by Lily George
“No, ma’am.” Bunting set the tray on a small mahogany table, drawing it close to the two women. “Only the oolong, very delicate and flowery, I’m told.”
Mrs. Crossley waved him away. “Now, dear, about your family—”
Harriet steeled herself. The wise old woman’s scheme worked only too well. A pent-up flood of confidences poised on the tip of her tongue—she longed to confess all to Mrs. Crossley, from the loss of the family fortune to her sister’s flippant refusal of Captain Brookes’s hand.
“Aunt Katherine, you are a shameless busybody.” Brookes strode purposefully into the room, regarding his aunt with a bemused expression.
“Oh, you naughty boy. Just when she was about to tell me everything.” She smiled and began pouring the tea. “And now it’s only a few moments before you young people get to work and all pleasure will be forgotten.” She handed a cup to Harriet, and one to Brookes.
Harriet took a fortifying sip of her tea. “Mrs. Crossley has told me about your plan to continue working on the book. I must confess I am most grateful to you, sir. I thought for sure you would give up the project.” She raised her eyes to find him watching her intensely. His gaze brought warmth rushing to her cheeks.
“Not at all.” His look softened and he gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I have to keep Aunt Katherine busy, you know.” The old lady smiled and sipped her tea, the perfect picture of innocence.
“Come sit at the desk, and we will continue working on your book. You see, I have your paper and pen all ready. When we spoke at the village dance the other night, I told you about the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. Would you like to know more about it?”
“Oh, yes, Captain.” Harriet rose, and made her way to his desk, clutching her teacup in one hand. “I should like to know everything.”
“She is a dear girl,” Aunt Katherine said after Harriet had departed for the day. “I like her very much. Too bad I shan’t be calling her my niece soon. Tell me, John, what is so wonderful about this Sophie that you are determined to pass Harriet over for her?”
Brookes sighed. Auntie was up to her old tricks, meddling where she didn’t belong. It was only a matter of time before she pried the whole story from him. He held up his hand to stem her scolding.
“Auntie, upon my honor, I was a green lad when I left for the peninsula. I saw only Sophie’s beauty and charm. I didn’t understand the sweetness and generosity of a woman like Harriet. Now I see her worth only too well. But I am bound to honor my promise to Sophie.”
“Stupid blunderer,” Auntie replied with affection. “You can’t let a girl like Harriet slip away from you.”
Brookes regarded his aunt with wonderment. She never liked anyone wholeheartedly right away, and she often prided herself on reserving judgment until she had known a person for months, if not years. Harriet was the sole exception to her rule, at least in his recollection. “What makes you like her so much, Aunt?”
She put down her knitting, and stared into the fire. Silence descended on the room, punctuated only by the crackle of the flames in the hearth. Brookes tilted his head. Auntie was never silent—she always had an opinion about everything, from tea to young women, at the ready. How unusual for her to think about anything before pronouncing judgment.
“She is so very still, so deep, John. I know you saw a lot during the war. I can tell from the look in your eyes that you saw things most men dare not contemplate. She is the one who can give you solace. Remember, as the Lord said in the book of Genesis, ‘It is not good for the man to be alone.’ Harriet is your helpmate. She is good.”
Brookes’s mind shuttered, as it did with any mention of faith. “Aunt, I hope you’ll understand when I say I don’t like to discuss faith. I lost my belief in God the night I almost died at Waterloo. That kind of talk makes me highly uncomfortable.”
She peered at him sharply, giving Brookes the uncomfortable impression that she read into his very soul. “How very modern of you. I am sure your reasons are your own, so I won’t try to meddle with your religious beliefs. But honestly, my boy, you did ask my reasons, and there you have them.”
He drummed his fingers on the table with impatience. “True, I’ll give you that. But promise me one thing, Aunt—don’t interfere. I’ve made a hash of things and I am trying to set everything right. I’ve already told Stoames to hold his tongue.”
“I’ll promise no such thing, and hopefully Stoames didn’t either. I like Stoames. He’s salt of the earth. I expect he and I together will make you see sense.” Her voice was as tart and sweet as the lemon curd they had spread on the scones at tea. “On the other hand, I will promise not to meddle within your hearing.”
Brookes sighed. It was as good as any promise he could hope for.
The little mantel clock in the parlor chimed one o’clock. Everyone slept in the predawn hush, except Harriet. After the clock ceased its toll, only Harriet’s pen scratching across the paper broke the silence. She hunched over the page, her hands frozen in the cold, but there was no time to care about physical discomforts. Harriet poured out her thoughts and ideas about her book onto paper. ’Twas a soldier’s memoir, first-person, but she wouldn’t pretend to be Brookes. She invented an imaginary soldier, ready to live the war through his eyes: Mr. J. H. Twigg.
An idealistic lad, Twigg fought for the heroic concepts of truth, majesty and heroism. But his first battle awakened Twigg to the reality of war. Harriet paused, rubbing her palms together, trying to ease the stiffness out of her joints. Her hero must suffer the way real men suffered. Men who had fought and died alongside Brookes for king and country. The depths of Brookes’s suffering she could not guess, but as a good writer she must at least imagine his torment. Twigg’s suffering could not be farcical, only realism would do. If Harriet struck the wrong note, her book might fail to pay tribute to Brookes and his men. Harriet’s heart pounded. She could not confess her love for Brookes, but her book could be her declaration of love. He must never know it, of course, but in writing the book, she could speak the words filling her heart. The book had to be her masterpiece. Nothing less would do.
Harriet stilled for a moment, and then allowed the flood of words to wash over her and fill the pages. In time, the little mantel clock chimed four o’clock. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she forced them open for one last moment. She blew a little puff of air on the candle, which burned so low that it was nothing more than a pool of grease and a small, guttering flame. Pillowing her head on her crossed arms, heedless of the drying ink, Harriet fell fast asleep, clinging to the desk as she would a life raft.
Chapter Thirteen
He lay facedown in the mud, scarcely daring to draw breath. The two Prussians looted soldiers less than a yard away, judging by the sound of their voices. Maybe if he played dead, they would pass him over. No, he wore an officer’s uniform, which bespoke wealth and privilege, something they would not ignore. He couldn’t move, not without attracting attention. He would either die immediately, or simply wait until they reached him. Either way, his life was over. The blood pounded in his ears. His mouth was so dry he couldn’t swallow. He dropped Sophie’s lock of hair. Groping slowly through the mud, he found the hilt of his sword, buried deep in the muck. If he was going to die, he would die fending them off, as a good soldier should.
He dropped his head back into the mud, but it struck bare wood.
Wood?
Brookes pulled himself up. He shook his head, trying to get his bearings. Slowly, it dawned on him that his head had struck the bare wood floor of his bedroom at Brookes Park. He had been dreaming again, that same nightmare that wakened him in a cold sweat every night since Waterloo. Only this time, he fell off his settee. He groped underneath it and found what he sought—his decanter and glass. With shaking hands, he poured a long draught.
The dressing room door flew open, and Stoames emerged. “
Captain, are you all right?”
“Fine, Stoames. I fell off the couch. Here—join me.”
Before Stoames could answer, a loud knock shook the bedroom door. A female voice, elderly and imperious, called out, “John? Are you all right? Let me in.”
Brookes muttered a curse under his breath while Stoames crossed over and opened the door for Aunt Katherine. Waking her meant answering questions, something he didn’t want to do, especially at this hour.
“John? Whatever is the matter with you? It sounded like a pile of bricks hit the floor in here. Woke me up out of a sound sleep.”
“My deepest apologies, Auntie. I fell off the settee.” He took a long pull of brandy and swallowed. After the dream, he always burned with the same all-consuming thirst that plagued him on the battlefield. Nothing ever quenched that fiery craving, not even the brandy. He smiled, hoping that he appeared nonchalant enough that Auntie would return to bed.
She strode into the room and perched on the sofa, regarding him with eyes that only grew sharper with age. “The settee? Why aren’t you in your bed?”
“Auntie, for goodness’ sake. I’m still in my dressing gown. Can we have this conversation tomorrow?”
“Tut, tut. I’m not in the least put off by your dishabille, my proud soldier. I used to change your nappies, if you’ll but recall. Stoames, clear away this brandy. My nephew doesn’t need it. Certainly not at two o’ clock in the morning.”
Stoames hesitated, his eyes darting between Brookes and Aunt Katherine, assessing who was the better bet.
Brookes sighed. “Take it away, Stoames.”
Stoames picked up the tray and quit the room as quickly as his soldierly dignity would allow.
“Now, John. Answer the question. Why are you on the settee instead of your bed?”
Brookes regarded his aunt evenly. When he was a child, he climbed to the top of a tall oak tree at the Park even though his parents had forbidden it. He fell, of course, and sprained his ankle. Though he tried to hide his limp, Auntie discovered the truth. She held no patience for pleasant lies, not then and not now. Honesty proved the best policy. “Auntie, after losing my leg, I find it more comfortable to sleep there than in my bed.”
She nodded. “Is there any other reason?”
He swallowed. Only Stoames knew the depths of his suffering during the war, and they never discussed it. No one else knew what happened the night of Waterloo. He tried to form the words, but they choked in his throat. A draught of brandy might have loosened them. But, denied his liquor, he stared into the fire, shaking his head. He finally spat the word out. “Nightmares.”
“Ah.” Auntie leaned over and patted his shoulder. “My boy, I don’t know what to say, because I have a feeling that anything I would say would be inadequate to the situation. But know that you are home now, and loved.”
He would never cry in front of a woman, least of all his aunt. He stared straight ahead at the fire, allowing the heat and light from the flames to dry up any suspicious moisture. He swallowed again, and reached up, patting her hand. “Thank you.”
“I don’t know much about war, John, but I have a feeling that, if you were to find a confidant, you could pour out the horror of all you experienced. Perhaps, by talking about it with someone, you could begin to recover.”
Brookes looked up at his aunt, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Only Stoames knows what happened, Aunt. We’ve both lived through it. Why would we wish to talk about it?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean Stoames. I meant Harriet.”
He turned and faced his aunt, opening his eyes wider, focusing on her wrinkled face. “Harriet? Why would I tell these things to Harriet?”
“Well, you did promise to help her with the book. And that girl is a good listener. Like I said, very quiet and still. I imagine it would do you good.”
He shook his head, quirking the corner of his mouth into a half smile. “I could never tell Harriet the truth of what happened.”
“Why not?” Aunt Katherine drew her legs up under the settee and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
“She’s led a very sheltered life, Auntie. Hearing the truth about war would horrify her.”
“Balderdash.” Auntie pronounced the word with a flourish that would make Stoames proud. Brookes regarded his aunt with a frank stare.
“Something in that girl’s eyes tells me she’s suffered, too. Didn’t you say her father was Sir Hugh Handley? Handley Hall was a famous manor house in its day. A library that rivaled Alexandria, my dear. And now the mother and sisters reside in a poky cottage on the outskirts of Tansley Village? What caused their downfall? That girl has seen some truth in life, depend upon it, my boy.”
He pondered his aunt’s words. “But she still has so much faith…” He was unsure of what he was trying to say, except he didn’t understand why she had faith and he had none. Did her surfeit of faith hide her personal troubles?
“To me, that sounds like the mark of a strong character. You don’t have to take an old woman’s advice, but I do feel most strongly that talking to Harriet could only help.” She drew herself up from the couch with a yawn. “Upon my word, these ancient bones creak more than they used to. This old woman needs her sleep. Will you be all right?”
“Yes, Aunt.” He smiled at her, but remained sitting on the floor. His wooden leg was beside the couch, and he didn’t relish the trouble or embarrassment of putting it on in front of her simply to show her to the door.
She smiled, as if reading his mind. “After I leave, why don’t you try sleeping in your bed? Only for tonight. You might find it more comfortable.”
He couldn’t smother the grin that crossed his face. Auntie was bound to meddle, in every aspect of his life. His heart surged with love.
“I’ll try, Aunt. Good night.”
Harriet had one duty: committing the soldier’s life and thoughts to paper in a manner that was believable, but never exploitative. Brookes gave her access to the outer aspects of his existence as an officer, but a wall he built prevented her from understanding his innermost feelings. If only she could break down that wall. Once she knew what he felt the day he almost died at Waterloo, she would get to the very soul of the man she admired.
She had chastised herself at first for riding roughshod over Brookes’s soul, but now she needed to know the truth or she would never pay honest tribute to his suffering without his trust. Staring off into space, Harriet nibbled on the end of her pen. She shrank from prying too deeply into Brookes’s experience, but her character was a mere puppet on a stage without his help. If she could only break through the captain’s reserve, Twigg might become fully human. And since Twigg was her homage to Brookes, he must be as brave, heroic, and vital as the real man.
Harriet tapped her pen on the desk. How could she loosen his tongue without prying? Mrs. Crossley certainly had no trouble loosening Harriet’s during her visit. How was the old woman able to inspire such confidence from others? She had been a complete stranger to Harriet, and yet, within moments Harriet was prepared to pour out her life’s story. Harriet blinked. Ah, yes. Mrs. Crossley had shared her confidences first.
Of course, that made perfect sense. How could Brookes trust her with his most private and painful memories if she never shared hers? Shame flooded Harriet’s senses, leaving her cheeks hot. All she had done was fire questions at him, neglecting to develop a bond with him. They must share mutual concord and faith for their partnership to be a success. Today, she wouldn’t be so inquisitive. She would share instead.
Sophie opened the door to the parlor, breaking Harriet’s privacy. “Are you going to Brookes Park today?”
“Of course, after Mama starts her afternoon nap. Why do you ask?” A prickle of unease worked its way up Harriet’s spine.
Sophie sidled in, c
losing the door behind her. “I feel I should come along. Since the captain and I are trying to get to know one another, I should make an effort to see him more.”
A bubble of frustration welled in Harriet’s chest. If Sophie called on the captain, too, then the day would be lost. No, not only the day, but perhaps Harriet’s chance at forging any kind of bond with Brookes. For Harriet never knew, one day to the next, if he would finally tell her he was done with her prying questions. And if Sophie came, she would remind him of his obligation to establish bonds of love and trust with her. But Harriet needed to forge a bond of her own with Brookes. She cast down her pen and faced Sophie squarely.
“I won’t be able to do much work with you there. You’ll distract him.”
“Oh, la, that’s what I should be doing.” Sophie smiled and patted her golden ringlets. “Don’t you agree?”
Harriet could think of no sensible reason to deny Sophie’s request—not without exposing her own true feelings of regard for Brookes, or telling Sophie of her plan to connect deeply with him. She sighed; she would have to take her chances. “Very well. But mind, if he decides that we should work, you must allow us to talk without interruption.”
Sophie shrugged her shoulders in irritation. “Oh, fine. But I doubt very much that the captain will care a fig about work, when he sees how well my new bonnet suits me.”
The two sisters walked up the courtyard and Sophie tilted her head back, regarding the massive stone facade. “Oh, just think. I might be mistress of this someday. If I choose the captain,” she breathed, and squeezed Harriet’s arm. Harriet resisted the urge to shake her off. After all, Sophie was only stating the truth. Within a year, Harriet might well be coming to visit her sister here. Or—Harriet shuddered, shrinking a little inside—might be living under this same roof with Brookes and Sophie and her mother. Surely they could have their own cottage. Harriet would gladly keep Tansley Cottage, smoky chimney and all, if it meant she wouldn’t be living in close proximity to Sophie and Brookes’s domestic bliss.
