Stewart’s father had persuaded him to come home on leave at last. Once there, Stewart could see that the old man’s health was failing, though pride would have ensured that the Duke was the last person to admit he was ill.
On his last evening at home, the Fitzgeralds had been invited over to the neighboring Joyce household for a ball in honor of the betrothal of the daughter to some pathetic young stick called Willoughby, another neighbor with little fortune but huge tracts of land.
Willoughby had been so drunk even at the start of the party that Stewart had been amazed and disgusted that any father could consider a young rake who had drunk and gambled his estate into bankruptcy a suitable partner for a genteelly reared daughter with fabulous prospects.
The party had been a masquerade, and his mask and uniform had been admired as a costume, until he admitted he really was a soldier.
Most of the young women had fled then, but one in a magnificent gown a la Gainsborough, wearing a matching hat with flowing ribbons, had listened animatedly to his stories of India.
She had worn a silken blue mask which covered most of her face, but he could detect unusual bluish sparkling eyes glinting behind it, and richly dark auburn hair peeping out from under the hat. As the evening progressed, Stewart had concluded that even if she were the ugliest woman alive, he loved her. Her brightness and intelligence sparkled, she was witty, but also kind and sensible, and very direct.
Stewart had impulsively pulled her off the dance floor and out into the garden, and had kissed her with a passion born of desperation. He had to return to the regiment the next day, but he couldn’t go away without hope, without revealing his true feelings.
Stewart recalled with a burning sensation in his loins how the mysterious young woman had returned his kisses with an ardor he had never experienced in any woman, let alone a society beauty.
As he had pulled her behind a tree and pressed her against it, he had found himself fondling her breasts, and even lifting the hem of her skirt well above her knees. He had run his hands up her lacy underclothes longingly, until he had finally managed to find an opening for his probing fingers.
A shaky, “Major! We mustn’t! Not here!” had brought him to his senses for a moment. He had raised his head to see the woman trembling with barely suppressed desire, but also fear.
“I’m going too fast for you,” he had murmured, kissing her gently.
"Yes, just a little," she had replied shakily, one hand pressed to her mouth, the other to her belly. He had reached for her blue velvet mask then, but decided to wait just a moment longer in passionate suspense until he finally revealed the face of his beloved.
So he had put one arm around her waist and brought her back to a quiet corner of the ballroom, and seated her with a glass of fruit cup while he determined what to do.
A cheerful young man in a court jester’s costume and mask had come over to ask for a game of billiards, and with one last long look at the blue-clad beauty, Stewart had accepted, hoping for a clue as to how best to proceed. He had never been in love before, and certainly never believed it could happen at first sight.
But his head was swimming dizzily with her nearness and his passion. He needed to start thinking with his head, not his heart, if he was to secure his happiness with this enthralling woman at last.
So he had gone off to play, and whilst doing so, Stewart had skillfully turned the subject of conversation around to the woman in the magnificent gown, and declared he was completely in love with her.
The young man had dropped the billiard cue in astonishment. “I say, isn’t this all rather sudden?”
“I know, but I have to rejoin my regiment tomorrow. God knows when I shall ever come back. She isn’t married yet, is she?” Stewart had said, partially yanking off his mask, revealing a face which matched the desperation in his voice.
The young man had paused, his mouth wide open, and finally managed to stammer, “Y-you’re sure she loves you, Major?”
“As certain as I can be without coming right out and asking her. Do you think she would marry me?”
The young masked man had stared at Stewart for a long time. The woman had been peering through the door every so often, but not venturing within earshot. After a few more moments of silence, the young man had nodded.
“Very well, I believe you, and think you to be in earnest, and a decent man from what I've learned about you thus far this evening. Speak to her father this instant. The man in the Elizabethan costume, black with ruffles. Tell him what you’ve told me, before it’s too late.”
So Stewart had hurried up to the man and duly requested an audience. He had been conducted to an elegant library with a pair of elegant glass doors which looked out upon the garden.
There Stewart had pleaded his case to the astonished gentleman, who had fingered his mask for a moment, before patting Stewart on the shoulder and laughing.
“Well I must say, my boy, you have an incredible sense of timing. As a prudent father I should disapprove of this impetuosity. But you can’t have been addled by her beauty, for you yourself admit you’ve never even seen her face, and don’t even know her name. Do you swear this to be true?”
“I swear, I have no idea who you are, either, come to that. There are nearly one hundred people at this party, so how could I? Please sir, I can’t bear the suspense any longer. Is your daughter free to marry me? And will you give your consent?”
The man finally nodded. “If she’ll have you, I’ll give my consent. Nothing should stand in the way of true love, though I shall insist on a year’s engagement just to be sure. I'll go find her now and bring her to you. You can have her answer yourself from her own lips.”
The Elizabethan gentleman had no sooner departed, chuckling and shaking his head, than Stewart had felt a rush of wind, and his world had suddenly gone black.
When he had awakened many days later, he was back in London, with a concussion, and in total disgrace with his father.
“You made a complete spectacle of yourself at the Joyce house, not greeting your host and his family properly, though they such close neighbors, ignoring all the guests, getting drunk and ranting, so that you had to be carried out by your brother and the servants like a whipped dog! Thrown down the stairs on your head, and knocked senseless for days. I am appalled. Is this what you've learned in the Army all these years, that you're not even fit for civilized company? No, don’t even bother trying to excuse yourself, young man!” the Duke had bellowed.
He and his brother had escorted him back to London despite his injuries, and with what seemed to be the longest hangover in history.
Stewart had eventually pieced together part of the mystery, for he knew he hadn’t actually been drunk.
He concluded from the concussion and his torpor that he had been thumped over the head and drugged in order to keep him in a stupor for his trip back to Headquarters, though precisely why he had no idea. He could guess that Samuel had had some part to play in the trip back to London, glad to be rid of him, but he had not been at the party so far as Stewart had been aware.
All he knew was that at least one party had conspired against him to separate him from his beloved in blue. He had desperately wanted to go back to Cork, but it had been impossible to get further leave.
In the end, bitterly disappointed and disillusioned, rather than blame his family entirely, Stewart had decided that the mysterious old man had toyed with him. That he had actually been insulted by the Major’s attentions to his daughter, and had therefore had him thumped over the head and then removed by the Joyces’ servants.
His resultant concussion must have kept him dazed for several days, addled enough to suspect his father and brother of plots against him.
No, whoever those had been at the Joyce party, they had played a nasty game at his expense, and made a fool of him.
Well, he had made a fool of himself. Love at first sight. What nonsense. He was old enough to know better. Yet as he looked at Viv James now….
>
He shoved that thought to one side, yet his recollections of Cork were no more comforting. The memory still rankled after all this time, for Stewart had been so sure of what the girl had felt for him. She had been so passionate, so eager. He knew some women faked their response, but he was sure no woman could have feigned such torrid kisses and aching need. Maybe she would accept him if he confronted her himself?
But how could he even find her, with no name or face to go on?
Stewart had had to accept defeat in the end because of the distance, his military duties, and the sudden death of his father on London, which had left him nothing but pressing legal business and little leisure to deal with the mysterious affair.
But ever since then, every night in his dreams, the elusive woman in the old-fashioned blue gown kept haunting him. Though Stewart tried to tell himself she was long gone, probably already married, he ached for her still.
No one had ever kissed him, responded to him with such complete and utter abandon before. Stewart had never looked at another woman since, nor kissed one, without making an unfavorable comparison with the enigmatic woman in blue.
Stewart sighed. Added to the mystery of William and Vivian James’ past, he was having a perplexing time. He reflected that his life and emotions had become hopelessly confusing ever since he had rescued Viv.
And he had the feeling that thanks to her and Will, despite trying to hire them as servants to help keep him organized, his life was about to become more complicated than ever before.
Chapter Eight
For a fortnight Vevina did little other than tend her sick brother Will, and gradually became an indispensable part of Major Stewart Fitzgerald’s staff.
She had been aggrieved at Stewart keeping Wilfred’s condition from her, but she was grateful to the Major for his tolerance and consideration. He helped nurse Will, along with the two youngest men from their old mess, Will's closest friend Beckett, and Mitchell, a tall lanky young man of about twenty with elegant dark hair and eyes which made him look like a gypsy.
Beckett’s wife Martha also helped out, though she had just risen from childbed, and was nursing a rather puny young son which made Vevina’s heart ache every time she looked at him.
Vevina was grateful that they had found so many friends in the Army despite their obvious difference in social standing, and grew in confidence as she became less fearful of Hawkes’ inexplicable resentment of them.
She didn’t deceive herself for a moment that just because she didn’t see Hawkes, he wasn’t lurking dangerously in the background, but for the moment she and her brother were surrounded by people day and night, and thus Hawkes would be unable to do them any harm.
As she nursed her brother in the tent set aside for him, Vevina sewed, embroidered, knitted, made Ensign Parks’ new wardrobe, and kept the Major’s clothes immaculate.
It wasn’t long before other men came seeking her handiwork, and the small leather bag they used to keep their few coins in was soon full to overflowing.
True to his word, Doc Gallagher called every day, and he set Vevina to work with making rolls of bandages, and vats of her mysterious but efficacious herbal remedies. Her sewing skills and strong stomach also made her an invaluable surgical assistant to all the doctors in the regiment, and he too paid her for her time and efforts.
Always a practical woman by nature, nothing went to waste. Vevina kept all the scraps from Parks’ cut out fabric for rags and bandages, which many of the camp women began to seek out. Soon they too were coming to her for simple cures, mainly as a result of Martha Beckett’s praises.
Martha had been in a very poor state, with running sores on her legs, and the baby had screamed and cried with colic until Vevina had firmly stepped and tended to both with her remedies.
She had boiled up some herbs into a tea, and managed to feed it to the baby in a makeshift bottle with a teat made out of molded tree resin.
The child not only stopped crying, but began to thrive, and Vevina even found a wild goat for milk. True, it took one strong person to hold the creature’s dangerously sharp horns, while another braved being kicked with its hind legs, but now both mother and infant were blooming.
As for Wilfred himself, Vevina was not so fortunate. The scarlet fever had run its course, but as Doc Gallagher had predicted, it had left him very weak. He certainly no longer seemed his old perky self.
Vevina could also see Stewart looking at him frequently with an odd expression on his face, and she knew it was only a matter of time before they were going to have a conversation about their strange predicament.
She knew Major Fitzgerald was no fool, and had heard all of Wilfred’s comments about prison. He was bound to ask questions sooner or later. And while they were by no means the only people in the British Army who had escaped criminal charges by enlisting, not too many of them had been accused of treason and had a death sentence hanging over their heads.
At one point when Vevina was nursing Wilfred, she had rolled up her sleeves, and had suddenly found the Major taking her arm gently to examining her wrists in the daylight which was streaming in through the flaps in the tent. The marks of the shackles were faint, but still obvious enough to someone who was looking for them.
Vevina had jumped at the contact of his warm fingers as they stroked her wrists gently. For a long moment their eyes had locked, and she had been certain the Major was going to kiss her.
A groan from Wilfred had broken the spell, but Vevina was sure Stewart was waiting for some sort of sign that she trusted him, that she was willing to tell him the truth about her past.
The Major had ordered that she continue to share his tent, since she needed protection from Hawkes, and Wilfred was obviously unwell. Stewart insisted that she couldn’t stay up with Will all night, especially since she was still recovering from her own knife wound.
Parks, Bob, Beckett and Mitchell took turns to stand vigil over the patient. Vevina was given Stewart’s bed, while he slept on the ground on his make-shift pallet.
Stewart knew he was taking advantage of the situation to a certain extent, but it was worth it for the exquisite torture of seeing her dress and undress. He pretended he was looking away, or preoccupied with other matters.
After a few nights, Vevina had begun to offer him an almost childlike trust which astonished him. True, she was a married woman, but she seemed to have no false modesty, nor indeed any inkling that he found her achingly desirable.
As the days passed, Stewart discovered that like a love-sick swain, he was inventing all manner of excuses throughout the day to see Viv for a few minutes. He would assign her another little task which it pained him to see her perform so cheerfully, not realizing it was usually unnecessary, but only the first idea that came into his addled head as to the reason he wished to speak with her.
Then she would work away, humming to herself, and her smile whenever she saw him was becoming increasingly brighter as time went by.
Stewart also consulted her, asking her opinions more for the sake of chatting to her than anything. He found she was an excellent sounding board for his ideas. She had a quick mind, and increased in confidence the more responsibility he gave her around his headquarters.
But Stewart felt a wrenching sense of guilt over monopolizing Vevina while her husband lay ill. He tried to justify his increasing attraction for her by labelling it concern over her circumstances.
However, Stewart never asked her any direct questions about herself and her husband, for he couldn’t bear to see her face close up, their intimacy evaporate like mist on a summer's morn. Nor did he tell her much about his past life.
She seemed singularly lacking in curiosity about that subject, preferring to talk of music, poetry, and the many small things that happened in the camp every day. Having her by his side, Stewart felt as though time were standing still. That there was no past or future, only the present, only the lovely Viv James.
Occasionally she talked of going back to their mess when
Will was well, but Stewart could not bear to part with her. By Christmas Eve, the lanky young man was able to sit up and eat solid food by himself, albeit with very shaky hands.
Stewart was pleased with his recovery, but knew he had to do something to keep Vevina by his side.
He scoured the camp for any items which might be suitable for presents for both of them, and Bob, Mitchell and the Becketts, and wrapped them in brown paper. Then he instructed Viv to prepare for a party. She spent the early morning hunting pheasant and rabbits, and at the end of the short winter's afternoon even managed to bag a deer.
She trotted home happily with Bob and Mitchell, helping to carry the plump doe, and had just gone to change her clothes and rinse out her bloodstained shirt when Stewart entered the tent. He immediately flew to her side, and practically tore her shirt open looking for wounds.
“My God, Viv, what happened!” he cried.
Scars Upon Her Heart (The Scars of The Heart Series) Page 6
