“Greenberry,” Stanley shot back. Mixed with a desire to pull Marjie back to his side and scuff up that cherubic face of Greenberry’s was a wave of remembered battles and an afternoon spent with a soldier they had, between the two of them, tried and failed to save.
Greenboy smiled at Stanley’s curt tone, those dimples that more than one camp follower had swooned over popping up on either side of his mouth.
Stanley found himself unexpectedly and unaccountably chuckling. “You angel-faced devil,” he said, holding out his left hand and receiving a hardy handshake.
“How have you been, Jonquil?”
“I believe I will leave you two gentlemen to your reunion.” Marjie moved to Stanley’s side. She raised up on tiptoe and whispered, “I am so very happy to see you smile again.” She kissed him on the cheek, much as one would a sibling, then gently touched his face before walking away.
Stanley watched her go, his heart hammering in his rib cage. He’d taken Philip’s advice quite to heart and had kept his distance from Marjie. Though he thought often of pulling her into his arms and kissing her thoroughly, he hadn’t done more than hold her hand. That simple salute on the cheek had nearly undone him.
“Our captain’s angel,” Greenboy said.
“She really is an angel.” His men had given her that name without realizing how much it fit her.
“An angel who is quite obviously in love with you.” Greenboy motioned with his head toward the tables of food where the assembled guests were gathering. Stanley followed the unspoken suggestion, grateful Greenboy adjusted his usually brisk pace to allow for Stanley’s permanently slower one. “While we are all grateful for this chance to see so many friends again, none of us is so foolish as to think she arranged all this for our sakes.”
“She arranged all this? Marjie?” Not Pluck? Not one of his brothers?
“Her letter was almost ridiculously convincing,” Greenboy said. “Not to mention the fact that there were a lot of us who were so shocked at receiving a letter from our captain’s angel that we would have done absolutely anything she asked of us just for the honor of being written to.”
“Her letters.” So much of what he’d seen the last few weeks began to make sense. All the mail Marjie had sent, all the secretive looks and aborted conversations had been related to this. Ridiculously convincing? “What did she say in her letter?”
Greenboy’s grin spread wider. “That you were home for a short time and that she wished very much for you to see the men who had come to mean so much to you during your service, along with a few other things.”
“What other things?” Stanley wasn’t sure why he wanted so desperately to know precisely what she had written about him, how she had convinced such a large gathering of people to come during a difficult season for travel. For some in attendance, such a trip would be a hardship on many levels.
“Let’s just say she made it clear that you needed us to be here, and seeing as how you are our captain, none of us would think of being anywhere else, now would we?”
“She made me out to be a charity case?” Embarrassment warred with indignation.
“Your angel?” Greenboy scoffed. “Would she do anything like that?”
“No. No, she wouldn’t.”
“C’mon.” Greenboy waved him forward, toward a clump of former soldiers laughing over pints and plates at a nearby table. “Come give the boys a few minutes. They need this as much as you do. We may not have left the service with the injuries you did, but we all carry around the weight of it. We need a dose of captain comfort.”
Stanley cringed at the despised nickname. “Our captain” was tolerable. “Captain Comfort” made him sound like a shot of hard liquor at a seedy tavern.
The table full of mangled, prematurely aged, and weather-bitten men hailed Stanley as he joined them. How different they would all have been without their shared experiences. He summoned one of his artificial smiles, the kind he’d become so adept at during the war, and accepted a cup from Private Smith, who looked far better than he had the last time Stanley had seen him.
Smith had always been the best storyteller in their regiment. “We were just rememberin’ that time marchin’ through the Pyrenees when Major Horace-Fulton’s mount refused to go another step.”
Greenboy exchanged an amused look with Stanley, who couldn’t help the mirth that spread across his own face.
“Poor ol’ Horseface couldn’t get the beast to move so much as an inch.”
Snickers sounded around the table. Horace-Fulton had not been a popular officer. The entire regiment had enjoyed the major’s humiliation at his lack of control over his own mount.
“So Major struts to his horse’s head”—Smith stood with his chest puffed out in a deuced good impression of the loathed, arrogant officer—“an’ barks at the thing, ‘You will move!’ An’ bless ’im, the horse moved. Moved its head enough to bite a button off Major’s jacket.”
Stanley laughed at the memory. Not a soul had intervened as the major’s horse had grown more insubordinate; they’d simply glanced at one another, silently laughing at a moment they knew would be long remembered.
“‘Give it back,’ Major ordered.”
“An’ the lovely horse spit it at him,” Private Black shouted out, pulling laughs from the entire table.
“So what does the high-steppin’ major say?” Smith looked around at the men, who all knew the answer well enough.
Stanley rose to his feet, pitched his voice at the ear-grating height that had easily identified Horace-Fulton amongst a crowd, and said, “‘I am a major!’”
They all laughed deep and full. What a ridiculous picture that conceited man had made. His foolish escapades had been nightly campfire fodder.
“Pulled rank on a horse, he did!” Smith wiped at a streaming eye as he continued laughing.
The stories flowed endlessly. Stanley had forgotten how funny some of their experiences had been. He lived with the constant reminders of loss and suffering but had needed a reminder of the things he had actually enjoyed about his years of service.
Some hours later, a bonfire was lit, adding warmth and light to the approaching night. The staff brought out yet more food. Strangers had become instant friends, while old friendships were firmed and renewed.
Stanley found he was even able to greet Lord Devereaux with some degree of equanimity. He saw in the viscount’s treatment of Marjie precisely what she had described: the attentions and concerns of an older brother. Lord Devereaux shared yet another story of a family who had been touched by Stanley’s letters. It was mind-boggling. He’d written out of a helplessness he couldn’t seem to shake and had unknowingly managed to do some good after all.
He stood near enough to the bonfire to feel its warmth and watched the faces around him. They had all lost so much, and yet hope and joy filled their expressions. He wanted to think he had played a role in their happiness, that the past five years hadn’t been entirely destructive.
Stanley sensed Marjie’s approach before he saw her. She had floated around, overseeing all aspects of the gathering, checking on Sorrel, though unobtrusively, and had generally held the entire day together. He was beginning to realize Marjie was, somehow, even more amazing than he had realized.
She stopped beside him. “Are you terribly angry with me?”
Of all the things she might have said, Stanley had not expected that. “Why in heaven’s name would I be angry with you?”
Her gaze shifted from his face to the fire and the people surrounding it. “You didn’t look very pleased when you first arrived.”
Good heavens, she thought he was angry with her. Stanley temporarily consigned Philip’s advice to Hades and wrapped his arm around Marjie, pulling her up against him.
“I wanted you to see—to understand—” She didn’t lean into him but didn’t pull away. “You said once that you wondered if you ever did any good by the men you served with. I needed you to see that you have.”
Stanley turned enough to draw her fully into an embrace. He felt her arms wrap around his waist.
“Please don’t be angry,” she whispered into his coat front.
He bent enough to whisper into her ear. “I love you.”
Marjie turned her face up to look at him, a pleading light in her eyes. Stanley kissed the tip of her nose but allowed himself no other liberties.
“And I thank you for this day,” he added. “You have done more good than I think you realize.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Stanley stood stiffly in his bedchamber. He had assumed the stance of a soldier, reminding himself that his time as a civilian had, for all intents and purposes, come to an end. Colonel Falwell had arrived at Lampton Park. Stanley was to present himself to the waiting officer in a quarter of an hour. He dreaded it.
“Always a soldier.” He’d taken to speaking the words out loud. He had an obligation to serve, and he would not be disloyal.
Pluck had been completely silent since luncheon, a sure sign that he too felt the weight of the coming interview.
“You realize, of course, that just because I am returning, you are not obligated to do so as well.” Stanley had reminded Pluck of that fact multiple times over the weeks since he’d first learned of the colonel’s scheduled arrival.
Pluck usually threw back something cheeky and humorous. His expression in that moment, however, was nothing short of entirely offended. “I go where you go, Cap’n. Plain as that. Now shut yer mummer and finish gettin’ dressed. There’s a deuced colonel downstairs.”
Stanley’s heart froze in his chest. Blast the boy, Stanley couldn’t convince Pluck to stay behind where he would be safe. He insisted on following Stanley back into the army. If Pluck was killed, Stanley would never forgive himself. There would be no one to send a letter to. Stanley knew, though Pluck had never said so outright, that the boy had come to think of Stanley as his family. In return, Stanley felt responsible for him.
A knock sounded at the door. Pluck opened it. Marjie stood framed by the opening. Stanley was supposed to be keeping a distance between them but, confound it all, he needed her to calm him down.
“Am I presentable?” He knew his words weren’t as light as he’d hoped them to be.
She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe and tipped her head to one side, inspecting him. “The hat makes you seem seven feet tall.”
“Imagine how tall we look on horseback.”
“So it is a matter of intimidation?”
“Always.” He strutted to where she stood.
Pluck muttered something under his breath about the fancy toffs in the cavalry being all flash. Lud, the boy really was nervous. Stanley had signed up with the intention of remaining in the army. Pluck had joined to escape the streets of London. Stanley might be able to talk him out of returning to duty.
“You are missing your sabre,” Marjie said, “but I have not seen you wear it since you returned.”
Stanley shook his head. Even Marjie’s presence couldn’t entirely release the tension building in him.
“Would it be unforgivably intrusive of me to ask why?”
Stanley could see his sword in his mind the way he always remembered it, a length of steel so covered in blood that none of the metal beneath showed through. It was the last thing he recalled seeing before Shadow, a horse he’d had for years, had suddenly jerked beneath him and fallen dead. For a moment, Stanley hadn’t felt any pain, even as he’d looked at the mangled remains of his right leg. In agony, however, he struggled to pull himself away from the battlefield, knowing he would likely bleed to death there where he’d fallen. In that moment, certain he would die at the hands of the enemy, the irony of it struck him. He had often cursed the French for the losses they had inflicted, for killing so many, but he was no different. The evidence had dripped from his sword even as his own blood ran from his body.
When he’d awoken after the amputation and had emerged enough from the subsequent fevers to make sense of his surroundings, one of the first things he’d seen had been that sabre. Pluck had cleaned it meticulously, but the leather loop at the handle was stained a deep red Stanley knew would never come out entirely. He’d refused from that moment on to wear the sword. He did not need the reminder of the things he had done.
“Will Colonel Falwell be upset if you don’t wear it?” Marjie asked.
Stanley opened his eyes at the sound of her voice. “He probably already knows.” Lord Hill knew, after all.
Marjie smoothed the wrinkles on Stanley’s left sleeve, her eyes focusing too keenly on the abstract gesture. She always had a hard time looking at him when she was worried or upset. “You’ve sewn the buttons back on the right sleeves.”
“The colonel may be willing to overlook a missing sabre, but I doubt he will countenance flapping sleeves.”
“And the gloves.”
Stanley nodded.
“You must be certain to put the salve on your hand tonight.” Marjie straightened his collar without raising her eyes to his face. “It will probably be very irritated.”
“Please look at me, Marjie.”
She lifted her face, and Stanley instantly wished he hadn’t made the request. Tears hung in her eyes.
He was doing the right thing, blast it. He was honoring his obligations, keeping his word. So why the deuce did everything keep getting worse?
“I need to go downstairs for my interview.” Stanley tightened every muscle, set his jaw. The right thing was not always easy, but it was what he always did. “Colonel Falwell is waiting.”
“He is going to take you away from me.” Marjie’s whispered words were thick with anguish. “He has come to break my heart.”
Stanley kept his arms firmly at his side. How he wanted to simply hold her, to give them both the comfort of an embrace in an impossible situation, but he needed to learn to live without her, and the sooner he began, the better off they would both be. “Perhaps it would have been better if we’d never known each other. This wouldn’t—”
Marjie pressed her fingers to his lips. Stanley took in a sharp breath. How he needed her! He held himself very still, as if at full attention in a drill.
“There are things I regret in my life, Stanley, but I will never regret knowing you. You have changed who I am, changed me for the better. Do not wish that away.”
“Time to go, Cap’n.”
Stanley nodded to Pluck but never let his gaze stray from Marjie’s face.
“Will you have to leave today?” A frantic tremor shook her voice.
“No. I will be given my marching orders, most likely for a couple days from now.”
Her gaze grew intent. “You will not leave without saying good-bye?”
“I promise.”
Marjie smoothed his sleeves once more. “You had best not keep the colonel waiting.”
Stanley took a fortifying breath. He memorized the feel of her touch. After he received his orders, Stanley would keep his distance entirely. He would slip back into the role of soldier, where all emotions were pushed aside and he made do with what little hope he had. He straightened his shoulders and made his way down the corridor.
Colonel Falwell sat at Philip’s desk when Stanley entered. Philip had apparently left. The colonel rose, his uniform impeccably clean, down to the high-polished medals that marked him as a man of vast experience. Stanley saluted as was expected, beginning the usual greeting ritual between two officers, one of whom far outranked the other.
“I hope I am not late, sir,” he said.
“Not at all, Captain Jonquil. Am I correct that this is your batman?”
Stanley nodded, motioning Pluck forward. “This is Private Stone, Colonel Falwell.”
The colonel acknowledged Pluck’s salute. “Obviously you were artillery.”
“Yes, sir.” Pluck could be rigidly proper when required. He even looked almost respectable in his artillery uniform.
“Do you plan to return to duty when Captain Jonquil doe
s?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if he chooses to sell his commission?”
Pluck hesitated a moment. Stanley understood, though he doubted Colonel Falwell did. Pluck knew Stanley wouldn’t leave the army, so it was an answer he hadn’t expected to have to give. “I’d’ve followed my cap’n right into Napoleon’s drawing room iffen I’d had to,” Pluck said. “An’ I’ll follow him wherever he goes now.”
Colonel Falwell nodded. “You are dismissed, Stone. I will send for you if you are wanted again.”
Pluck offered another salute and left the room, pulling the door closed behind him. The colonel retook his seat at the large desk, instructing Stanley to sit as well.
“If all our officers inspired the kind of loyalty in their men that you have,” Colonel Falwell said, “we would have trounced Napoleon in one year instead of twelve.”
Stanley sat rigidly in his chair. Pluck’s loyalty might very well get him killed. “Private Stone’s attachment stems from a sense of obligation, not—”
“I speak of more than just Private Stone.” Colonel Falwell wove his fingers together, resting his intertwined hands and his forearms on the desk. “You have caused quite a stir at Horse Guards.”
“I don’t understand.”
The colonel’s gaze never left Stanley’s face. He knew better than to squirm under the eyes of an officer. He sat with his back straight, shoulders back, expression empty.
“Lord Hill has been quite concerned over you. We realize he is something of a soft touch when it comes to his men.”
“Sir—”
Colonel Falwell raised a hand to stop Stanley’s words. “No need to defend him. Hill is a born soldier and one of the finest officers this nation has ever had. The truth of the matter is he loves his men beyond what is probably advisable. It leads him to worry a great deal. Much of that worry has been surrounding you of late and the state of your health.”
Colonel Falwell leaned back in the chair, his gaze sweeping over Stanley. “You are walking far better than I was led to believe you could.”
“My balance and gait have improved a great deal these past weeks.”
For Love or Honor Page 20
