A quick glance in the mirror showed her efforts had only minimally restored her appearance. She offered the shrug she’d so nearly perfected during her years with her father. That would be her strategy moving forward, to simply pretend she wasn’t carrying more pain than she felt capable of enduring.
She reached the drawing room only ten minutes after Jane delivered Philip’s message. She had thought his request had been addressed exclusively to herself, but the room was far from empty. Philip stood leaning against the fireplace mantel. Mater sat on the sofa nearby. Stanley occupied an arm chair.
Marjie dropped her gaze the moment she found Stanley. She kept her head lowered and quickly took a seat beside Mater.
“On with it, Philip,” Mater said. “What did Dr. Habbersham say?”
Philip pushed out a breath. “Other than a few bruises, Sorrel wasn’t hurt by her fall.”
Marjie kept her eyes lowered but listened intently.
“What did he say regarding her poor health of late?” Mater asked.
Philip hesitated.
Marjie took only shallow breaths, the tension building inside allowing nothing more.
“Dr. Habbersham believes that both her recent bout of unexplained illness and the difficulty she has had with her balance and the increased pain in her hip are all consequences of—are the results of . . . er—”
Marjie looked up at him, unnerved by his uncharacteristic fumbling. But then the slightest hint of a smile touched his somber expression.
Philip made a noise that sounded to Marjie like a chuckle of disbelief. “It seems Sorrel is increasing.”
Marjie felt her eyes widen in utter disbelief.
Mater sputtered a moment as she attempted to speak. “Good heavens. I had hoped that someday—” Mater shook her head in apparent amazement. “This is the reason for her pain of late?”
Philip nodded. “The doctor says it is not uncommon for women in Sorrel’s condition to experience some discomfort in the joints. With the state of Sorrel’s hip being what it is, he feels this is simply an exaggerated and early version of that complaint.”
“Will she be able to carry a child to full term?” Marjie knew it was rather too intimate a question for an unmarried lady to be posing, but it was the worry that had nagged at her ever since Sorrel’s wedding.
Philip’s face immediately registered his own concern. “That we do not know. The fact that she already struggles to stand and walk is not a good sign. Dr. Habbersham has suggested that she spend the remainder of her time off her feet.”
“She will never agree to that.” Marjie shook her head.
“Sorrel was remarkably accepting of the suggestion,” Philip said. “The doctor did not, thankfully, feel she must remain abed at all times. She will dislike being carried about but will prefer it to being entirely confined.”
“Will doing so increase the chances of a good outcome for the baby?” Mater asked.
“I don’t know,” Philip said. “Dr. Habbersham said it is not only the baby whose fate is uncertain in all of this. He has no way of predicting the impact on Sorrel.”
“But there is some hope of a good outcome.” Mater sounded very guarded in her declaration.
“A glimmer at least.”
Marjie understood what Philip had not said outright. He was not reassured enough to allow himself to feel more than minimally hopeful.
“How is Sorrel reacting to the news?” Stanley spoke for the first time.
“She is very quiet,” Philip said.
Marjie’s stomach dropped. Sorrel was almost never quiet.
“Go sit with your wife, Philip,” Mater said. “These next few months will be difficult for the both of you, and I daresay she could use a little comfort just now.”
Philip nodded and silently left the room. Under normal circumstances, his announcement would have been received with well-wishes and joy. Instead, they were all worried and burdened, unable to allow themselves the slightest bit of excitement.
Quite as if she hadn’t cried her very heart out earlier, Marjie felt hot tears sting the back of her eyes.
“To be overly hopeful is to invite the punishments of God,” Father had so often said. A person was meant to be uncertain and unhappy in life—that was his interpretation of things. Too often he had proven correct. She could not bear it any longer.
She jumped to her feet. “Why must every bit of hope be tinged with loss?”
“Marjie—” Mater’s gentle voice barely penetrated.
“Sorrel does not deserve this, and neither does Philip. They should be celebrating, not—” The words caught on a sob she ruthlessly pressed down. “I cannot bear it.”
Nearly blinded by her tears, Marjie fled from the room. Another blow, she was certain, would break her heart entirely.
***
Philip rarely left Sorrel’s rooms over the next two days. Marjie slipped inside a couple times, though she was careful not to make any inquiries or look the least bit concerned. Sorrel’s coloring was still off, and her appetite had not entirely returned. Under normal circumstances, Sorrel would not have tolerated two days confined to her bed. She, oddly enough, seemed almost content.
“Do we need to reschedule The Gathering?” Marjie asked Philip on the third day after Sorrel’s fall. They, along with Layton and Mater, were closeted in the library, writing letters and sorting through correspondence. They were in the midst of a plot of monumental proportions, which Philip had insisted on dubbing “The Gathering.”
All three of her fellow conspirators looked at her with that expression of surprise everyone around her had worn the past three days whenever she spoke, which had grown increasingly infrequent. She simply felt too heavy for chatter and conversation.
“Sorrel won’t hear of it,” Philip answered. “She insists she’ll keep to the chaise longue Mater suggested be placed with the other chairs under the tents that will be erected for The Gathering.”
Marjie nodded and turned her attention back to the letters she was sorting through and checking against the master list they had created.
“This is a great deal to plan for in a fortnight,” Mater said. “Though I suppose if we waited any longer, the weather would be too cold for this particular style of gathering.”
“And Stanley wouldn’t be here,” Marjie said with a sigh.
All six eyes were trained on her again.
“Why wouldn’t Stanley be here?” Mater asked.
Stanley hadn’t told them?
“What have you heard?” Philip looked concerned and confused. They all did.
“Stanley has received a letter from the army,” Marjie said. “A representative is coming to check on him in less than three weeks.”
Silence followed her revelation.
“Is he well enough that they will call him back?” Mater whispered as though she feared the answer. Thankfully, she had asked Philip—Marjie did not feel equal to the task of responding.
“Physically, I think he would be considered fit enough,” Philip answered. “He certainly is not up for a march, but I saw him ride only three days ago. His seat is not as firm and sure as it once was, but he can manage well enough for the demands of the occupation.”
“But he still seems so unhappy,” Mater said. “Not nearly as much as at first, but—” She shook her head, her eyes focusing somewhere in the distance.
“Why doesn’t Stanley sell his commission?” Layton asked no one in particular. “I feel certain he has no desire to continue with an army career.”
“Do you think he could be convinced to sell out?” Mater asked with the tiniest bit of desperation.
“That would depend on his reasons for not doing so thus far,” Philip said.
Determining Stanley’s reasons for his actions had become a regular undertaking for Marjie. Why hadn’t he left the army? Why had he returned after Napoleon’s exile when so many others had not? Why didn’t he wish her to be with him when he returned?
“One has to wonder,”
Layton said, “if Stanley can be trusted not to push himself into something that would do him more harm than is justified.”
Any man willing to rush into almost certain death could not be counted on to consider his own safety.
“Why do you shake your head, Marjie?” Philip asked.
She looked up from her ignored letters.
“Do you not think Stanley will be careful of his well-being?”
“His history does not give me confidence,” Marjie answered quietly.
“Most men were injured at Waterloo,” Philip said. “We can hardly blame him for that.”
“Not Waterloo,” Marjie whispered.
Philip’s gaze became too pointed for comfort. Marjie lowered her eyes again. “Not Waterloo? Orthez, then?”
“Another injury from battle,” Layton insisted.
Marjie shook her head again.
“You do not think he was injured in battle?” Philip sounded entirely confused.
“Not injured in the battle, precisely,” Marjie said. “Stanley volunteered for the forlorn hope. He was injured while undertaking a suicide mission—one that was not required of him, one he actively and willingly volunteered to undertake. A man who would volunteer to die is not one I would consider careful with his own welfare.”
A single beat of silence followed. Then all at once, Mater broke into tears, Layton muttered, “Good heavens,” and Philip snapped to a stand, his chair scraping the ground behind him.
“If you will excuse me,” Philip said through tight lips.
“You are going to seek out our brother?” Layton asked.
Philip nodded.
“I’ll join you.” Layton stood as well.
Philip moved stiffly toward the library door. “What the deuce is going through that boy’s head?” he muttered as both brothers stepped out of the room in search of Stanley.
A very good question—one Marjie could not answer.
Chapter Twenty
A quick succession of knocks sounded at the closed door of Stanley’s room. “One moment,” he called out, pulling himself to his feet. He was getting better at rising.
He crossed to the door, relying less on his walking stick than he once had. He wasn’t sure whom he expected to see on the other side, but Philip’s valet was certainly not on his list of possibilities.
Wilson stood quite still, perfectly silent, and entirely on his dignity. Stanley solved the mystery of Wilson’s presence the instant he saw the battered black rod he held in his right hand.
“Ah, lud.” Stanley slammed the door shut, as he knew he was expected to do. He was a grown man, for heaven’s sake. He hadn’t had to undertake this ritual in years.
Right on cue, Wilson administered three solid blows against the door with, if he was doing the thing properly, the black rod. Whose idea had this been originally, anyway? It was not only absurd, but it probably also bordered on treason. A person simply didn’t mock the Crown and Parliament.
Stanley shook his head and opened the door once more.
Wilson cleared his throat. “Captain Jonquil, you are hereby commanded to remove immediately to the House of Peers.”
It was a horrifically flawed recitation of Black Rod’s summons to the House of Commons at the State Opening of Parliament. Philip had first fashioned the altered version of that very traditional passage before Stanley could even remember. Layton had whittled the rod. Jason had pointed out that it absolutely had to be black.
Why in the world were they still doing this? They were no longer boys to be entertained by such things.
Wilson handed the rod over to Stanley before bowing and walking away. If they had undertaken the exact ceremony, Stanley would have followed Philip’s valet with all the casual disinterest he could muster to the gatehouse, which had served as the House of Lords in the Jonquil parliament for decades. The House of Commons had been assigned the boathouse. Jason had always found that insulting; the boathouse was small and drafty but had been required to accommodate all the brothers except for Philip and Layton; they had claimed the rights of Peers, being heirs to the Lampton titles and the Farland title, respectively. Whichever servant was talked into playing the role of Black Rod was instructed to hand the rod over to the brother he summoned last.
Stanley shook his head but couldn’t help a bit of a smile. They had rather enjoyed their overly complicated approach to calling one another to a council or discussion away from the ears and eyes of their parents. Again, if they had possessed the slightest desire to be accurate, their parents would have been present, playing the roles of monarch and consort. The brothers had been adamant about overlooking that particular technicality.
Stanley made his way across the grounds. Had he chosen to walk, he would certainly have managed the unhurried swagger expected of those representing Commons when adhering to the summons to appear in the Upper House. He, however, did not think falling on one’s face was part of the ceremony and, therefore, chose to make his way to the gatehouse on horseback.
The door had been left open in anticipation of his arrival.
“This is so ridiculous,” he said to himself, and yet, he was enjoying himself.
He dismounted, pleased that he could do so without feeling quite so certain he would stumble in the undertaking and, wrapping his horse’s reins around a nearby branch, stepped inside the cozy gatehouse. Any similarity to the true opening of Parliament ended at that point in the ceremony. There would be no separation of houses, no formality, no pomp. Stanley dropped into an unoccupied chair and watched Philip and Layton lounging quite at their ease in chairs of their own.
Stanley tossed the black rod onto a bench pushed up against the wall nearest the door. The stick was kept in the gatehouse unless being used for a summons.
“Marjie says you’ve heard from Horse Guards.” Philip spoke with a casual air, but both he and Layton watched Stanley intently.
Stanley nodded.
“Were you planning to mention this to any of us before you were recalled to your regiment?” Philip asked. “Or were we simply to wonder one evening why none of us had seen you about for a while?”
“As if anything could be kept a secret around here.” Stanley meant the reply to be cheeky, but he felt the near desperation that accompanied the declaration. He was attempting to keep a great many secrets, and they weighed more on him every day.
“How many secrets do you have, Stanley?” Layton possessed an uncanny ability to seemingly read thoughts. He had done so often when they were all children.
“Not nearly as many secrets as I’d like,” Stanley muttered.
Philip’s mouth pulled into a frustrated line. “How is it that I nursed you for weeks last year and you never thought to tell me the true nature of your injury?”
Last year? “I was injured at Orthez,” Stanley said. “You knew as much.”
“But there is more to the story than that, isn’t there?”
Stanley resisted the urge to squirm. They were tiptoeing too close to the line. “Men are injured in battle all the time.”
“Cut line, Stanley.” It was almost a sigh put to words. Philip rubbed his face with both his palms, a mannerism that had once belonged to their father. Stanley looked away, the pang of loss too acute in that moment. “There is a vast difference between the dangers inherent in a battle and the almost guaranteed death of a forlorn hope.”
“Pluck told you.” Stanley was going to absolutely strangle him.
Philip shook his head. “Marjie.”
“Marjie? How did—? I didn’t tell—”
“Anyone,” Philip finished.
Layton took over the inquisition. “Why would you volunteer for such a thing? Did you wish for a captaincy so much?”
Stanley slumped in his chair. This was why he never told anyone. They always wanted to talk about it, to hash out the details and motivations and outcomes. He preferred to forget the entire thing. “I didn’t do it for the promotion.” Career advancement had been the last thing on his
mind.
“Was your income from the estate insufficient?” Layton’s voice asked one question, but his eyes were digging for something else entirely.
Stanley shifted his gaze to the crackling fire in the fireplace. There were no secrets in their family—it was frustrating as the devil.
“A person doesn’t risk death for money,” Stanley said quietly.
“Were you trying to prove something, then?” Philip didn’t keep his voice as calm as Layton’s, frustration encasing every word. “To be heroic and dashing?”
Stanley cleared his throat against the lump forming there. He didn’t want to think about any of this, about the desperation he’d felt leading up to Orthez. Only Waterloo had been harder than Orthez. He wanted to put it all behind him, to not allow any of it to poison him until he returned and couldn’t avoid doing so. Couldn’t they give him a few weeks’ respite?
“One would think you were trying to get yourself killed,” Philip said.
Stanley pressed his eyelids closed, tears squeezing from the corners. His lungs caught and pulled against each breath he took.
“Stanley,” Layton said quietly. “What happened?”
“It had always been just a game.” The whispered words broke as they escaped his mouth, like glass dropped against a hardwood floor. “That was all war ever was—a game we played as children by the river. We’d stage heroic battles and fight bravely, and when it was over, we all got up and walked home together.”
His entire body shook as he pushed out another breath. He could feel everything pressing free, all the thoughts and worries and pain he’d hidden inside. With his eyes closed, he could see them, the Jonquil brothers, as children. Then those laughing faces transformed to those of other boys who’d fought battles and paid with their lives.
“No one gets up in war. They lie where they fall. Everyone else marches on, looking around and wondering who isn’t going to survive the next battle. It was supposed to be simple, like the game. If one was brave and followed the battle plan, everything was fine. Just a game where no one died and no one got hurt and . . .” He dropped his head into his upturned hands, leaning forward in his chair. He couldn’t push back the memories and the pain.
For Love or Honor Page 15
