Ruth Langan - Dulcie's Gift

“Fiona.” Dulcie knelt beside the slender figure and pressed her hand to Fiona’s forehead. A low moan issued, but the woman’s eyes remained closed.

Cal dropped to his knees beside her.

“A wave nearly swamped our boat. My friend was tossed about and hit her head as she fell. It was the last time she moved.”

Cal lifted the young woman and placed her gently in the back of the wagon, which was strewn-with an assortment of quilts and feather pillows.

“Clara was also thrown backward, and she’s lost quite a bit of blood,” Dulcie said, indicating the child lying in the grass.

Cal wrapped the child’s arm in clean linen, then placed her beside Fiona. When he turned, Dulcie was urging the other children to their feet.

“Climb into the wagon,” she called, and the little ones did as she bade, moving slowly, as though in a daze.

As Cal attempted to help Dulcie into the back of the wagon, she nearly slipped in the mud. At once he brought his other arm up to steady her.

The contact jolted them both.

Dulcie froze, unable to move, unable even to breathe, as his arm encircled her waist. Shock sliced through her, leaving her dazed. For a moment his face lowered to her, and she felt the warmth of his breath across her temple. Tiny sensations skittered along her spine.

Cal, too, seemed mesmerized by the touch of her. His hand lingered at her waist. Feelings long buried seemed to push their way to the surface of his mind, triggering half-remembered pleasures. He’d forgotten how soft a woman was. How warm her breath, how sweet her scent.

From behind came a little boy’s innocent remark. “Sir, did you lose your hand in the war?”

At once the mood was shattered. Cal’s mouth pressed into a grim, tight line.

“Hush, Nathaniel,” Dulcie admonished.

But the damage had been done. Without a word Cal lifted Dulcie into the back of the wagon, then bent to the boy. When all were settled, he circled around and climbed into the driver’s seat. With a crack of the whip, the team leaned into the harness and the wagon rolled through the mud with slow, lurching movements.

The little girls were weeping, and Dulcie drew them into her embrace, murmuring words of comfort.

“Look there. See?” She pointed to the darkened outline of the barn looming out of the curtain of rain. “Soon you’ll be snug and dry and warm.”

The horses continued past the barn toward another, larger structure. As they rolled closer, Dulcie made out a graceful old two-story house, with wooden shutters drawn over the windows against the storm. A veranda encircled both stories, the upper one supported by stately columns of pillars.

Though one wing of the house was gutted and appeared to have been burned, the main body of the building was intact.

This was even better than Dulcie had hoped for. It would have been enough to seek shelter in the barn. But a house! She gave a sigh of relief.

When the wagon jolted to a halt, the back door was opened wide. Light from a fireplace spilled into the growing darkness, illuminating several tall figures that stepped through the doorway onto the veranda. As the figures came down the steps to lend a hand, Dulcie realized they were young men no older than the driver. And like the driver, tight-lipped and unsmiling.

The women and children were helped from the wagon and led or carried inside to a room with wooden pegs along the wall that held an assortment of woolen cloaks. Along one wall stood a row of mud-spattered work boots of various sizes. Down the hall could be glimpsed a cozy parlor, where candles flickered in sconces along the wall, adding their warmth and light to the blaze in the fireplace.

“We must get these wet things off.” A tall, sturdy woman strode into the room with an armload of blankets. Dark hair, shot with silver, framed a handsome face set in stern lines.

“Are you strong enough to assist me with these children?” she called to Dulcie.

“Of course.”

Though Dulcie’s head was spinning from all that had happened, she bent to her task with cool determination. After she stripped off the children’s wet clothes, the woman wrapped them in warm, soft blankets. Each child was then handed off to one of the men and carried to the parlor. There the little ones curled up in front of the fire, and the youngest promptly fell asleep.

“This one is badly injured,” Dulcie whispered. She and the woman worked together, gently removing the torn clothing from Clara and wrapping her tiny figure in a blanket.

The child was handed to Cal, who disappeared through a doorway.

When the children had been taken care of, Dulcie and the woman moved to either side of fifteen-year-old Starlight. At Dulcie’s urging, the girl shed her soaked garments and gratefully accepted the blanket from her hostess. Then she was sent to join the children by the fire.

Finally they moved to the still form of Fiona. When her wet and bloodied clothing had been removed, the woman’s movements stilled as she studied the darkened bruises about Fiona’s back and shoulders, as well as a series of raised, puckered scars. Without a word she gently wrapped Fiona in a clean linen sheet, then covered her with a warm blanket, which quickly became stained with her blood. Again Cal was called upon to carry her away.

“That’s the lot of you?” the woman asked with a sigh.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Quickly now,” the woman commanded. “Off with those wet clothes.”

Dulcie shed her soaked clothing and gratefully accepted a blanket. The woman led the way to the parlor. Inside, two men turned from inspecting the children to study Dulcie, who was shivering violently.

“We are the Jermains,” the woman said in her brisk tone. “It would seem that nature has given you an inhospitable time to visit. My name is Elizabeth Jermain, but everyone calls me Aunt Bessie.”

“I’m Dulcie Trenton. The injured woman is Fiona O’Neil. And this,” Dulcie said, touching a hand to the younger woman’s shoulder as she lay on a sofa by the fireplace, “is Starlight.”

“What sort of name is that?” Aunt Bessie snapped

At her harsh tone, Starlight’s eyes seemed to glaze over, and she focused her gaze on a single candle set in a sconce on the wall. It was as though she’d gone off to another place in her mind.

“It is the name she chose.” Though Dulcie spoke softly, there was a thread of steel in her voice, as though she dared anyone to challenge her.

Starlight rewarded her a look of adoration before giving in to the need to close her eyes.

“The boy?” Aunt Bessie demanded.

“The boy is Nathaniel.”

“I’m eight and a half,” he said proudly.

Dulcie tousled his hair and said, “The girls are Belle, who’s six, and Emily, who’s five.” As their names were spoken, the children’s gazes fastened adoringly on Dulcie.

“And the injured child,” Dulcie continued, “is seven-year-old Clara. Where have you taken her?”

“To a bed.” Aunt Bessie turned to indicate the two men. “These are my nephews, Barclay and Darwin.”

“Everyone calls me Barc,” said the shorter of the two.

Dulcie’s hand was engulfed in a firm handshake, and she looked up into blue eyes set in a handsome, boyish face. Thick, brown hair curled wildly over the collar of his shirt. Despite his stern demeanor, there was a glint of wicked humor in his eyes. Was he amused by her appearance, she wondered, or by their unorthodox arrival? It didn’t matter. She was too weary to care how she looked or what her rescuers thought.

“Darwin,” Dulcie repeated as she accepted the handshake of the taller man, who appeared somewhat younger than Barclay.

“Dar, if you please,” he muttered. His hair was jet black, his eyes as dark as a raven’s. He had the rich, resonant voice of a preacher, and his bearing was rigid.