"How remarkable!" Henry exclaimed. "Bravo to the Germans."
"'One final piece of news which you will find amusing is that Hill actually swore for the second time in the entire campaign. The first time of course was at Talavera, to rally his men. The second time was when he found the cowardly Peacocke beating some Portuguese soldiers after he had turned tail and run.
"'Rowland Hill is truly a prince amongst men, and is always a fascinating contrast to General Picton, who as you all know Wellington thinks is the most rough and foul-mouthed man who ever lived, though a superb soldier.
"'Well, that's all I have time for. Blake sends his love as well, and is due for leave if he chooses to take it. I'm hoping he will, and can get to see you all. He's been working far too hard for far too long, and neglects his own health to help others. Please keep the letters coming. You have no idea how good it is to hear your news.
"'Do kiss baby Arthur and your wife for me, Clifford, as well as Henry, Jo, and Malcolm Branson. Thomas, do kiss Charlotte for me. I hope you will be expecting an addition to the family soon, and I can't wait to meet our new lady Rakehells.
"'Jonathan, best wishes as always, and I pray for a miracle for you every day. Love to Sarah, and tell her many thanks for the muffler. It was most kind of her to think of me. I'm sure she won't mind knowing that much as I appreciated it, her gift went to Lieutenant Winchester to comfort him in his hour of need. I shall not describe his injury in detail except to say he would be singing soprano in the heavenly choir if the musket ball had been a fraction to the right."
Every man in the room winced, while Pamela looked appalled and Sarah shocked but mildly amused.
"'Major Grinstead is waiting for this packet to take to London for me, so adieu for now. Yours with all my love, Michael.'"
The five friends sat solemnly for a moment.
Jonathan broke the silence at last. "Do you mind if we pray?"
"Not at all, old chap," Clifford replied, his voice thick with emotion. "I would be more upset if we didn't."
Jonathan scanned over the letter to mention each fallen comrade by name, then added Michael and his whole family to the list, then all the Rakehells and their family and friends. He finished with the Lord's Prayer. and they all said "Amen," most fervidly.
"And now, if you don't mind, I should like to write back at once," Clifford said.
"And I," Jonathan added. He looked over at Pamela. "Do you mind?"
"Not at all," she said sincerely. "Clifford, Henry, do your wives have any spare knitting wool and needles? I must admit I spend a lot of time doing fancy work, and sitting about chattering idly. The least I can do is knit mufflers and socks whilst I do so. "
Jonathan rose from his seat, and rested his hand upon her shoulder. "Bless you, my dear."
Henry rose too. "I shall find some for you both, never you fear."
Pamela heaved a huge sigh. "I never thought, never knew." She shook her head pityingly.
"You're young," Sarah said kindly. "You can't be blamed for not suspecting. I myself wouldn't know were it not for Jonathan. Even then, the letters home can often be censored. The papers don't always tell the whole truth either."
Pamela looked at Jonathan with even more awe. He was so young, handsome, intelligent. How he must have suffered.
He caught her admiring gaze. "I don't want you to imagine from all this that I was some sort of hero, Miss Ashton. Anyone can kill. Even a young lady, for sufficient cause. Self-preservation, or justice, for example."
"Indeed. I was admiring all you've endured for the sake of others. Certainly not the killing, for that is expressly against the Ten Commandments. It's the struggle which is heroic, not the killing. The enduring of adversity. No one in Europe was willing to stand up to Napoleon until the British army went into the Peninsula.
"I will admit to never having thought about what war meant for all concerned. But I've never found killing anything to be worthy of praise. Thank you for letting me stay and hear your friend's letter," she said sincerely.
"And I should very much like to send him some things that you think he would appreciate, if you don't think it too forward of me. Any friend of yours must be a good man. And I take it he has no sisters? Is not married?"
"No, he doesn't. And isn't. But he will be most appreciative. As am I. He loves chocolate, actually. And tea. And sandalwood soap. And could most certainly use some lice and flea powder."
Pamela smiled. "If you will tell me how I may direct the parcel to him, I'll see that he gets all that and more. And other things his men might enjoy."
"Thank you. It is most kind of you."
"I'm only sorry I haven't done more."
He shook his head. "Your father was ill. You've had your own cares."
"Not compared with yours."
Jonathan looked at her sharply. "The Lord never sends us more burdens than we can bear."
Now it was her turn to touch his shoulder. "And a burden shared is a burden halved."
She started as he grasped her hand and kissed it. "Pamela--" He gazed into her eyes and leaned forward, until his lips were only inches from her own. "Pamela, I want to tell you--"
"Here's your wool, ladies!" Henry declared loudly.
Jonathan blinked and sprang away from her.
Pamela stared at him, then took the basket of notions from the younger Stone. "Thank you. Sarah, shall we leave the men to write their letters?" Pamela asked, managing to keep her voice steady despite the hammering of her heart and the sudden raggedness of her breathing.
"Yes, certainly. I shall add a postscript to yours, if I may, Jonathan, so please don't seal it."
"No, I wouldn't dream of it, Sarah. I still say you should set your cap at him. I can't think of a better brother-in-law."
His face fell again, and he ran his fingers through his sandy hair until he once again resembled a prickly hedgehog.
"Oh, you. For that I shall do my best to find one."
"You do that, dearest," Jonathan said quietly. "Nothing would make me happier. Now shoo."
Pamela gave him a last long look, but he seemed to have forgot all about her. With a little sigh she followed Sarah out of the room.
As she went into the small parlor to take up her new project, she wondered why it always seemed that just when she finally managed to get closer to Jonathan, he always slipped away into some private Hell of his own, far beyond her reach.
Chapter Ten
The rest of the evening went by in a whirl. Pamela was astonished at how quickly the time passed in such lively and intelligent company. As they chatted, she knitted row after row on a muffler with some fairly large-gauge needles until she had a long thick hank, which she then crocheted together. It wasn't terribly fancy, just an ordinary cable knit on two sides in navy blue, but Jonathan praised it highly, and actually sat next to her to watch her working.
"Michael will love it, and be thrilled to have a pretty girl to write to."
"Oh, I don't think--"
"He admires women, but isn't a rake if that's what you fear."
"But he's a viscount, destined to be the Earl of Hazelmere one day. He would not wish to know someone so plain and obscure as myself."
"It doesn't seem to stop the Earl of Ferncliffe, now does it?" he said a bit more sharply than he intended.
"No, I suppose not," she conceded, "but--"
His sandy brows knit. "Then where's the harm?"
"I would not like him to think me forward. That I was, er, encouraging him. Flirting." She blushed with every word. "If he has no sister, and I no brother, I should like to serve in that capacity. But I would never dream of anything more."
He looked both surprised and relieved. Pamela was glad when he did not probe further, for her feelings were so close to the surface that the least encouragement might have set them to bubbling up.
She told herself to stop being silly. Jonathan was a clergyman, and had shown no indication of particular regard for her. Even her presence here at Stone C
ourt and the enforced intimacy were for the sake of the parish, and her own improvement as a Christian, she told herself, wishing all the while that it was not true.
As for the trip to Bath, he had some time off coming to him. Since he was going to stay with his friends, he had been kind enough to include she and her aunt, that was all. She could name a hundred other kindnesses Jonathan had done for her fellow parishioners, she thought as she finished off a row of knitting and paused to take a sip of tea.
"That is cold, Miss Ashton. Pray allow me to pour you more."
"Since I take it with no milk, it's not a great hardship, and waste not, want not. It is rather expensive, after all."
"Indeed. One of the other Rakehells is a tea trader in India. Lawrence Howard. He's made quite a fortune for himself."
"Tea? In India?"
He nodded. "Yes, indeed. It surprised me too. But he says the growing season there is far longer than in China, and that there are more of them."
She gave a winsome smile. "You know so many interesting people, who all lead such exciting lives. I really should, um, look outside myself a bit more. Follow the papers, see that there's a wider world beyond Brimley, and Somerset."
"And yet sometimes it's best to content yourself to remaining in your own quiet sphere and mastering it. I hope the war will be over soon. Then you might knit for the poor, or put your considerable skills at sewing to making clothes for them. The orphanages can always use little pinafores for the children and so on. Sarah has a couple of places she likes to work with."
He looked at her carefully for a moment. "There is also a clinic for unfortunate women which can always use clothes, especially of the more decent, respectable sort, for women who want to get out of the life, and have a fresh start."
"Do you mean fallen women?" Pamela asked, her eyes rounding.
"Yes," Jonathan replied easily, without a trace of embarrassment. "We have doctors who volunteer their time, nurses too, midwives. It needs a head who can supervise everything. Blake says he'd like to take on the post when he comes home from the war. In the meantime Sarah and I muddle through, along with Thomas and his wife."
"That is most commendable of you."
"But you still sound shocked," he said mildly, leaning forward in his chair.
She gave a small shrug. "You have so many duties. I'm surprised you have time. I also wonder at it, since many vicars would not wish to be involved in such schemes."
Jonathan shrugged, and hoped he could keep his tone even. "Christ redeemed all sinners. And Mary Magdalene was his special friend, even more so than Martha, the good woman without blame. And surely the sin is more the man's for paying or taking what should be given freely, than for the woman who is compelled by force or economic necessity."
Pamela stared at him for a moment, and then bundled up her wool and began to rise from the small sofa. "Pray excuse me, Mr. Deveril. I'm just going to wash my hands before supper."
He jumped to his feet and bowed. "I've offended you." It was a statement, not a question. "I'm sorry. Such things are not deemed appropriate topics of conversation in front of ladies."
"Not offended," she said with a blush. "I will own to being tired, however. I feel, well, rather fatigued. Your friend's letter, and now these new topics, India and the women's clinic, have given me so much to think about."
"I'm glad, then."
"Yes," she said, offering him a timid smile. "I am too. I never imagined I would be. I can see now that my father protected me, but there is such a thing as being too sheltered."
He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. I just wish all women were educated, but protected. So you would be aware of the pitfalls, not have your naïveté preyed upon by plausible rogues. Be able to make educated decisions, not be slaves to your passions, any more than men should be."
Pamela saw his face had taken on the grim, mask-like quality she had come to dread.
She risked putting her hand on his shoulder. "If that incident with Mr. Prine several weeks ago is what has got you so disturbed, pray do not think about it. I would most certainly have been fine--"
"Yes, um, Mr. Prine, of course. But there are other men far more subtle, who don't even have to rely on force. Just remember, Miss Ashton, the Devil appears to us in many guises," he warned.
"Sometimes even that of a friend we know and trust. He flatters and cajoles. He would not be able to succeed in tempting us if he showed his true visage, as black and ugly as sin."
She nodded. "I understand that now, I think."
He took her arm and began to lead her to the door. "Do you? I wonder." He contemplated her silently for a moment. "You say you wish to know the world better, Pamela. I say you have perhaps lived too much in it. And Bath and London will offer you all sorts of opportunities to be exposed to both good, sound people of principle, and the devils in disguise I have just been speaking of."
She gave him a warm smile and offered him her hand. "Then like Christian, I shall have to brave the dangers of Vanity Fair. But with you as my guide, how can I possibly come to harm?"
"And your Aunt Susan, of course," Jonathan said modestly, though he took her hand more firmly in both of his own.
"Of course. And your sister and friends. It shall be fine. Thank you for your concern."
"Well, that's all an elderly fellow like me is good for. To sit in the corner like a gooseberry and stop you young people from taking a fall."
Pamela shook her head. "Oh, no, you're not going to tease me about that any more. If you're elderly, I'm the Queen of the May. And don't you dare sit in the corner. Your dancing is far too good, your company far too scintillating."
Pamela blushed, and with a curtsey, removed her hand from his grip and left the room, hoping her progress didn't look like headlong flight.
How had she dared speak to him thus!
Jonathan stared at Pamela as she hurried away from him. She had looked so embarrassed. Was it possible? Did she really admire him so much as she seemed to have indicated today? Pamela Ashton, of all people, wealthy heiress and the ideal of at least two-thirds of the men in the district?
He found himself preening in the mirror as he played over the things she had said, her looks and smiles, her touch. He smoothed back his hair, adjusted his collar and cuffs, retied his cravat, then checked his cuffs once more. He brushed his shoulders, though they were dust-free, and adjusted his coat tails. Then he made a face at himself in the mirror, and threw himself into a chair.
Damnation. He had forgotten again, for all too brief a time, but nonetheless, he had had a brief and blissful respite from his plight. Strange how a few moments in her company could do that to him.
Clifford caught his eye, and gave Jonathan what he read as an encouraging smile.
He shook his head.
His friend opened his mouth to argue.
Jonathan growled low in his throat. "If you value our friendship, you will not voice that thought. And tonight we will be lively and cheerful. Not one word about the war, clinics or orphanages. We will have a jolly evening of cards and charades, and tomorrow we shall shoulder our burdens once more and all go back to our ordinary lives."
Clifford sighed, and waved his hand as though giving in. "If that's what you really want, Jonathan."
Jonathan shrugged, his expression sour. "It may not be. I don't know any more. But it's all I will permit myself. I simply cannot sacrifice an eternity of future bliss in Heaven for a temporary and fleeting happiness here on earth."
"And what if you're wrong, my friend? What if God has given you a gift?"
"A test, more like. I cannot fail. I gave my word."
"What of your heart?" Clifford asked, his tone gentle.
"Clifford, that's enough!"
His friend reached over to rest his hand on his friend's forearm. "You don't need to answer to me. But God knows everything, including the secrets of that organ I just mentioned. As for temporary and fleeting happiness, I look at Vanessa, and I see an eternity in her eye
s. And in the face of my son."
Jonathan shook Clifford's hand off and vaulted out of the armchair, striding away. "I'm going to have a walk before supper. Pray excuse me."
Not even pausing for his greatcoat, he stormed straight passed the astonished footman and out the front door into the wintry afternoon.
Chapter Eleven
The supper table was rather silent as they all stared at the empty place setting. Pamela was reminded of Macbeth's banquet scene, with the vacant chair reserved for Banquo, who lay dead out on the heath.
The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 1 Page 78
