James McGee - Resurrectionist

Maddie was in the kitchen, delegating chores, when Hawkwood made his presence known. Right hand on hip, she’d eyed his arrival and damp clothes with a raised eyebrow. “I hope you scraped your boots before you came in. I don’t want to go out there and find you’ve tracked mud all through my dining room.”

“And a good evening to you, too, Mistress Teague,” Hawkwood said, suspecting, guiltily, that mud might not have been the only thing he’d left in his wake. It was too late to retrace his steps. He started to remove his wet coat.

“Don’t you dare, Matthew Hawkwood! You hang that up outside in the passage by the door.”

By the time she’d completed the sentence, Maddie had both hands on her hips, a sure sign that she meant business. It didn’t make her look any less attractive. The kitchen was basking in warmth from the hearth and the cooking stoves. Maddie’s scoop-necked blouse did little to conceal the soft swell of her breasts. Her pale Celtic skin was aglow with perspiration. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s gone midnight, so it’s not evening, it’s morning.”

Hawkwood grinned.

“And I suppose you’ll be wanting a bite to eat?” Maddie enquired drily as Hawkwood turned away. She shook her head. “I don’t know why I even bother to ask.” She nodded to one of the girls by the hearth. “Give the remains of that stew a stir, would you, Hettie, and make sure it’s hot. Daisy, you go up to Officer Hawkwood’s rooms and see the fire’s lit, there’s a good girl.”

Hawkwood returned from hanging up his coat to find a place had been set at the head of the table. Maddie indicated the empty chair. “Sit. There’s mutton stew. It’ll warm you up.”

Maddie waited until he was seated, then announced, “Right, I still have customers out there who have homes to go to. Hettie will look after you.” Then, before he could respond, she was gone.

She had still not put in an appearance when Hawkwood left the kitchen and made his way upstairs.

His accommodation on the top floor was modest but comfortable; two low-beamed rooms separated by an archway. The similarity to the late Colonel Hyde’s quarters had struck Hawkwood when he’d returned to his rooms after his visit to Bethlem. He’d found it both startling and not a little depressing when he realized that the comparison extended to the furnishings. Bed, table and chairs, nightstand and desk, and over against the wall his brass-bound campaign chest.

His few possessions didn’t amount to much, but he’d been a soldier for almost all his adult life, fighting the King’s enemies, and during that period he’d probably spent more time on foreign soil than he had at home. Then again, where was home? He had no estate, no family — other than the army, and that part of his life was now over — and few friends.

He thought of other former soldiers he’d come across. It wasn’t hard to recognize them. They were the limbless cripples usually to be found in dark doorways, begging for alms from passers-by too contained within their own world to spare concern for any other unfortunates. They’d given their limbs for King and country only to find themselves abandoned and ignored by both.

Many had turned to petty crime. Sometimes it fell to Hawkwood to apprehend them. Where possible, he was inclined to turn a blind eye and let them go with a warning. Transportation or a spell in Newgate seemed poor reward for a man who, having been maimed in the service of his country, had been forced into stealing a loaf of bread or a half-side of bacon because he couldn’t afford to put food on his family’s table. More than once he had thought, There but for the grace of God…

Hawkwood had been fortunate. Thanks to character references and recommendation, albeit unconventional in nature, he had secured employment and a roof over his head, and for that he was thankful. Had that not been the case, it was more than likely, instead of sharing a warm bed with Maddie Teague, he would still have been shivering by a guerrillero campfire in some snowbound cave in the Spanish mountains.

The fire in the grate was, therefore, a welcome sight and Hawkwood mouthed a silent prayer of thanks for Maddie’s thoughtfulness. He could no longer hear the rain outside, though the steady drip of water from the gutter on to the windowsill was like the slow ticking of a mantelpiece clock.

He saw that the girl, Daisy, had even provided him with a jug of hot water to wash. It had been a kind gesture and he made a mental note to thank her. He was drying himself when a knock sounded at the door. Hawkwood slipped on his shirt, and went to investigate.

“Would the gentleman like his bed warming?” Maddie Teague asked. The light from the sconce-mounted candle in the hallway outside the door made her eyes dance.

“What with?” Hawkwood asked, eyeing the glasses and bottle of brandy balanced on the tray in Maddie’s hands. He looked up at her face and waited.

Maddie smiled. She reached up with one hand, pinched out the candle flame between finger and thumb, and walked past him into the room.

“Me,” she said.

It had been afterwards, lying naked, the blanket thrown over them to keep the chill at bay, that he had told her about his visit to the Dog and the attack on the bridge. His explanation had been prompted by Maddie’s enquiry about the stains on his coat that, in the dark, had escaped his notice. There had been blood on the hem; probably from the man whose nose had been shattered by Hawkwood’s tipstaff. So much for my powers of observation, Hawkwood had thought.

“If they weren’t footpads,” Maddie said, “who do you think might have sent them?”

“I don’t know,” Hawkwood said.

“Will they send someone to try again, do you think?”

“Maybe.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know that either,” Hawkwood said. “Not until it happens.”

“But you’ll deal with them?”

“Yes.”

“You sound so certain.”

“It’s what I do,” Hawkwood said. “It’s what I’m good at.”

He looked at her. Maddie turned her face away quickly. “I have to go,” she said. “I’ve breakfasts to prepare. If I leave those girls alone for five minutes, Lord only knows what mischief they’ll be up to.”

“Maddie…” Hawkwood said.

She shook her head and got up from the bed. Without turning, she said, “Next time it might be someone better.”

“Then I’ll be careful.”

Hawkwood watched her as she dressed. He wasn’t sure what was the more alluring, Maddie removing her clothes or putting them back on. There was a natural grace to her movements that was a constant source of wonder to him, no matter what she happened to be doing at the time.

She sensed his eyes upon her, turned and wiped her cheek. “What?”

Hawkwood said nothing. He looked at her and shook his head wordlessly.

Maddie walked back to the bed and sat down, her face serious.

“You said you thought the reason the second man attacked you after you’d told him you were a police officer was that he might not have believed you.”

“It’s possible,” Hawkwood said, shrugging. “I didn’t think about it at the time. It was only when you and I were talking that it occurred to me.”

“Well, perhaps you should think again.”

Hawkwood looked at her. Maddie’s emerald eyes gazed back at him, moving over his face.

“Did it ever occur to you that, if they weren’t footpads and somebody did hire them to attack you, the reason he still tried to kill you after you’d identified yourself was that he was more fearful of the person who sent him than he was of you?”

With that, Maddie stood, secured her fiery mane in a clasp at the back of her neck and left the room without a backward glance.