With a grunt, Cecil pushed to his feet and winced at the lingering twinge of pain in his leg, but he moved about the room and grabbed his clothing from a wardrobe because it was what he must do. Pulling on his garments—dun-colored trousers, loose linen shirt, plain navy waistcoat topped with a gray jacket—was accomplished with a fair amount of frustration, for the muscles on his right side didn’t work like they used to before that hideous afternoon. The clothes were courtesy of his commanding officer, for when he’d arrived in London, he’d worn his torn and bloody uniform. Which was now at the bottom of his trunk that contained the whole of his personal effects.
I’ll need to do a bit of shopping before I settle in to rusticate... to forget... to start over.
A trace of fear lanced down his spine as memories crowded into his mind and he swore he could smell the acrid scent of gunpowder, hear the screams of the dying around him, taste the metallic sting of blood on his tongue. Sweat broke out on his upper lip. Dizziness assailed him as those sensory details threatened to suck him under and tug him into that dark, haunted vortex.
Cecil wrapped his left hand around the wrought-iron frame at the foot of the bed. He closed his eyes and forcefully shoved the memories from his mind. Now was not the time to remember; no time really was. It would only hinder his healing. After a few deep breaths, he opened his eyes and moved to the corner where the stand basin waited.
Once the demons of the battlefield retreated, he stared at himself in the square-shaped mirror hanging on the wall above the basin. Anger still buzzed through his veins; it always did. In fact, it never left him, and he couldn’t pinpoint its cause, for it had been his constant companion since being injured in April.
Perhaps it was a soldier’s lot.
“Pull yourself together, Stapleton,” he told himself while peering into the looking glass. “This is your new reality.” He scratched his fingers through the days’ worth of brownish stubble on his chin. Then he sighed as he regarded his hair. Last cut at St. Thomas’ where the nodcocks considered hair as a sap of strength. The sandy-blond locks now fell to his shoulders, for he’d ordered the surgeons not touch his hair again. Both the stubble and his hair were now lightly peppered with gray, a true testament to the stresses he’d overcome. “Time to make myself decent for travel.”
As he shaved, his right hand shook. Once devoid of stubble, he leaned forward and examined the right side of his face. His cheek, neck and jaw were marked with a series of whitish scars and others that were still red or pink where the shrapnel had embedded, some deeper that had to be dug out. He sighed after touching the marks. There was nothing for it; perhaps he did look like a monster from that side.
Cecil dismissed any thoughts he might have of himself or his appearance. He wasn’t defined by how he looked though others would definitely judge him on it. With a scowl settling into his features, which had happened with alarming regularity, he ran a comb through his hair and then tied it back at his nape with a bit of thin leather. He added cuffs and collar to his toilette. Afterward, he wrapped a length of cravat about his neck and tied the knot with efficient movements.
He set about attempting to make the narrow bed, smooth his hands over the crisp white sheets, the thin quilt, but due to his weak muscles in his right arm, the task wasn’t accomplished quite as he’d hoped. With a frown, he glared at the wrinkles. It would take more than walks to exercise all his muscles, but now that he had nothing but time, he would do whatever it took until he was fully independent once more.
Unaccountably, a lump formed in his throat as he sent a glance about the room he’d occupied for the last sixty days. Yet another home of sorts he was leaving. How long had it been he’d had a permanent place to live? Twenty-two years since he’d left the cottage in Buckinghamshire for the academy. All of that would change in two days when he walked back into that cottage to pick up the pieces of his shattered life.
Cecil went to the trunk at the foot of his bed. He opened the lid and withdrew a pair of scuffed black boots as well as a black greatcoat he hadn’t worn in a year since he’d been in Spain and France... fighting. It still retained the faint smoky scent of a campfire and of horseflesh. Shoving his arms through the sleeves, he pushed back at the memories trying to resurface.
After so many years, his life was finally his own; he was now the master of his fate. He struggled into his boots. Then he took up a wooden cane made of cherry wood topped with a smooth brass handle and he wrapped his fingers around it.
Oddly enough, he couldn’t wait to start, to find out who he could be away from the military.
Chapter Two
December 16, 1814
Village of Bledlow
Buckinghamshire, England
Sarah Presley, widowed for the last nine years, hummed snatches of a favorite waltz as she checked the rise on two loaves of bread she’d set on the stone lip of the hearth. Soon, she’d tuck the iron pans inside near the flames to bake. The hearty bread would taste heavenly alongside the rustic rabbit stew currently on a gentle bubble in the iron pot hung suspended over the fire. As she moved, she pretended she danced in the most glittering of ballrooms instead of toiled in front of a hearth in a scene so far removed from luxury it was almost laughable.
But she wouldn’t trade this life for that one.
Such a cozy scene almost put her in mind of the upcoming Christmastide season, but there was still much to do between now and then to complete that picture, and this was the first year she’d looked forward to decorating. Before, her son had been too young for her to make a fuss, but now, he was as inquisitive as any boy his age. And finally, she felt relaxed and safe enough to let down her guard to attend village activities or to make her own celebration, for buried in the countryside of Buckinghamshire she was well and truly hidden from everyone.
Her past especially. Never would she cease to remain grateful for this chance.
“Mama?”
The sound of her son’s sweet voice had her lips curving in a smile and any worrisome thoughts fading. She faced him, and as the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the windows in the large common room touched the boy’s sandy-blond curls and sent gold flecks dancing through his dark brown eyes, she caught her breath. At times, he so strongly resembled his father that her heart constricted. The eyes and the hair that tended to curl were the only things he’d inherited from her.
“Yes, Simon?” She’d chosen the name for its strength, but his middle name of Matthew, she’d taken from his father, as a remembrance only she knew, as a way to honor the man even if he’d never known of the boy’s existence.
“I would like to go out into the garden and look for snow,” the seven-year-old said promptly with a wistful glance at the door that led to a side yard, hidden from the lane by an ivy-covered stone wall.
“You’ll have to search hard for such a thing,” she warned as she wiped her hands on her ever-present pinafore apron of unbleached muslin. It was a well-worn garment and stained but it protected her day dresses from the dirt and grime of her tasks. Garments were hard come by in such reduced circumstances, so she made it a point to stretch out their wear for as long as she could. “I fear it’s not cold enough for snow, and it hasn’t been for a few years.” Mostly, they received rain, which turned the garden as well as the countryside into a muddy prospect.
“There is still time before Christmas, Mama.” Again, the boy glanced at the door with its two small square leaded-glass panes set into the upper portion of the thick oak.
“We shall see.” Her mind jogged to a few Christmases in her long-ago childhood where there’d been snow, and plenty of it. She and her younger sister had reveled in the magic of it when the precipitation had fallen, before they’d grown into young ladies and had been thrust into the world where there was more to marvel at than snow.
Simon cocked his head to one side. He regarded her with a gaze that held more knowledge than his years, and once more he resembled his father so much that her heart constricted. “I w
ant snow for Christmas, Mama. To see it so I can believe in it.” The somberness of his expression tugged at her. Sarah worried that he wasn’t as carefree as lads his age. Perhaps she should encourage him to play with the other boys, socialize more, but at the back of her mind, worry lurked. What he needed was a father to guide and to shape him, to teach him all the things she couldn’t.
To protect him in the event that she failed.
I’m not certain I want a man in my life again. Losing one was hard, but losing two nearly broke me.
Now she had her son, and she considered it the high price of payment for what she’d done in her past—for the deeds that had brought her to this pass. That was all that mattered, and she didn’t ask for anything else from fate.
I have all that I need. What she wanted was an entirely different story, and one she rarely let herself read.
“Mama?”
The sound of his voice yanked her back to the present. Sarah smiled. “Good luck in your quest. I have a few things I must do in the meantime.”
“With your herbs?”
“Yes. There are a few women in the village who need my assistance.” She accompanied him to the door, pulled it open and then waved him into the side garden where she grew all her herbs and healing flowers when the weather was fair. “Don’t wander far. Dinner is soon. Have fun.”
“Every time I go out there is adventure, Mama, and that is the fun,” he replied shortly before he jumped off the cracked stone stoop and ran through the dying vegetation and late-straggler wildflowers.
As she closed the door, she pressed a hand to her rapidly beating heart. How was it possible that a child who had never met his father could say the same exact thing that the man had murmured during the one night of passion they’d shared eight years prior?
But Cecil was gone, no doubt perished in the same war that took her husband and many other men. No sense thinking of him, for if she allowed that, thoughts would come pouring back in and she had no business remembering.
She made her way through the common room to a tiny entryway and then turned into a long corridor, went past a room used as a parlor when—or if—they entertained, which was to say not often unless the rector came to call. At the next door, she entered a stillroom, where she set to work assembling packets of dried herbs and flowers her clients would use as teas, tisanes, or poultices. It was how she earned enough coin to provide for her son and the household. People in the village couldn’t afford to see a doctor, and barring amputations or other things that required surgery, they came to her, glad for her skills in apothecary work.
It had been something of a hobby when she was younger when she’d realized an affinity for gardening and learning lore of plants and roots. Relatives had sponsored a few Seasons for her—a distant cousin twice removed—was a baron, and between those Seasons, she’d taken to visiting apothecary shops around London, asking a myriad of questions, and learning as much as she could. After she was married, she had a bit of freedom, so she studied as much as she could, had even haunted the local lending library until she’d memorized the texts. The work had fascinated her and kept her busy when her husband had been on the march, and took her mind off the fact that he and she had barely had time to come together as a married couple should or that he might not return home to give her the proper marriage she’d wished for.
Now the knowledge of ancient healing earned her a pittance, or trades as many of the cases netted her, but that meant she always had food on the table and clothes for her and Simon to wear. The few chickens she kept had been a result of payment for her services. At times, she even hired out help a couple days a week during her busy times, but that wasn’t often, for the ongoing war had taxed everyone’s finances. They all got by as best they could by helping each other.
And the work kept her mind off wondering about the “might have beens” of life, if things would have gone differently had she not had a weakness for handsome men in uniforms.
No sooner had she finished three packets of ground leaves for tea than Simon entered the stillroom from the private door reserved for customers. Confliction lined his little face and his mitten-covered hands were muddy, a true testament that he’d been exploring the garden beyond, which left a trace of mud on the door handle.
“What is it, Simon?” Perhaps he’d fallen and hurt himself as boys were wont to do. “Do you need me to kiss a sore spot?” It was one of the endearing things about having a child—the magic in a kiss that could “heal” whatever ailed him. For this she’d needed no book learning.
“No, Mama. This time it’s my heart that hurts.” The boy laid a hand on his chest, presumably where he thought his heart was. A streak of dirt was left behind. He gazed at her in the mournful way only a child could. “My friend Jack passed by the garden gate just now. His father will take him ice-skating if the pond freezes. He told me so.”
“That sounds like marvelous fun. Why should it make you sad? We might do that as well if I can find some skating blades.” Sarah folded another packet of tea and then slipped all the packets into a small willow basket.
Simon frowned as if he were attempting to puzzle out a problem. “Why do I not have a father? Where is mine?”
Oh, dear. This day had no choice but to come; she’d just hoped it would have been later than sooner. A feeling of lightheadedness assailed her, and Sarah sank into the one wooden chair in the room currently resting beneath a window. How to explain such a delicate situation?
Her dear little boy wasn’t the fruit of her marriage. Oh, no. Simon had come along as a result of a mad indiscretion with a dashing captain she’d met at a party in London a good seven months after she’d become a widow.
A few men had courted her following the death of her husband, but she’d rebuffed them all, not wishing to again become a wife, especially while in mourning, which brought worries of its own. One man in particular had shown surprising tenacity, but they’d clashed in matters of politics, and despite her uncle’s rather insistent desire to see her engaged to the man, she’d declined his suit too, even if he’d been her husband’s best friend.
There’d been no choice for he wasn’t the man he’d portrayed himself to be, but then, a few weeks later, she’d attended a party where her life had tilted once more.
As her mind revisited that time eight years’ prior, her lips curved with a wistful smile, for that one night of ardor—plain lust if she were honest—with Captain Fortunate had been wonderful. He’d been everything charming, the cocksure soldier being sent to the battlefields. She’d been eager to dance and talk and flirt, for she had a soft spot for a man in uniform. It had been natural for them to sneak upstairs, find an empty bedchamber and make wicked use of it, for she hadn’t wished for a commitment and he hadn’t wanted permanent. Sarah had lived on the high of that night for weeks, until the scandal and shock of discovering she was with child two months later when her menses were consistently absent.
Since her parents had died many years before in a carriage accident, she and her sister had been living with the baron and his family. The pregnancy, which occurred a good nine months after she’d become a widow, couldn’t be attributed to her husband, and her uncle was too proper and adhered to the ton’s rigid rules of propriety to make up a story that would make the birth of said child seem premature. So, not wishing to harm her sister’s chances at a good marriage by tainting her reputation, Sarah had taken matters into her own hands before her indiscretion became widely known.
She fled London on the excuse that it brought her too many sad memories, and since he’d been lost on a faraway battlefield, there was nothing left for her in the capital. Slightly panicked but looking forward to the child, she’d made the decision that would forever alter her life. With precious little coin to her name and only her husband’s small pension to see her through, she boarded a mail coach with all her possessions and left, never once looking back.
She hadn’t returned to London since.
Bound for the country
side, she went to the only place no one would think to look for her—a cottage tucked away in Buckinghamshire, on the outskirts of a village called Bledlow. Or at least that’s what she’d hoped, since she’d never set eyes on it. The property belonged to Captain Stapleton, and he’d told her of the cottage the night they’d come together during pillow talk after a vigorous and frantic coupling.
He might have been in his cups; she might have been slightly enamored with him and tipsy besides, for the party where they’d met had been quite gay and boisterous as they tended to be during wartime, but she’d encouraged him to talk, for she loved hearing the sound of his voice and had adored having a man next to her again. It had made her feel needed after being a widow for so long.
They’d chatted about everything and nothing for an hour or two following coitus, and then came together once more in frantic need and mutual passion that she still remembered all these years later. Afterward, he’d given her the key to that cottage, telling her she’d might as well caretake it, for he might not come back from the war. She’d laughed, saying he was Captain Fortunate, he would be back, hadn’t he always come away unscathed in all his years of service so far? He wasn’t as convinced; military men had a sixth sense about such things. Her own husband had written to her with much the same fear in one of his last missives. The captain had pressed the brass key into her palm all the same. She’d told him to stay safe; he told her to have a happy life. It had been a fair exchange with no robbery.
That was the last time she’d seen him.
“Mama?” The sound of Simon’s voice brought her back to the present. He peered at her with concern flooding his brown eyes.
Sarah’s hands shook. She clasped them in her lap. “I...”
On a Midnight Clear Page 2
