Why doesn’t he waken?” Lucy asked her mother the next day.
Alice shook her head and bound a fresh poultice over Jack’s abdomen. “He spoke to you once. That’s a good sign.”
“But then he went back to sleep, and he hasn’t opened his eyes since,” Lucy protested.
“Don’t fret. True, his situation is grave, but I believe he will heal in time. He had some blows to the face and a bump on the back of the head, but I can’t feel any fractures in his skull. Perhaps seeing you and realizing he’d got home was all he needed to let him rest awhile longer. This be a healing sleep.”
Lucy tried to accept that, but she found herself questioning every little movement. Her mother was skilled, but was she skilled enough? Were the infusions and poultices they used the best remedy, or was there something better? Should she get out some coins and ask someone to send for a doctor?
“You should sleep while you can,” her mother urged, but Lucy found it impossible to relax her tired muscles and stop worrying. What if Jack suddenly stopped breathing, and she wasn’t at his side?
In the early afternoon, Sarah Ellis paid a call. She carried her baby girl and brought young Betsy with her.
“I cannot stay,” she said as soon as Lucy opened the door. “I only came to bring you a bit of gingerbread and tell you my husband will come by tonight at chore time. We’re praying for you and Jack.”
“Thank you.” Lucy seized her hand. “I appreciate all you and Samuel have done.”
“We don’t mind. Jack has helped us plenty.” Sarah hiked her little daughter higher on her hip. “How is he faring?”
“He’s still unconscious, but my mother hopes he will mend.”
“If Alice says it, then it is probably true.”
“I shan’t be able to keep school for at least a fortnight,” Lucy said.
“I’ll spread the word. Now don’t fret. Just take care of him and mind your own health.”
Sarah’s comforting smile cheered Lucy a little. After she’d gone, Lucy let her mother persuade her to sample the neighbor’s gingerbread.
Goodman Woodbury came in the midafternoon to fetch Alice to attend his wife, and Lucy wondered how she would carry on alone. With her mother there, she’d felt competent, but alone? How would she know if she was doing everything she could?
“Just keep on as we have been,” Alice said. “If he wakens, give him some broth and tell him all is well.”
“You said he needs more liquids, and it’s so warm today. What if he won’t drink?”
Alice frowned as she gathered her basket, shawl, and packets of herbs. “The sooner you can get him to take a little water the better. Wet his lips with a clean cloth now and then. Just do your best, child. I’ll return when I’m able.”
At sunset there was a rap on the door, and Lucy opened it to Goodman Ellis.
“Good evening. How is Jack?”
“About the same,” she said. “Thank you for coming, sir.”
Samuel shrugged. “I was going to milk your cow, but I see it’s been done.”
“What?” Lucy stared past him toward the barn. “I haven’t milked her this evening.”
“Is it possible someone has been here before me?”
“I didn’t hear anyone.”
He frowned. “The calf, then?”
“Nay. I took the calf off her near a month ago.” Lucy stepped outside and looked toward the pasture. The calf stood grazing among the sheep. “Where is Tryphenia?”
“In the barn.”
“I didn’t put her there. And I doubt my mother went out to the barn before she was called away.”
“This be strange,” Ellis said.
Lucy looked up at him. “It’s not the first time,” she admitted.
“Oh?”
“Sometimes it seemed the cow gave only a scant bit of milk in the morning, and a few times I’ve found no eggs. The chickens usually give six to eight eggs a day, but some days there are none.”
“Perhaps a skunk got at them in the night.”
“And once I thought the barn door was off the latch.”
Ellis looked toward the barn. “I’ll check the premises, just to make sure things are secure.”
She went inside and sat by Jack, waiting for Samuel to report to her. She hoped nothing was amiss, for her hands were full with her injured husband. She couldn’t think about prowlers and petty thievery.
When he came back, he gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ve found nothing untoward, Goody Hunter. All your stock is bedded down for the night. I’m sorry there was no milk for you.”
Lucy waved her hand in dismissal. “She gives more than I can use most days.”
“We’ll be making cheese next week,” Ellis said. “Sarah mentioned that I should send you a piece of rennet, if you wish to make cheese yourself.”
“I’m not sure yet how my husband will be, but if I can spare the time, I’d like that.”
“Well, if your cow gives plenty of milk, it might be better if I carried it home and my wife made a cheese for you.”
“Oh, I can’t ask her to do that. She has her hands full with all the children.”
Ellis smiled. “One more cheese won’t matter. But I’ll ask her if she’s up to it.”
“Wait here,” Lucy said. She climbed the ladder to the loft and picked up a small pile of folded cloth from beside the hand loom.
“These be for Sarah,” she said when she came back down to the kitchen. “I was working on them last week. I wanted to have a full dozen to present to her, but I’ve only seven finished, and I mightn’t have time for a while, but she should have them now, and …” She stopped, realizing she was rambling. “They’re clouts for the baby. Linsey-woolsey, but I used more wool than flax, to make them soft.”
Ellis smiled, and when he spoke, his voice was husky. “ ‘Tis a splendid gift, and much needed. The little one seems to need changing every minute. Thank you.”
“I wish we could grow cotton here. Babies need soft material against their skin. But it’s so expensive.”
He nodded. “Let me know if you need anything else. I’ll come by again tomorrow.”
“No need. Captain Murray has arranged for one of the militia men to come every morning until I tell the captain we don’t need them any longer.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “That’s fine. I’ll just continue the evening chores then.”
“I’m grateful there are so many who are willing to help. It means that not everyone thinks my husband a monster.”
“I know Jack better than that,” Ellis said.
“Hearing you say it warms my heart.”
“Aye, well, I’ll say it to any who will listen. Jack Hunter is no murderer.”
Jack slept on. Lucy turned him onto his side twice, and every hour she put a wet rag to his lips and squeezed a few drops into his mouth, but other than that she let him be. Jack stirred and moaned occasionally, but for the most part he slumbered. She kept her watch with waning hope that he would awaken. Dear husband, she cried in her heart. You mustn’t leave me, now that we are together at last!
That evening she dragged the straw pallet into the bedchamber and lay down on it. She was so weary she could barely keep her eyes open, but she didn’t want to miss hearing him if he wakened and called out. The dog slunk in after she blew out the candle and nestled down on the edge of the pallet. Lucy thought about making him leave but instead reached out and caressed his back.
The next morning, she moved the pallet to the outer room and left the house for short periods to tend to the garden but kept checking on Jack every few minutes. At noon she stopped working and ate a light meal, then carried her flax wheel into the bedchamber and spun an impressive pile of flax fibers into thread.
Her mother stopped in before sunset, on her way home from overseeing the prolonged labor and difficult birth at the Woodbury house.
“There’s no change in Jack’s condition,” Lucy said. “Isn’t there something more I can do for him?”
Alice examined the patient. “You’re doing fine. Just keep on as you have, child. I can stay if you like.”
“Nay,” Lucy said. “You need a good rest. Go on home, Marm.”
Again that night she slept on the floor near the bed, but she lay awake a long time, praying silently and listening to Jack’s even breathing and Sir Walter’s sighs and snuffles.
She woke to the sound of Tryphenia’s lowing and heard a man’s voice in the barnyard. Lowering the shutter, she saw one of the captain’s men leading the cow to the pasture gate.
Lucy reached for her stays. She must dress quickly, for the man would soon bring her the pail of morning milk. She laced them on over her shift, then seized her pockets, tied them about her waist, and grabbed her bodice. Her gaze lit on Jack, and she gasped, then clutched the bodice to her chest.
He was awake.
She took a faltering step toward him, then held back, glancing at her skirt that still hung on the peg by the door.
Jack started to raise his hand, then moaned and looked down at his splinted and swathed arm. “What …” His gaze met hers once more, and he whispered, “Am I really home?”
Lucy laughed with joy. “Yes! Let me get you some water. Your throat must be parched.”
She started toward the stool that held the basin and water pitcher, then halted once more and looked at the bodice in her hands. She felt her face go scarlet.
“Please excuse me for just an instant.” Snatching up her skirt, she ran with the garments into the kitchen. Lord, don’t let him lose consciousness while I make myself decent. She glanced toward the front door, hoping the militiaman would not choose this moment to bring her the milk.
At last she was covered by both bodice and skirt. Her hair was uncombed, her feet were bare, but she didn’t delay another moment. She raced back to the bedroom doorway and stood panting as she eyed her husband.
He lay watching her, and his lips seemed to hold a hint of amusement.
Lucy stepped forward. “I’m pleased to see you awake. May I bring you something to eat?”
“Water first,” Jack said, his voice gravelly.
“Aye.” She scurried to the bedside and poured water into a tin cup, then offered it to him. Jack struggled to elevate his head. “Let me help you.” She hastened around to the other side of the bed, where she could get her arm under his head and lift him.
Jack drank the entire cup of water, then lay back. “What’s wrong with my arm?” he asked.
“You broke it.”
“How did I manage that?”
She opened her mouth, at a loss for an explanation. “I should have said it was done for you. Rather thoroughly.”
He barked a short laugh, then winced and gritted his teeth. “I don’t seem to remember yesterday. Was I flogged?”
“Nay, Jack.” Lucy bit her lip and carefully removed her arm from beneath his head. Being so close to him hadn’t agitated her while he was unconscious, but now that he was awake, she found it disconcerting in the extreme. She stood back a pace and looked down at him. “It wasn’t yesterday, though. This be the third day since Captain Murray brought you here.”
“Aye?” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “I don’t think they hung me. My neck is the only thing that doesn’t hurt.”
She stifled a laugh, but it came out as a low sob. “Nay, it wasn’t done at the jail. The captain said some wicked men caught you and … and beat you afterward.” She swallowed hard, wondering if she’d just added to his misery by recounting what he might perceive as a humiliation. “Anyway, he brought you here, and … and Mother said you would live, so I’ve been keeping care of you.”
He stared at her with solemn gray eyes, then lowered his eyelids. “Thank you.”
Lucy waited, fearful that his eyes would stay closed. Should she rouse him? He needed nourishment if he was to regain his strength. She cleared her throat, and his eyes opened. He looked at her from beneath the thick lashes.
“Do you have much pain?” she asked.
He ran his tongue over his lips. “Aye.”
“Where? I mean, what’s the worst?”
“My … stomach, and my arm.”
“Could you take some broth?”
“Perhaps.”
She nodded. “I’ll fetch it and some comfrey tea.”
As she hurried to the kitchen, a knock came at the door. She opened it to find Murray’s man there, holding a bucket more than half full of warm milk.
“Here you go, ma’am, and I’ve four eggs in my pockets.”
“Bless you,” Lucy said. “Would you like some of the milk? It’s too much for me to use today.”
“I expect we could use a drop.”
She poured half of it into a jug for him, wondering how she could get word to her mother and Captain Murray. “Will you see the captain?”
“I doubt it. He were going out to fish the morn.”
“That’s all right, then. Thank you very kindly.”
He put his hand to his brow in salute. “I’ll send the jug back to ye.”
When her husband regained consciousness, Lucy began sleeping in the kitchen once more. Two days later she told Samuel Ellis and the militiaman who came to do chores that day that they need not continue.
Jack still slept most of each day, but his periods of wakefulness grew longer, and he advanced from broth and medicinal teas to gruel, then solid food.
Lucy rejoiced inwardly as he grew stronger. She saw his embarrassment at having her tend to his most intimate needs, but she persevered, trying to accomplish the more distasteful tasks, such as removing the chamber pot, while he slept. They managed to go on in this way, avoiding direct mention of the menial chores she performed.
By the fourth day, Jack was well enough to sit up and debate with her the wisdom of hiring someone to harvest the flax field and lay the plants to dry.
“I can do it,” Lucy insisted.
“It’s too heavy labor for you.”
“I’ve done worse.”
“I won’t have my wife pulling flax.”
In the end she hired Richard Trent to do it, a solution that irritated Jack.
“He’s close by, and he’s willing,” Lucy said.
“I don’t want you to deal with him.”
“I’m already weaving him a length of linen. He said if I’ll double it, he’ll pull my flax and clean it.”
“Don’t do more for him. Let him do the flax for the cloth you first said you’d weave him. Take his work instead of the firewood he promised.”
Lucy grudgingly agreed to revise the bargain the next time she saw Goodman Trent.
“Do you be weaving his cloth on my mother’s little loom?” Jack asked.
“Nay. I went a few times to my mother’s house to start it on the large loom, but I haven’t been back there in a week.”
Jack frowned.
He’s angry with me, Lucy thought. She wished she hadn’t implied that his injuries kept her from her routine. Being married was going to be different from being unwed—she could see that. She could no longer make decisions or take on barters without consulting her husband.
Her prayers became convoluted. Instead of simple pleas for Jack’s life and health, she begged for wisdom and discretion, but it came down to one thing in the end. Lord, teach me to be a good wife. She knew it would be the hardest lesson she had ever set herself to learn.