for which we have need."
"You? Why not send Nate -?"
"It's dangerous for you to be out in the countryside at night, Laura," Frances declared, totally scandalized by her sister's actions.
"Which is why I dress as a boy," Laura pointed out. "And carry a pistol. As for sending Nate, there are those in the area who would be likely to shoot a Negro but think twice about firing upon a young white boy gathering things to support his family."
"Really, Laura, there must be some other way -"
"Mother, were do you think the material for that quilt came from? I found it at the Bennington's."
The Benningtons were well known Loyalists who had been recently run out of the area by militia. The locals had been scavenging what remained of their general store for whatever they needed. "The flour also came from the Bennington's." She took a deep breath. "At least Aunt Mildred is doing more than sewing quilts. Now, if you will both excuse me, I have *work* that needs to be done."
~~*~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
For the next week, Laura's life fell into a pattern. She would spend most of the night in the stranger's room while he slept restlessly. Aunt Mildred would take over for most of the day. His fever worsened, and Letty was forced to lance and drain the wound twice, using whiskey both times to clean it.
On both occasions, Laura helped Nate to hold him down on the floor, since the whiskey had burned enough to rouse him from his delirium to a degree. He had looked up at Laura with those incredible blue eyes, murmuring about angels again before his eyes closed.
Laura's nights were spent wringing out cool cloths to place on his brow, trying to keep the fever from becoming worse. At times, she thought he called for Mary, and at other she could tell that he was reliving that final battle in which he'd been wounded.
The only thing that calmed him was her hand on his shoulder, and more than once she fell asleep at his side, exhausted from her nursing and the constant work that it took to keep the household running with some degree of efficiency.
Letty insisted that he was improving, and Laura could only hope that the woman was correct in her assessment. Placing a hand on his forehead, she noted that it appeared to be less warm, and he was perspiring heavily. But his restlessness seemed worse, and she placed her hand on his shoulder, still amazed at the effect that simple touch seemed to have on him.
He fell quiet almost immediately and Laura decided to take advantage of that to obtain a few minutes of rest herself.
~~*~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
Remington opened his eyes, wondering for a moment where he was - and how long he had been here. Lifting his right hand to his face, he felt stubble - so it had been awhile. Judging from the amount of facial hair, possibly a week or more. When he was unable to move his left arm, he looked down to discover that it was fastened against his chest. There was a dull throbbing ache in his shoulder, but nothing like the pain he remembered.
He felt something move to his right and turned his head to see his angel lying on her side, one hand under her cheek, the other on the bed near his shoulder. She was beautiful, he thought. Lifting his right hand, he brought it up to touch the back of his hand to her other cheek, causing her eyes to open and stare into his for a moment before realization of her compromising position sank in and she sat up, scrambling off of the bed.
"Y-You're awake," she stammered. "How do you feel?"
"Better than when I first arrived, I believe," he said, smiling as she placed a cautious hand on his forehead.
"Your fever is gone," she announced with a sigh of relief. "Is there much pain from your shoulder?"
"Not at the moment. Once my arm is unbound, there might be some with movement -"
"Letty will be here soon to check the bandage," she told him.
"How long have I been here?" he wanted to know.
"Seven days. You were very ill. The wound became infected and Letty wasn't sure that she was going to save you at all."
"I shall have to remember to thank Letty for her hard work," he said. "I seem to recall her - a tall, woman, thin, skin as dark as the black of night?"
"Yes. And the Negro Nate is her husband. They've worked for our family for longer than I can remember."
"Worked for? They're not slaves?"
"No. My father does not approve of slavery," she informed him. "You're British, aren't you?"
He considered attempting to lie to her, but recalled that he had been wearing his coat the night that he had arrived and collapsed onto her doorstep. "Yes."
"The last report we had, Cornwallis was at least twenty miles from here at -"
"At Guilford," he confirmed. "We went up against Greene's men."
"Major General Nathaniel Greene?"
"Yes."
"Is that where you were wounded?"
He nodded again. "Lord Cornwallis and what remained of his force continued to the north to regroup and await reinforcements."
"And what of Greene?"
"He retreated to the south, I believe."
"Why did you not accompany Cornwallis and your friends on their journey northward?"
"They believed that I was either dead or nearly so."
"Yet you came twenty miles on horseback to the west." Remington did not respond, uncertain of what he could say. "You're a deserter," she accused.
"Everyone in my command died. I was the only survivor," he told her, squeezing his eyes shut. "I was tired of death and killing. I thought that I could start over again. That no one would care where I came from or who I was before."
"Who *are* you?" she asked.
"Remington Steele," he answered, having no desire to lie to this woman. "And what am I to call you, other than 'angel'?" he asked. "I think it only fitting that I know your name, considering that we were sharing a bed."
"Laura Holt," she informed him, her cheeks still holding an attractive pink from her earlier embarrassment. "You were restless and the only thing that seemed to calm you was the touch of my hand. I must have fallen asleep."
"The touch of an angel," he said. "A very beautiful, caring angel to whom I owe my life," he was saying as Letty entered the room carrying an oversized carpetbag.
"I did nothing," Laura insisted. "It was Letty who cleaned your wound and took care of it - I simply assisted her."
"But she would not have done so unless you in your infinite grace and mercy had requested her to," he pointed out. "I owe you a debt, Miss Letty," he told the woman as she came toward the bed and placed a work-roughened hand against his face.
"Your fever is gone," she told him, opening her medicinal kit on the side of the bed. "I need to remove your bandages and check the wound. When I remove the binding on your arm, do not move it until I tell you to. Do you understand?"
"I believe so," Remington said, focusing on Laura Holt as Letty began to carefully untie the binding that held his left arm in place. He managed, with help from Letty and Laura, to sit up in bed so that Letty could unbind his arm, and was surprised at how weak he felt from such minor exertion.
"There," Letty declared, studying the back of his shoulder for a moment. "It looks to be much improved." She pressed her fingers against the still tender flesh and Remington winced, pulling away. Letty moved to the entry wound, inspecting it in a similar fashion. "Now, very slowly lift your arm forward. If it hurts, stop."
Remington took a deep breath and lifted his arm, feeling the pull of underused muscles, but no real pain until the arm was straight in front of him.
"Lower it," Letty ordered. "Move your shoulder. Carefully," she added, seeing him tense as he did so too quickly and the pain flared up.
"There was no major damage?"
"No. You were very lucky, Lieutenant -"
"It might be best not to bandy my rank about, Letty," he admonished. "Remington Steele."
"As I was saying, you are very lucky, Mr. Steele. I'll go prepare a fresh poultice and wrap the shoulder again, but I see no need to bind your arm now. The more you use it, the less pain you will have. But you need to be careful or it could break open and begin to bleed again." She gathered the soiled bandages to be boiled. "Are you hungry?"
"Famished," he declared.
"That is always good sign," Letty said with a smile. "I have some broth on the fire for a stew. I will have Mrs. Krebs bring a bowl up for you to eat while I prepare the poultice."
"Thank you, Letty," he said, his voice sincere. "I truly appreciate everything that you've done for me."
Laura had watched the exchange in silence, and as Letty left the room, she returned to her chair beside the bed, pulling the letter from her pocket as she did so. "I believe this is yours, Mr. Steele. It was in your coat when you arrived."
Remington took the paper and opened it to read what he had written before folding it and slipping it under the pillow. "You read it." He could see by the look in her eyes that she had.
"I hoped it would give me a name or something to call you other than 'lieutenant' or 'mysterious stranger'," she explained. "I had no intention of violating your privacy."
"It's a letter to my aunt in Kent," he told her, and thought he saw a flicker of relief cross her attractive face at his words. "She's bedridden, poor dear. Has been since she was thirty after being thrown from a horse."
"How awful. I used to love to ride," she sighed. "I don't have much time to do it for pleasure these days."
"It must be difficult," he nodded, running his hand over his face again. "I don't suppose I could shave? I'm not used to wearing a beard -"
"We'll check with Letty. I'm sure my father left a razor and brush here somewhere."
"Your father's not here?" he questioned.
"No." She looked uncertain before answering. "My father is Major Lucius Holt. He is currently serving with General Washington."
TBC