“On that I agree with you.” The sun’s rays filtered through the trees in such a manner that they illuminated the area and caught Simon’s face and inquisitive eyes in just the right angle that Cecil caught his breath. “Good heavens,” he whispered. For a few fleeting seconds he saw shades of himself in the boy’s face, in how he held his head, in the flash of expression, in the set of his mouth. The shape of the eyes as well as the color were Sarah’s as was the chocolate-brown hair that curled, but everything else?
I wonder. Was it possible this child was a product of that wild night of indiscretion? His heart beat faster as he roughly pondered the calculations. It certainly fit with the timeline. He caught himself gawking at the boy and then focused on aligning another log in preparation for splitting.
“Where is your father?” he asked through a tight throat. Imagine, him having a son. Then he brought the axe down into the log with more force than necessary. The two pieces went flying and Simon trotted to retrieve one. If it was so, why didn’t Sarah write to him?
As the boy dropped the wood onto the growing pile, he shrugged. “Mama says he died. He was a solider.”
“I see.” If it were true and the boy was his, the fact she’d told Simon that another man had sired him sent threads of hot anger through his chest. After the reception he’d had in both France and England, after coming back wounded, after suffering the indignities in hospital, he couldn’t bear this. He needed to hear good cheer, and soon, or he feared he would do something unforgivable merely to break the tension building in his body. “Do you admire military men?” The key was to continue with work, for it would keep him on task.
“Ever so much.” The boy grinned and Cecil’s heart squeezed. When the war took nearly everything from him, now there was this tiny piece of unexpected wonderful. Wrapped in a riddle and shrouded in mystery to be sure, but here he was, nonetheless. “I want to be one someday. It’s noble work.”
“Indeed, it is. However, you have years ahead of you before you must decide upon your future.”
Silence brewed between them for a long time as he split logs and Simon gathered them up and piled them on the tarp. Even though they had more than enough wood to see the rooms through for a couple of days, Cecil continued, for he was loath to quit the company so soon.
“Major Stapleton, may I ask you another question?” The curious inquiry said in the child’s voice full of wonder and innocence tugged at his chest.
“Of course. Ask as many as you wish.” He rested the head of the axe upon the stump and crossed his hands on the base of the inverted handle.
“Do you think it will be cold enough for snow? Mama says it won’t. She thinks that England probably won’t have snow again for ever so long.”
Perhaps it will merely to vex her. Aloud, he said, “It might.” He cleared his throat, which had grown tight once more. “Once, when I was a lad, it snowed so much that my brothers and I threw snowballs at each other. We even went sledding not far from here.” Lud, but he hadn’t thought about his childhood for years.
“Where are your brothers now?”
Cecil blew out a breath. “I lost one in the war. He was killed in action a couple of years ago.” The ache in his heart was still there, though it had faded, for war didn’t allow grieving periods. “The other, the last I heard, had gone into the church. He’s a rector of a parish a few counties over, I think.” Oh God, my brother, this boy’s uncle if his theory was correct.
The boy nodded, his little face drawn and solemn as if he carried the weight of the world on his small shoulders. “I wish for snow and brothers and perhaps a father. They sound like cheerful things, and I wouldn’t be lonely anymore.” He looked at Cecil with all the vulnerability a seven-year-old boy could have shining in those rich brown eyes. “Is that a foolish thing, Major Stapleton?”
“No.” Unshed tears crowded Cecil’s throat. He coughed to cover the emotion. “There are times, Simon, when you have to believe in something before you ever see it. Call it a dream or wishful thinking, but it is yours alone and no one can take it from you.”
Another swath of silence fell over them as they stared at each other.
Then, Simon cocked his head to the side and beamed. “I’m glad you’ve come, Major Stapleton. Christmastide will be jolly fun now, and I just know we shall have snow!”
“I hope you’re right.” When was the last time he’d had jolly fun in anything? If he were honest with himself, it had been the night he and Sarah had snuck away at the society event. Though what they’d shared had been more than “jolly fun.” Even now the back of his neck heated in remembrance of that torrid night and what exactly they’d done when locked away from the world and the worries therein. And yet, here was this tiny person, one whom he might have created with that same woman who now apparently couldn’t stand the sight of him. What to do? He didn’t know in the grand scheme, but right now, he would set the boy onto the proper path. “Come over here, Simon. I’m going to show you how to chop wood. You might not have the strength to swing the axe by yourself at the moment, but you’ll grow into it.”
“Truly? You’ll let me hold it?” Awe shivered through Simon’s voice as he approached.
“Yes, with me guiding you.” Gingerly, cautiously, Cecil put the boy in front of him, held him in the cage of his arms as he quietly instructed the lad how to wield the tool, how to strike the wood, what was the best angle to work with.
“Do you think we can split one or two logs?”
“Of course.” Foreign happiness welled into Cecil’s chest. For the first time since he’d seen his regiment slaughtered did he feel something other than hopelessness or anger, and it was all because of this trusting little soul in front of him who tried to heft the axe by himself. “Careful now,” he warned as he dodged a wild swing. “Like this.”
A man could grow used to having a son... if he didn’t wish to be left alone.
Chapter Six
Later that night
All day long, Sarah had managed to avoid Cecil and any awkward questions he might have, for there wasn’t any doubt in her mind he knew the boy was his.
When he’d returned to the cottage with his haul of split logs and Simon in tow, there’d been a certain stubborn set to his jaw, but the look in his eyes had shifted slightly. To be sure, there was still the banked anger he always carried, yet now a twinkle softened those depths as if he realized a secret that hadn’t been shared. Simon seemed more... content, she supposed that word was best to describe him. Whatever had occurred outside during chopping firewood must have had a positive effect on them both.
If only I could have that same feeling of reassurance.
The captain—major, drat it, why cannot I remember? —had swept into her life and set it spinning like a child’s toy top. What did he ultimately want if anything? And if he wished to toss them out, why wouldn’t he just say so and spare her the worry? Of course, she had no idea where she’d take the boy if such a thing occurred, for she rather doubted going home to her family and London was in the cards.
None of them would survive the gossip, even if the story she’d put forth was strong.
Instead of potentially losing herself to her thoughts, she focused her time on avoiding Cecil, but that didn’t negate the glances she stole at him from around walls or through windows. He moved as if he’d always been at the cottage, and if he thought it odd that she fled whenever he came too close, he didn’t say anything, but his frowns intensified as the day went on.
The boy didn’t help matters, for his chatter had ramped incessantly since the wood chopping incident. He’d taken to following the man like an excited puppy, forever asking questions and inquiring if they would go about the cottage finding out what they might fix. To his credit, Cecil never lost his patience, never raised his voice, and he answered everything asked of him, and sometimes they’d exchange a glance that meant something only to the two of them. Simon’s betrayal hurt her heart, for with the major’s arrival, he’d ceased
pestering her. She couldn’t blame the boy or Cecil, for they got on well enough. Perhaps on some level, Simon knew he belonged with the major.
Perhaps Cecil knew too. Would he confront her about it?
That remained to be seen, which was another reason she kept hiding from him. I am a rotten coward.
All the while, he remained in motion as if unaccustomed to spending time in leisure. Or perhaps he’d grown sick of lying down, since he must have done much of that during his recovery time in various hospitals.
Regardless, Sarah’s respect for him climbed several notches. He was a man of honor in both deed and action. It was her own silliness that made her seem the fool compared to him. But she’d worked too hard for this life, and she didn’t want her peace shattered simply because a solider had returned from the war.
Yet, here he was, and it didn’t appear he would leave any time soon.
Eventually, Simon found other things to occupy his time. Cecil went on a walk in the afternoon, and he was gone hours. Upon his return—with a few vital supplies he’d procured in the village; he told her he hadn’t introduced himself nor revealed where he was staying, thank God—he’d more or less made camp in the leather chair before the fire and brooded. There was no other way to interpret the scowl he focused on the merrily dancing flames.
And she’d wager she knew why. Anxiety knotted in her belly. He would explode, and soon. She only hoped Simon was out of earshot when it came, for she didn’t want his hero-worship of the Major to become marred with humanity.
Dinner had come, and she’d fed both males in her life for the second night in a row at the table in the common room—another rabbit stew—and neither protested, though they did hold their spoons in the exact same way, which pulled at her heart. Yet the meal hadn’t felt any easier than the first time. Tension fairly snapped and crackled in the air despite their forced, polite conversation regarding the weather and the taste of the meal.
Steady rain added to the gloom and depression swirling about them. Nerves were on edge and strung too tight merely for the addition of this man, this stranger who had links to them both. No doubt Simon felt it, for he excused himself to his room as soon as he’d finished his bread and stew. He said he wished to play with his toys before bedtime, but she knew why he fled. She’d wanted to do the same.
The major’s presence was all-consuming and filled every corner of the cottage, but then, that’s what she’d felt when they’d come together that night so long ago... in a different capacity, of course. And she wasn’t frightened of him then, not one bit. That same big presence had made him most welcome to her.
Why can I not bind those two pieces of my life and move forward?
Perhaps she hadn’t had the closure she’d needed when she and Cecil parted, for memories of that night wouldn’t leave her alone.
Once the detritus of dinner was cleared away, the major cornered her as she would have escaped up the stairs on the excuse of seeing to the boy. Cecil blocked her flight, much as she’d done yesterday to him, and there were thunderclouds building in his expression.
“We need to talk, Sarah.” Though his tone was quiet, a note of command rang in the words, nonetheless. All too easily she could envision him on the fields of battle, ordering the men around, keeping them safe, putting down the enemy.
And the sound of her name in that baritone sent frissons of confusion wrapping about her. Yes, reconciling her past and her future with this man wasn’t a task that she could undertake in a conversation over tea. They’d shared one night years ago and that was all. Wasn’t it? There was nothing else for them... Yet now he was sharing their house and they had a son together.
The irony didn’t escape her. Perhaps some doors to the past wouldn’t remain closed after all until she’d dealt with them properly.
Sarah cleared her throat. “That is not a good idea.”
“Are you fearful of your reputation? That would explain your penchant for running from me as if I’ve contracted the plague.”
“No.” Heat slapped at her cheeks. “My reputation remains as a widow, which allows me a certain freedom, but I’m not concerned.”
“You were never good at lying. Even now you fear gossip.”
“I’d rather not come under intense scrutiny... for many reasons.”
“Ah.” A faint chuckle escaped him, and the sound sent frissons of something coursing down her spine. “There’s no harm in talking.” When he wrapped a hand about her upper arm and guided her through the room, heat emanated from the point of contact. Merciful heavens, the man hadn’t lost his potency, and that made him all the more dangerous, for hadn’t she already shown she had a weakness for brave, commanding men in uniform? Then he gently encouraged her onto the sofa, and that small touch awoke butterflies in her belly she’d thought long vanquished by reality.
I have no business feeling such things for him. With that stern reminder, she glanced up at him, for he hadn’t deigned to sit either beside her or on the leather chair. “What do you wish to discuss?”
Cecil stood, one hand on the head of his cane and one hand on the hearth’s mantle. He stared down into the flames while a muscle in his jaw twitched. What was going on inside his head? Did he think this situation as bizarre as she? Finally, he cleared his throat, the sound eerie in the sudden silence. “How long have you been living in this cottage?”
Whatever she thought he might ask, it wasn’t that. “Oh.” She didn’t wish to talk about herself, but when he swung his intense gaze to hers, she wilted. “I came here a few months after that night you and I shared.”
A memory surfaced. She still remembered the heavy press of his large body against hers, the solid way he’d felt in her arms, the heated trail of his lips as he’d kissed a path along the side of her throat and down between her breasts...
Stop it this instant, Sarah Diane. This man is not for you in any capacity now.
“Why?” He turned to fully face her, his expression closed, his eyes intense blue.
She swallowed hard. “It was... difficult to remain in London. I wanted a change.” At least that much was the truth.
“You missed your husband.” It wasn’t a question.
“That played a part, yes.” Alexander had been gone for a good nine years now. Though she’d loved him, their whirlwind courtship and hasty wedding hadn’t afforded her enough time with him before he went to follow the drum once more. Barely had she become accustomed to relations between a man and woman for he’d gone too soon. Every once in a while, she thought fondly of him, but time had healed much of that wound.
“And the other parts?”
She didn’t want to tell Cecil about her past, for their paths would not converge. He was a man broken, and she had to keep hidden for the things she’d done. That was life. This little stint with them both sharing the cottage wouldn’t last. But he stared at her, and she couldn’t deny him now any more than she could that night. “I left London mostly due to my increasing state. I didn’t wish to destroy my sister’s societal changes of making a good marriage.”
“That is your excuse?” Cecil snorted. “Has she visited you here since you’ve come?”
“No.” The whispered word sounded overly loud in the accusatory silence. “She has her own life.”
“An excuse. What’s your real reason?” One of his eyebrows rose in challenge.
“I... I disappeared to avoid gossip. People always talk when a woman turns up enceinte and her husband’s been dead.” Heat infused her cheeks from the admission, which was so near to the truth she hoped she wouldn’t blurt out the confession. “I wanted to be alone. Life at that time had been busy and draining.” And dangerous. “I needed to vanish, and this was a handy offering.”
During her pregnancy, she’d thrown out the horrid, rustic décor and had steadily replaced it with her own touches. She’d fashioned countless throw pillows during her confinement, worked lace to edge the curtains and generally prepared for the arrival of her babe. She’d marveled
over the unexpected miracle she’d been granted as a result of that one splendid night which had shaken her soul. Never once had she regretted a moment.
This new life had been her way of moving forward and firmly putting the past behind her.
“I understand that.” The sound of his voice yanked her out of her musings. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “It’s why I came here myself.”
For the first time she saw him as something other than an inconvenience in her life. He had just as much reason—perhaps more—as she did to wish to occupy this cottage. Those years they’d been apart hadn’t ended well for him, but at least he wasn’t dead like so many others. Sarah swept her gaze up and down his person, his body still every bit as swoon-worthy as it had been on that night. With the exception of the scarred and marked flesh on the right side of his face, he could easily have stepped directly out of the past.
“I’m sorry you were injured, but I am glad you survived.”
“It is life.” He shrugged. “The ones left behind are the ones who must struggle to make sense of the reasons why.”
No truer words had ever been spoken, and she felt they were meant for her in that moment. “Will you tell me the story of how you made it off that battlefield?” Perhaps if he did, she could understand what drove him better.
“Not at this time, and we’re not talking about me.” Cecil turned away. He retrieved a log from the neat stack on one side of the hearth and then threw it onto the fire. “Do you take care of everything around here?”
“Yes, except when I hire a woman from the village if I have the coin for such help.”
When he faced her once more, a frown was in place. “You shouldn’t have that burden.”
“As you said, it’s life.” Sarah shrugged. Was he angry she’d done an admirable job of keeping the place operational or did he truly care that she’d put herself out? She rushed on before he could speak. “Needless to say, I make do. There are things I’ve come to enjoy regarding manual labor. Others, I tolerate.” Then she smiled, for she’d learned much over the years, about the cottage and about herself. “Perhaps it has helped me grow as a person. Seeing me struggle and succeed will teach Simon the value of honest work.”
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