One Night with the Major

by Bronwyn Scott

  For a moment, the world was perfect again. He was with Pavia, a smile on her face, the joy of his friend’s safety bubbling up in him. Then she had told him she would prepare a farewell dinner, that he should go. That there was nothing here for him. But she was here. Which meant that she didn’t want him. She didn’t want him to stay.

  ‘She doesn’t need me any more,’ he told Hengroen. ‘She doesn’t need my protection, my presence.’ His throat tightened up at the thought. He liked being needed. He liked taking care of people. It was what he enjoyed about being an officer—taking care of his men. It was what he’d enjoyed about making Great-Aunt Lily’s house into a home with Pavia. He’d thought she’d enjoyed it, too. He’d thought they were building a marriage together, something that would last as they got to know one another. He’d been wrong.

  He knew what these months had meant to him; he wasn’t sure now that he knew what they’d meant to her. Had it all really just been about the baby for her? Was he nothing but an accessory to make her decent and her child legitimate? It had never seemed like that to him, certainly not in bed. She’d never acted as if bedding him was her duty, but her pleasure, and she’d begged him to let her into his world. She’d wanted to know everything about him. Was that it? Had he not given her enough? Had he given her too much? Was she appalled by the man she’d married and now this was a convenient way to separate herself from him? by sending him back to his world?

  Cam swiped a hand across his brow, across his face, his sweat making for stinging tears. This was supposed to be a marriage of convenience. So why did the realisations hurt so much? Why did it matter if she didn’t want him? He knew the answer. It was why he couldn’t give up on Fortis and simply believe he was dead. He didn’t want to give up on his marriage, on Pavia. Because walking away from people one loved was hard.

  He loved her. He loved his wife.

  The curry brush slipped from his fingers. Hengroen tossed his head at the interruption. ‘Sorry, old chap,’ Cam muttered, bending down to pick up the brush. He loved Pavia. Not just because she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She was more than a pretty face. He loved the way she burnt toast, the way she’d brazened out their poor excuse for a wedding, the way she’d bravely taken on this old, decrepit house and made it a home alongside him, the way she’d embraced his neighbours and made herself a part of the community. She’d been a girl born to privilege and she’d taken the loss of that privilege in her admirable stride. He’d had the rigours of the military to see him through the early domestic disappointment of the house. But she’d had only him and that had been enough, he’d thought. He’d been wrong. He hadn’t been enough. He loved her, but she didn’t love him, not enough anyway. She was too kind to say it; she’d married him because she had no choice.

  He would make things right for her, of course, regardless of what she thought she needed or not. He would meet with his solicitor in London while he gathered the documents he needed for Fortis. He would make sure Pavia was cared for in his absence and in case that absence was of a more permanent variety. A soldier couldn’t be too careful.

  Cam gave Hengroen a final pat. He stood in the doorway of the stable, drinking in the sight of his home: the little lawn on either side of the gravel drive, the curtains gracing the windows as the sun lowered overhead, bathing the brick in soft pinks and blues. His house made sounds, too—the clink of dishes coming from the house told him Pavia had dinner on the table, the smell of warm bread wafted out into the evening. Leaving had never been like this—never sad, never regretful. The days before leaving had always been heady, busy times in the past, evenings filled with drinking and rowdy parties in taverns with his men. Did his married men feel like this? Hollow inside at the thought of being away from home, of wondering who would take care of their homes and their wives with them a continent away?

  The candles on the dining room table flared to life. He could see them through the window. Time to go in, or Pavia’s meal would be cold. He’d not come home thinking tonight would be the beginning of the end, but that’s what it was.

  * * *

  ‘I think the emporium in Taunton will have socks even though it’s summer.’ Pavia sipped at the wine she’d opened for the occasion. ‘I know there won’t be any ready-made socks in Trull this time of year.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Cam cut her off gently. She’d been chatting all supper about the things he’d need. ‘I have plenty of socks in my campaign chest in London at the barracks and the weather will be warm.’

  ‘Still, you can’t underestimate the importance of socks, warm weather or not. You’ll get blisters in your boots if you wear them wet or sweaty.’ She sighed and set down her wine glass. ‘Then, I guess you really do have everything you need. There’s not much for you to do, I suppose, but get on your horse and ride out.’

  ‘There’s you to look after.’ Cam wiped his mouth with his napkin. Dinner had been an awkward affair, both of them knowing things were ending and yet both of them trying to pretend all of this was normal. Perhaps that had always been their problem—pretending things were normal; that it was normal an exotic dancer took a man to bed and didn’t ask for payment, that it was normal that an exotic dancer turned out to be a tea heiress, that people defied their families and married strangers. Nothing had ever been normal for them, but they hadn’t seen that. They’d chosen not to, and here, at the end of it all, they were still clinging to the idea that even this farewell was somehow normal.

  ‘We should talk about arrangements for you while I am a way. You’ll have the quarterly stipend from the alpaca investment. I will write a letter to Conall explaining how to deposit the money and make it available to you. You should be comfortable and have money for Mrs Bran’s wages and the stable boy and the gardener. However, if you need anything, I will leave a letter of credit for you at my bank in London. Conall and Sofia, also, would help you if there were any problems that arose.’

  He felt more in control giving instructions, but it was still difficult to talk around the tightness in his throat, a tightness the wine hadn’t eased. Cam cleared his throat. ‘I worry about the roof. We didn’t get to it yet and I’m not sure how well it will weather another English winter. The two horses for the gig will need shoes before long. I can make arrangements for the farrier to come out in a couple of weeks.’

  The instructions were a pitiful few. If he’d been in London, or if he’d been close with his family, she’d have somewhere to go. His family would take her in, fill her days. ‘You’ll be busy. I’m sure the ladies’ circles will be thrilled to have you back.’ She had not attended since the miscarriage and he hadn’t pushed her, thinking she’d return to her routine in time. Now he wished he had pushed a little harder. He didn’t want her to be lonely.

  He cleared his throat again, wishing the tightness would go away. ‘I will meet with my solicitor in London and update my will. If anything happens to me, you will get the title to this house and any wealth I might have. It won’t be much, but it will be something until you can find your feet again. You can always turn to Conall and Sofia. They would take you in.’

  ‘It’s bad luck to talk of such things,’ Pavia shushed him with a mortified whisper.

  ‘It’s bad luck not to plan for such things,’ Cam retorted. ‘I’ve seen too many men not make plans and not come back.’

  Cam played with the folds of his napkin and broached the other subject carefully, that of his return. ‘If it really is Fortis, we could be home before Christmas as long as we start travelling in October or November at the latest.’ That assumed, too, that he’d get leave to escort Fortis home. He could get that leave one way or another. He could always resign his commission. ‘We could celebrate Christmas in London with the Treshams. It would be a joyous holiday indeed with Fortis returned to us.’ He watched carefully for her reaction, his heart hoping for some flicker of happiness, for one of her smiles.

  ‘Do you t
hink it wise to take me to London? I’m not sure we’d be as welcome as you think,’ was all she said.

  ‘The Treshams would welcome us and that’s all that matters. They are real friends.’ Cam shrugged. ‘But if you’d rather not try on London yet, we can stay here in Little Trull. Country holidays have a special flavour all their own: a tableau at the church, wassailing in the snow if we’re lucky to get any.’ He eyed the banister leading upstairs through the door frame of the dining room. ‘We could have a party here. I think the banister would look splendid draped in greenery and red bows.’

  There was no response from her. Pavia merely looked at her plate and pushed her peas around with a fork. Cam pressed harder. ‘I was thinking, when I came back, I’d resign my commission and focus on the alpaca with Conall, maybe even start a small herd of my own. We have the acreage for it and I’m not sure the land’s good for anything else.’

  That got her attention. ‘Why would you do that? You love soldiering.’ She gave a half-smile and a shake of her head. ‘You’ve been restless these last weeks without it. I can’t imagine being an alpaca farmer would entertain you for long.’

  Cam held her gaze. ‘Because you’re here.’ He paused, seeing the flaw in his assumption. Panic rose in his chest. He’d always assumed they’d have a chance to try again in time. Marriage was for ever. They could try as many times as they liked. He could not hide the urgency in his voice. ‘Pavia, will you be here when I get back?’

  * * *

  The whole evening had been a nightmare, sitting there listening to Cam talk about provisions and plans as if a man outlined his own death every day. She couldn’t bear to think of Cam dead. It was hard enough to think of him being gone and then to see that it wasn’t enough to send him away. That this sacrifice she was making didn’t free him. His sense of honour would bring him back to her when his duty was done and the trap would start all over for him. He would never allow himself to be free of her. She would have to do it for him.

  ‘No, I don’t think I will be. I was thinking of going to India, after all.’ She kept her voice even and steady as she held his gaze. ‘I’ll leave as soon as I can make the arrangements and close up the house.’

  Cam’s eyes flickered infinitesimally. ‘Shall I come to you there, then? The Crimea is halfway between England and India. It is no trouble and I’m sure someone else can escort Fortis home if it’s necessary.’

  ‘You needn’t come to me at all.’ Her heart was breaking. He would travel the world for her. If only his offer was made out of love for her and not out of his ever-present sense of honour and duty.

  ‘You are my wife, Pavia. Does that mean so little to you?’ His voice was stern as if he could command her submission. ‘At the first sign of difficulty, you are willing take your father’s offer?’

  ‘It’s a good resolution to our circumstances,’ Pavia said defiantly, but she wavered inside. How long would she be able to hold this line?

  Cam’s face was grim. He was ferocious in adhering to his sense of duty. ‘And what exactly are our circumstances?’

  ‘A marriage of convenience, made with the protection of an innocent babe in mind. The babe is gone and that makes the marriage no longer convenient or even necessary.’ She let herself be angry. Anger would be her best defence now, her best chance in setting him free.

  ‘Is that all this is to you? Convenience?’ Cam rose from his seat, tall and imposing in the small dining room. She rose to meet him as he circled the table. ‘Would it make a difference to you if I said this marriage was more than convenience to me? Would it matter if I said I loved you?’

  Pavia’s eyes brimmed with tears. She shook her head. It was too late for such sentiment to matter. ‘No, because it’s a lie. You loved the mother of your child. You loved the idea of being a father. I just happened to come along with that package. But all the things you loved are gone now.’

  Cam’s face was pale. She could see the physical effects of her words. They’d wounded him. ‘Pavia, we can make another baby, we can still have that family.’

  ‘No, Cam. I have to be more than the vessel for a man’s children. And you deserve more than what marriage to me brings you.’

  ‘Wherever you go, you will still be my wife.’ Cam said staunchly, ‘I won’t divorce you.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll have to,’ she replied honestly. ‘All of our defiance has played into both our families’ hands: a wedding that no one attended, a scandal that never was. No one outside of family knew we wed. No one knew I was...pregnant.’ It was still hard for her to say. ‘For all London knew, the Earl of Aylsbury’s grandson danced with the Cit’s daughter once at the Banfields’ ball before the Season truly began. That’s hardly a source of scandal. All your grandfather has to do is burn the marriage certificate and bribe the Church to do the same and the Lithgows of Little Trull will have vanished.’

  Cam would ride off to war. She would sail for India. In time, even the residents of Little Trull would forget they’d been here. If she was lucky, she might forget, too, how it had felt to be Mrs Lithgow, the woman Cam held in his arms at night, the woman he made love to, the woman he’d made a garden for so that she might have shade in the summer, the woman he’d dreamed with, and for a brief time the woman he’d thrown everything over for. It would be painful to forget, but perhaps less painful than holding on to what she’d lost.

  ‘A fantasy? Is that what this has been?’ Cam reached for her and, in a moment of weakness, she let him draw her close as he used to. She breathed in the scent of him, all man and country soap. She closed her eyes and held on to it. She would pack him some of her oils in the morning; something to help him sleep, perhaps, or something to help with any headaches he might get. ‘In the morning we wake up? Is that it? And it’s all over? We go back to our old lives?’

  ‘It’s for the best, Cam. We loved the idea of something that doesn’t exist any more,’ Pavia whispered, her fingers finding their way into his hair of their own volition.

  Cam gave a fierce growl, his mouth hovering above hers in prelude to a kiss. ‘Then tonight, I’m still dreaming. Tonight, you are still mine.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pavia whispered, breathless beneath his lips. ‘We have until morning. One last time.’

  Cam lifted her in his arms and carried her upstairs as he’d done on their wedding night. It would end then as it had begun.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Life was more vibrant when it might be lost. It was a truth of love and war. The morning of battle was like that: the air crisper, the dew wetter, the birdsong sharper, the joy in the colours of the sunrise sweeter. It was like that now, carrying Pavia upstairs to bed. He’d carried her up these stairs in good times and in bad. Tonight, every memory, every sense was alert; the scent of her was strong in his nostrils, the weight of her tangible in his arms, and all around him the world was simply more: the bed softer when he laid her down, her gaze more intense when he stripped for her in the candlelight, his hands shakier as he took her gown from her, revealing her inch by inch in a reverent homecoming. It had been too long since they’d been together like this. His fault. He should have seduced his wife long before this when it might still have mattered.

  ‘I’ve always loved looking at your body,’ Cam whispered. He kissed the tips of her breasts, the valley of her navel, the nest of dark curls at her thighs. He feathered those curls with his breath, his tongue finding the core of her. Tonight he would give her everything, all the pleasure his body had to offer, with his mouth, his tongue, his hands, and, in return, he took his own pleasure in each mewl, each purl of delight, each nuance of her body as she bucked and arched against him until at last he rose up over her, and joined himself to her in deep, shuddering thrusts that drove them both to pleasure’s brink and over it. She cried out and he collapsed against her, holding her tight as if by doing so he could hold back time itself.

  It was a ritual he repeated three
times that night, dozing only briefly to wake and want her again. He had no intentions of letting the night steal the last hours of his fantasy in sleep. But even Cam Lithgow wasn’t immune to the needs of the body. Sleep could not be avoided entirely and neither could exhaustion, but it was a replete fatigue that swept over him, a sense of satisfaction that had been absent in the last weeks, as he held Pavia in his arms in the wee hours of the morning. ‘Why did we break, Pavia?’ He dared the words in the dark.

  ‘Because we were never whole to begin with, Cam,’ came the whispered reply. This was an anomaly, a time apart from the regular time line of their lives. This wasn’t supposed to have happened. It was hard to remember their imperfections in the aftermath of perfect lovemaking. He did sleep then, conceding the short hours before morning to exhaustion.

  * * *

  Too soon, dawn woke him with the grey fingers of first light tugging at the corners of his eyelids. He resisted the pull to wakefulness, knowing what it would mean. The euphoria of the night could linger as long as he kept his eyes shut. He played that game as long as he could, remembering. But finally he had to concede to the morning. Last night belonged in the past, but today belonged to the future.

  Cam opened his eyes and the world went grey and flat. The sharpness that had marked every scent, every touch, every sound of the night was gone. Beside him, Pavia was oblivious in sleep. He was tempted to wake her and reclaim a piece of the night, but that only postponed the inevitable. The future was waiting, Fortis might be waiting. He and Pavia had said and done all that was left to do between them in the night. No sense in rehashing it now when it could do no good.