He looked at her from one half-closed eye, his face hidden in the shadows of the candlelight.
‘I do not think anyone, who has not borne great loss, can comprehend its meaning.’
‘Yes. I collect you are right,’ she replied softly.
He turned towards, her, his brows raised. ‘You, I think, are no stranger to loss? I believe you lost your father, not many years ago?’
She sighed, forgetting herself. ‘It is true. I lost my dear Papa, I think it must be almost three years ago. But I think, in fact, I have come to know many different kinds of loss, in the past few months,’ she added sadly. ‘I sometimes feel I have lost everything— everyone— I once held so dear. But,’ she added, rallying herself with a small smile, ‘we must carry on, in spite of everything, must we not? And find a way to live contentedly, if we can.’
His mouth twisted in its customary way. ‘I admire you, Miss Hall, to have the will, the inclination to go on even if what life has dealt you is unfair, or more than your own share of trials. You go about the world, with just one sound limb, and yet you are always ready to dance! How I wish—’
He broke off, as if he had said too much, but she smiled very sweetly, and without thought, placed her small hand over his large one. ‘I am only ready to dance despite my limp, because I do not want to think life will pass me by and I have not truly lived!’ she said frankly.
He looked down at her hand, and colouring, she removed it quickly, her hand tingling where their skin had met. He seemed not to notice her discomfiture.
‘I lost my brother, Miss Hall, while he served on a ship that was under my command. You cannot imagine the pain that this gives me. I did not save him, although I might have. I have suffered greatly, grieved greatly, every day since. I cannot forgive myself, nor will I. I abandoned my brother, and now I cannot even care for his child. That is loss, Miss Hall.’
His voice was low, and her heart bled for his broken one.
‘I know it seems like you will never live fully again, Captain Brandt, but you will rally again, you must!’
‘I have resigned myself. I shall not go into society again. I shall stay here, at Thornleigh, my brother’s seat, and it is here I shall live out my days, where I am not subject to those horrified glances and whispers behind my back which are my lot in company.’
‘If I might presume to take such a liberty, I would say I understand just how you feel, Captain,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you think people do not talk, and give Mama horrified glances, when I participate in an evening dance, or, as Mama says, when I “parade” my limp in good society?’
He did not meet her eyes. ‘Then you have my pity, Miss Hall.’
‘Nay!’ she cried with feeling. ‘Do not give me your pity! I could not bear it! Give me rather, your compassion, or nothing at all!’
He gave her a long, knowing look. She blushed, her feelings roused, but whether for herself or her dinner companion, she knew not. He continued, in a somewhat neutral tone which soothed the passion of her recent outburst but did not do it the injustice of ignorance of its sensibility.
‘You can understand then, what I subject myself to, every time I am in society. It is only here, at Thornleigh, that I can be myself. Here, my brother’s spirit walks in the corridors, Miss Hall. Do not you think it odd, to say such a thing? And yet, I do say it. Here, I feel closest to my brother. I shall never leave Thornleigh again, for there is nothing left for me out there,’ he ended with a hint of rancour. ‘When my niece, Rose, was here, I had hope, and something to live for. Now, there is nothing.’
‘But you surely cannot think that you are responsible for your brother’s death? You are a hero, Captain; you saved the lives of your crew! You cannot go on punishing yourself for something that you did not do.’
He laughed a mirthless laugh. ‘A hero, say you? I am no more a hero, Miss Hall, than anyone else who served aboard that ship, that day. A hero does not abandon his brother and leave him to die.’
She was much distressed at his words, and puzzlement furrowed her dark brows. ‘I do not comprehend your meaning. I understood that you had saved your crew, and that your brother had died of a fatal gunshot wound.’
His face was inscrutable in the shadowy dining room, and the candle light played with the scars on his face. ‘A hero is defined by his choices, not by his circumstances, Miss Hall. But you can decide; you shall hear it all. No, we have begun, now we must finish,’ he added, as she opened her mouth to decline.
‘Tell me then, if you must,’ she rejoined, sensitivity to his situation preventing her from appearing curious. ‘But only if it does not give you pain to speak of it.’
He ran a well-formed, tanned finger absently down his wine glass. ‘Osmand, my brother, had held the enemy at bay for hours, in the midst of a storm which had us reeling. He, along with other officers and crew, had managed to subdue the enemy, and we had just retreated, thinking we had taken the victory. Gunfire came at us as we pulled away, and my brother took a shot, and collapsed near where I was standing. I rushed to him, and at the same time, a great cry rang out, that there was fire in the hold.’
He paused a moment, remembering. ‘The ship was rolling due to the great storm, and my brother was in danger of being swept off the deck. And yet, I knew, too, that if the fire reached the powder magazines, the vessel would explode. My men were exhausted; half of them were suffering with yellow fever, and the other half had been holding off the French for three days without sleep. I left my brother, still conscious, clinging to a rope for his life, to go below and help put out the fire. I left one of the young lads with him. When I came back up forty-five minutes later, Miss Hall, he had been swept from the ship and drowned.’
He turned to face her. ‘I abandoned my older brother, who had looked after me all his life and who needed me, for once, to look after him. I must live with this, for the remainder of my life, Miss Hall. Do you still think me a hero?’
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. ‘I am deeply sorry for your loss. But you saved, perhaps fifty men, who would have died, if you had not taken the action you did. You have nothing with which to reproach yourself.’
‘I have heard all the broken clichés, Miss Hall, but it does not lessen the great weight on my conscience.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, moved greatly. ‘And now you live here, alone. But did not your brother’s wife, Rose’s mother, live here also? What became of her?’
‘Phoebe died in childbirth, and my brother was never the same. For a time, he was very cast down, and then, when he could bear his grief no longer, he pleaded with me to procure him a preferment on my ship, although he had not gone through the regular channels. He was the eldest, you know, whereas I had gone into the navy at a young age. But I gave in and found him a place on my vessel. He badly wanted to be doing something, anything, rather than to be here at Thornleigh, without Phoebe. If I had not given in, he would still be here, and Rose would still have a father.’ His countenance was implacable, like the stone face of the gargoyle door knocker she had used only two nights ago.
‘It must be a burdensome thing,’ she said softly, ‘to carry such guilt, and yet you are very hard on yourself, Captain. Your brother would not wish it, I think.’
He was silent and she pressed her lips anxiously. ‘I spoke out of turn. I know that there is nothing that can compensate for your loss, but I understand better now, why you so wish to have your niece here with you. I hope, very much, that she can visit you often,’ she added gently.
His eyes met hers. ‘Do you still think me a hero, Miss Hall?’
She met his eyes without blinking. His dark gaze pierced her own and her heart fluttered in her breast. She didn’t answer at once, for she had come to a kind of realisation, and it took her a few moments to find her voice.
‘I have come to think lately that I am not the best judge of heroes, Captain. All my heroes tend to have feet of clay, after all my supposing them to be without fault. It is strange,’ she added, fingering t
he stem of her wine glass, ‘that all my life until now, I thought people like my father to be unshakable, never able to do wrong, simply because I wished to live in a world where nothing could change, where I was safe from everything. I considered my father to be god-like. I wanted him to be so.’ She thought, too, of Henry, and how she had worshipped him, and even Colonel Walker who had ingratiated himself with their family in the hopes of gaining Eliza’s affections. And yet, she owned to herself, that neither Henry nor Colonel Walker were evil; rather, they were merely human, responding to human desires and needs.
He gave her a long look. ‘Then I think you must have been much disappointed, Miss Hall. No man is a god, although he might wish it. Heroes perhaps do not really exist, after all, on that basis.’
‘But you said a hero is defined by his choices. Perhaps he himself may not define his choices as heroic, but others certainly do. He may not be god-like, without fault, but I believe it is our faults which make us human, and the human heart has a great capacity for good, despite our flaws. One who chooses to do right, even though he may suffer for it, is a hero to me, Captain.’
‘You speak so passionately, that I think you must have suffered great disillusionment in life. And yet, you seem unperturbed.’
‘Yes. I have suffered disillusionment,’ she replied simply. ‘But I find myself at peace with it. I think— it is you who have made me find that peace. Now, that is an odd thing to say, is it not? When I barely know you?’ she added, shyly. ‘Disillusioned I may have been, but I find myself comforted in the thought that we are all only human, after all.’
‘You do me a great honour, if you say it is I who have helped you find peace. On that ground, will you not call me by my Christian name?’
She lowered her head in confusion. He scrutinised her through half-open eyes, with a gaze that was almost gentle. ‘You build castles in the air, Georgiana, and then suffer when they crumble. But you wear your disappointments well. It does not stop you living life, I think. I envy you.’
She shivered at his use of her Christian name but did not find the unexpected familiarity unpleasant. ‘You have said that before, that you envy me, I mean. But I would venture to hope,’ she added gravely, ‘that you might find that you have more to be grateful for, after all. You have suffered great loss and you have endured a deal vast in your health. But now you have your returned vigour; you may walk, you may dance, if it pleases you! You say that you will never return into society, and yet, you can move about it, should you choose do to so, with pride and a passion for life! And yet, you hide here, at Thornleigh, as if you refuse to participate in life. I think a true hero would not hide; he would be determined to live a fully as he might in the world, despite his inner pain.’
He laughed, and the sound was not unpleasant to her. It rang with true humour and amusement, such as she had not seen in him since meeting him in London. His grim appearance was at that moment softened, and his mouth curved upward in genuine pleasure. He shook his sandy head.
‘Ah. I see I have not any hope at all. You have quite shamed me! I have tried to be solemn, and to wallow in self-pity, but you have a way of making me see things differently. I shall endeavour to rise up, albeit on my feet of clay, and walk again.’
She dropped her head in confusion, pleasure flooding through her.
He spoke again in an easy manner, amusement still tinging his voice. ‘But I see I have embarrassed you. I must beg your pardon, if I spoke too familiarly; you have a knack of disarming me with your candour. Do you remember when I caught you stealing cakes?’ he added unexpectedly, ‘at Lady Young’s assembly where we first met?’
She laughed self-consciously. ‘I do. You obliged me to give up all my secrets, as I recollect.’
‘If you felt coerced, I am sorry for it. It would be most ungentlemanly indeed, to oblige a lady to do anything against her will.’ His voice held a dark thread, and she thought perhaps he was thinking of his proposals.
She stood hastily. ‘Pray excuse me, for I must go to my sister; I am anxious to see how she goes on. I shall write my note to have delivered to Aunt Fanny, if you will be so good as to take it tomorrow.’
He inclined his head. ‘As you wish. Goodnight, Georgiana.’
She paused. Something moved between them, which she could not explain, and yet she felt the force of it run through her like a little stream of fresh water over parched earth. ‘Goodnight, Asher,’ she replied softly. It seemed right, to say his name aloud, as if they were friends. Were they friends? His eyes followed her as she grasped her cane, and walking with her familiar uneven gait, went from the room. She closed the door softly behind her, and leaned against it for some time.
Twenty
The following day brought yet more snow, and by midday, the addition of two women from the village, as her host had promised. Mrs Randall, a middle-aged, bent-over woman, appeared in the kitchen, much to Manfred’s disgust, and took over the cooking. Jane, her daughter, came to do lady’s maid for Georgiana, and to take over nursing Julia, who was still unwell.
Georgiana had dashed off a short note to her aunt earlier that morning, which she had given to Manfred to send into the village with his master. She had been reluctant to disclose her and Julia’s situation, not for fear of worrying her aunt, but because her pride rebelled against every supposition that she knew her aunt would make when she heard her niece was ensconced at Thornleigh! Her aunt’s romantic notions would run wild once she knew they had been thrown together, as if by providence!
As she had written, she had paused, since the thought had more than once occurred to her that it was the most precise example of irony, that she was now entrapped in the very house which might have been her home, had she accepted Captain Brandt’s advances in the summer.
She pondered idly on what she had seen of the house and admitted to herself that it was just the kind of house she liked, not too grand, not too large, and yet with what would be fine views from the windows in summer, and light and airy rooms which would invite in the sunlight, were the endlessly-drawn curtains flung open to the daylight. To be sure, the house lacked that woman’s touch which gave it a certain prettiness; no vases of flowers decorated the hall, nor small expediencies like warm water in the ewers, but even so, there was a kind of sparse good taste which she thought expressed her host well — his choice of several beautiful water colour scenes in the drawing room, and his arrangement of the furniture designed to highlight the window scenes, she thought were cleverly chosen. They showed his good taste, and she thought, his innate good breeding. Yes, she could have been very comfortable here, had she accepted him!
She chided herself then, for letting her fancy run away, for she collected she would never be mistress of Thornleigh, and if she liked the house well enough, she supposed it signified neither here nor there.
Additionally, Georgiana found herself loathe to admit to now being forced into the very situation her aunt had colluded with her mother to foster. She hoped her aunt would not conclude that there had been any change of mind on her own part and would comprehend the great humiliation it had cost her to ask Captain Brandt for assistance. She wrote of her sister’s chill, and fever, but that she had no great anxiety for her at present, and that as soon as Julia were fit to be moved, and the snow had thawed, they would continue on to Northstead.
Julia was, indeed, a little better when she checked on her that morning, and Georgiana was relieved to find that her fever had abated, but her sister was left weak and tired, and Manfred admonished that bed rest for another two days at least was ‘quite the right thing for the young miss after enduring such a fright, and she would be quite corky again directly.’
The “young miss” had taken a shy liking to her unlikely nurse and was content to spend a few hours at a time looking at picture books from the large library at Thornleigh, which Manfred chose for her. In turn, the swarthy manservant seemed to take much delight in turning the pages for his young patient, explaining in a soothing voice which bird
it was they were looking at, or what faraway place in the world was depicted.
The young maidservant took over nursing Julia, and did duties for both girls, as they arose. Georgiana was quite relieved to have two women in the house, not quite being able to submit to the idea of having only Manfred as chaperone.
During the next two days she saw little of her host. This was mostly of her own manufacturing. After some deep reflection, she felt, that after their sharing of confidences at dinner, she ought to put some distance between them. She was disturbed by the connection that seemed to exist between them, and even more so that her own heart seemed to be softening towards him. Where once she had thought him fickle and capricious, she was now inclined to forgive him for this, understanding more of the events which had shaped his character, and why he had chosen to make her an offer; what drove his need to have his niece with him at Thornleigh.
But while her heart had softened towards him, she was determined not to give him any appearance of preference, lest he should think to pay his addresses to her again. Although she had discovered a new respect for him, she continued to hold her ground and her dignity, in that she would not be thought of as convenient; any woman might do just as well for his object, to retrieve home his niece and raise her here, and she was determined never to submit to such a scheme. She would not be used, however good the cause might be.
To this end, she had taken all her meals with Julia, and spent hours with her, either watching her sleep, or reading to her. She had asked Manfred to excuse her from dinner that night, with the excuse that her sister’s illness required her presence, but she knew that Manfred would report Julia’s slow but sure recovery, and that she could not excuse herself without suspicion the second night running. She railed at the thought that Captain Brandt might think her affected by him, and she decided it would show calm disinterest if she went down to dinner that evening.
Beauty and the Beast of Thornleigh Page 15
