Love Conquers War Read online

  Then she went to the shelf that she had taken the bandages from.

  She hoped to find a bottle of brandy so that she could give Rudolph some of it to drink.

  She was well aware that he was in considerable pain.

  All the time she had been bandaging him and helping him to lie down on the bed, he had been gritting his teeth and she knew that it was to prevent himself from swearing at the pain he was suffering.

  There was no brandy, but there were a few medicine bottles and by the light of the candle Tilda inspected them carefully.

  One made her eyes light up.

  She knew the German word for laudanum and this was what the bottle contained.

  ‘I will give him some,’ she thought. ‘It will make him sleep and at least he will not be in such agony.’

  She had had a Governess once who had always taken laudanum to make her sleep when she had a headache.

  It was the universal panacea for most feminine ills and, while medically it was doubtless out of date, it was still, Tilda knew, a very effective form of escape from pain.

  She found a spoon and carried the bottle into the bedroom.

  Rudolph was lying back with closed eyes.

  “I have found some laudanum,” Tilda said. “I suggest you take some. It will prevent you from feeling the pain and, as it will also make you sleep, you will undoubtedly feel better in the morning.”

  “Have you locked the door?” he asked.

  “No,” Tilda answered.

  “Then go and lock it,” he said. “I want to make sure you will be safe.”

  Tilda put the bottle and spoon beside him and did as she was told.

  She could not find a key, but there was a wooden bolt, which she pressed home.

  ‘I must get up early,’ she told herself, ‘to open it again. If the householder comes back and cannot get into his own home, he will think it very strange to say the least of it.’

  But this was not the moment to worry about the morning.

  She went back to the bedroom.

  “I have bolted the door,” she said to Rudolph. “Now take some laudanum. It really will help you.”

  She tried to remember how many drops Miss Grover, for that was her Governess’s name, had taken.

  But all she could recall was that they had made continual trips into the village in a pony cart to replenish Miss Grover’s supplies of what she called ‘my headache drops’.

  Rudolph raised himself on his elbow, watching Tilda half- fill the spoon and put it into his mouth.

  “You had better give me more than that,” he said.

  “I am not certain what the correct dose should be,” Tilda told him.

  “Give me the bottle.”

  He took a swig, wrinkled his nose at the unpleasant taste of it and then took another.

  “I am sure that is more than enough,” Tilda said in alarm. “I don’t want to be left tomorrow with all the explaining to do.”

  “I will do the talking,” he assured her.

  He put the bottle into her hand and flopped back onto the pillows as if it had been a tremendous effort for him to raise his head.

  Tilda looked at his leg.

  There was still no sign of blood through the bandages and now she pulled the düchent over him.

  “Try to sleep,” she said softly.

  “Thank you,” he said a little drowsily. “Thank you for all you have done for me.”

  She had the feeling that he spoke with difficulty and she went into the kitchen.

  She put back the bandages she had not used, averting her eyes from the bowl that appeared to be full of blood and returned to the bedroom.

  Rudolph was already asleep.

  He was breathing heavily and Tilda had a sudden moment of panic in case he had taken a fatal overdose of laudanum.

  Then she told herself that an overdose would not kill him, but only make him sleep a little longer than was necessary.

  She was suddenly conscious of feeling very tired herself.

  It had been a long day.

  The exhausting scramble up the side of the hill, the fear she had experienced when they had been pursued by the Police and the shock of Rudolph being shot made a sudden wave of exhaustion sweep over her.

  She looked around the room.

  There was one hard chair, the same sort as she had found in the kitchen.

  She had thought vaguely that there might be a comfortable armchair where she could sleep, but there was nowhere except the bed.

  It was then she realised that it had grown even colder.

  They were high up on the mountainside and she could hear the wind outside howling eerily.

  She was still wearing Rudolph’s coat, but she could feel herself shiver.

  Her legs in their white stockings seemed almost frozen.

  She went into the kitchen.

  There had been a fire in the range earlier in the day, but now it was out and so was the stove that stood in the corner of the room.

  A gust of wind shook the windows.

  She blew out the candle before she went back into the bedroom.

  She sat down on the other side of the bed from where Rudolph was sleeping.

  ‘Mama would be very shocked!’ she told herself.

  But Princess Priscilla was not there and Tilda thought with practical common sense that if she had pneumonia in the morning she would only be an embarrassment to everybody including Rudolph.

  She sat down determinedly on the edge of the bed and, lifting the feather düchent, slipped her legs under it.

  It was warm and comfortable.

  She slipped a little lower and, turning her back towards Rudolph, she pulled it up high over her shoulders.

  *

  Tilda opened her eyes, wondering where she could be.

  There was sunshine coming through the sides of the curtain that covered the windows.

  Then she realised that she was fully dressed and wearing a tweed jacket.

  She remembered their wild escape from Munich in the Police wagon, the moment of terror when they had run up the side of the mountain pursued by Policemen on horseback, the blood that had seeped from Rudolph’s leg onto the floor!

  It all came back to her and as it did so she heard the handle of the door turning and someone pushing against it.

  She knew then what was happening.

  The owner had returned to find his own door bolted against him.

  She jumped out of bed, ran in stockinged feet into the kitchen and across to the door.

  Pulling back the bolt, she found outside an elderly woman who looked at her in astonishment.

  “Who are you – and what are you doing here?” she asked.

  She was a large woman with greying hair, but with a clear pink and white skin and dark blue eyes.

  “I must explain, gnädige frau,” Tilda said quickly. “We sheltered here last night.”

  “So I perceive! And who is ‘we’?” the woman asked, walking into the kitchen and putting a basket she carried on her arm down on the table.

  She glanced at Tilda’s left hand as she spoke and almost automatically an explanation came to Tilda’s lips.

  “My – my husband,” she said, “we were in – trouble – terrible trouble from the – students.”

  “I heard they were rioting,” the elderly woman said. “Tiresome young men! They ought to be stopped! I have said so over and over again. They ought to be stopped!”

  “The Police tried to – arrest us because they thought we were students,” Tilda went on breathlessly, “and my – my husband was shot in the leg.”

  “Shot?” the woman ejaculated. “Where is he?”

  She walked into the bedroom.

  Rudolph was still asleep, still breathing deeply.

  She looked down at him and then her eyes caught sight of the bottle of laudanum that Tilda had left on the table beside the bed.

  “So that is what you have given him?” she said.

  “I am afraid he
took too much,” Tilda explained, “but he was in such pain. I bandaged his leg. I hope I did right.”

  The woman pulled back the eiderdown and Tilda saw that now the bandages were bloodstained,

  “I did the best I – could,” Tilda said apologetically. “I found the bandages on your – shelf.”

  “You must have been glad to see them,” the elderly woman remarked.

  Now she looked at Tilda, taking in her small frightened face framed with fair hair, the green tweed Bavarian jacket over her peasant’s dress.

  Quite suddenly she smiled.

  “You seem very young to be in trouble with the Police and to be bandaging a wounded man.”

  “I hoped there would be – someone in the house,” Tilda said, “but the door was open and anyway I could not have made him walk any further.”

  “I think you did very well to get him as far as you did,” the woman remarked. “Now let me introduce myself. I am Frau Sturdel and I am a midwife.”

  “So that is why you had bandages and towels!” Tilda cried.

  “Exactly!” Frau Sturdel answered. “I have been attending a confinement. Which was why I was not at home.”

  She went back into the kitchen and Tilda followed her.

  “I am very sorry if we have made such a mess of your house,” she said, “but we can pay for any damage we have done.”

  She spoke confidently.

  Although she had no money herself, she had felt a fat purse in the pocket of Rudolph’s coat and, because of the respect with which he had been welcomed at the Beer Hall, she felt he must be comparatively well to do.

  “I don’t suppose you have done any harm,” Frau Sturdel said, “and now tell me your name.”

  The question took Tilda by surprise.

  “I am Tilda,” she said, “and he – ” with a little gesture of her hand, “ – is Rudolph.”

  She saw that Frau Sturdel was still waiting and added the first German name that came into her head.

  “Weber,” she said. “Our name is – Weber.”

  “And now, Frau Weber,” the midwife said, “I will see to your husband’s leg. While I do so, I suggest if you don’t want anyone to know you are here that you clean the doorstep!”

  “The doorstep?” Tilda questioned.

  “There is a large pool of blood, which would certainly attract the attention of anyone who should call to see me,” Frau Sturdel explained.

  “We must not be seen!” Tilda cried frantically. “No one must know we are here. We will go away as soon as we can.”

  “From what I have heard in the village this morning,” Frau Sturdel answered, “It would not be safe for you to return to Munich at the moment. They are still trying to drive out all foreigners!”

  She laughed.

  “It’s the students’ regular protest from time to time. Nobody pays much attention to them. But I can see you are not Bavarian.”

  “I am English,” Tilda said, “and my husband is Obernian.”

  “Then you are Obernian too,” Frau Sturdel said, “but that will not help you where the students are concerned. They hate Obernians. In fact they hate everybody except themselves!”

  While she had been talking, Frau Sturdel was taking off her coat and replacing it with an apron.

  Now she was taking fresh bandages from the shelf in her cupboard.

  “Come along, Frau Weber,” she said briskly. “That doorstep needs cleaning. A neighbour might drop in at any moment.”

  Tilda looked around her.

  She had never scrubbed a step or anything else.

  ‘I will need a bucket, a scrubbing brush and presumably some soap,’ she told herself.

  As if she guessed what she was thinking, Frau Sturdel said,

  “Under the sink you’ll find all you need and a bit of matting to kneel on. I expect you find that scrubbing is hard on the knees.”

  “Yes – of – course,” Tilda stammered.

  She picked up the bucket and said hesitatingly,

  “Where – do I find – the water?”

  “There is a pump in the garden. It’s a bit stiff, but I’m sure you’ll manage it. The water comes from the hills. Icy cold it is at this time of the year. That reminds me, I’d better light the stove.”

  Uncertain of what she should do, Tilda went into the garden, which contained a few rows of vegetables and some chickens in a wire enclosure,

  The pump handle was certainly stiff and the water was slow to emerge even when she had it working.

  Finally she half-filled her bucket, knowing that if it was full she would have difficulty in carrying it.

  Then she went down on her knees and for the first time in her life scrubbed a doorstep.

  She was quite pleased with the result when she had finished.

  Then she remembered that Rudolph’s leg had been bleeding as they struggled from the wood.

  There was therefore every likelihood that he had left a trail of blood on the path to the house that would be noticeable to an astute Policeman.

  She retraced their steps of the night before and soon found little patches of dried blood on the gravel and the moss.

  She obliterated them and finally carried her bucket and brush back into the kitchen.

  “Have you finished?” Frau Sturdel called out from the bedroom.

  “Yes, you cannot see the stain now,” Tilda replied proudly.

  “Then bring in some wood for the stove,” Frau Sturdel called. “You’ll find a pile of it behind the house.”

  It took Tilda some time to bring in what she thought would be sufficient to keep the stove going through the day.

  When she had completed that task, Frau Sturdel came from the bedroom to throw Rudolph’s bloodstained bandages into the sink.

  “Put those to soak, dear” she said. “Your husband will be more comfortable now.”

  “Is he awake?” Tilda asked.

  “He’s sleeping like the dead!” Frau Sturdel said with a laugh. “Heaven knows how much laudanum you gave him!”

  “It will not – hurt him?” Tilda enquired anxiously.

  “No, it won’t hurt a strong young man like him!” Frau Sturdel answered. “But his leg will be painful for a day or so. A wound on that part of the calf always seems to hurt more than anywhere else.”

  “There is not a bullet lodged in it?” Tilda asked.

  “If there was, I would have found it,” Frau Sturdel said. “You can trust me to look after your man for you. I am very experienced, as anyone in these parts will tell you.”

  “I am not questioning your ability,” Tilda replied. “You have been so kind and I am very grateful. It is just that I am so worried about him.”

  “I suspect you have not been married for very long,” Frau Sturdel said archly.

  “No,” Tilda answered.

  “Ah, well, he’ll soon be playing the lover again. You need not worry about that! What’s more important now is for you and me to have something to eat. Did you look to see if the hens had laid any eggs?”

  “No, I did not think of it,” Tilda answered. “Shall I go out now?”

  “I’ll do it,” Frau Sturdel said. “You get the saucepan ready.”

  When it came to cookery, Tilda was more at home. She had always wanted to cook and as a child had a special little house in the garden where she was allowed to make cakes for her dolls.

  As she grew older, she had worried their cook until she could try her hand at baking.

  Also with her parents she had gone on picnics when she had been allowed to cook on an open fire the trout that her father caught in the lake near their home.

  Frau Sturdel, however, did not suggest that Tilda should cook the eggs for their breakfast.

  She managed competently and they sat down at the small kitchen table.

  Frau Sturdel had bought fresh bread from the village and a block of golden butter. There were also strong-tasting garlic sausages, which Tilda privately thought rather unpleasant.

  “When
do you think my husband will wake?” she asked, as they finished their meal and carried the dirty plates to the sink.

  “It depends how much laudanum you gave him,” Frau Sturdel answered. “Judging by the way he is sleeping, I shouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t open his eyes until tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, dear!” Tilda exclaimed.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Frau Sturdel said. “A good sleep hurts no one.”

  She did not realise that Tilda was worried because a whole day must pass before she could return to Munich.

  She could imagine the consternation of those in the hotel!

  At this moment they would be worrying about her and she felt sorry for the Professor who would have to explain his part in her disappearance.

  At the same time if the students were still rioting about the streets, it was obvious that she would not be able yet to rejoin Lady Crewkerne and she hoped that the Dowager and the Professor would have the good sense to keep her absence to themselves.

  It would be unfortunate if Prince Maximilian should choose this moment to invite them into his country.

  ‘It is all his fault in the first place,’ Tilda told herself. ‘If we had been allowed to arrive on the date planned by Papa, none of this would have happened!’

  And yet she found herself thinking that it was all an adventure and an excitement she would not have wanted to miss.

  It had been thrilling in a frightening sort of way to escape from the Police in the wagon and to run with Rudolph up the side of the hill.

  As she thought of it she wondered if he had remembered that only that morning he had been chasing Mitzi down a mountain.

  She recalled the strange note in his voice when he had called out,

  “I want you! I want you!”

  What did he want? What did he mean when he said those words?

  She was so deep in her thoughts that she felt herself start when Frau Sturdel said,

  “He will be more comfortable like that.”

  “Like what?” Tilda asked.

  “I have just been telling you,” Frau Sturdel replied. “I put him into one of my husband’s nightshirts.”

  She gave a sigh.

  “It may seem strange my still keeping them after being widowed for live years, but then I always was sentimental.”

  She paused and then went on,

  “It will give you a chance to wash your husband’s shirt, but if you hang it on the line, keep it well at the back of the house. People might think it strange for me to have a man’s clothing flapping in the wind!”