For Love or Honor

by Sarah M. Eden

  “Blasphemous?”

  She turned her head in his direction. Her smile had grown a little strained, though it had not disappeared entirely. “He had very decided opinions on God’s view of things—he considered himself something of an authority, in fact. I asked my father once if we might have a conservatory, even a small one. He said that God had made the seasons and that He had intended for the world to be bleak and despairing in winter, and it was not for us to override that decree by recreating the warmer seasons.”

  “Did he object to warming the house in the wintertime?” Stanley asked.

  “No.” Marjie’s expression grew just a touch ironic. “His condemnation of conservatories stemmed from the fact that their purpose was to grow things out of season. Also, he would have been remarkably uncomfortable in an unheated house, and I do not think he considered seeing to his own comfort a blasphemous endeavor.”

  “What of the comfort of his family?”

  Marjie looked away again, out over the sea of greenery. “We learned to stay out of his way.”

  “He hurt you?” Every muscle in Stanley’s body suddenly tensed at the thought.

  “He never struck any of us. But his words were invariably unkind, and his evaluation of us all was harsh and condemning.” Marjie took a deep breath, almost an inward sigh. “I envied Fennel’s opportunity for escape to Eton, then, later, Sorrel’s one Season in London. She had always been good at deflecting him. Those few months I spent without her were almost unendurable.”

  “Did your mother never intervene?”

  Marjie looked at him once more, a sadness in her eyes that cut at him. “You have met my mother. Did she seem to you the sort of woman who would make an effort on another’s behalf?”

  Answering her question honestly would not be terribly gentlemanly of him.

  “I tried to copy Sorrel’s air of indifference,” Marjie said, apparently not needing a response. “She would offer a slight shrug when his words stung, as if it didn’t matter at all. I was never quite as good at that as she was. Father would simply laugh at me because I acted like I was unaffected even as tears rolled down my face.”

  If the man had still been alive, Stanley would have hunted him down.

  “I used to pray that he would stop tormenting all of us. After Sorrel’s accident, he became positively barbaric. She was the only one he could never reduce to tears, and I honestly think he hated her for it. He gloated over her near-death and the painful crippling that followed. He declared it the will of God, a sign that the heavens disapproved of her.”

  Stanley hadn’t realized he’d taken her hand until he felt it tense inside his grip.

  “I prayed harder than ever after that. I feared she would die, that I would fail her in that. Father didn’t allow her to be seen by a physician, so I was all she had.”

  “You were so young.”

  “I prayed fervently, desperately pleading with God to just make our father stop terrorizing everyone so Sorrel could heal, so we could all live in peace.” Her brow furrowed, her eyes gazing ahead as though she was completely lost in her thoughts.

  Stanley squeezed her fingers.

  “One morning,” Marjie continued, “his valet came down to breakfast to inform us that our father had died during the night. The local physician believed he’d suffered a stroke. I told Sorrel; she had been confined to bed with a fever. That was the only time in my life I ever saw her cry.”

  Stanley laid his right hand atop hers, ignoring the pain that seared through him at the movement. Her hand sat encased in both of his, shielded the way he wished she’d been during those difficult days.

  “‘If I lived and he did not,’ Sorrel said, ‘then maybe God hated him more.’ That was all she said. Sorrel improved quickly after that. Fennel was almost instantly more cheerful. Even Mother was happier.”

  “Were you?” Stanley asked.

  “I tried very hard to be.”

  “But if your father made you so miserable, why were you more upset by his passing than the rest of your family was?” He could not bear the thought of her having been unhappy. He gently rubbed her hand, hoping to give some comfort.

  “I worried that I had prayed him into his grave. I still am not entirely certain I did not. I have struggled to reconcile myself to that fact.”

  “Marjie, you couldn’t possibly—”

  “I knew the only true escape for any of us would be his death or our own.” Her interruption was more heated than Stanley would have expected, although he did not think she was upset with him. She fidgeted, her brow furrowing under the influence of these memories. “Fennel, being the heir, is tied to the estate. Father would never have given his blessing to a potential suitor for Sorrel or me who wasn’t precisely like himself. I realized beforehand that begging the heavens for release was tantamount to praying for someone’s death. But I was infinitely glad in the end that he had died and not I.”

  “Oh, Marjie.” The words were little more than a sigh.

  He could not condemn nor dismiss her remembered concerns. He understood only too well the feelings she had described. He regretted every single life he’d taken as a soldier, and there were many. Yet he knew on an intellectual level that if he hadn’t taken the lives he had, he himself would have been killed.

  There were two stark differences between their situations, however—the first being that Marjie was grateful to have been the survivor and Stanley struggled at times to feel that way. The second was that Marjie hadn’t actually taken her father’s life. Too many moments flashed regularly through Stanley’s memory for him to lay claim to that same innocence.

  Marjie laid her head on his shoulder, her gaze out on the flora once more. “I do love coming here. It is so peaceful.”

  Stanley kept her right hand in his left, though he pulled his right back once more. The throbbing of open wounds had become too painful to endure any longer.

  The atmosphere was indeed peaceful as they sat there in the quiet of the conservatory, with her leaning against him. For once, the distant echo of the battlefield didn’t linger in the back of Stanley’s thoughts.

  “Do you remember the day we met?” Marjie asked.

  Remember? He thought of that day with increasing regularity. “I do.”

  “You said your brothers had all refused to play backgammon with you and would I be interested in playing?”

  Gads, he’d been nervous asking her that. He’d hardly been able to keep his eyes off her from the moment she’d arrived at Kinnley for Lord and Lady Cavratt’s Christmas house party. He had never been adept at the lighthearted flirting most young gentlemen used to gain a young lady’s attention. Like an idiot, he had grasped at the first opportunity to secure her company he could find. His shock and relief had probably been painfully obvious when she’d agreed, though she had appeared reluctant.

  “You seemed a little wary,” Stanley said, still remembering.

  “My father used to rage whenever he lost at anything,” Marjie said. “But if I lost, he would belittle me for my stupidity.”

  Stanley laid his head on the top of hers. It was very nearly an embrace, though they were seated side by side and facing forward, their hands still entwined on the small sliver of bench that separated them.

  “I worried that you would be as difficult a game partner as he had always been.”

  “Then why did you agree to play with me?”

  “There was so much kindness in your eyes. There still is.”

  As compliments went, it was a good one. Perhaps Stanley had found the piece of Marjie’s affection that he could lay claim to—she saw kindness in him when he struggled to see it in himself. With Marjie near, he felt kind. He felt almost like a good person again. It was no wonder he had needed her so desperately during his time on the Continent.

  He turned his head enough to look down at her golden hair. He knew she’d been partial to him before he’d left in the spring. Part of her seemed to care for him still; he’d felt it in the brief m
oment he’d touched her face the night before and again when she’d sat beside him just now. Obviously she was not averse to him.

  There was a chance he might win her heart. Her engagement was not official, after all. Lord Devereaux was probably the better choice for her; he didn’t have a mind filled with memories of death and killing nor a broken, incomplete body. But Lord Devereaux didn’t need her the way Stanley did. Devereaux couldn’t possibly need her that much. Stanley had to go back. If Marjie was with him, he could feel whole and peaceful and good, even in the midst of violence.

  The moment of soul-deep longing came to an abrupt end. In the midst of violence. How could he even think of taking her back there with him? Had she not just finished telling him of her suffering under her father’s cruelty? What he had seen in France, even just since the official end of the war, far outweighed the torment from which she had pleaded to heaven for escape.

  Marjie would be unhappy in the life he could offer her. The senseless death and suffering would eat away at her sensitive spirit. She would ache for every person she saw in pain. She would be bewildered, burdened by the hatred that still permeated so much of the Continent on both sides of the conflict.

  He could not do that to her.

  But neither did he think he could endure that life without her.

  Stanley heard Marjie sigh.

  “I promised Mater I would help her sort through fabric swatches. She is redecorating the Dower House. I think she is hoping to move in and clear the way for Philip and Sorrel to fill the house with little Jonquils.” Marjie sat straighter and broke the contact between them. It was probably for the best, but Stanley regretted the loss immediately. “No one in the family discusses it, but I know everyone wonders if Sorrel is even able to carry a child, considering the extent of her injuries.”

  Stanley had wondered the same thing, though he had never voiced the concern.

  Marjie rose slowly to her feet, as if reluctant to leave. Hope stirred in Stanley’s heart, but he pushed it back.

  “Why must life be so complicated?” Though Marjie whispered, Stanley heard.

  “It seems to be the way of things,” he said.

  Marjie looked back at him, her smile once again evident, though perhaps a touch less lighthearted than it had been. “I will see you later, Stanley.”

  He nodded and watched as she left what was swiftly becoming his favorite room at Lampton Park. He knew the conservatory would forever remind him of her.

  When he was once again alone, he rubbed his face with his more cooperative hand. He pushed out a difficult and audible breath. He desperately needed Marjie. He acknowledged the dependence he had on her brightness and goodness. Her faith in him, though given without full knowledge of his guilt and deterioration, gave him faith in himself. But she was not meant to live the harsh and often unforgiving life of a soldier’s wife.

  He straightened his posture. He’d allowed himself to slacken, to lower his guard.

  “Always a soldier.” The command had kept him alive many times. A soldier found the strength to endure and did what was best for the group as a whole. Marjie deserved better than he could give her. He would simply have to find another way to survive.

  Chapter Eleven

  Marjie saw Stanley only three times in the three days following their conversation in the conservatory. He made an appearance at dinner each night but retired to his rooms immediately thereafter. From what she could ascertain from the comments of the staff, he had been out and about. Mater could boast an abbreviated conversation. Everyone had seen at least a glimpse of him—except for Marjie.

  He’d gone all the way to Nottingham just that morning without a single word of good-bye. She had spent the day lost in her own uncertainty.

  The manor house was a classic example of a rambling country residence. Its corridors seemed to twist and turn endlessly. Yet it was not imposing or intimidating. One almost felt invited to wander its expanse and become hopelessly and comfortably lost within its walls. Marjie found herself doing precisely that as she passed the time between tea and dinner.

  She hardly noted her surroundings nor attempted to orient herself as her mind focused exclusively on her time in the conservatory. Speaking of Father and her guilt over his death had been relieving in a way she could not have imagined. She understood in her mind that she could not possibly be considered responsible for her father’s passing, yet in her heart, she felt a twinge of uncertainty.

  Sorrel, she knew, would have dismissed her concerns with quick and inarguable logic—she was extremely sensible in a way Marjie could never be. Fennel would have probed deeper into her worries and concerns and, no doubt, left her feeling even more emotionally spent than she already did. Mother would have refused to listen.

  Stanley had allowed her to voice her concerns. He had comforted her with a simple touch. He had neither belittled nor dismissed her feelings. He had been precisely what she had needed in the years since her father’s death.

  She stopped her aimless walking and closed her eyes as a moment recreated itself in her mind. Only two days after they had first met, Stanley had walked with her through the formal gardens at Kinnley. She had expressed concern that Sorrel was growing ill again, and somehow, during the course of their slow wanderings, she had admitted to the constant fear that lurked in the back of her mind that Sorrel would yet succumb to the fevers that plagued her. Marjie had not admitted that to anyone else.

  “I feel so very helpless,” Marjie had confessed, blinking back the tears that had threatened.

  “I understand that feeling well,” Stanley had said. “After my father died, I felt very much the same way watching Mater so obviously suffering from her loss.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I found a way to help. I saw to those little needs of hers that Father had always been so attuned to: a shawl when she was chilled, an embrace when she was troubled, companionship when she appeared lonely. It was the one way in which I could help. There were aspects of her burden I could not shoulder nor relieve.”

  “So you devoted yourself to those things you were capable of addressing?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And that was enough?” She had never felt like her efforts were sufficient. “You didn’t feel frustrated or lacking somehow?”

  Marjie could still feel the warmth of his hand as it had rested on hers lying on his arm.

  “Of course I wished I could have done more. I believe we all feel that way at times. But I realized I was doing all I could, and no person can be expected to do more than that.”

  In that moment, pondering his words, she had felt some of her worries ease. Doing what she could to help had never felt like enough until Stanley had assured her that it was. No one else had ever bothered to tell her her efforts were important or necessary or helpful. Was it any wonder she loved him so entirely?

  The distance she felt growing between them hurt and confused her. What had she done to push him away? Had he found, during their separation, that he did not care for her the way he had seemed to? Had she merely been a diversion while he’d passed the time waiting to be recalled to the army?

  “Ah, Marjie. Precisely the person I was looking for.”

  Though she recognized her brother-in-law’s voice without needing to look at his face for verification, she opened her eyes. Philip stood directly in front of her, a look of amusement lurking in his eyes.

  “I hope I am not interrupting anything,” he said, his gaze darting around the deserted corridor with such a theatrical look of expectation that Marjie grinned at seeing it.

  “I believe my moment of communion with the corridor is quite at an end, thank you,” she said.

  “Excellent. Might I convince you to accompany me into the library?” Philip motioned to the door directly beside Marjie. Had she spent her moment of reflection in full view of the room? She could feel heat sneak into her face. At least he could not possibly know what she’d been pondering as she’d stood there. That woul
d truly have been mortifying.

  She stepped inside the library and, at another gesture from her brother-in-law, sat in a chair near the fireplace.

  “If you will forgive me, I will forgo the usual pleasantries and simply delve directly into the heart of the matter.” At Marjie’s nod, Philip continued. “I am worried about Sorrel.”

  Her sudden alarm must have shown.

  “She is relatively well, I assure you. It is, actually, the fact that she seems well that concerns me. I realize that sounds very contradictory. I am not as familiar with the history of her ailments as you most likely are, and I am hoping you can set my mind at ease.”

  “I will do my best.”

  “The fever we were anticipating when we left London has not come to fruition.” Philip’s brows were drawn together, his forehead lined in thought. “Though she was a touch warm the evening of Lord and Lady Techney’s ball, she never became truly feverish. Her limp has become more pronounced, and though she goes to tremendous lengths to hide her discomfort”—he gave Marjie a knowing and commiserating look, to which she nodded her understanding. Sorrel was remarkably determined never to allow others to see what she saw as a weakness in herself—“I can see that she is in more pain than usual. The brace Mr. Johns created for her had seemed to be working relatively well up until these last couple weeks.”

  “Perhaps she simply pushed herself too hard,” Marjie suggested. “She is not accustomed to the rigorous demands of the ton, even if it was not the dizzying whirl of the Season.”

  “I have thought of that possibility.” Philip’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly. Marjie did not often see the impeccable Earl of Lampton with anything less than perfect posture. Only Stanley’s rigidity of late rivaled Philip’s very proper bearing. “I forget sometimes that she will not admit when she is worn to a thread, and I fear I did not always consider her difficulties when planning our schedule. Come spring, I will insist on curtailing our activities when the Season descends. I think, however, that is not the culprit in her current circumstances. Not the only culprit, at least.”