Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [27]
Finally, he straightened up and turned, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. “I must apologize, Colonel. Most unpleasant for you.”
“You forget I’m a doctor.” Clay worked the pump handle up and down several times, flushing the vomit away, and filled one of the glasses with water. “Drink this and tell me how often you have such attacks.”
Sir George rinsed his mouth and spat it into the sink. “Come now, Colonel. As a medical man, I’m sure you’ve already made your diagnosis. For my part, I received my sentence from the finest physicians in London last year. The cancer is in the stomach and there is nothing to be done.”
“I would have guessed as much from your appearance alone,” Clay told him. He hesitated and then said, “If there is anything I can do, don’t hesitate to call on me at any time.”
Sir George shook his head and said tranquilly, “I have a very good man in Galway who visits me every couple of weeks. No one could do more. You would oblige me by not mentioning this to my niece, though. I see no reason to distress her unnecessarily.” He smiled. “And now I think we really should be joining the others. My guests will be wondering what has become of me.”
As they moved through the conservatory and out into the passage, Clay considered what had happened, a frown upon his face. He had come here prepared to despise this man and had ended in pitying him.
Life at times could be extremely confusing, he decided, as a footman opened the door for them and they passed into a long, narrow room filled with people.
There was a slight, excited murmur of conversation as heads turned toward them, and he noticed with some surprise that Burke was standing on his own against the wall, conventionally attired in evening wear. Sir George led Clay through the crowd, stopping here and there to make introductions. Finally he excused himself, leaving Clay in the center of an admiring group of extravagantly uniformed Hussar officers from the garrison at Galway.
Someone pressed a glass of champagne into his hand, and a young captain called Vale said, “I see you have been wounded, Colonel, and yet we were given to understand that surgeons were treated as noncombatants by both sides.”
“Someone must have forgotten to tell the Yankees,” Clay said and there was general laughter. As it died down he went on, “The situation changed somewhat as the war progressed. Circumstances forced me into becoming a general officer. I had to combine the role of surgeon when it was needed—which was often,” he added ruefully.
There was more laughter and someone said, “We were all under the impression that the South would win the war, Colonel. To what do you attribute her defeat?”
Clay shrugged. “The Confederacy was doomed from the beginning. It’s impossible to march in the face of history or progress, gentlemen. Unfortunately, this usually only becomes apparent in retrospect.”
“Did you command a regiment of cavalry, then, Colonel?” Vale enquired.
“Colonel Fitzgerald commanded two regiments of Georgia cavalry and a brigade at Five Forks, but ten days later the Confederacy had ceased to exist and his promotion to brigadier was never ratified.” The group parted to allow Joanna Hamilton to pass through. “You see, I do know about you, Colonel.” She smiled and took Clay’s arm. “Shall we go in to dinner?”
As they walked toward the dining room, he noticed their reflections in the large, gilt-framed mirror upon the wall. Joanna looked enchanting in a crinoline of white silk, her waist so slender he could almost have spanned it with his two hands.
He himself was conventionally attired in black, his only distinguishing mark the ruffled shirt commonly worn in Georgia on such occasions. No one in all honesty could ever call him handsome, he decided, but by God, they made a presentable couple, and then Joanna