Kindred Spirits

by Allison Lane

  Desolation threaded his voice, evidence of the wasteland inside. Besides retreating from the world, he was walling off his emotions, his memories, and his very soul.

  She prayed that it was merely a habit that had allowed him to face the horrors of battle – which meant there must be a door in that wall that he could open between engagements. If only she could find it.

  It is like Halworth, said Hutch. The park walls isolated you from the world, but they only existed along the lanes. Jack entered the park through the woods, which had never been fortified against callers.

  But where were the woods around Jack’s mind? She had no idea how to reach him and knew no one who could help.

  Devall had been Jack’s friend for more than twenty years, yet he seemed oblivious to Jack’s fatalistic surrender. Angela had a talent for sensing hidden character, yet she saw none of Jack’s despair.

  Not that Marianne could enlist their aid. She had to save Jack, but not at the cost of his pride. Knowing that Devall or any other friend was aware of his plans would provide yet another incentive to kill himself. To an honor that demanded atonement for his crimes, abandoning atonement would be cowardly – yet another crime. He could not face friends if they knew.

  She bit her lip as a footman opened the carriage door. Was that the key, perhaps? Choosing death over an imperfect life was also a form of cowardice. Could she force a delay by pointing that out?

  It won’t work.

  She sighed. Jack demanded perfection of himself. In his mind, the small crime of suicide paled beside the larger ones of killing a fellow officer and abandoning the field. And if accusing him of cowardice stopped him, he would hate her forever. Every glimpse of her would remind him of his failure.

  She had to find another way.

  Jack led her inside.

  “We won,” trilled Angela to Barnes as they entered the hall. “You see before you the sanest lady in London. In England. In the world.”

  For all the good it did her, brooded Marianne as she accepted new congratulations from Mrs. Halsey and the Hastingses. If she lost Jack, her sanity would crumble fast enough. She loved him more than her family, Halworth, and her dreams combined.

  At the same time, she was furious with him. How could he not see that his honor surpassed that of other men? How could he not feel that his memories were incomplete? Even as he admitted that he had no recollection of that day, he still insisted that his actions condemned him. Did he not know that humans were frail creatures who often made mistakes? Even if those images were as bad as he feared, he could forgive himself – if only he would try.

  But nothing would convince him. They had argued about it on Friday. She had again dared him to investigate his nightmare, using her own misconceptions of that month at Barnett Court as proof that incomplete memories often veered widely from the truth. Yet he had dismissed her situation as typical of childhood, refusing to admit that he might be doing the same thing.

  Helplessness overwhelmed her.

  She reviewed her resources once more, hoping that she might have overlooked something, but the conclusions remained the same. Lady Beatrice was out of the question. Asking her to locate a witness from Waterloo would start a scandal that Jack would hate. Lady Beatrice was incapable of keeping secrets, and Jack abhorred his ancestors’ scandals as much as their cowardice and brutality. Even if witnesses proved him innocent, publicly admitting that he thought himself capable of such deeds would tarnish his reputation for all time.

  Devlin had promised to help, but she hadn’t revealed the stakes, so he had no sense of urgency – as shown by his continuing silence. He, at least, would understand Jack’s plans and forgive him – or so she thought; his words hinted that he had considered suicide before Jack took him in hand – but she’d remained silent, knowing that Jack would terminate the friendship if he found out. Whether her decision had been right or wrong no longer mattered, for Devlin was gone.

  Devall lacked the military access that would allow him to find witnesses, and he had already done so much. She could not beg yet another favor. If Jack found out, he would cut them both.

  Wellington? She could hardly presume on the man after one brief introduction. Besides, Wellington’s private meeting with Jack had pushed him further into isolation.

  So she was on her own. All she could do was watch Jack closely, then pray that when the moment arrived, his wall would crack, giving her one last chance to reach him.

  Somehow she managed to hide her fears during dinner, though she had no idea what she ate. But she declined to go out that evening, pleading weariness from the trial.

  Jack’s eyes brightened with relief, increasing her fear. He didn’t want to be with people.

  Everyone retired early. Marianne waited an hour, then cracked the connecting door. Jack seemed asleep. Whether he was or not didn’t matter. She knew he would wait until the household was quiet, for he wanted no witnesses and no interruptions. She left the door open so she could hear if he rose. This was not a night she could sleep.

  * * * *

  Jack watched the fog gather in the square, still thin enough that the moon pearled its tendrils into ghosts. They drifted closer, taking on faces of the men he had killed.

  Imagination, he decided, shaking his head in disgust. And stupid imagination at that. The men he’d felled in battle did not haunt him. It was the nameless, faceless Englishman who stole his rest.

  But why would you kill a comrade?

  He stifled the echo of Marianne’s question. He didn’t know. The answer lay in the dark hours he could not recall. But nothing could counter the stark truth. His hand had held the knife. His arm had felt the shock as that knife sliced deep into the man’s back. His head had throbbed with a mad frenzy as he struck again and again. His eyes had fogged with terror as he fled the deed. His soul could no longer stand the pain…

  He had awakened half an hour earlier, by plan rather than from nightmares, though his sleep had been as restless as ever. But the dreams no longer mattered. Atonement would come before dawn.

  A frown creased his brow as he realized that tonight’s dreams had been different. Marianne had battled those images of Waterloo, just as she’d battled Hilliard in court, driving them away and replacing them with her softness.

  God, how he loved her!

  He had cracked the door of the hearing room so he could listen to her testimony. She’d been magnificent. It had been all he could do to keep from scooping her up and kissing her.

  But it was hopeless. He could not debase her with his dishonor. Nor could he risk passing his blood to yet another generation. And what if he turned his brutality onto Marianne? With his control shattered, his conduct was bound to get worse. Even if his infamy had escaped notice in the chaos of Waterloo, the next slip could bring scandal – or worse.

  So it must end, and it must end now. Her eyes were growing warmer, seeming to beg for his touch. Whenever he spotted that look, his heart leaped. He wanted her so badly. But every day he remained with her risked attaching her affections. So far she felt only gratitude – a natural reaction, for she credited him for her successes. He must leave before that gratitude grew into something deeper. His departure would already hurt her enough.

  She was the loyal sort, he acknowledged, recalling the open connecting door he’d found on awakening. She’d sensed his distress and checked on him, perhaps more than once.

  How do you know the memories are real?

  She’d asked the question often. She’d even used her own childhood mistakes as arguments. What she didn’t realize was that officers had to be clearheaded and practical, even in the midst of battle – a far cry from a bewildered, terrified child suffering her first taste of life’s cruelty.

  But as a concession to her concern, he searched his mind one last time, unlocking doors he’d ignored for years. His first battle, childhood traumas, fits of fury that made him want to lash out as Deerchester and Wilcox did – it had taken determined discipline to control the Cal
dwell temper; without Reeves he couldn’t have done it.

  But his journey through the murkiest corners of his mind turned up nothing new beyond Reeves declaiming Shakespeare’s Richard II during a long-forgotten lesson – Mine honor is my life; both grow in one. Take honor from me, and my life is done.

  “So be it.”

  The memories were real. Honor was gone, and his life with it. His blood had finally won.

  In a way, it was a relief. He was tired of trying to prove that he was better than his ancestors, tired of pretending to be honorable. He had to be twice the gentleman others were before they perceived him as the same. His honor had to be stronger, his vices milder, his demeanor more perfect. It was too much.

  The only remaining question was where to die. It would be bad form to inflict nightmares on Devall’s staff – to say nothing of giving the maids a nasty mess to clean up. A bullet to the head was not tidy.

  Then there was Marianne. She might check on him, then follow when she found him gone. He could not risk her finding his body. She had seen too much carnage in her life. But where—

  The mews.

  Of course. Despite her claim in court, it was the one place she could never go.

  Pain slashed his heart. If only he could have helped her overcome that fear, too. But it was too late. Wellington expected him back, which was impossible.

  Pulling out his writing case, he removed his final letter and read it one last time. It was adequate. He hadn’t mentioned the murder, for that would reflect poorly on the military. But he made it clear that the horror of Waterloo lingered in nightmares that had destroyed his mind, making it impossible to go on.

  Marianne would be safe.

  After buffing his boots, he donned his uniform, taking care that the braiding was straight. Then he checked his appearance one last time, slipped the letter into his pocket, and collected his pistol. It was time. The grooms would rise in an hour.

  * * * *

  Marianne woke with a start, knowing something was terribly wrong – and not just that she had fallen asleep. The connecting door was shut.

  Jack!

  Leaping from bed, she threw the door open.

  Nothing.

  Empty bed. Empty chairs. Nightshirt on the floor.

  A hand over her mouth held in her scream. Dear God! Why had she lain down?

  Forcing terror aside, she scanned the room, seeking any change since she had last checked on him. Perhaps he had merely risen early.

  The draperies were pulled back, revealing thick fog. His writing case had moved—

  Her fists clenched as the significance hit her. He had vowed to avoid accidents, so this time he would leave a letter.

  “I have to stop him,” she sobbed, knowing it might already be too late.

  His dressing gown hung from a peg. Wrapping it around her for warmth, she raced for the stairs.

  Where would he have gone?

  The library was empty, as were the billiard room, the drawing room, the dining room, the breakfast room…

  “Think,” she admonished herself. “He is an honorable man, a guest in this house.”

  He would not intrude into Devall’s rooms. Nor would he impose on his host more than absolutely necessary.

  The garden?

  The door to the garden was unlocked. Shivering and terrified, she forced her bare feet outside.

  Cold sliced up her legs. Damp seeped through her clothes. Only the faintest glow from the moon penetrated the thickening fog. She circled the garden twice before admitting that he wasn’t there.

  Tears trickled down her cheeks. She was too late.

  No! You can’t give up.

  “But where would he go?” she whispered. “The park? The river?” She would never find him.

  A horse shifted restlessly in the mews, reviving other fears. She was backing away when her eyes widened in shock.

  “The mews. He knows I can’t follow him there.” She raced toward the house to wake Devall.

  Coward!

  “I can’t!”

  You can! He might still be alive. But if you waste time waking Devall, then explaining the problem, then waiting until he dresses…

  Hutch was right. Squeezing her hands into fists, she forced her feet forward.

  The scent of hay and horses and filthy straw engulfed her the moment she cracked the door. Voices rose from her nightmares. Help me, Mommy … let go! … Papa! … baisez la putain anglaise! … bastards!

  Her mother’s screams, her father’s curses, Nigel, Cecily. Memory overwhelmed her, terrifying, threatening, drowning her in grief. She turned to flee.

  Jack is in there.

  She had to find him, had to stop him, had to heal him the way he had healed her.

  Yes, he healed you. And this is your last chance to return the favor. You can do it. Concentrate on Jack. He needs you.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she stumbled over the threshold. Only the strongest will kept her from fainting.

  Horses shifted, barely seen in the darkness. Most of them were stabled to her right, so she turned left. Jack would not disturb Devall’s cattle.

  Her bare feet made no sound as she felt her way past carriages and curricles. The wide roof cast deep shadows that faded into the fog of the stable yard.

  She found him in the loose box at the end. Somehow she’d known he would seek the most private spot.

  He straightened abruptly when she pushed open the door. Only the faintest light penetrated the box, but it reflected from the pistol pressed to his temple. Relief turned her knees to water when his hand dropped to his side.

  “Don’t do it, Jack,” she begged, barely keeping her voice steady.

  “What the devil are you doing out here?”

  “Looking for you.”

  “But— But this is a stable.”

  “You are more important than my fears.” She took a hesitant step closer. “Come inside, Jack.”

  “It’s too late. Go back to bed, Marianne. I can’t live with it any longer.”

  He sounded so distant, she nearly burst into tears, but she forced calm on her voice. “Then let it go, Jack, but not like this.”

  “Don’t argue.” But he uncocked the pistol.

  Marianne swayed, then quickly stiffened her legs. It wasn’t over yet. “Come inside where it’s warm, Jack.” Another step brought her close enough to touch his arm. Tension thrummed through it.

  He’s terrified, said Hutch.

  Thank God. “Come, Jack. Let me help you inside.”

  Pain twisted his face, but he finally nodded.

  Taking his hand, she led him through the garden, then upstairs to his room.

  As she closed the door behind them, he seemed to awaken from a trance to peer at her in the light from the uncovered window. “Your feet are bare. You must be frozen.” He turned toward the connecting door, clearly intending to tuck her into bed.

  “No, Jack. My feet are fine.” Liar. “I’m not leaving this room until we talk, and neither are you.”

  He stood silently until her nerves nearly snapped.

  Finally his tension drained away. Setting the pistol on a table, he tossed coal on the nearly dead fire, then touched a spill to the fresh flame and lit candles.

  Marianne moved the pistol under a chair, then sat, spreading the dressing gown’s skirts to hide the weapon. When Jack turned, she gestured to the second chair. “You did not kill an English officer, Jack,” she vowed firmly, holding his gaze. “And you did not desert the field of battle.”

  “How would you know? You weren’t there.”

  “I know you, Jack. Far better than you think. I could never have fallen in love with a dishonorable man.”

  He flinched. “Don’t turn me into a saint. How can you know me? You’ve had less experience than anyone at seeing beyond the surface. You put me on a pedestal twelve years ago and don’t want to let me down.”

  His rejection stabbed her to the core, but she set it aside. “Actually, that’s not true. I
have less experience at playing society’s games, but I recognize them better than anyone. Those who embrace posturing become so immersed in polishing their own façades that they miss the falseness of those around them. But your façade is not false, Jack. Shakespeare put it best. To thine own self be true … Thou canst not then be false to any man. You have always been true to yourself, Jack.”

  “It was an act to hide my bad breeding,” he snapped.

  “Nonsense! I might believe such fustian if you applied honor only to important matters. A man can manage that for a time, though it inevitably slips when he is under pressure. But you are not like that. You are ruthlessly honorable every day, in every way, no matter how trivial the situation. I’ve seen you admit bumping a vase so a maid wasn’t blamed for carelessness. Yesterday you walked around Angela’s flower bed because leaving footprints in the fresh-raked soil would make extra work for the gardener. No one so particular in small matters can abandon honor in large ones. It is against human nature. Honor is so ingrained in your soul that you could not violate it if held at gunpoint.”

  Pain flashed in his eyes, flushing his cheeks.

  Shaking her head, she withdrew his pistol. “How long did you stand there willing your finger to move?”

  He flinched.

  “Tell me, Jack. How long?”

  “Half an hour. But I had to make sure I hadn’t overlooked anything.”

  “No. That is an excuse, and you know it. You finished brooding before you left this room. You couldn’t pull the trigger because suicide is dishonorable and cowardly. Deep inside you know that. A lifetime of honor isn’t going to disappear, even if you want it to. That’s why you grabbed the shrub when I startled you on the cliff that day. Inside, where it counts, you fight for survival, even if the enemy is your own self. You have not proven yourself guilty beyond all doubt, even in your own eyes.”