by Lily George
The simple little ceremony drew to an end, and Harriet detached herself from her sister’s side. Full of strength, shining with a steadfast and pure purpose, she must tell the reverend how important his words had been, how he cast a light on her shadowy soul. Why, she didn’t feel at all bashful as she glided over to the reverend. He smiled as he saw her approach. “Did you enjoy the ceremony, Miss?”
She beamed up at him, her heart glowing. “I did. Your words fell upon my soul like drops of rain in a desert.”
He patted her hand with a grandfatherly air. “Now, you don’t look familiar, my dear. Have you attended services at St. Mary’s?”
Harriet dropped her gaze, coloring a little. “I haven’t been able to, Reverend. My mother is unwell and the four miles there and four miles back would be too taxing.”
“Don’t fret, don’t fret. You don’t have to be in church to worship, you know. God is everywhere. Now, tell me your name.”
“Harriet Handley.”
“Well, Miss Handley, I am Reverend Kirk. If you should ever wish to join our little congregation, know that you are always welcome at St. Mary’s. But even if you cannot make the journey, you must remember that God is with you, and watching over you.”
Harriet’s heart welled and tears stung her eyes. Such warmth and compassion had expired from her life when Papa died. Her lips trembled, and her voice caught in her throat.
“Now, now, my dear, there’s no need for tears. Remember, as solitary as you may feel, you are never truly alone. Promise me you will remember that.” Reverend Kirk patted her hand gently.
Harriet nodded, her heart still too full for words. Blinking away her tears, she turned from the reverend. The vivid colors and brassy tone of the band pounced on her nerves. She longed to be somewhere quiet, where she could think clearly. No such luck. Sophie grabbed her arm, pulling on Harriet excitedly.
“Why did you leave me like that? To whom were you speaking?”
“Reverend Kirk, you goose. Did you not pay any attention to the ceremony?”
“Very little,” replied Sophie with her customary frankness. “I wondered if my half boots look too hideous with this gown. I think I should have worn my slippers.”
Harriet sighed, linking her arm through Sophie’s. “Your slippers might have been spoiled with the walk. Your half boots are very attractive.”
Sophie looked down at her feet, considering them closely. “I think so, too,” she pronounced.
Rose tapped Sophie’s shoulder. “Come along, you two chickens. Enough chatter. The cream tea starts soon, and we are nowhere near the village hall.”
Brookes watched the sisters enter the bustling village hall through narrowed eyes. Seeing Harriet and Sophie together had stiffened his resolve—he needed to break free of Harriet’s spell. At some point during the tea, he would make that all-important first move. His jaw hardening, he resolved to speak to Sophie alone, for the first time since he returned home.
His vision sharpened. The sisters and their servant were selecting a tea table. One of the ladies assisting with the tea brought them a fresh pot and china cups. He stretched his legs under his own table, wondering how on earth he would find Sophie without an escort. He watched Sophie’s head bobble around aimlessly. Then Harriet and the servant woman stood up. Harriet leaned down to say something to Sophie, who nodded and remained at the table while the two women strolled off. Their absence offered him the perfect time to strike. Brookes stood up, his heart hammering, and found his way through the crush of villagers to her table.
“May I sit for a moment?” His voice had a catch in it. He cleared his throat.
Sophie jumped in her chair. Her face turned as crimson as the cloth spread over her table. “Of course.” Her voice was unnaturally strained and breathless.
“Lovely tea.”
“I haven’t tried it yet.” Sophie began to pour some into her cup, but her hand shook so that she spilled a little on the cloth.
“Allow me,” Brookes said smoothly, whipping out his handkerchief. Sophie reached out to grasp her saucer at the same moment he began patting at the spot on the tablecloth. He knocked against the cup and sent it flying. It landed on the floor with a crash, splintering to a thousand pieces.
“Oh!” cried Sophie. She stooped down to gather the broken pieces. Brookes stooped to help but his leg gave out, lurching him forward. He collided with Sophie, knocking her soundly on the head.
Sophie sat back in her chair with a little huff, rubbing at her skull. “Ouch.”
“My deepest apologies. Did I hurt you badly?”
“I’ll recover,” Sophie snapped.
He cleared his throat again, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. Should he keep charging ahead? Or should he offer to look at her wound? He peered at Sophie closely. The irritated expression on her face decided it for him. Charge ahead, ignore the little incident.
“I shall look forward to seeing you at the ball tonight,” he began, hoping to restore his sense of savoir faire.
“Yes.”
“Will you save a dance for me?” He remembered how, before the war, they would dance together so often that it raised the eyebrows of the matrons of Matlock Bath.
“Can you dance?” Sophie asked, with a mixture of irritation and frank curiosity that shriveled his interest.
“I don’t know. I haven’t tried.” He inhaled deeply, seeking Sophie’s smell of violets and muslin. But the scent of spilled tea permeated everything.
“Well, if you can dance, then I will be happy to reserve one for you, Captain Brookes.” A pat reply, one that he instantly recognized. A sop, and nothing more. He saw her turn away countless other suitors with a similar vague gesture before.
He stood up. A good soldier recognized the right moment for retreat. “Until tonight, then, Miss Handley.”
“Ah, seeing the pair of you again, it was like old times.” Rose clasped her hands over her bosom. “Like the war never happened. Before we had to leave Matlock Bath.”
Harriet glanced over at her sister, carefully sidestepping a rut in the road. It had not looked like old times to her. She had watched the whole scene from across the room, where she and Rose had stopped to help themselves to scones and clotted cream. When she espied the captain making his way to the table, she stayed rooted to the spot, and bid Rose do the same. Watching the awkward tableau reminded her of the amateur dramatics that trouped through Derbyshire. In fact, Harriet could not bear to watch after Captain Brookes collided with Sophie. She turned away, embarrassment and tenderness for the captain overwhelming her, making her knees weak.
Sophie’s rosy lips pulled into a thin line. She kicked at a pebble in the road and remained silent.
“That marked the first time you two have been alone together since he returned from the war. If it felt a little strange, perhaps it can be linked to the passage of time.” Harriet took pride in her casual voice, even though her heart pounded in her ears.
“He broke my cup.”
“He did not mean to.”
“He bumped my head.”
“Another accident,” Harriet reminded her, adopting her most authoritative, sisterly tone. Sophie’s pettiness vexed Harriet more than usual. Though she hated to admit it, she was irritated that she cared so much.
“I thought you two made a pretty picture,” Rose broke in.
“I don’t wish to speak of it. When I see him at the ball tonight, I shall endeavor to be more civil.”
Harriet could only hope her sister told the truth, but she noted that Sophie’s dimples had vanished, her lips compressed in a stubborn line.
Harriet cast about for another topic of conversation. “Do you know, Sophie, Reverend Kirk invited us to attend services in Crich. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Soph
ie shrugged. “You know Mama will never attend. She is too worried about appearances.”
“I may go without her. The way he spoke of St. Mary’s, it sounds like a simple country parish. I doubt very much that everyone there is conscious of status to the degree they are at Matlock Bath.” She smiled hopefully. “I can’t go every Sunday, but I would like to go once every few fortnights.”
“Very well, if you go I will go with you.” Sophie sounded tired, the weight of the world resting on her young shoulders.
Harriet gave her sister’s arm an impulsive squeeze. A light breeze tickled her face, sending the ribbons on her dress fluttering.
“I’ll come, too, dearie. I’ve missed Sunday services.” Rose looked down at Harriet, her eyes shining with motherly affection.
“Thank you, Rose.” Harriet’s mood lifted, suffusing her with a sense of buoyancy. “I cannot wait for the ball tonight.”
The ball simply couldn’t come quickly enough, though it was just a few hours away. If only this lightness of spirit would last until then. For the first time in ages, she felt like dancing. Not, of course, that the captain would ask her to dance. Heat rose in Harriet’s cheeks, scorching her like a flame. He would dance with Sophie, naturally. That was the right and proper thing to do; in fact, the simple act of them dancing together would take Sophie closer to matrimony and the family closer to stability.
So why did she feel a wriggle of discomfort at the pit of her stomach? It wasn’t jealousy. Surely that feeling was just…nerves.
Chapter Eight
The cold, sharp edge of a razor blade scraped across Brookes’s chin. He willed himself to stay still and completely in the present, not allowing the feeling of steel on flesh to carry him back to the terrible night at Waterloo. Stoames squinted at him with a critical air, running the blade slightly over to the left. Wiping the blade on a towel, he paused. “You’ll have to pull your lips down, Captain, so as I can get the bit under your nose.”
Brookes pulled a face, twisting his lips down to lengthen the spot between his nose and mouth. Giving his skin a final swift swipe, Stoames stepped back. “Hot towel, Captain.”
Brookes pressed the steaming cloth to his face, inhaling the clean scent of shaving soap and fresh linen. He dabbed at the bits of lather that still clung to his face, and rubbed the linen hard against his skin for good measure. “Shaving is such a nuisance. Perhaps I should be like the men in the field, and grow a beard.”
“What’s practical in the field isn’t fashionable in the ballroom,” Stoames replied with mock sincerity. “Are you ready for your evening dress?”
“Yes, and I can put it on myself. I don’t need your assistance with tying my cravat, either. I don’t want the points so high they choke me or make it impossible to turn my head.”
“I’m hardly making you into a dandy. But will you need anything else from me at the moment?”
“Yes. There’s a jewel case in my study. Top drawer of my desk. Fetch it for me, there’s a good man.”
Stoames bowed and left. Brookes strode over to the bed, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in his immaculate suit, which was laid out across the counterpane. From the moment he’d regained strength enough to stand, Brookes had insisted on dressing himself. No one, not even his faithful batman, helped him struggle to ease his trousers over his wooden leg. By the time Stoames returned, bearing a leather case, Brookes stood at the looking glass, tying his cravat.
Stoames handed the blue leather-bound box to Brookes, his lips turned down in disapproval. “What’s in there?”
“Mother’s jewels. The sapphires and diamonds.” Brookes snapped open the case. Candlelight refracted off the precious stones, dazzling his eyes.
“Why are you getting them out now?”
“Don’t get yourself in a swither. I’m looking them over, contemplating how they will look on Miss Sophie. Here’s what I need.” Reaching down inside the case, he dug out a ring—a large, winking sapphire surrounded by glittering small diamonds, a perfect match to the necklace and pair of bracelets the case also contained.
Stoames sniffed loudly. “Sapphires don’t suit blondes.”
Brookes laughed, regarding the batman with genuine interest. “Oh, no? What does suit blondes?”
“I can’t say as I know. Pearls maybe. But I do think that sapphires look particularly striking on brunettes.”
“Mother didn’t have a pearl ring.”
“Maybe you should go to town and buy one. The journey might give you a chance to clear your mind,” Stoames retorted with a gleam in his eye.
“I’m not going to propose to her tonight, not that it’s any of your business.” Brookes slipped the ring into his vest pocket. “But I need to be prepared. I must make my intentions known, and the sooner the better. We’ll dance together at the ball. Perhaps it will rekindle old feelings. And by tomorrow, I may be asking for her hand.”
Stoames snorted. “Fools rush in, Captain. Fools rush in.”
The little lantern bobbed along in the deepening dusk, casting a gentle circle of light ahead of the Handley party as they walked toward the village hall. A gentle breeze ruffled Harriet’s silken skirts, and she pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders for warmth. One could hardly tell that her gown of robin’s-egg blue enjoyed a previous existence as an elaborate court dress for Mama. Sophie removed the train and stripped off most of the faded trimmings, revealing its simple yet elegant lines. Harriet had teased her sister about the process, which occupied many weeks the past winter. So many practical chores demanded their time, such as new curtains for the parlor, and a new dress was a waste of time. But now, gratitude flowed through Harriet for her sister’s handiwork.
“Sophie, you’ve outdone yourself this evening.” Harriet beamed at her sister, resplendent in reembroidered jade velvet, in the dusky twilight.
“Thank you, Hattie,” Sophie replied. “Doesn’t Mama look lovely?”
“Beautiful.” Harriet ran her eyes over her mother’s rosy gown, which set off the fading gold of her hair. Reaching out, she squeezed her mother’s hand.
Mama squeezed back, but in the fading light, Harriet noticed her face growing pale. “Mama, are you going to be all right?”
“I make no promises. I shall endeavor for us to stay past supper, but if I feel my nerves coming on, I shall need to go home.”
“Of course, Mama.” Harriet loosened her mother’s grip. They had reached the edge of the village. The Village Hall twinkled up ahead, lit with a thousand candles and torches. Harriet’s heart beat fast in anticipation.
She had not attended a dance since her London season. And really, those balls were never very much fun. She hated being a wallflower and always disappointed Mama, so pleasure was impossible. Refreshed in spirit after her brief discussion with Reverend Kirk, Harriet cast off the previous year of penury and grief like an ill-fitting cloak. That was the reason, and nothing more.
Carriages, horses and villagers in their country best packed the green in front of the village hall. Harriet clasped her gloved hands together. How delightful to be part of the milling crowd, especially after all those months of being shut up in the cottage. Not that she minded taking care of Mama, of course. Harriet snuck a glance at her mother. Mama’s face wore a drawn expression, as though she had tied a ribbon too tightly at the base of her neck. Harriet linked her arm through her mother’s. “Come, Mama, we shall find a place for you to sit and watch the dancers.”
The ladies handed off their wraps and stood briefly in the vestibule. The bright lights and crush of people dazzled Harriet, and she lost her bearings. She had to find Mama a comfortable place to sit. She peered around the room, her mouth going dry as panic set in. Relief flooded through her when she spied a clutch of dowagers in black, fanning themselves in a corner of the ballroom. She took her mother’s elbow, steer
ing her toward the women.
One of the women rose, spying Harriet and her mother. “Lady Handley!” she effused. “Do come and sit with me.”
Harriet breathed a sigh of relief. She recognized the woman as Lady Reese, one of the gentry who had a home in nearby Lumsdale. Harriet blinked. Lady Reese did not seem as concerned about Lady Handley’s reduced status as her peers in Matlock Bath had done. Harriet shot her a grateful glance.
Lady Reese beamed in return, and linked her arm through Mama’s, guiding her over to a little wooden chair. Straightening her gloves, Harriet looked around for Sophie, whom she had lost in the crush of guests. Two women, one wearing a dancing ostrich feather, parted in front of Harriet. She stopped in her tracks, her mouth dropping open as she stared straight ahead.
Sophie was gazing up in wonder at a tall soldier in uniform, smiling frankly and openly. He smiled down at her carelessly, the smile quirking the corners of his mouth. They stood much too close together. Though they were ringed on all sides by a milling group of guests, they were apart from the crowd, as though covered by a bell of silence. Harriet gave her head an impatient shake. She needed to break through that spell.
“Sophie!” she called, starting forward. “I thought I had lost you.”
“Come, Hattie, I want you to meet someone.” Sophie smiled up at the young soldier dreamily.
He held out his hand. “Lieutenant James Marable, at your service.”
Harriet bobbed a brief curtsy. “How do you do, sir?”
“Very well, thank you.” He smiled down at Sophie meaningfully. She blushed and dropped her gaze.
Dangerous territory indeed. What if Captain Brookes walked in at this very moment? She tugged impatiently at her sister’s arm.
