Captain of Her Heart: Captain of Her HeartA Father's Sins

by Lily George

  Unreasonable jealously tugged at his insides. Brookes’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed.

  Stoames can’t be in love with her. I won’t allow it.

  Chapter Six

  “What was that all about?” Brookes spat out the words and turned to his batman. “What did you say to Miss Harriet?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Stoames gazed up at the ceiling, his features schooled to blankness.

  “When you were helping Miss Harriet, you whispered something in her ear. Something that, judging by the beatific smile she gave you, made her excessively happy. I must know, what did you say to her?” He clenched his fists, flexing them, balling them up at his sides.

  “Begging your pardon, Captain Sir, I don’t want to tell you. It’s a private matter and I don’t wish to provoke your anger.” Stoames clasped his hands behind his back but his shoulders hunched forward defensively.

  “Tell me at once or I may lose my temper and plant you a facer. I may be getting older, and I may be lame, but I can still fight with the best of them.” Heat flooded his face, but he refused to recognize the overpowering emotion as jealousy. There was no possible reason to be envious of Stoames’s attention to Harriet. After all, Sophie was his future bride.

  Stoames stared squarely at Brookes. “I told the lady not to lose heart. I told her that you would, in time, come around to talking about the war. You may not realize it, sir, but your behavior was almost uncivil. If Miss Harriet is to write her book, she needs your assistance, and she needs you to give it willingly.”

  The fire inside Brookes extinguished. He slumped into the chair behind his desk, dropping his hands. Utterly defeated, he gazed at Stoames in discomfort. “I was uncivil, was I not?”

  “I only said almost uncivil, Captain.”

  Brookes leaned forward, resting his elbows on the mahogany wood. He toyed with the blotter, creasing it with his thumbnail. The paper crackled against his skin. “Next time, I promise to be kinder.”

  Stoames sat in the chair across the desk, gazing at his master eye to eye. “You’ll have to face it, you know. You must make up your own mind about which young lady you want. It won’t do to keep taking your confusion out on Miss Harriet.”

  Brookes’s thumb stilled, and ice replaced the fire in his veins. Had he tipped his hand? “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’ve seen the way you look at Miss Harriet. You’re besotted. Admit it, man. Your unkindness to her this morning is nothing more than vain attempt to cover it. But I’ve known you for years. And I never saw you look at Miss Sophie the way you looked at Miss Harriet when she served the tea.”

  A suffocating tightness seized Brookes’s chest. “You’re mighty blunt about it, anyway.”

  “You know me, Captain. I speak as I find.”

  Turning his chair away from his batman and closer to the window, Brookes faced the watery sunlight streaming in. The soft, insipid rays did nothing to warm his chilled skin. He took a few deep breaths, ordering himself to remain calm. “I snapped at Miss Harriet because she brought the conversation around to religion, a subject I don’t care to speak of.” He swallowed, measuring his words with precision. “Though I find Miss Harriet’s society pleasant, I am honor bound to propose to Miss Sophie.”

  “Balderdash.”

  Brookes swiveled back, regarding his batman with a critical squint. “You would have me go back on my word of honor?”

  “You know I would never say that. But I believe no engagement existed between you and Miss Sophie.” Stoames tapped his forefinger on the desk for emphasis. “If you don’t have a formal arrangement, and if Miss Sophie finds you too altered, then why stick so stubbornly to her?”

  “Our understanding was formal enough for both of us to comprehend. Neither of us sought another in the three years I fought with Wellington.” The blood pounded in his temples. “I cannot, in good conscience, back out of the understanding now.”

  “You were at war. When would you have time to find someone else?” Stoames leaned back in his chair with a weary air.

  “You and I both know more than one soldier who broke from his sweetheart as soon as they found a nice Belgian chit. But I stayed constant, and so did she. Sophie stayed here and waited for me when others could have taken my place. Even if she finds me repulsive now, I must work to win her over. To break from her now—especially with her family in desperate financial straits—would be most unfair.” He crossed his arms over his chest, daring Stoames to keep needling him.

  “Then how will you control your feelings for Miss Harriet?”

  “I don’t have feelings for Miss Harriet.” He swallowed the lie neatly. “I am helping her write a book. She wants to support her family, which shows a great deal of pluck. I admire her for it. I don’t think she cares for me anyhow.” He broke off and stared down at his hands for a moment.

  Stoames heaved a forceful sigh that seemed to originate in his boots. “Yet you all but threatened me with pistols at ten paces for whispering in her ear.”

  Stoames and his intuition. Brookes covered his embarrassment by shrugging nonchalantly. “I know you, you old dog. I merely tried to protect her honor.” Ridiculous excuse. He remembered Harriet pouring out tea with graceful hands, meeting his barbed words with graciousness. He recalled her fine brows, the straight bridge of her nose, and the tender curve of her mouth, her profile as pure as a cameo, a little bit of ivory transformed into vibrant flesh and blood. Her hair was dark and glossy. He imagined how the strands might feel, slipping through his fingers. He shook his head, his mouth twisting into a cynical smile.

  Stoames raised a hand in defeat. “Well, then, what are your plans?”

  “I’ve found my mother’s jewelry in the safe. I will propose to Miss Sophie after the dance in the village hall.”

  “And Miss Harriet?” A challenge, rather than a simple question.

  “I’ll keep helping her to write her book. I will endeavor to give her everything she needs to make a success of it.” But if she brought the subject around to God again, he had every right to leave off.

  Harriet trudged home, her feet heavy and her mind clouded with self-doubt. Stoames assured her to keep trying, but she couldn’t fathom the bitter look on Captain Brookes’s striking face. His eyes turned from stormy green to almost slate gray when she questioned him about his loss of faith. She knew he had suffered deeply. But for Brookes to endure such tragedy without faith—well, that was enough to break her heart.

  Her vain ambition led her down a slippery slope, exposing his weaknesses to her watchful gaze. She had no right to interfere, no right to pry. After all, why should she question his loss of faith? True, she suffered through hardship and deprivation, and the pinch of poverty squeezed her daily. Yet she never lost faith; she relied on it to carry her through her trials and tribulations. Papa nicknamed her “The Eternal Optimist,” and joked that she could find something good in every situation—even the plague. She shivered, tightening her shawl over her chest. Perhaps her hopefulness blinded her to the terrible reality of Brookes’s past.

  When she finally arrived at the cottage, Sophie dashed down the stairs, an expression of blank horror in her blue eyes.

  “What has happened?” Harriet assumed her usual air of sisterly authority.

  “Mama took on so about the Blessing of the Wells and the Ball, I felt I had to call Dr. Wallace. It was dreadful, Harriet. I know that he is expensive, but what could I do?”

  Harriet patted Sophie’s arm. “It will be fine, Sophie. But why was she so upset?”

  “Mama says she will not take us anywhere, as she does not want others to see our reduced circumstances.”

  “Whatever does that matter, in a country village? Come, let’s go and speak with her and the doctor.” Linking arms with her siste
r, Harriet pulled her up the stairs.

  As they entered the room, Dr. Wallace stood beside Mama’s bed, pursing his mouth into a thin line. “I thought a mild dose of laudanum would help this nervous exhaustion. Whatever are we to do with you, my lady?”

  Without stopping to think, Harriet tugged at Dr. Wallace’s sleeve. “The laudanum—it’s not too potent, is it, Dr. Wallace? I worry that Mama is taking too much.”

  “The laudanum is the only thing that makes life bearable,” Mama snapped, offering her wrist to Dr. Wallace so he could take her pulse.

  “A little laudanum never hurt anyone, Miss Handley.” Dr. Wallace smiled and placed his fingers on Mama’s wrist.

  Harriet stood her ground. “Well, if Mama isn’t so very ill, then a mild dose of laudanum might help her now. If she takes it, though, she won’t be able to attend the Blessing ceremony. But she would be all right by herself for a few hours, wouldn’t she, while we go? And she might try to attend the ball tonight, Doctor?”

  Dr. Wallace cast a searching glance over the patient. He nodded with satisfaction and gently let go of her wrist. “I have prescribed a regimen of rest to cure your mother’s nervous exhaustion.” He hesitated, and then smiled gently at Harriet and Sophie. “Still, perhaps I prescribed strict bed rest in haste. A brief social outing might help, your ladyship.”

  Mama sank against the pillows, with the air of a sacrificial victim. Her face was pale, her lips drawn. “Very well. I am outnumbered. We will attend the ball tonight. But I must have rest up until the moment we leave.”

  “Hattie, you are so good with Mama. I honestly did not know what to do with her. All I did was mention the events in the village, and she became hysterical. I sent Rose to fetch Dr. Wallace. It was all I could think to do.”

  “You handled the situation very well, Sophie. Don’t fret.” They crossed the hall, entering the room they shared. “I apologize for being gone for so long. I feel guilty for not being here to help you.”

  “But you were helping me! You were seeing the captain, were you not? How did you fare?”

  “Poorly, I am afraid. I made a blunder, and questioned him too closely about his emotions and his faith. The whole affair grew a bit disastrous.” How embarrassing the entire unfortunate morning had been. Save for Stoames’s kind words, she was prepared to forget the whole episode.

  “Poor Hattie. I am sure it will be fine. I imagine he is unused to speaking to anyone about his feelings.” Sophie splashed water from the pitcher into the basin, and began washing her hands and face.

  Harriet regarded her sister’s back closely. “In truth, I treaded on sacred ground. It made me rather sick.”

  Sophie turned to face Harriet, patting her face dry with a threadbare towel. She flicked her eyebrows quizzically. “Whatever for? I shouldn’t worry. He’s promised to share his memories to help you write the book. Surely he knew what that would entail.”

  Harriet flopped onto the bed with a sigh. “Sharing memories and sharing facts are very different things,” she murmured into her pillow. Her stomach recoiled and she could talk about her awful morning no more. Looking up, she chose the one topic of conversation designed to distract her sister. “Shall we dress for the Blessing?”

  “Oh, yes! What will you wear?” Sophie managed to grow both animated and serious at the same time.

  Harriet grinned at her with indulgence. “I haven’t any idea.”

  “I’ve made over two old muslin dresses. They look lovely. See?” Sophie pulled them out of the wardrobe, casting an approving glance over her handiwork. “Look, I put new ribbons on the bodices, and embroidered in white—I think whitework is so divine, don’t you?” She gave the dresses an expert shake. “Here, Hattie, you shall wear the one trimmed in blue, and I shall wear the pink.”

  She traced one finger over the embroidery, and the delicate threads caught on her rough skin. A trickle of interest suffused her body. A dawning awareness of her looks, and the desire to be pretty assumed a great significance in her consciousness. There was no driving force behind this transformation, was there? Certainly not. She just wanted to look nice, that’s all.

  Sophie studied Harriet with a judgmental air. “Hmm. I shall dress your hair, Hattie. I’ve wanted to experiment with braids. My hair is too curly, but yours is so straight it will hold a braid nicely.”

  Harriet gazed into the looking glass over the washstand, running a hand over her dark brown locks. Her hair was tucked up into its usual severe chignon. She could never call it attractive. Would anyone else? She rather doubted it. After all, Sophie was the acknowledged beauty of the family.

  “Oh Hattie, I have ideas for our ball dress tonight, too,” Sophie prattled on. She gazed into the mirror, fitting her cheek against Harriet’s shoulder. Reaching up, Sophie tucked a wayward curl behind one shoulder. “Do you know, Hattie,” she said breathlessly, an expression of satisfaction lighting up her china-blue eyes, “I rather think I shall fall in love with the captain tonight.”

  Harriet’s heart dropped like a stone and she suppressed the sudden flash of jealousy that flooded her being. She closed her eyes, blocking out their reflections in the glass. “Well, I should certainly hope so, Sophie.”

  Chapter Seven

  Brookes glanced toward the village green, where a mass of blooms obscured the well. The riotous color of the flowers and the sun sparkling on the cornets and flugelhorns made his eyes smart. He blinked to clear his vision. Opening his eyes, his gaze fell on the two Handley sisters, strolling arm in arm, toward the garishly decorated well. The bleating of the horns died out, replaced by a buzzing in his ears. Every sense he possessed trained, with military precision, on the pretty girls clad in white, their heads so close together that their bonnets touched.

  Sophie’s little golden curls framed her face. Brookes stared at her, running his assessing gaze over her figure. She looked like a Dresden china doll, he decided flatly. Very pretty, to be sure, but untouchable. Casting Sophie away, he focused on Harriet. Her bonnet irritated him, for it covered her glossy brown hair and cast her fathomless blue eyes in shadow. Drat the bright sun. Harriet would keep her hat on throughout the ceremony and he would miss the chance to see her pure profile in bold relief. He noted that their servant stood beside them, but not his future mother-in-law. Where was Lady Handley? Almost everyone in the clutch of nearby Derbyshire villages was in attendance, he observed, glancing over the crowd gathering on the green.

  The crisp rattle of the side drum broke through Brookes’s trance, sending his pulse racing. The deafening drumbeat took him right back to Quatre Bras. Brookes and his men rode in a single column up the road to Waterloo. A drummer for the Twenty-Third Foot lay dying at the crossroads. Neither he nor his men stopped to help the lad. Everyone eagerly pressed forward, ready for their share of the battle. Brookes closed his eyes, seeing the lad’s face. So young, spots still covered his cheeks. His groans sometimes haunted Brookes’s nightmares.

  The band launched into “God Save the King,” snapping Brookes back from Quatre Bras onto the village green. He tried to will the bad memories away by forcing himself to stand at attention and sing along with the crowd. His gaze focused on the two Handley girls again. Their backs were to him, giving him no chance to study their expressions. But even without gazing upon her face, he observed Harriet’s serenity. Sophie’s shoulders wriggled, her bonneted head twitched from side to side. Watching her drained what little energy he possessed. In contrast, Harriet stood still, her head charmingly inclined toward the band. He involuntarily relaxed, releasing a knot he hadn’t realized existed between his shoulder blades. Harriet’s mere presence refreshed a man—as restorative as a long drink of water from one of the streams that crossed through Brookes Park.

  He gave an impatient shrug of his shoulders, the knot returning. Harriet’s effect on his spirit mattered little, and there was no call
to wax poetic about her features, because she was not his intended. He would simply have to get used to a life of constant movement. Restful, peaceful moments would be few and far between once he married Sophie.

  The band ended with an earsplitting flourish, and Harriet applauded with the rest of the crowd. She glanced around furtively. Excellent. None of the men in front of her appeared to be Captain Brookes. A pull of awareness gripped her, causing the baby-fine hair on the nape of her neck to stand up. He must be standing behind them. Harriet forced herself to remain motionless. It would never do to turn around and gape. Besides, he must be staring at Sophie. Harriet cast a sidelong glance at her sister. She looked so lovely, the pinkness of her bonnet highlighting the porcelain planes of her face.

  A brief flurry of activity disturbed the green as the members of the brass band sat down. An elderly man with slightly stooped shoulders and a thick mane of gray hair approached the well. Facing the crowd, he smiled serenely. Harriet’s heart warmed, and she grinned back. This kindly old man must be the reverend of St. Mary’s, over at Crich.

  “Let us pray,” the reverend began. Bowing her head, Harriet allowed the prayer to wash over her soul like waves caressing the shore. In the year or so since her family moved from Matlock Bath, they had not attended Sunday services. Mama had been too conscious of the family’s status, and unwilling to make the eight mile journey to Crich and back every Sunday. Tansley Village was too small to have its own church, so the Handleys’ spiritual guidance had gone by the wayside.

  Harriet drank in the words of the blessing, allowing them to comfort her parched spirit. Even before the family moved, going to church services had offered very little solace. Now, if you were looking for a social affair, you were in luck. If only she could have been like Mama and cared more for her perfect dress than her spiritual well-being, then that church would have been perfect. But no pretty dress ever swayed Harriet, and she searched in vain for a church that promised more than a salon. Listening to the reverend’s gentle voice, Harriet discovered that elusive something more.