Tarleton's Wife by Blair Bancroft Page B

with me.” He did not mention that he owed her marriage. Not here where anyone might hear. He also owed her respect. How like her to protest that he owed her nothing, that she had given herself freely. She was a trooper, his Julia. A glorious creature with a man’s fine sense of honor. The thought of Julia living at The Willows, sleeping in his great bed, tending to his acres and his tenants gave him peace. He was a soldier and it had been a good day’s work. No point in thinking about what might have been. He had been granted this bit of time to make things right between them and, God willing, he would live long enough to do so.
    Randolph Wedderburn had performed a surprising number of marriages during the past year, mostly for young soldiers marrying dark-eyed Portuguese and Spanish brides. He was never without a supply of marriage certificates carefully folded into his prayer book. Daniel Runyon produced the middle-aged wife of a captain to stand up with Julia and offered to do that office for his major himself.
    “Get the doctor,” Nicholas ordered. “I want him as witness too. Hell…get the whole bloody place to sign, Dan’l. I want no doubt about this.”
    Mrs. James, the captain’s motherly wife, removed Julia’s bonnet and fussed with her long strands of braids, tucking in stray wisps of lank brown hair. She washed a smudge of black powder from Julia’s cheek, streaks of blood from her hands. Through it all Julia knelt at Nicholas’ side, clutching his hand, never taking her eyes off his face, never looking at the reddened bandages covering the gaping wounds below.
    “We’re ready, Sir,” Daniel Runyon reported to his major.
    For all of her life Julia would hug in her heart the dark room with its flickering light, the sea of faces ringing the major’s pallet, Nicholas pale and determined, his grip on her hand so strong it was painful. The words from the well-worn prayer book were ancient and beautiful. They were not a recitation of a rote catechism but were repeated in every fullness of their meaning. For Julia the vows to love and honor were a heartfelt realty. It never occurred to her that for Nicholas the ceremony was anything more than a matter of honor and duty.
    As the final words of the brief service echoed into the cavernous darkness around them, she bent and kissed Nicholas’ lips, unable to prevent a tear from spilling over and falling on his cheek. “Silly widgeon he whispered. “I’d not thought you one of those who cry at weddings.”
    Daniel and Tom Pickering gently lifted the major’s shoulders so he could scrawl his name on the certificate of marriage. Nicholas insisted that the chaplain and the doctor sign below his name. “For I’ll not have Woodworthy saying that devilish scribble is not my signa—” he vowed, his words choked off by pain as the two men lowered him back to the pallet. At the major’s further insistence the signatures of all those present, including several of the walking wounded, were also affixed to the marriage document.
    The crowd began to disperse. Mrs. James, tears still flowing down her cheeks, gave Julia a hug and returned to ministering to the wounded. Tom Pickering went back for one final lantern-lit search of the battlefield. Daniel, with the delicacy of his Irish soul, turned away to grant the newly married pair a bit of privacy. Although Nicholas Tarleton had held out nearly as long as his dwindling strength would allow him, an awful thought suddenly struck him. He fought the darkness long enough for one last request. “A promise,” he demanded of Julia. “You must…promise…you’ll go home. No!” His grip, which had loosened, tightened like a vise. “You’ll go! Daniel, where’s Daniel?” His head moved frantically side to side, sweat poured down his face. “Daniel!”
    “Here, Sir.”
    “Promise you’ll make her go. Tie her up if you have to but see she goes home. Promise!” Nicholas managed to focus on Julia, whose lips were