Marjie turned back around. “Stanley—”
She saw nothing more than the back of him as he made his way down the garden path. He hadn’t offered so much as a farewell. He had simply left her standing there. In light of the embrace and all-too-brief kiss of only a moment before, Marjie had not expected abandonment.
She stood watching him a moment, unsure of what she ought to do. She could easily catch up to him; he did not yet move swiftly. Dare she risk being seen as cloying and fretful? Suppose he left because he once again wished to be alone. He had apologized for being short with her the night before but had not indicated that he had not meant his words of rebuke.
“I do not require your help.” He had spoken clearly and precisely. There could have been no mistaking his meaning.
Marjie took a deep breath. She could give him space. Just as Philip had said, she needed to learn when to be attentive and when to back away. And Stanley had kissed her. Heavens, he had kissed her. That was reason enough for hope and optimism.
When she arrived in the drawing room, Mater and Lord Devereaux were speaking. They acknowledged her entrance, greeting her as she moved to sit nearby. After a moment, Mater drifted to a chair a little distance from them.
“I was passing through the general area and couldn’t resist coming by to see you,” Lord Devereaux said. He looked happier than Marjie remembered seeing him before. “I have come to a decision of which I think you will approve, though I am beginning to wonder if I am destined to regret it.”
“And what decision is that, my lord?” Marjie smiled in return. Lord Devereaux, despite his continued grief, was an easy conversationalist. Should he ever decide to marry again, he would make some lady a very fine husband.
“I have thrown the Duchess of Hartley into a full fit of hysterics by accepting her invitation to join her annual Christmas house party after three consecutive years of refusing.”
“You have not.” As near as Marjie could gather from their conversations at various ton events, Lord Devereaux had not intended to accept. The annual gathering of his closest friends had begun early in his marriage, and the month-long festivities reminded him a great deal too much of his wife.
“I have, indeed.”
She laughed at the dramatic expression of shock Lord Devereaux managed to produce.
“I am so happy that you will not be spending Christmastime alone,” Marjie said.
“Something I would never have even considered doing without your gentle but persistent prodding.” His gratitude held not a hint of censure at her interference in his affairs. “I have decided that you are correct on one very vital point.”
“Only one?”
He laughed lightly. “One very vital point,” he repeated, emphasizing the word vital. “It is time and past I rejoin Society, and though I suspect I shall always miss my dear Miranda, I believe I will be happier spending some time in the company of others.”
“The society of true friends will always be welcome,” Marjie said.
“You seem to have quite a full house here.”
“We do. With so many of the Jonquils living nearby, there is never any shortage of people.”
Lord Devereaux glanced quickly at Mater before returning his gaze to Marjie and lowering his voice. “How is your young captain?”
“His injuries are more extensive than I at first realized.” Marjie kept her voice low as well. “And I fear he is unhappy. His experiences with Wellington’s forces weigh very heavily on him.”
“He joined the army at a young age,” Lord Devereaux said. “The violence of war can be scarring at such an impressionable time of life. Waterloo was, as I understand it, especially horrific.”
Marjie nodded, remembering the story Pluck had shared of Stanley rescuing him from an explosive and dangerous fire. That haunted Marjie. She could see in her mind the terrifying image of Stanley literally on fire.
“I do not know how to help him,” Marjie said.
Lord Devereaux had long since taken on the role of older brother. She felt at ease sharing her worries with him. He would neither laugh nor dismiss her concerns.
“I had hoped to see him, actually,” Lord Devereaux said.
“I was going to ask him to join us, but he—” How did she explain without completely disgracing herself? She had been on the verge of, she hoped, being quite thoroughly kissed when word of his arrival had reached her and Stanley had subsequently left.
“I assume Captain Jonquil was less than enthusiastic about my arrival.” A single corner of Lord Devereaux’s mouth twitched upward.
“I am not certain your presence is the reason he . . . disappeared.”
“I suspect it is precisely the reason. Most gentlemen dislike the idea of a rival.”
“A rival? You do not think he believes you and I—that we—”
Lord Devereaux chuckled. “Are romantically attached to one another?” he finished for her. “That is exactly what I suspect.”
“But that is absurd. You are—”
“Too old?” Lord Devereaux raised an eyebrow.
“That is not at all what I was going to say.”
“Too homely? Too prosy? Too boring?”
Marjie shook her head. “Now you are teasing me again.”
“Then what is your objection?” His expression was not entirely jesting, she noticed. “There are some who would still consider me eligible despite my advanced years and hermit-like tendencies.”
“I had meant to imply only that you are not interested in a wife.”
Lord Devereaux began to fidget a bit, shifting about on his chair. “I have considered the possibility of late.” He steepled his hands in front of him, something Marjie had noticed he did when he felt contemplative. “I have been lonely and find myself thinking that I would like the companionship one enjoys in marriage.”
His words surprised her. She hadn’t realized he might contemplate marrying again. She had known from their very first meeting that he was painfully lonely. She recognized that in him, for she had been lonely as well. While she hoped he found far more than mere companionship in marriage, she knew that to have someone with whom he might talk would be beneficial. The emptiness of his home would not pain him so acutely, and he could begin to find some pleasure in life again.
“Is this why you are joining Their Graces’ house party?” Marjie asked. “So that you might find a wife?”
Lord Devereaux’s expression lightened once more. “No. I am merely considering the possibility, not actively pursuing it. The house party is little more than a step toward rejoining Society.”
“When do you plan to arrive there?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “I am to arrive a full three weeks in advance of the remaining guests. I think Her Grace is afraid I will back out if she does not have me under lock and key.”
He would have company, and that, Marjie knew, would alleviate a great deal of his loneliness.
“I hope you have a splendid sojourn,” she said.
“And I wish you luck with your thick-headed captain. If he has not yet realized how entirely devoted you are to him, I begin to think he does not deserve your affections after all.”
“I wish you could have talked with him finally,” she said. “You would like him better if you knew him.”
“I had wanted, if nothing else, to convey a message to him,” Lord Devereaux said. “A tenant family of mine had a son who fought in the war. The boy was killed at Albuera when he was only eighteen years old. A fortnight later or so, they received a letter from a young Lieutenant Jonquil.”
Marjie listened raptly. This was one of Stanley’s letters, the ones he wrote to the families of men who were killed, the letters he had said probably made no difference at all.
“He was not their son’s commanding officer,” Lord Devereaux continued, “but he took the time to send them a brief note expressing his condolences and sharing a few small memories of the boy. They still speak about that unlooked-for kindness whenever thei
r son’s name is mentioned.”
If only Stanley knew. His letters had indeed touched those who received them.
“I had hoped to thank him on their behalf,” Lord Devereaux said. “But I did not wish to embarrass him by doing so in company. These tenants of mine are not literate—the local curate read the letter to them—and so they could not pen their own note of gratitude. I must say, Captain Jonquil’s thoughtfulness impressed me.”
“He has sent other letters as well,” Marjie said. “He has written to the family of every man in his squadron who has fallen.”
“I imagine that is a lot of letters.”
Marjie nodded. Stanley had said as much.
“I do not know any of the other recipients,” Lord Devereaux said, “but I am certain that those letters are as treasured by them as they are by the Wells family.”
Those words remained in Marjie’s head long after Lord Devereaux’s departure. Stanley was so certain his letters were unappreciated and unwanted. He had said in the gardens that he never did any good by his men. Here was another piece of the puzzle. Stanley doubted his impact, his influence for good. He felt himself something of a failure. Marjie truly believed there were people throughout England who would disagree, and not just Stanley’s family. In her heart, she knew Stanley needed to know that.
Chapter Seventeen
Ever since Lord Devereaux’s brief, unexpected, and, as far as Stanley was concerned, entirely unwelcome visit, Marjie had spent a great deal of each day in Philip’s library bent over the desk, writing letters. She had an air of anticipation and purpose about her that had Stanley worried. That something of significance was in the planning, he had no doubt. Further, that this occurrence related somehow to Lord Devereaux’s interview with Marjie, Stanley was absolutely certain. The conclusion that had nagged at Stanley since the not-nearly-elderly-enough widower’s departure a week earlier was that Lord Devereaux, blast him, had advanced his suit, perhaps to the point of being accepted.
Stanley tortured himself with unanswerable questions. Ought he not to have kissed Marjie? If he were being perfectly honest with himself, compared to how he would have liked to have kissed her, that brief interlude hardly counted. Had he alarmed her or trespassed upon her good nature? On the other hand, perhaps he should have put more fervor into his efforts and, as Pluck would say, stolen a bit more of her heart. Except, that would not have been honorable, knowing as he did that she was as good as engaged even before Lord Devereaux had descended upon them.
His hand was healing to the extent it ever would. There were fewer points of irritation and cracking, thanks to both the absence of constant chafing and the soothing nature of Marjie’s salve. Sorrel’s advice about his walking stick had proven beneficial, and though the shift of weight it created had led to some blisters on the stub of his leg, his limp was improving. Just out of curiosity, he’d attempted to cross his room to the washstand that morning without his walking stick and had, to his complete surprise, managed it without falling on his face. He probably could have gone farther if the leg had been secured more tightly and if Pluck hadn’t performed one of his annoyingly hilarious dances of joy. The boy really did need to work at being a properly subdued servant. How was a one-legged man supposed to enjoy any of his accomplishments when he was laughing too hard to maintain his balance?
Stanley smiled briefly at the memory before the weight of reality sank in. He welcomed the improvement in his health but found it horribly ill-timed. Just the day before, he had received a missive from Horse Guards informing him that a Colonel Fallwell, representing Lord Hill, would be arriving at Lampton Park in three weeks’ time to ascertain Stanley’s fitness to return to his duties.
“Although the wars are officially at an end, peace is not yet established,” Lord Hill’s letter said. Stanley had read it multiple times, his spirits lowering with each repetition. “Experienced officers are thin on the ground just now, so many having sold their commissions and returned to civilian life, and His Majesty’s Army is in need of your organizational and leadership skills.”
Lord Hill seemed to know the precise words that would negate all the arguments Stanley had built up over the weeks of his furlough. The army did not expect him to fight or march into battle, something he could not remotely do. He was needed to organize those who would undertake the minor skirmishes still occurring. He would be required once again to decide which of his men were sent into a fight and which remained out of harm’s way.
Stanley understood the thinly veiled reference to the large number of officers who’d left the army following Waterloo. Many of those who had volunteered to fight for their country had done so with every intention of returning home once Napoleon had been defeated. Stanley, however, had seen his oath of service as just that—an oath, a promise to his country and King. So long as he was needed, he would serve.
“The difference between a gentleman and a blackguard is honor,” Father had said to Stanley when he was still quite young. He’d never forgotten those words, and indeed, had spent his life attempting to live up to them.
Life in the army had simply solidified his determination. Honor meant everything to a British soldier. No accomplishment, no matter how vast, was praiseworthy if accomplished dishonorably. On the field of battle, when the fighting was fiercest and most horrifying, those officers who led their men, who fought despite injury and threat to their own safety, were the ones who earned the respect of their fellow soldiers.
Honor was the very fiber and soul of a man. Stanley had given his word to serve his country, and he would not break that commitment, regardless of what it cost him. To do so would sound the death knell to his integrity. Thus, his improved health robbed him of the only honorable means of escaping, if temporarily, his return to the field.
He would be sent back to France, where his regiment was. Stanley could sit a horse, though not at a full gallop and certainly not with any degree of grace. But that had little bearing on his situation now. The cavalry charges he had participated in again and again were no longer necessary. He would be doing precisely what he’d been doing before Lord Hill had sent him home temporarily: organizing patrols and guard rotations, helping suppress uprising among the citizenry. The lingering bitterness in Napoleon’s former troops had increasingly led to attacks on British soldiers. Stanley would be handed the task once again of arranging for the burial of his men who were unfortunate enough to cross paths with those bent on revenge. There would be more letters to send to grieving families. There would always be letters.
And there would always be another war. Sometimes, there was more than one. They’d been at war with the former colonies in the midst of the war with Napoleon. Things were never entirely peaceful in India. No matter that England liked to think of itself as having reached a period of peace, another war always lurked in the shadows.
Stanley swung around, having covered a good portion of the garden. November had come in as cold as he ever remembered it being. No doubt the warmer temperatures of the Continent had confused his inner thermometer. He welcomed the bite of the air, however, and he understood the necessity of exercise. He needed to build his strength and endurance before returning to his post.
Marjie would be married soon enough, and her letters would stop. He could never prevent her from entering his thoughts, but she would be lost to him so entirely that thinking of her would not be comforting as it had once been. He would have her twenty-five letters and nothing else.
He could have almost borne the thought of returning to the army if there had been any chance Marjie would be there with him. Her faith in him would have sustained him through the darkness of descending back into that abyss. Her presence would have soothed him when the inevitable weight of death and suffering bent him under its load.
“Selfish coxcomb,” he muttered at himself. She would be in agony living that life, and he knew it. Lord Devereaux offered her safety and security and a shield from the horrors of the world. She belonged at home in England,
living happily in peace and comfort.
Stanley made his sorry ascent of the front steps. Stairs were still difficult. He took them slowly and slightly sideways. The morning mist had only just begun to dissipate, and memories of his childhood enveloped him. The manor house at Lampton Park had always stood as a beacon of sorts. He would lean out the window of the traveling coach whenever returning home from Town or school. The house would come into view, and every care and worry would simply melt away. He missed that simpler time.
Beck, the butler, held the door open as Stanley stepped inside, the warm air caressing his wind-bitten face. By the time he had limped his way to the base of the front staircase, even his foot had begun to thaw. One benefit of a wooden leg was its imperviousness to the weather. He smiled wryly at the thought.
“More letters for the post, Miss Kendrick?” Beck asked in his always correct way.
Stanley’s eyes, as always, refused to shift at all from the sudden sight of Marjie. She should always wear blue, he had long ago decided, though perhaps without that one golden curl hanging over her shoulder. A man could endure only so much temptation before tossing his best intentions out the window.
“Yes, please.” She handed a stack of sealed missives to the butler.
A stack? Stanley hadn’t ever received multiple letters from her at one time. Certainly they weren’t all for Lord Devereaux. His less-than-charitable side hoped the pile contained not a single letter for his lordship.
He could tell the exact moment Marjie realized he stood there. She grew suddenly very still, and a look of something like guilt crossed her face. Her color deepened by more than one shade. Odd, that. Why would she be so entirely uncomfortable over something as commonplace as sending letters? It wasn’t as if he didn’t know she was a faithful correspondent.
Unless she felt guilty being so closely in company with a gentleman she had embraced and by whom she’d been kissed within moments of her apparent engagement to another gentleman entirely.
For Love or Honor Page 13
