Chapter Thirty-Two
July 25th, 1812
Exeter, Devonshire
In the morning, Mordecai insisted on getting up. A full day spent in bed was more than enough for any man. He walked across to the window. His head scarcely ached and his legs felt as if they belonged to him again. “I’ll get dressed,” he told Phelps.
Dressing exhausted him, but he tried to hide it. He didn’t think Phelps was fooled. “You sure you’re wanting to go downstairs?” the coachman asked.
“Just as far as the parlor,” Mordecai said.
He had no problem with the corridor, but the staircase was another matter. His head didn’t like it, and nor did his legs. He halted after three steps, clinging to the banister.
“Back to bed with you,” Phelps said, and Mordecai didn’t argue.
He slept again, and when he woke it was nearly noon. F
