Etienne awoke, feeling hungry. Ravenous, in fact.
The realization led to another—the absence of pain between his temples. He lay perfectly still, marveling for a moment at something he thought he’d never experience again.
The awareness spread to the rest of his torso. There was no more pain in his joints or muscles. No chills shook his body, no heat bathed him in sweat.
In fact, he felt perfectly normal. Normal, except for the empty feeling in his stomach and the usual absence of feeling below his waist.
He grimaced. In his dreams, he’d been seeing. But unchanging blackness greeted his open eyes.
Nothing had changed.
Where was Katie? She’d been present all along. He groped the side of his bed with one hand, remembering so many times when he’d awakened to find her hand in his.
But he felt nothing but his sheet. For a second he panicked, hearing nothing around him.
But the next, a familiar wet nose sniffed at his hand. He raised his hand and felt the top of the dog’s head. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out but a croak.
The dog came closer and the next thing he knew Brioche was licking his face. He tried to move away but was too weak. “Eh—”
“Etienne!”
He stilled immediately at that dear, sweet voice of his angel.
Her warm hand covered his forehead. “Praise God,” she whispered.
“Wha—?”
“Your fever is gone,” she said in a low, fervent tone.
When he said nothing, too tired to try to formulate words, she continued. “You’ve been very sick.”
Katie, his angel who had stuck with him through it all. Recollections tumbled into his mind. Voices and sensations—Katie’s predominant among them—smoothing his brow as she was doing now with a cool, wet cloth, whispering gently to him, often in French. A deeper, masculine voice in rough English; strong hands lifting, washing him; another British voice, more cultivated; all amidst the constant haze of pain. “K...atie.”
She pressed his hand. “I’m here. What can I get you?”
“Tha—th—” The words came out thick and scratchy as he tried to thank her.
“Here, let me get you some water.” The next moment, she lifted his head—the way she’d done countless times—and brought a porcelain cup to his lips.
He drank a few sips, his parched throat alleviated.
“Brioche, you mustn’t annoy Monsieur Santerre. You know how ill he’s been.” She pushed the dog’s muzzle away from Etienne’s side then eased his head gently back down onto the pillow. “There. How do you feel?”
“Th...the pain in my head is gone.”
She chuckled—dear, beautiful sound. “Of course it is.”
He lifted his hand, seeking hers. When he found it, he clasped it. “Y...you...saved...my life.”
She returned the pressure of his hand. “The Lord saved your life.”
“I don’t know whether I should thank you...or curse you.”
“This proves God isn’t done with you yet. This is only the first step. You shall see all He has in store for you.”
He made no reply. Talking took too much effort. At the moment, he was merely content to listen to her sweet voice, the words as yet had little meaning to him.
“We thought last night we had lost you. Do you remember?”
He struggled to think back. “Just so much...pain...each time...I woke up.”
She was silent a few seconds until he was afraid she wouldn’t speak. “T...tell me.”
He heard her bring a chair over, without letting go of his hand. As she spoke, she stroked his hand gently, a movement he found enormously soothing.
She spoke slowly, as if the words were difficult for her. “You wanted to die.”
He remembered. Too tired to fight anymore. Better to give up and let the darkness swallow him. “Ye...es.”
She said nothing right away, as if waiting for him to say more. “You don’t remember?”
“Wh…what?”
“You wanted to accept the Lord Jesus,” she enunciated slowly.
Gradually, the recollection returned. He had been so terrified of the darkness that finally, in desperation, he had been willing to accept the Jesus Katie preached.
“Ye...es.” The word came out as if pulled from him. He pushed aside the memory, focusing instead on the present. “I’m...hungry.”
“Oh, dear, forgive me. Let me get you something to eat.” She made a move.
Reluctant to have her leave him, he tightened his hold on her hand. “Send someone...that...that Brit who was here.”
She giggled softly. “The poor man is sleeping. He has been a godsend, taking care of you with no thought for himself.”
Something else for Etienne to ponder. But at the moment he was too tired.
“I’ll fetch you a nice bowl of chicken broth. How does that sound?”
He could eat a side of beef. “It will do, I suppose.”
“You’ll get something hardier if you manage to hold that down,” she said, amusement in her voice.
“Have I...been so sick?”
“At times.”
He turned away, remembering retching into a basin, hands holding him. His stomach twisted at the thought of how much Katie had witnessed of his infirmity.
As if realizing his thoughts, she patted his hand. “I’ll be right back.”
The door clicked softly and the room was silent except for a quiet ticking of a clock somewhere off to his right and Brioche’s gentle pant.
When she had left the room, he pondered the last few days. Waking up on his cot at Les Invalides and finding Katie there, right over him...telling him she would take him home...
To be out of Les Invalides. The notion took some moments to accustom himself to. For so long, he’d had nowhere else to go. He touched the bed around him in wonder. He was at Katie’s house, among her family. British and American. What must they think of him?
The next moment, he realized he was completely naked. His hand went from his bare chest downward.
His face grew warmer at the thought of the all these days of Katie’s nursing him, seeing his scrawny body—how wasted it had become from the powerful physique he’d once had—to, worst of all, her beholding his wasted limbs. Pale, stick-like they must be, useless appendages.
No—he wouldn’t think about it. He scrunched up his eyes.
She’d said how sick he’d been. He remembered feeling colder and colder sitting out in the rain, until Pierre had finally come for him.
Then, being thrown onto his bed...and not caring about anything, just wanting to die, just to be free of all the pain and misery of his life. Pierre leaving him...and, shivers racking his body and finally, just yearning for the release of death...except for the darkness that awaited him there.
The thought brought the remembrance of last night. He’d been desperate enough to call on God’s mercy. And God had seen fit to let him live. Suddenly he curled his hand into a fist but couldn’t hold it, he was so weak.
He marveled anew that he had surrendered to the “Savior.” At least Katie called him Savior. He’d grown up in a church, staring at the heavy crucifix on the wall and the paintings of a sad-looking Jesus agonizing on it. Dozens of saints and the serene Virgin Mary competed with this Jesus for attention. It was difficult to differentiate among them all. Which was predominant, which to be worshipped?
Catechism had been taught by a mean-spirited curé, who’d rap his knuckles for any line misquoted. And prayers were old women endlessly reciting the rosary, or the curé droning them in the cavernous church during Sunday mass.
To what purpose was his life to go on? Blind, lame, a useless vegetable for others to wait on and pity.
Even Katie—the one bright spot in his existence—was motivated by pity. She had a soft heart and was moved by any unfortunate, like the mutt off the docks. Etienne likened himself to Brioche, who lay on the carpet, and now enjoyed a warm residence and steady meals.
Etienne marveled again that he was under Katie’s very roof. The wonder of it clouded out everything else for a few seconds. For the present, he would see her every day.
The next moment, black depression fell upon him like a sledgehammer on his chest. Would it be enough just to live to hear her voice each day? For how long—a few weeks, months—until either he returned to that hellhole of Les Invalides or she to her home in America? How long could he bear it? To live just to hear her voice? Until she got tired of the task, or until she had to return to her homeland. How long did he have?
Hot tears stung his eyes and two began to course down the sides of his face. To his consternation, he didn’t have the strength to lift his hand to wipe them away. He screwed up his eyes. He didn’t need the further humiliation of Katie’s finding him crying like a baby when she walked in.
God, why have you let me live? It was the first time in a long time he was addressing his Maker directly. Do you want me to thank You for this favor?
His lips curled downward as a wave of bitterness choked his windpipe.
Thoughts of Katie bombarded him—her tender voice when he’d first awakened, her warm hand holding his, the gentle way she held the nape of his neck when she’d given him a sip of water and later spoon-fed him.
How was he to bear his useless condition when every day would bring a reminder of all he couldn’t have?
* * *
By the time Katie returned, he had dozed off. “I’ve brought you some nice, warm broth. Would you like it now or would you rather sleep?” she whispered close to him.
Etienne stirred, then his stomach answered for him. “I’ll have it now.”
“I’ve brought Tom for you to meet. He has been taking care of you.”
The next second, a whiff of shaving soap came near as a strong pair of hands lifted him up by the armpits in one motion. Katie plumped up the pillows behind him, so he found himself sitting up for the first time in days. He realized he had no idea how many days had passed.
“Well, it’s good to meet you at last, sir. By rights, you should be dead.” The Brit chuckled. “Before you say who the dickens is this cheeky fellow, let me introduce myself.”
A large hand enfolded his in a strong grip. “How do, mate? The name’s Tom ’amilton, at your service. I’m your valet for the time being, and even though I don’t speak your lingo, I ’ope to serve you better than the last scoundrel you had.
“I understand you do fine with English, so I think the two of us will get along capitally,” he finished as he tied a cloth around Etienne’s neck.
“How do you do,” Etienne replied more slowly, not quite sure how to react to this hearty voice. He cleared his throat. “Th—thank you for...all you’ve done...for me.”
“You’re most welcome, sir. Glad to ’ave been o’ service to you. I’d do anything for my former commander, Captain—now Major—’awkes, though ’e’s resigned his commission long since. When ’e called me, I came straightaway. You were a mighty sick fellow. Closer to the other side o’ the grave than to the land o’ the living. Thought we’d lost you there a couple o’ times. And Miss Katie ’ere tells me you were ready to give up the ghost for sure last night.”
Etienne’s fingers clenched the edge of the bed covers, uncomfortable with the British navvy.
“Well, I’ll let Miss Katie do the honors with the soup while I prepare some shaving soap for you. You want to appear at your best before such a pretty nurse.”
A hot spurt of jealousy shot through Etienne at the words but just as quickly died as he realized how ludicrous the feeling was. At least the man could see Katie. The injustice of it filled him with despair. How old could the Brit be? He didn’t sound young, but he could be wrong...
“Come,” Katie said, “have your soup before it gets cold.”
He turned to the other side of the bed, in the direction of her voice. “I feel so weak.”
“That’s natural. You’ve been delirious with fever for how many days, Tom, that we know of? Five, hasn’t it been?”
“Yes, three since I’ve been ’ere, five since you were brought to the house.”
“And at least two since you were found at Les Invalides.”
Les Invalides.
Before he could think of that place, Katie began, “Dear Father, We thank you for this food. We thank you that Monsieur Santerre can now partake of this nourishment. We thank you that you healed his body. And most of all, we thank you for his salvation. Please bless this food and cause it to strengthen his body. In the name of your dear Son, Amen.”
Without thinking, Etienne echoed the word “amen.” A spoon was brought to his mouth and he opened it automatically. Warm, savory broth with bits of noodles and potato filled his mouth, more tasty than anything he had enjoyed in a long, long time.
As the soup was fed to him, Katie hummed under her breath.
He heard Tom talking with Brioche and walking about the room as if picking things up and drawing the curtains. “You sound mighty cheerful this morning, Miss Katie,” he said with a chuckle.
She laughed in a joyous, unrestrained manner. “I ought to be when the Lord has performed such a mighty miracle!”
“You’re right there, miss!”
Again, Etienne felt disgruntled at the easy camaraderie the man enjoyed already with Katie, his angel.
“Well, Miss Katie, seeing you have everything under control here, I’ll leave you for now. I’ll be by in a bit to wash and shave you, sir. No ’urry.”
“Thank you, Tom,” Katie answered while Etienne’s mouth was still full. “You are a dear.”
When he heard the door close, Etienne relaxed only slightly, still feeling self-conscious at being fed by Katie. He remembered something she had said earlier. He waited until she had fed him another spoonful of soup, then cleared his throat. “You said I had been delirious?”
“Yes, often. Your fever was quite high at times.”
“Wh—what did I say?”
“Mostly you muttered things in French that I didn’t understand. You said various names. I surmised they might have been your comrades in the army.”
He nodded, relieved that he hadn’t revealed anything more personal than that. He seemed to remember crying out to her that she was his angel. His cheeks flushed now, wondering what she thought of that.
He heard the spoon scrape against the bowl. “Here you go, the last spoonful.” He swallowed obediently, and then she wiped his mouth with a napkin. He took it from her to finish the job, not wanting to remain completely helpless the way he had been for a week.
“You said d’Arblay’s name a few times.”
He held his napkin crumpled in his fist. “Did I?”
“Mm-hmm.”
With an effort he loosened his fingers and waved his hand. “Perhaps because you had been telling me about him. He must have been on the periphery of my mind.”
“Yes, I imagine that is so.”
“You haven’t seen him, have you?”
“No, I’ve scarcely seen the outside of this room.”
Before he could express his dismay, her chair pushed back and she took his bowl. “Why don’t I help you lie down again and you can sleep some more? Your body is still worn out and must rest.”
He realized she was right. The least effort exhausted him. He attempted to move his own body down and she quickly draped her arm around him, helping him down. He inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair and skin. Once more, despair overwhelmed him at the thought of her proximity when he didn’t feel strong enough to hide his emotions from her.
Before she had a chance to straighten, he grasped her arm. “Thank you for the soup. It was delicious.”
“You are most welcome. When you wake up, we’ll give you something else. Perhaps a cool custard and some biscuits.”
He cracked a smile, already feeling drowsiness overpower him. “Sounds wonderful.”
“And then when you’re up to it, Tom can give you that shave he promised you.”
He felt his jaw, reminded of his appearance. “I must be an awful sight.”
“You look...splendid.”
Before he could interpret the inflection of her tone, she had moved away from him. He heard the rattle of china as she picked up the tray. “Now, get some sleep.”
“If you promise to also.”
“I promise.”
He heard her soft footsteps walk away. “Katie?”
She stopped. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Her voice held a smile.
“I don’t mean for just the soup.” He swallowed, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. “I mean for...everything.”
“I know.”
He nodded, comforted, and closed his eyes.
“Sleep well,” she said softly. “I’ll leave Brioche with you. He has been a faithful companion to you all through your fever.”
“Thank you,” he murmured.
As if on cue, he felt Brioche nuzzle his hand. Obliging him, Etienne petted him a few minutes until the dog lay down. “Good boy.”
When the room was still with only the soft sounds of the sleeping dog and ticking clock, Etienne relaxed against the pillows, feeling deliciously drowsy and quite good—his belly full, no pain in his muscles or in his head, no chills, just wonderful for the moment.
He remembered Katie’s reply as to how he looked. Splendid. His finger made a rasping sound against his cheek. Farther up, his hair felt stringy. No wonder Tom had said he’d want to appear his best.
But Katie had said he looked splendid to her. Just before drifting off, his mind pictured what Katie’s smile must be like—sweet, angelic, beautiful.
* * *
Later that day, while Tom sat him up again and was shaving him, Etienne heard a soft knock on the door. Thinking it was Katie, his body braced in anticipation. But when Tom called out, “Come in,” he heard another male British voice.
“Good evening.”
So it was evening. Etienne had had no inkling. The masculine voice came from much closer to his bed this time. “Hello, I’m Katie’s brother-in-law, Gerrit Hawkes.”
“Oh—hello. Etienne Santerre.” He stuck his right hand out awkwardly and it was immediately taken in a strong grasp. “Thank you for taking pity on me and allowing Katie to bring me here.”
The man let his hand go. “Think nothing of it. I was thankful we could be of service.”
“I hope I haven’t caused you and your...your wife too much inconvenience.”
“Not at all. I don’t know if Katie has told you, but we decided to have my wife stay in Ouen at a pretty place in the country. The physician said it was influenza, which can be quite contagious.”
“Yes, of course.” It was worse than he’d feared, what he’d caused Katie’s family. “I am so sorry. If you can arrange conveyance I can return to Les Invalides at once.”
Mr. Hawkes laughed. “I shall do no such thing. Katie would not allow it, for one thing, and for another, you’re too weak to be moved at the moment.”
Etienne began to knead the knuckles on his left hand until Tom gently tipped his chin up to shave under it. Etienne tried to crane his neck around to say to Mr. Hawkes, “I assure you, I can withstand the trip—”
“Steady there, mate,” Tom cautioned. “You want to appear your best to the pretty lady who’s been nursing you, and not have me nick you.”
Etienne gulped and held still, the reminder of Katie’s looks only adding to his tension.
Hawkes continued in a smooth tone. “What I came to tell you and Tom is that I shall be leaving early tomorrow morning to bring my wife back. So, you needn’t fear that you will be inconveniencing us in any way. We have a large house here, and you are most welcome to stay for as long as your convalescence takes you. We would welcome the company as long as you don’t mind being under the same roof as two former redcoats, Tom here and myself.”
Etienne was at a loss for words. It was inconceivable to him that anyone would offer such hospitality to someone in his condition—yet, this man sounded quite cordial about it. “I—I—of course not, that is.”
In the meantime, Tom continued scraping away at his neck before tipping his chin back down and starting on the other side of his face.
“By the way,” Hawkes said, somewhere close by to his right, “I was Captain—then Major—Hawkes, in His Majesty’s Coldstream Guards. I understand you were at Waterloo?”
Etienne’s heart started to hammer and his palms to sweat. “Ye—es.” He clamped his lips shut, using the excuse of Tom’s shaving to avoid saying anything more.
“We were kept busy all day holding your blue coats at bay at the Château d’Hougoumont.”
Etienne released a breath at the mention of the château. At least the two had not fought directly against each other. “I...was in the center of the battlefield, closer to La Haye Sainte in the attack against Wellington’s center line.”
“Were you?” he said softly.
“Yes.” He coughed then held still when Tom once again lodged his chin firmly between his fingers to keep him from moving. “We...we didn’t see action until later in the day.”
To Etienne’s relief, Hawkes asked him no more. “And Tom, here,” he said instead, “was busy in the surgeon’s tent till long after dark, saving those he could.”
Tom’s heavy breathing came from his left as the man shaved his sideburn. “That’s right, sir. Gerrit was a good commander—the best—always coming back after a battle to check on ’is wounded men.”
“Well, I don’t want to tire you out, Santerre, with talk of war,” Hawkes said. “It’s best that it’s behind us. I just wanted to welcome you and see if there was anything you might need. I’m sure Katie has already made sure of this.”
“Yes, yes, she has,” Etienne answered quickly. “Thank you, sir, for your kind hospitality—”
“None of that—and it’s Gerrit. Now, I’ll leave you to Tom’s ministrations. He makes a fine valet. You’re a good barber, too, aren’t you, Tom?”
Tom chuckled as he patted Etienne’s cheeks clean with a towel. “I was just getting to that. We’ll have the gent looking as good as any sitting at a bow window at White’s.”
Hawkes laughed. “Perfect. I’ll see you both when I return from my trip to fetch my wife. It should only take a day and a half. I hate leaving Katie by herself, but I know she’ll be well taken care of here. Besides, she wouldn’t want to tear herself away at the moment.”
Before Etienne could bring himself to ask anything more, he heard Hawkes’ footsteps move away and then the door open and close.
* * *
Katie looked up from the play she was reading. “I am not tiring you out?”
Etienne shook his head against the pillow. “No, I am enjoying it.”
His words, however, sounded as if they cost him effort. She closed the book at the marker. “We can continue tomorrow. It’s only your third day without a fever.” She sighed. “It’s too bad Lt. Lévêque and the others won’t have a chance to hear the rest of the play now.”
Etienne lay back against the pillows, his face pale, his hands resting quietly atop the coverlet. “Have you heard anything of them?”
“I have sent a servant regularly to keep them informed of your progress. They were ever so helpful to me when we discovered you so ill. Maybe one day I can have a carriage sent over to bring them for a visit. Would you like that?”
He said nothing right away, so she was afraid she’d said something wrong.
Despite her own elation and thankfulness over the miracle of his recovery, it had not taken Katie long to perceive in Etienne a certain edge—even bitterness—at his survival.
If she thought the Lord, through Etienne’s prayer of surrender that night, would transform his mind and soul as miraculously as He had removed the fever, she had been mistaken. Etienne never referred to that prayer or to his supplications that night.
Was he ashamed of having cried out to God? His silence on the subject precluded any probing on her part.
Finally, all he said was, “Perhaps.”
She looked down at the book of Molière’s plays in her hand, deciding she must find a topic to divert him. “I don’t understand Alceste’s continued pursuit of Célimène. I would call it rather an obsession, not true love. It is clear she does not love him.”
“Perhaps he cannot help himself.” His long fingers fiddled with the sheet.
“And she, in her turn, seems to deliberately do the things he most dislikes.”
Etienne’s smile had a cynical twist. “I think that is what the author intends. He is satirizing the behavior of people in polite society.”
Glad to have at least elicited a smile from him, she continued. “Yes, he certainly seems to be. But it doesn’t make me less inclined to shake some sense into these two characters.”
Etienne’s smile deepened. “By the way, your French has improved quite impressively. It shows my puny efforts at tutoring you were not really necessary.”
“Not at all! It was because of you—and the group of veterans—who spurred me to make more progress. I’ve been reading diligently and speaking whenever I have the opportunity—with the servants, since I have not been out at all since...since you’ve been ill.” She didn’t want to make him feel badly about that, so she hastened on, “I have to thank you for being a good excuse for me to avoid those social engagements I found so tedious!”
The frown in his face smoothed out. “Well, then I am thankful my illness served some useful purpose other than exhausting you with nursing.”
She laughed and was gratified again when he smiled. “I...also fell into the habit of speaking with you in French when...you were feverish. You were speaking in French and it seemed...more natural to answer you in your own tongue.” She blushed as she spoke, not adding that she had lost her shyness in using the language around him since he was only half-conscious at the time.
“Perhaps we should continue that habit now,” he said in French. “I was not exaggerating when I said you’d improved.”
“Very well,” she replied in French. “Only, I hope you don’t become impatient when I don’t understand everything you say.”
“I promise you I won’t. But we can alternate. A little bit in French every day and then English, oui?”
She smiled in relief, glad to do anything to alleviate the heaviness she sensed in his spirit. “Bon.”
Ever since the fever had broken and his body begun to mend, Etienne had looked so dejected when she came upon him alone. Whenever she asked him how he was feeling, he always replied that he was fine. He never complained and behaved like the model patient, taking whatever she or Tom gave him and doing whatever they asked him to do. He had not once shown any hostility to Tom or Gerrit because they were British.
She shook her head, not understanding his passivity. It was the first time she was witnessing a man not fighting those nursing him, to be up and about before his body was fully recuperated.
But of course, Etienne couldn’t be up and about. Perhaps that was the reason.
She knew the Lord would heal Etienne. Ever since that night when He’d given Etienne back his life, she knew God would bring complete healing to his body.
Katie hugged the secret knowledge to herself, knowing Etienne himself was not ready to accept it, since he had not even acknowledged his own acceptance of Jesus as his Savior.
“Tell me, Mlle. Leighton,” Etienne asked in French, “what do you call true love between a man and a woman?”
Caught short at the question, Katie felt her face heat. She realized the question was merely theoretical and that he couldn’t see her, so she pursed her lips, taking a moment to formulate a definition in French. “It is not, as Alceste seems to think, seeing all the bad qualities in the woman he claims to love and yet insisting on pursuing her. I think it’s admirable that he does see the bad qualities and loves her despite them—but the good qualities he sees in her should far outweigh the bad.”
She searched for words, but Monsieur Santerre didn’t hurry her, so she became more calm as she continued speaking. “And for her part, I still don’t understand why Célimène deliberately does the things she knows will most annoy Alceste. If they truly loved each other, I would imagine she would strive to please him more.”
When she paused, expecting him to comment or contradict her, he said only, “Go on.”
“Uh...well,” she tried to regain her train of thought, flustered by defining her own private concept of love between a man and a woman to a man she’d grown to love. “In...in striving to please him, the woman would not find this a chore—nor the man to please her—because the two would be in tune on the important things.”
“What are the important things?” His tone was mild as if he were only politely interested in her answer.
She released a breath. This was easier, since she’d given it a lot of thought over the years. “Their devotion to God, for one thing, and their commitment to each other, for another. If they decide to marry, it will mean they both regard marriage as a...a partnership of two individuals dedicated to the well-being of each other and...and of...their...eventual offspring.”
She fingered the edges of her book, nervous at describing something so important to her to someone whose feelings she didn’t know—except that he had needed her during his illness. “The Bible tells us to esteem others better than ourselves. I believe if each one of us loves someone in this way—esteeming the wife or husband, as the case may be, better than oneself, as well as respecting and admiring the other for who they are, that is true love.” She sat back, awaiting his reaction.
His dark head rested against the pillow. “That’s enough French for today, mademoiselle. You did very well.” One side of his mouth tilted upward. “You put us French to shame, we who pride ourselves on our great plays and poetry on the subject of love.”
“I merely go by the example left us by our Lord Jesus. I...I have seen such love between my mother and father...and now between my sister Hester and her husband, Gerrit.”
Seeing his fingers begin to work at his covers again, she decided to change the subject. “When...you were ill, you cried out at times and said certain things—”
“Yes—?” he demanded at once. “I thought you said you could understand nothing.”
“I couldn’t really,” she assured him. “But these times it seemed as if you...might be reliving the...the moment you were wounded,” she ended in a whisper, regretting she had brought up the topic. But she dearly wanted to know more about it.
“I see.” His fingers loosened their hold on the bedcover. “That seems so long ago.”
Since he seemed calm enough about the topic—almost as if he had feared another topic—she ventured, “May I ask you something?”
His fingers tensed on the coverlet. “Yes?”
“How were you wounded?”