Page 30 of Dalliances & Devotion (The Truitts 2)

But he was gone and her friends, well, they had never abandoned her, but with each successive marriage, each of their pregnancies, each life event that took them farther and farther from each other...it wasn’t the same. Not how it was before, before the war, before everything.

Now, she was all alone.

She pressed her hands over her eyes, entwining herself further in the sheets. She swatted and batted the covers. Ow. This was going to be a long...however many days it took her to heal.

With a grunt, she struggled more. Finally, everything flew off and thumped on the floor.

A creak and a half moan, followed by a rustling, until Meg’s head shot up, the bedding falling off her back. “You’re awake.” She pushed the linens aside. “Before noon.”

“It happens.” Amalia pressed down with her good hand to force herself upwards and Meg bounded up to assist. “Sometimes.” She sighed as the older woman finished getting her to a sitting position and brushed off her nightclothes. “Thank you for tending to my...?” She indicated to her bandaged hand. “Whatever this is.”

“Wound?” Meg slid onto the bed next to her and snatched up the appendage, inspecting the dressings. “You sliced it pretty good. Near went to the bone, but you should be able to use most of your palm and fingers, even while it’s healing. How does it feel?”

“Fine.” No need to make this woman think any less of her. Meg prodded harder and she yelped. Fiddlesticks. “All right, sore.” Amalia swiped a tangle off her face with her oth

er hand. “And I’m going to be no help with my own dressings now.” She shot Meg a quick glance. “Sorry.”

“I’ll make do.” She shrugged and released Amalia’s hand. “At least I don’t have to wear half of this stuff.” She indicated to the half-opened trunks scattered around the room.

“It’s pretty.” Amalia squeezed her lips together.

“It’s a waste.” Meg clucked her tongue.

And just when she was ready to give her another chance. Though it was better than vacuous. Amalia started to ball her fingers—ow. Foolish right hand. She set her jaw and glared at Meg. “Everything is a waste when you look at it too hard. Why do we need tea when we can have water? Why do we need meat when we can have beans? Why do we need coal and fires when we can just have more blankets?”

“Fair enough. And I suppose, to each his own.” Meg busied herself with the trunks, not meeting Amalia’s eye, but at least she didn’t lecture her. A good sign. Maybe she could make another attempt with the female Pinkerton. Try to figure out what made her tick and maybe that could lead to a friendship. Or at least an alliance because, good lord, she needed an ally.

Amalia eyed the bleary-eyed Meg, her strawberry-blond hair still in matted snares. “Meg?” The woman returned a non-committal noise as she pawed through flounces of silk. “Why did you become a nurse?”

“Because I’m good at it.” Meg dug farther. “And the first person who treated me decent was a nurse. Saved me when my parents died and older brother abandoned me.” Meg fished out a pair of cobalt knickers and held them aloft.

“I’m sorry.” Amalia shook her head in the negative. Even with four layers and petticoats, you could still see them under most summer gowns.

“Don’t be. I was lucky. Dorthea may be hell to work for, but she gave me a shot, trusted me and cared about me when I needed it. Without her, who knows where I’d be. What?” Meg popped up again, a stocking clinging to her temple.

“Nothing.” Amalia made a slight gesture at her own brow, which Meg ignored and rose, instead. Amalia’s head spun. Poor Meg. To live through all of that... And yet, she prevailed, nay succeeded, while Amalia, with all her privilege, failed time and time again. Even when she was only trying to help, trying to do something good.

Why? Maybe it was because Meg had the courage she lacked. If only she could have a smidge. Then facing her parents would be simple.

Maybe that was why they started out on the wrong foot. Maybe she was a bit jealous of the other woman and all her competence.

“Anyway. Do you need anything? Food, or...” Meg waved around the room.

“Oh, I can call for my own meal. You should sleep. You’ve been working hard enough.” Amalia scooted off the bed, snatched a dressing gown, and padded to the door. “All right. Fine. Perhaps I could use a little help getting back on my feet. But after that, I’ll learn how to do this all one-handed.” Hopefully. She struggled with the sash a moment. “It won’t be useless forever, will it?”

Meg’s voice was muffled as she forced her own gown over her head. “For maybe a few weeks. It’ll have a nasty scar but...”

“That’s what fancy gloves are for.” Her hand throbbed through its bandages. Maybe some ice with breakfast. “I can justify commissioning a whole batch of new pairs with extra room in that area. In every shade and with special embroidery. Perhaps I’ll get a column out of discussing choices.”

And there wasn’t a catch in her voice because crying over a few lines on a part of her body that most people would never see was silly. Men in the war lost whole limbs by cannon fire. She swallowed. She was probably just hungry and the column idea wasn’t half bad, especially as she needed one. And unfortunately, some help writing it now.

Fiddlesticks.

Meg, now fully dressed, her hair in some sort of nest, frowned. “Now what getup are we doing this morning?”

Amalia bit her tongue. What to wear, what to wear. It had to be perfect. She was going to have to beg one of the Pinkertons—probably David—fine, David, who already resented her, to act as her secretary, so she needed some decent armor. She moved back towards the bed. “If there was ever a day for the one with the sherbet-colored stripes and the black lace...”

Meg clawed through the gowns. “I don’t see that one.”

---