by Lily George
“So, you didn’t stay in a hospital?” The Handley girls were never privy to what happened after he was nearly killed at Waterloo.
“No, the hospital was full. I spent much of my time recuperating in the home of a Belgian merchant. I…I did not see much of the city, though…” His jaw tightened and he fell silent.
His brief tale had carried her away. Her fingers itched to write it all down. What a fascinating book it might make. Did his injuries cause the changes she observed in him, or his entire experience in the war? But asking such a question would be beyond rude. She had to find a more well-mannered response.
“How good of them to save you and your men.” A feeble response, but a polite one. She stumbled on a rock in the path, and he gripped her, steadying her until she found her footing. A tingle zipped up her arm at the pressure of his gloved hand.
“Yes.” The curtness of his reply signaled the end of the interview.
They meandered on in silence, over the rolling hills leading to the village. Birds twittered and flitted through the scrubby trees, and a cool breeze ruffled the moor grass. Brookes paused, gazing out over the vista. “I’ve missed this.”
He had a wonderful voice with a dark and husky tone. But his responses were altogether too brief. Could she draw him out more? She smiled. “Beautiful, isn’t it? There’s nothing so pretty as a Derbyshire view. I come out here often. I feel closer to God out here.”
“Closer to God?” He looked down at her, a harsh light kindled in his eyes.
“Yes. On the hilltop, it’s easier to feel closer to Him, as though I can touch the sky.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t know a view could inspire such reveries.”
Was he mocking her? She must have sounded lonely, like an old maid with no one but seven cats to talk to. After all, Brookes certainly wasn’t her confidant. Harriet gave herself a brisk mental shake.
They continued slowly down the hill. Harriet halted, regaining her sense of decorum as they neared the cottage door. “My sister is away from home this afternoon, Captain. She is visiting a friend in Riber. But if you would care to call tomorrow, she will be home.”
“I shall be delighted to see all of your family. Until then?” He released her arm and touched his fingers to his brow in a brief salute.
“Until then, Captain.” She bobbed a curtsy.
He led his horse to the mounting block in front of the cottage, levering himself into the saddle with ease. But then, she reminded herself, he had made a career in the saddle and would always ride well, wooden leg or no. He clicked his tongue and the horse sauntered off, switching its tail. Harriet gazed after him, aware that a brief niggle of jealousy was working its way down her spine. Sophie possessed beauty that caused strangers to turn and stare, and a graceful manner that inspired poets. Harriet never resented her little sister. On the contrary, Sophie’s loveliness inspired pride. But now she held the heart of a man like Captain Brookes. Why, Sophie had everything—and she had nothing.
Chapter Two
Brookes shifted in the saddle, breathing deeply of the damp grass as he headed home. The first hurdle lay behind him. The visit went much better than expected. Nervousness flowed away from him. No, indeed. In point of fact, he had enjoyed his conversation with Miss Harriet more than he’d first imagined.
Had she changed so much in the space of just a few years? Brookes remembered her as a spinster, a bluestocking, forever locked in her father’s library. Sophie had captured his interest and later his heart with her bright beauty. Long golden ringlets, large blue eyes that twinkled with merriment, full rosy lips kissed with a dimple on each cheek—Sophie was the acknowledged beauty not only of the Handley family, but of Matlock Bath.
And yet…
An image of Harriet’s dark blue eyes, fringed with sooty lashes, flashed across his mind. He could still smell her scent—violets, was it? And something else, purely feminine—mingled with the late summer breeze. Some women grew harder as the years passed, especially women who were forced to live in poverty. But Harriet had blossomed. Now, she was a truly lovely woman.
And she spoke intelligently, too. Hers was not the silly prattle that other young ladies might attempt, frivolous girls like—well, like Sophie. Harriet’s conversation had spice to it—reminiscent of the gingerbread cookies that Cook used to make when he was a boy. When you devoured one, the ginger burned your tongue and made your eyes water a bit, but you couldn’t resist eating another, and then another. Refreshing, that’s what Harriet was.
He cleared his throat, which caused Talos to prick up his ears. It didn’t matter a whit what Harriet had become in his absence. His thoughts lingered on her and he still discerned her violet scent simply because he had been away from women so long. That was all there was to it. He should concentrate solely on pretty Sophie, his intended. If his visit with Harriet foretold anything, it was that Sophie was as beautiful as ever. That was all he needed to focus on. He would see her tomorrow, and within a year, they would be wed.
Suddenly tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. Brookes kicked Talos into a canter, speeding toward the elaborate gates that marked his estate. He might ask Cook if she still had the family gingerbread recipe, and if she would bake a few. For old times’ sake.
The next day, rain streamed from a leaden sky. Sophie, still clad in her chemise while dithering between two gowns, pounced on Harriet for the millionth time that morning.
“He’ll never make it. Not in this weather. Oh, Harriet!”
“Stop, Sophie. A little rain won’t deter a man like Brookes. He slogged through the mud at Waterloo, you know. A sprinkle won’t keep him from you.”
“Is Brookes still handsome? Did he say he missed me?”
“Silly goose, he couldn’t have said that to me. But yes, he is handsome. More so, I think. The war made him…” Harriet cast about for the right word. “Distinguished.”
“And…his leg?”
“He limps a little, but I did not discern any real change in him. He still rides better than anyone in the county. If anything, Sophie dear, the war has improved him. He’s not so rowdy or childish anymore. He is a man now.” Heat flamed in her cheeks. She sounded too approving, betraying her careful study of his character.
Sophie’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “I am not used to hearing praise about young men from you.”
“So few young men deserve it.” Harriet pursed her lips, assuming a spinsterly manner to cover up for her earlier warmth. “Now, for goodness’ sake, go and finish dressing. You must be ready for his arrival. I’ll go sit with Mama in her room, and make sure she is all right.” With a gentle shove, Harriet sent her sister back down the hallway to the room they shared, then turned toward Mama’s bedchamber.
Harriet knocked softly on the door, but Mama slept. She leaned over and kissed her mother’s smooth brow. Harriet drew a chair close beside the bed and pulled out the shawl she was knitting for the winter. Perhaps she should change into a prettier dress, too? No, it was Sophie’s afternoon to shine. Captain Brookes would only have eyes for Sophie.
She glimpsed a movement out the window and spotted the captain picking slowly down the hill on his black horse. She sprang from her chair, heart hammering like a bird beating its wings against a cage. Compose yourself, she scolded silently. Tiptoeing across the room, she slipped through the doorway.
“Sophie? Sophie darling, he is here.” She dared not raise her voice, for fear of waking Mama.
Her sister collided with her at the top of the stairs. “You meet him, open the door—I can’t!” Sophie whispered fiercely. She stayed rooted on the landing, out of sight of the entry hall.
Harriet inhaled deeply to calm her nerves, but still jerked the door open with a lightning-fast motion. Captain Brookes, hand poised to knock on the door, fell back a step in astonishment
. “C-Come in, Captain,” Harriet stammered.
He wore a heavy greatcoat that emphasized his broad shoulders, his Hessians still polished to a gleam even after the long ride from Brookes Park. Harriet opened the door wider, casting a tentative smile his way when he crossed the threshold. He stood in the hall, raindrops rolling down in rivulets from the brim of his hat, and gazed up. Sophie stood on the landing. How beautiful Sophie was, her lovely curls tucked up and glowing like a burnished cloud of gold in the dim hallway light. But when Sophie’s gaze fell on Captain Brookes, the color drained from her face. Two bright red patches glowed on her cheeks.
Why was Sophie behaving so strangely? Why did she stand so still on the landing? She must be in shock—of course, that was the only answer. To cover for Sophie, Harriet sprang into social action. “Please, Captain,” she burst out, in a voice a shade too loud. “Let me have your hat and coat. I’ll spread them out so they can dry by the fire.”
Captain Brookes, rooted in place beside the door, started at the sound of Harriet’s voice and tore his gaze away from Sophie. He allowed Harriet to guide him into the parlor, where a fire burned brightly.
“Sophie dear, tell Rose we will take some tea,” she called, in that same unnatural tone. She spread his coat over a chair and laid his hat on the warm hearth to dry. “It’s the shock, you understand,” Harriet whispered to him urgently. “Until we received the word that you had survived, she thought you were dead. She must feel like she is seeing a ghost.”
Captain Brookes graced her with a solemn expression. She too had met him yesterday, but her reaction was very different. At the memory, her cheeks grew warm, and she dropped her gaze to the floor.
“Yes.” His tone was frosty. “I am sure it is a great shock.”
Harriet ushered him to one of the chairs near the fire, a spindly one included with the original cottage furnishings. He sat, his tall frame dwarfing the chair. Sophie entered with Rose and the tea service, but her face still had the stunned expression of one recently slapped. Harriet drew a table near the fire and helped Rose and Sophie with the teapot and cups. Those few rapid domestic chores jolted Sophie out of her trance. She even managed a pale smile for the captain.
The little mantel clock chimed the quarter hour, and Harriet peeked at it in startled confusion. Surely an hour had passed already? Carrying the social niceties was exhausting. For the fifteen minutes since his arrival, Sophie refused to speak to the captain. Harriet was primed to cheerfully throttle her baby sister the moment he left. She took a small sip of tea. It tasted bitter, like stewed dandelion leaves, and a wave of nausea hit her.
Despite the tense atmosphere, Brookes responded to her stilted questions and followed the social rites like any good soldier would when confronted with a changed situation. Harriet burned with shame. When the clock chimed the half hour, he rose from his chair, nodding briefly at Sophie. Harriet helped him gather his greatcoat and hat, and showed him to the door, leaving Sophie sitting like a graceful wooden statue on the settee.
“Please, Captain.” She grabbed him, ignoring the tingle that ran through her fingers when she clasped his muscled forearm. “Forgive my sister. I am sure it is the shock of seeing you again that has affected her so. I beg you, please call again soon. Sophie will rally, of that I am sure.”
“Please do not distress yourself, Miss Handley.” He put on his hat with careless assurance. “I had a pleasant afternoon and am most happy to see your family again. I shall be delighted to call on you soon.” He closed the door behind him with a decisive click.
Harriet grasped the cool brass doorknob for a moment, her head bowed. What a bitter reception Sophie offered the captain. He deserved better. A lump formed in her throat when she pictured him riding out into the rain, returning to his lonely home. How humiliated and angry he must be. She longed to run after him, and beg his forgiveness on Sophie’s behalf. She closed her eyes, praying for strength. Then she lifted her head and trudged back to the parlor. Assuming her best “elder sister” expression, she prepared to take Sophie to task.
Sophie raised her tearstained face when Harriet entered. Her beautiful curls were no longer tucked up neatly, but instead cascaded down her back, giving her the look of a Botticellian angel. She twisted her handkerchief in her hands. “Oh, Hattie,” she whispered. “He’s changed so much…” Her voice broke and she wept anew. “Sister, I don’t love him. I don’t love John Brookes.”
She glanced at the spindly chair that Captain Brookes had occupied earlier. It looked so insubstantial without his tall frame pressing it into the rug.
“Oh, Hattie, he is not the man I remembered. He is so strange.”
“Sophie, he went to war. He was dreadfully wounded and lost his leg. Surely you expected some change?” Harriet sat on the settee beside Sophie, drawing her sister’s head down on her shoulder.
“But oh, Hattie! He used to be so wild, so dashing. And now…his hair is gray!” With that, Sophie pushed Harriet away and draped herself over the opposite end of the sofa, weeping in earnest.
Harriet laughed at her sister’s dramatic display. “He has a few gray streaks here and there, but I vow you make him sound like Father Time.”
“Don’t laugh at me! Of course you can feel coolly about it. He wasn’t your young man.” Sophie balled up her handkerchief and flung it at Harriet.
“True.” Harriet looked daggers at her sister, not caring to discuss her spinsterly state.
Sophie raised her head. “True,” she echoed. “But you handled him very well, didn’t you? Since you are comfortable with him, you can help me. From now on, when John comes to call, you must entertain him.”
“But he will be coming to see you.” Harriet flushed deeply. The thought of spending hours in Brookes’s company was too enticing to even consider.
“Oh, please, Hattie, be a darling. Can’t you see? If you are sociable to him, no one will think anything of it, because we’re sisters. And it will give me time to get used to him. Perhaps I can fall in love with him again.”
Harriet winced. She would agree to help Sophie, but not out of sisterly loyalty. She dared not admit her thoughts, even to herself. But a small, insistent voice piped up, refusing to be shushed.
You would enjoy spending more time with the captain, wouldn’t you?
Chapter Three
Wounded men moaned on every side of him. He struggled to sit up and fell from weakness. His hands sank into the mire, catching his weight. Sophie’s lock of hair still clung to his right palm. Brookes tried to pray but his brain refused to form any words. God wouldn’t save him. No one else would, either, unless he made it through the night. Wellington himself ordered that no man be carried off the field until daybreak.
A bark of laughter filled the air. Brookes raised his head enough to see. Two soldiers—Prussians, by their uniforms—looted the dead and finished off the dying. “Kurpi! Kurpi!” whispered one urgently, while the other removed the dead soldier’s boot. “Ja! Ja!” He held up a miniature portrait in triumph, flipped it in the air like a coin, and then stuffed it in his pocket.
They moved through the corpses, picking them clean like vultures after carrion, stabbing through the wounded with expert precision, then looting them as well. By the sound of their voices, they were less than two yards away. It was only a matter of time until they found him—
Brookes jerked to awareness, bathed in cold sweat. Had he screamed out loud? He grasped around under the settee until he found what he sought. There it was—the decanter of brandy and an empty glass. He poured a tall measure with shaking hands. He was grateful that Stoames agreed to return to Brookes Hall with him after the war. Stoames was the one who set up his sofa so Brookes could sleep sitting bolt upright near the fire, and thoughtfully placed the brandy decanter within close range. Good man. He deserved a raise in pay.
On cue, his batm
an emerged from Brookes’s dressing room, where he slept on a cot. “Everything all right, Captain? Thought I heard something.”
“I was pouring myself a drink. Care to join me?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” He ducked back into the dressing room and brought out his shaving mug. “A short one.” He politely held out the cup.
They drank in silence for a moment.
“Dream?” Stoames asked shortly.
“Yes. Same one. The looters. Before you found me, and stopped them.”
They drank again, staring at the fire.
Stoames sighed. “Let’s talk of something else. Your visit to Miss Sophie—how did you fare? Is she as beautiful as ever?”
Brookes hesitated. He refused to think about Sophie since returning from his disastrous visit to Tansley Cottage. But now, prompted by Stoames’s question, he tried to wrap his mind around her reaction. Among other soldiers, his wooden leg wasn’t even worthy of comment—a sharp contrast to the blank expression of horror in Sophie’s eyes. For the first time it dawned on him that a young and pretty woman might find him unattractive, repulsive even. “She is lovely as ever, but I think she found me sorely altered.”
“Surely she expected some change in you. After all, you went to war.”
“I don’t think many people can comprehend what happened, unless they were there.” Brookes swirled the brandy around in his glass. If he wanted to capture Sophie’s attention again, he needed to prove the changes the war wrought were merely superficial. That meant proving himself as lively and charismatic as he had been before he left for the peninsula—but was he? Pondering this, his thoughts drifted to Harriet, and he surprised himself by adding, “Her sister was looking well.” Not that it mattered, of course. Only Sophie’s opinion of him counted, since she would be his wife some day.
