“What—?”
“Fer yer buttons,” Pluck said.
“You want me to cut them off?” He couldn’t be serious.
“Seems like a good solution to me.”
“What am I supposed to do tomorrow night when I dress for dinner? Am I to present myself with my jacket flapping about me like a deuced, blasted, scraggly bird?”
“I’ll sew the buttons back on,” Pluck answered.
“Do you sew?” Stanley doubted it. Pluck didn’t have any of the other necessary accomplishments to be a useful valet.
A smile more mischievous than amused spread across Pluck’s face. “Jane can sew.”
“I will not give any of the servants more work to do simply because you are feeling like being a troublemaker.”
Pluck sobered in an instant. “Ye ain’t never been one for spoutin’ strong words without provocation, Cap’n,” he said. “But ye ain’t hardly said one sentence since I came in here that didn’t have at least one word ye likely wouldn’t say in front of yer mum. I was just thinkin’ that cutting off them frustratin’ buttons would do ye some good.”
“It would be cathartic, you decided?”
Pluck’s brow furrowed a little. “Is that one of them highbrow profanities?”
A short, low burst of a chuckle escaped Stanley’s throat. “No, Pluck. It means something that makes a person feel better.”
“Why didn’t ye just say that?” Pluck shook his head. “Ye nobs sure know how to talk and talk and never say anything simple.”
Stanley smiled at that.
“So are ye gonna cut them big, shiny buttons off, or should I help ye push ’em through them itty-bitty button holes?” Pluck’s choice of childlike adjectives and his suddenly overly sweet tone did it. Stanley held out his hands for the scissors. He wasn’t entirely adept at using them in his left hand. Careful to cut only the threads and not the uniform itself, Stanley snipped off the first button. He watched it roll down his chest and off his lap, spinning on the floor like a top before coming to a rest near his feet.
He lifted his eyes to Pluck’s grinning face. Oddly enough, the unorthodox approach to undressing was remarkably cathartic. Pluck picked up each button as it fell to the floor and shook the collection in his hand while Stanley cut.
“Daddy Hill would have our hides if he could see this,” Stanley said as he cut the last button off. “He is rather stiff about uniforms, you know.”
“Aye,” Pluck said. “But iffen he can overlook yer not wearing yer sword, I figure he wouldn’t raise too much fuss ’bout cuttin’ yerself outta that blasted uniform.”
Stanley pulled his arms free of his shirt—the task made infinitely easier by the lack of buttons down the front closure and on the usually difficult right cuff. Lud, it felt good to be able do something that simple without needing assistance.
“Not like the jacket won’t be right as a rivet come tomorrow night,” Pluck said, dropping his handful of brass buttons on the dressing table. “We ain’t cut off nothin’ that can’t be put back on.”
That, Stanley knew, was not always the case. He pushed out a breath. His hand was already ungloved. The leg came off next.
“You ready?” Those two words from Pluck in that exact detached tone always started the ritual.
“Take the blasted thing off, and get it over with.”
Pluck’s head jerked in his direction. Stanley understood why. He’d deviated from the established protocol. But he felt too raw for the false casualty of their normal routine.
“Are ye well, Cap’n?” Once in a great while, Pluck actually looked his age. The unnatural aging effect of war would slip away, and one could see the kid he still was underneath. Stanley almost couldn’t bear to look at him in those moments. Too many other young soldiers flashed through his mind—children, really—whom he’d led into battles they didn’t survive.
“I’m tired, Pluck,” Stanley said, pushing the memories back once more. “Help me out of this . . . thing. I want to go to bed.”
Pluck knelt on the floor in front of his chair, and Stanley avoided looking at him as he tugged Stanley’s boots off and set them aside. The steps were mechanical, entirely memorized. Stanley pulled the leg of his trousers up to his knee, where the straps and buckles kept everything held together. Pluck had to help with the buckles, as Stanley hadn’t mastered it one-handed. He hadn’t particularly wanted to, preferring to look the other way while he relived a painless version of the worst day of his entire life.
“Stanley?” A knock on his door accompanied the sound of Marjie’s voice.
His heart immediately flew to his throat. His eyes met Pluck’s. “Rebuckle it,” Stanley urgently whispered. The leg hadn’t been completely detached.
“Wanna put yer boots back on too?” Pluck asked, quickly refastening the buckles.
But the door creaked open.
“Blast it,” Stanley muttered under his breath. What was she doing, coming to his room? Granted, she’d done so before, but that had been pushing propriety to its breaking point. To come again, and so late, was too high a risk, and not merely to her reputation. What if she’d been only a minute later? His leg would have been off already. He wasn’t ready for her to see that—not yet. Not ever.
Pluck tugged the leg of Stanley’s trousers back down over his wooden leg just as Marjie peered inside the doorway.
“Stanley?” Marjie said.
He pulled himself to his feet, hoping the lack of movement in what appeared to be his stockinged right foot would be less noticeable if he was standing. His heart thudded painfully as she stepped inside. It wouldn’t take long, if she was paying any attention, for her to notice that something was wrong with his foot.
“I’ve brought the salve I told you about. Cook made it up from the recipe I gave her.” She crossed toward him, holding out a jar with a slightly green concoction inside.
He inched back. Distance was key—the deception worked only if one wasn’t afforded a good look.
“Pluck.” Stanley relayed his orders in one syllable, and Pluck, being army trained, understood precisely what was expected of him. He took the jar from Marjie and stepped back out of the way again but remained in the room.
Marjie’s gaze darted between Pluck and Stanley. “I am hoping it will help.”
“Yes, perhaps.” If he gave her short enough answers, she might leave more quickly.
“How is your hand today?” she asked.
So much for a speedy exit. “As well as can be expected,” he said with little emotion. She needed to be discouraged from remaining.
Marjie stepped closer. Stanley stepped back. His leg wasn’t fastened as snugly as usual, and he had to grasp the back of the chair he’d been sitting in to keep from toppling over. She needed to go before he completely disgraced himself.
“Marjie—” he began, but she cut him off.
“Your gloves have been off; I think that will have helped.” Marjie reached out, obviously intending to take hold of his hand and examine it for herself.
“Marjie,” Stanley objected. She needed to go.
“And the salve will be soothing, I am certain of it,” she continued, her fingers brushing against his.
“Miss Kendrick.” The words snapped out much as they had when amongst his men.
Marjie’s hands dropped instantly back to her side, and her eyes flew to his face.
“It is time for you to return to your own rooms.” Stanley kept his tone firm, although a little less sharp.
“But your hand—”
“I am perfectly capable of seeing to my own welfare, and Pluck is here to provide whatever assistance I might wish for.”
Spots of color crept across Marjie’s cheeks. “I only wanted to help,” she said in a small voice.
Stanley fortified himself against the urge to reach out for her, to soothe away the look of embarrassment on her face. If he gave in to the impulse, she would not leave. “I do not require your help,” he said tightly.
&nb
sp; Marjie shrugged, tipping her head to one side. On the surface, she was the very picture of indifference, but her lips quivered. She opened her mouth as if to say something but seemed to change her mind. In a flurry of skirts, she spun and practically ran from the room.
Stanley stood frozen, his eyes glued to his empty doorway. Marjie had said she had shrugged just like that when her father said something hurtful to her.
“Ye was a little harsh, Cap’n,” Pluck said. “She was just trying to help.”
He had very nearly made her cry.
He grabbed his walking stick and moved as quickly as he could toward the door. The corridor was empty. He stopped a few feet from the doorway to Marjie’s room. He could hear Philip’s voice coming from his own room. To be seen entering Marjie’s rooms at night in only his shirtsleeves and pantaloons would be unacceptable.
“You were a bit harsh on your sister, dear,” Philip said, his voice seemingly floating out from the sitting room that joined the master suites. “She was only trying to help.”
That sounded alarmingly familiar.
“So she said,” Sorrel answered. “But she needs to learn that her interference is not always welcome. The girl drives people absolutely mad.”
“Was it entirely necessary to tell her so?”
Marjie had been rebuffed by Sorrel as well? Stanley knew how sensitive she was. The double rejection would hurt deeply, and he had contributed to it.
He leaned heavily against the wall. He hadn’t intended to hurt her. The harder he tried to do what was right, the worse everything seemed to become.
Chapter Sixteen
Marjie knew she looked horrendous. A night spent weeping had left her with red, puffy eyes accented by dark circles of fatigue.
“I do not require your help.”
“You are enough to drive a person to insanity.”
Stanley’s and Sorrel’s words had not quieted overnight. Each reverberation cut at her. Father had said the same sort of things again and again. Sorrel could be impatient when she felt unwell; Marjie knew as much and tried not to let it bother her. But she had never expected Stanley to push her away so coldly.
She had spent the morning in her room, working indifferently at her embroidery. Avoiding everyone had proven a good strategy in the past, as she could not make a nuisance of herself that way. The hours of unchanged scenery had begun to wear on her, however, and she opted to take a turn in the gardens.
Despite the nearness of November, the weather had not become overly chilly. Her gloves and spencer kept her relatively warm as she wandered amongst the hedges. In the quiet of the gardens, she could think.
Stanley apparently didn’t welcome her efforts on his behalf. She would have to impose upon herself the same distance and detachment she had adopted with Sorrel after Philip had suggested she not fuss so much. Stanley had insisted he could see to his own welfare. He had the salve and had not, she’d noticed with satisfaction, worn a glove over his burnt hand. She did not yet know what injury he had suffered to his leg but would trust Pluck to see to it.
If only she knew of an unobtrusive way to help.
She pulled herself from her all-consuming thoughts in time to realize Stanley was approaching from the house. His limp seemed to be improving a little. He still held his foot stiffly as he walked and seemed slightly unsure of his balance, but he appeared less dependent on his walking stick. That had to be a good sign. Marjie tucked the observation away, unsure if voicing her happiness aloud would be unwelcome.
“Good afternoon, Stanley,” she offered when he came near enough to hear. She held back the inquiry into his health that automatically formed in her mouth. He does not wish for your help, she reminded herself.
“I—” He stopped short, his eyes narrowing as he focused on her face. “You’ve been crying.”
“It is the cold air,” Marjie lied haltingly. “It irritates my eyes.”
He stood silently watching her. Marjie could feel warmth spread across her face under his scrutiny.
“I don’t like when you cry.” Stanley spoke so softly Marjie barely heard him, his sadness evident.
Marjie swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. This was the Stanley she had fallen in love with. He was compassionate and tender and gentle. Yet she couldn’t dismiss the version of him she’d been confronted with the night before. He’d spoken sharply. He’d shown no desire for her to remain, no joy in her company.
“I am fine, I assure you.” She attempted to summon a believably content expression. “Have you tried the salve yet?” She wished the words unspoken the moment they’d left her mouth. The question sounded far too much like her usual fretting, and he wouldn’t like that.
But he didn’t look upset. Perhaps she hadn’t annoyed him with her inquiry after all.
“You did not exaggerate its effectiveness. I shall be certain to take a great deal of it with me when I am called back into duty.” A momentary flash of pain appeared in his eyes. Marjie had seen the look before, always when Stanley spoke of returning to his post with the army.
“I will write out the recipe.” She kept her hands at her side through sheer willpower. How she wished to smooth the lines of worry that had appeared on his face. “Then you can have more made if need be.”
“Thank you,” Stanley said, his voice and mannerisms oddly detached from the moment.
“Perhaps some of your men could benefit from the ointment as well.”
Stanley nodded, the same distant look still in his eyes. “It would be the only good thing I did for any of them,” he muttered.
As a nonfusser, Marjie was a complete failure. She pressed her hand atop his walking stick without a single thought for her earlier vow to keep her distance. His eyes returned to her face. The deep misery in his expression reverberated as an ache in her heart. If only she knew how to help. Such an intrusion would probably be unwelcome, but she desperately needed to do something.
Marjie reached out and gently cupped his face. Stanley closed his eyes, his expression seeming to grow even more pained.
All those long weeks of wishing he were near and imagining touching him, holding him, feeling his arms around her again came rushing back. Nothing had gone as she’d expected since his return. There had been no joyous reunion, no furthering of the connection she had felt with him from the moment they’d first met. She had, instead, found herself walking a fine line, never knowing if he appreciated or resented her presence in his life.
Just as she decided she ought to pull her hand back, Stanley turned his head and lightly kissed her palm.
Her heart skipped a beat before lurching back into rhythm.
Stanley shifted again so his lips lightly brushed the very tips of her fingers. “Marjie,” he whispered.
She stepped closer to him, each breath requiring effort. The warmth of him penetrated the chilled air, and the familiar scent of his soap enveloped her senses. The tension in her eased in that instant.
This was home.
Her hand slid from his face to rest on his chest. His free arm wrapped around her. At the contact, she saw him wince—his right arm had pulled her closer.
“Your hand,” she whispered in concern.
He shook his head, his eyes still closed. Marjie rested her head against his shoulder and felt him rest his cheek against the top of her head. He had held her in precisely that way in the very same garden on the day he’d left to rejoin his regiment. That tender moment had been marred by worry and uncertainty. In this embrace, she felt hope.
“I am sorry I snapped at you last night,” he said. “It was unpardonable of me. I was weary and concerned at the risk you were taking with your reputation and—” She felt him sigh. “I am sorry. I ought to have been kinder.”
“You are entirely forgiven,” she said. “I should try harder not to be fussy. I realize how very unwelcome—”
“Marjie.” Stanley interrupted her confession.
She pulled back enough to look up at him.
“Do not belittle your compassionate nature. This world needs more humanity, not less. It is in far too short supply.”
“I think you have seen too much inhumanity, Stanley. You have lost faith in mankind.”
“But not in you,” he whispered. “Never in you.”
He leaned closer to her, just a breath nearer, but Marjie’s heart responded loudly. Her hand, almost of its own accord, shifted from his chest to his neck as he continued to close the distance between them.
His mouth brushed hers so lightly it might have been nothing more than the touch of a breeze. He didn’t loosen his embrace. Her heart thudded erratically in her chest.
At the sudden sound of footsteps on the graveled garden walk, Marjie froze. She could feel Stanley tense. Her eyes flew open. His expression registered a moment’s regret before he stepped deliberately away from her. That he seemed as reluctant as she went a long way toward easing her disappointment at the loss of his touch.
She turned toward the approaching footsteps and hoped her countenance was not too tellingly flushed.
An upstairs maid hurriedly walked to where Marjie stood and bobbed a curtsy. “Pardon me,” she said. “There’s a visitor to see you, Miss Kendrick.”
“A visitor?” Who could possibly have come to visit her? Mother had, in a letter to Sorrel, declared her intention to remain in Tunbridge Wells through at least the remainder of the year, necessitating that both Marjie and Fennel be accepted as guests at Lampton Park during the holy season.
“Yes, Miss Kendrick. ’Tis Lord Devereaux.”
Lord Devereaux. His arrival was unexpected but not unwelcome. She had wondered since leaving Town how he was. She knew he did not look forward to the approach of Christmas, as that had been his late wife’s favorite time of year. It had held a special significance in their courtship, which simply added to his discomfort.
“Tell him I shall be there directly.”
The maid curtsied once more and quickly returned in the direction of the house.
Lord Devereaux had wanted to get to know Stanley, and Marjie wished for Stanley to get to know him. They were both good and kind gentlemen, and she simply knew the two would like each other. The fact that making the reintroductions would also allow her more time in Stanley’s company certainly contributed to her eagerness.
For Love or Honor Page 12
