Getting himself ready

*Zac*
Now that I am on my way to recovery, I am left to my own company more often than I would have preferred. Callie is no longer constantly at my bedside. If not for the occasional squalling of the baby, I would have thought she had left the residence entirely. But in the short time I have come to know her, I know for certain that she would never leave without the child. Where the child is, there she is too.

“Your wound is healing nicely, " Dr. Roberts says as he examins the wound. “How does it feel?"

“Not nearly as painful as before.” I can touch it now without flinching. As a matter of fact, the pain is so diminished that I am hoping that I can eventually walk without the blasted limp.

“I should think it would be good for you to start moving about. Nothing too strenuous. No riding as of yet, and no morphing, but a short walk might do you some good." The doctor says.

After Dr. Roberts has left, I take his advice, pulling on my trousers along with a loosely fitting linen shirt, leaving my bed, and using my walking stick, hobbling to a chair by the window. The vast sky is gray, the clouds dark, yet I watch as if it was sunshine. Callie is strolling through the garden, holding her son, my son.

I have barely given any notice to him after that first viewing. She cradles him now, and in spite of the distance separating us, the love etched in her face as she gaze down on the child backs the breath up painfully in my chest. It is pure adoration, without resentment of any sort. An angel gazing down on wonder.

The child has turned her world upside down, has forced her to leave her mission of mercy, has caused her shame, has ruined her reputation, and has led her here. Her future is uncertain, yet still she holds on to him as though he is the only thing of any importance.

I wonder if she has ever felt that way about the child's father.

Because of the way they are facing, I can’t see much more than the light brown curls on the boy's head. Like my own they will no doubt darken as the lad grows older. I try to recall the color of his eyes. Hazel, I believe. Like mine.

I want to join them. If I take it slowly, perhaps I can at least get nearer, close enough to watch her holding the child, to see the joy in her eyes.

How much courage it must have taken for her to face her father and then to deal with my family. Strangers. She had no way of knowing how they might react. She could have taken the secret of being with me to her grave, but she had ruined her chances of a good match with a decent man when she had chosen to keep the child. What an extraordinary decision for a woman of quality. She could have found someone to take the child in and no one would have been the wiser.

She is a remarkable woman of determination and courage. She is not the sort I usually take to my bed. She is so damned serious and responsible. She places others' needs above her own pleasures. She doesn’t have a flighty bone in her
body.

She would not have been intimate with me on a whim. Yet, for the life of me, I can’t see myself going to the trouble it would have required to seduce her, not when there are always willing women who require far less effort. Had I simply been bored? Had I considered her a challenge? Could I have … by God, could I have possibly fallen in love with her?

It would have been a first for me. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to see beyond the black haze. It suddenly seems vital to remember her. But no memories of her surfaces, not even a shadow of one.

A brisk knock sounds, one I instantly recognize as belonging to my mother. I welcome the distraction. “Come in."

She walks in with her usual poise and grace. I don’t remember a time when she hadn’t been formidable, although I am fairly certain that my older brother does. He is five years my senior, and remembers a father that I do not. Our contradictory memories have never bothered me before. The recent gaping hole in my life makes me view everything differently. Now I long for memories I had discarded carelessly. Strange to realize that they need to be nurtured, thought of often, or like the bloom of a rose, they simply withers away. Once gone they can not be regained.

I chide myself for the morose thoughts. I had been too young to have memories of my father. It is as simple as that. But memories of Callie, those perhaps I can regain with a bit more exertion.

“I just had a word with Dr. Roberts,” My mother says sublimely. “He’s most pleased with your progress.”

“Well, then, I consider myself a success.” I glance back out the window, aware of my mother coming to stand beside the chair whereI am sitting.

“What is keeping your interest?” She asks, peering over my head. “Ah, I see."

I do not like the implication that I am at the window because of Callie, like an unschooled hatchling experiencing my first infatuation. “I didn’t know she was there when I came to have a look. I merely wanted to gaze at something besides the canopy over my bed."

“Of course, dearest. I thought nothing else. Although I will concur that she is of far more interest than a canopy. " My mother says.

In silence, we watch Callie for several minutes. She holds the boy aloft, smiles brightly at him, then brings him in close to the warmth of her body, layering her cloak over him.

“It’s pretty cold out there, but she says the boy needs the briskness of fresh air,” My mother says. “She is a strange one, wanting her window open at all hours. She bathes daily. Constantly washes her hands."

“No doubt trying to rid herself of the dirt of the military hospital." I mumble.

She jerks her gaze around. “You remember it?”

“I know of the conditions of the place from when I woke up there recently. " I point out.

She nods. “Yes, of course. Silly of me to think you meant your memories went farther back than that. Far enough back to include her.”

“We spoke at length, she and I, while she was tending to me. I am left with the impression the situation in the hospital was much more unpleasant for her. " I admit.

Mom looks at me. “You talked, so then she knows of your ….”

I can see her struggling to find the correct word that won’t cause me any embarrassment. “Affliction, Mother. I have an affliction. And no, I didn't tell her of it. It's bad enough that she saw me trembling like a leaf in the wind in the hallway when my blasted leg gave out on me."

“It is not your fault that you got a fever or that some imbecile physician didn't do his job properly. It's a wonder you didn't die." She huffs.

“Because of the efforts of a man who in his eagerness to save me overlooked a bit of metal. I wouldn’t be so quick to find fault. You don’t know the conditions under which he worked." I tell her.

I am not usually so understanding of shoddy workmanship, but I feel an exception might be in order. I had returned home. Many hadn’t.

“What are you going to do about her?” My mother finally asks. Not exactly a smooth change of topic, but then my mother has never been one to mince words.

I shift my gaze up to her. “Have you no doubt the boy is mine?"

“None whatsoever." She says.

Well, then, I have best get on with what needs to be done. “Will you have the servants prepare a warm bath for me?"

“What about your wound?" She asks.

“I can bathe without getting it wet. Send in my valet as well.” I tell her.

It is a painstaking endeavor to properly prepare myself. In the tub, I require assistance from my valet. Then the man had begun to shave away several days’ worth of bearded growth on my face.

I am quite certain why I bother to make myself presentable. Callie had seen me at my worst. The night I had trampled through the rain, when I had finally given into the pain, given into the haven of her arms. I had taken advantage of her once, in a foreign land. I have no intention of doing it on home soil.

Yet she draws me like the nectar of a blossom draws a bee. With her, I can almost forget that I don’t remember.

Until she begins talking of her time away from our Homeland’s shore. We share memories and we share experiences. We share horrors and filth and wretchedness. I curse myself for entertaining her in a place such as that and then I wonder if we had both needed the escape. Certainly, I would have done all in my power to take her to heaven even if beyond us hell had reigned.

I had been sixteen when I had learned the wonders of a woman's body. My older brother, bless him. We had never been close, but in that one regard he had been an exceptional brother. He had taken me to my first brothel, introduced me to a woman with impeccable talent and patience. As a callow youth, I had disappeared behind a red door. When I emerged the next morning, I had been determined that in this one area of my life I would best my brothers. They are titled. They have respect.

Morton had already acquired a reputation as an unprecedented lover. I had decided I would surpass him, mine would be the name whispered about in the capital’s wicked circles.

No lady had been safe from my amorous attention.

The thought of me taking advantage of Callie sickens me. But I can't imagine that I had held any true affection for her. We couldn’t have known each other for long. Our time together had been brief and yet I had managed to do with her what I have done with no other woman. I had brought her harm. I had ruined her reputation. I had saddled her with a child.

And what has she done as retribution? She loves and cares for my son. She might very well have saved my life. She asks nothing of me except that she is allowed to remain in the boy's life. Her father was the one insisting upon marriage, and while I had not initially been impressed with the man, I can’t deny that if I found my own daughter in the same state, I would insist the man do right by her, only I would do it with a pistol at the offending man's back.

None of this, leaving her with the man, expecting the right thing to be done. By God, I would ensure it or the blackguard would answer to me.

The sharp pain nips at my chin. “Dammit, man!"

“I’m sorry, Major,” my valet says. “I didn’t realize you were going to clench your jaw so suddenly. My fault entirely."

“Hardly. Let's just be quick about this, shall we?" I mumble.

My hair needs trimming and my nails clipping. I can’t recall the last time I had truly cared about my appearance. I have dressed appropriately and with some style each morning only because I have not wanted to disappoint my mother. But the particulars that I had cared about when it comes to women I had given little thought to.

When I am finally dressed to disarm, I toss my greatcoat over my shoulders, snatch up my cane, and go in search of Callie.