by Tuft, Karen
The horrible, slippery madness. The rain. The trenches of mud and slime that constantly mocked their efforts. The endless gunfire and the boom of cannons. Fireworks squealing and bursting, the ghastly images they illuminated through the smoke and darkness in those moments: men shot, stabbed, trampled, blown to bits . . . Dying, all dying gruesome deaths.
Anthony fought to keep his wits. He gripped the rope harder, like a lifeline, and dug in. He slipped again and fell, splattering mud on his chest and face, and he prayed he could endure this silly contest without unmanning himself. His stomach roiled, but he focused on the task, desperate to ignore the escalating noise of the crowd and the torment in his mind and body.
He was back again.
The woman, a screaming child clutched at her breast, pleading with a soldier before he callously shot them—a British soldier, lost to reason and humanity from hardship and fury and a long night of hell. The soldiers breaking windows in the aftermath and stealing anything they could lay their hands on, destroying what they couldn’t, battering the poor citizens who remained, ripping the jewels from women’s ears if they didn’t comply quickly enough. The orgy of drunkenness that went on for hours. The horror and helplessness Anthony felt.
The other team lost ground and then regained it. The wound in his side burned from his exertions now. Someone yelled “Pull,” so he did with everything he had, and his team gained a few feet of ground, upending several of the other team’s competitors. The crowd roared their approval, but it was a horrible noise to Anthony.
Finally, finally, they managed to bring the other team to defeat, everyone brown and nearly unrecognizable from the revolting stuff.
He could take no more and strode off in the direction of the woods. When he had gone far enough that he knew he could no longer be seen, he fell to his knees and vomited.
* * *
The crowd was celebrating, and the participants jumped into the lake to wash the mud from their bodies and clothes. Children scampered about excitedly. But Amelia had eyes only for Lord Halford, and she had watched him stride off into the woods as soon as the contest had ended. For being a member of the victorious team, he had seemed strangely out of sorts, so she hurried toward the woods, skirting people as much as she could as she went after him.
She was not prepared for what she saw when she found him. “Oh, Anthony,” she whispered, dropping to her knees next to him. “Oh, my dear.”
He turned his face away from her. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “Leave me be.”
She left, but only so she could hurry back to the lake and wet her handkerchief. The crowd had already begun to disperse, the men anxious to get clean and dry and the women wanting to get their families ready for the evening’s festivities. Amelia was relieved. It meant Lord Halford might be able to make his way back to the house in privacy.
She returned to him, careful not to draw attention to herself and therefore inadvertently to him in his weakened state. “Here,” she said, dropping next to him again and handing him the handkerchief. “Are you ill? Can I assist you back to the house?”
“No!” he said with an intensity that set her back on her heels. He dropped his head. “No, Miss Clarke, but I thank you.” He wiped his mouth with the damp cloth and grimaced. “I will be fine. I only need a few minutes alone.”
“I do not intend to leave you here until I have satisfied myself that you are well enough to manage on your own. Let me take that now.”
He carefully folded the soiled handkerchief but didn’t give it to her. “I shall have it laundered first.”
“Give it over.” She thrust her hand at him, palm up, in a manner that would brook no nonsense. She had taken care of her ailing father and had a good idea of the struggle the male ego underwent at such times. Her strategy worked; he scowled and handed it to her. “Thank you,” she said. “Now hold still.”
She proceeded to dab at the mud on his face. Despite a pale cast to his tanned skin, the muddy stubble on his jawline gave him a rough and implacable look. Amelia could picture him on the hills of Spain wearing this expression.
He pulled away from her touch. “It stinks here,” he said. He rose, and she rose with him, and they walked a few feet away from where they had been. She spied a fallen log and gestured to it.
He let out a huge sigh as he sat and then remained silent for several minutes, his eyes closed. Amelia sat patiently beside him.
“Oh, Amelia, what must you think?” he said.
It was the first time he had called her Amelia since they had kissed. “I think that you might be in need, my lord,” she said gently. “Are you ill?”
“Only in my soul. The tug-of-war conjured bad memories, ’tis all.”
Bad memories, indeed, if this was the result. Lord Halford was a man of strong character, but he had been brought to his knees today. Amelia folded her hands in her lap, offering no words in return, only hoping her quiet presence could be a comfort to him.
They sat this way for several minutes, and then he opened his eyes and took one of her hands in his muddy one. “No more ‘my lord’ now, if you please. I should think that after this you should call me Anthony. You did when you first spied me here.”
Had she? Goodness, in her alarm at his physical state, she had indeed. “Perhaps,” she said, “but only if we are alone. It would be improper for you to be seen as too familiar with your mother’s paid companion, you know.” There was no reason to give him permission to use her Christian name; he had already chosen to, obviously.
“That is not what one would expect to hear from someone who spoke so eloquently about women’s education last evening.”
“About that—”
“It was poorly done of me,” he said, interrupting her. “I know it. Anything you have to say I will hear and humbly beg your pardon. And yet”—there was a slight twinkle in his eye now, thank goodness, not the utter bleakness she had seen before—“I was proud of how you handled yourself and what you said on the matter.”
“Were you?”
“You were brilliant, my dear Amelia, and certain individuals needed to be put in their place. The Duke of Marwood is a bore, and I should like to thrash him for what he said to you, let alone what he has done to his own daughter. The poor girl has no spirit left. He treats his cattle better than he does his own child.”
Hearing him speak about Lady Elizabeth was difficult for Amelia, but he was hurting, so she did her best to ignore it. “Your own sister isn’t lacking in education.”
“Of course she isn’t. Ashworth may be traditional in many ways—too many to suit me at present—but he was quite forward thinking in his views about his womenfolk. I am sure my mother had a great deal to do with that. Louisa spent part of the day with Alex and me and the tutor and part of the day with her governess. Quite unheard of at the time. She actually did better in Greek and Latin than either of us, although we surpassed her when we went off to school. She is also good with numbers.”
“Did you learn to do needlework, then?” she said, daring to tease. His complexion wasn’t nearly as chalky as it had been, and the shadows in his eyes had lessened somewhat.
“Ashworth was not quite that radical, thank goodness.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward before settling back into its bleak line. He sighed deeply, then tipped his head back and closed his eyes again. “War is the very devil, Amelia.”
She still did not know what had caused his sudden sickness, but now was not the time for questions. “I cannot imagine it, I confess.”
“I would never wish you to. There are too many despicable acts in war. The very goodness of men is tried in a crucible of rage and death, and many fail terribly.”
“But surely there is honor too.”
“It is difficult to remember one’s honor when hell is seething all around.”
She pondered his remark and the remorse she could hear in his w
ords. Had he failed in some horrible way in Spain? He was so inherently good, she had difficulty imagining he could have done something heinous, as he seemed to imply.
He straightened, appearing to collect himself, and brushed a bit of dried mud from the back of her hand. “I have gotten dirt on you now,” he said, observing muddy patches on her skirt. “I am sorry for that.”
“Do not be,” she assured him. “I am not. Your well-being is worth much more to me than a pristine appearance.”
“Is it?” He looked deeply into her eyes, searching.
She was afraid of what he’d see there but was unable to hide it. “Yes. I confess I care about you, Lord Halford—”
“Anthony,” he softly corrected.
“Anthony.” There, she had dared to say it. “But you needn’t concern yourself about that. I only wanted to help.”
He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “Ah, Amelia. I am disgusting at present, my dear, and I must be grateful for it. Otherwise, I am afraid I would press my advantage, and that would be unfair to us both.”
“Yes,” she said.
He rose to his feet. “I believe I am sufficiently recovered now.” He held out his hand for her and assisted her to her feet. She was sorry this private time with him was at an end. “I am in your debt, my dear. May I escort you back to the house?”
“I think not.” It would only start tongues wagging, and neither of them would benefit from that. “If you are truly well enough, I will leave now. You may wish to clean yourself in the lake before returning.”
“Excellent advice,” he said. “Very well. Adieu, then, Amelia.”
“Good-bye, Anthony.”
She let his name roll sweetly over her tongue as she said it, and as she made her way through the woods and back to the house, she wondered if it would be the last time she would say it to him.
* * *
After a dinner from which Amelia had been noticeably absent, Anthony made his way to the entrance of the ballroom in anticipation of greeting the guests as they arrived.
Much to his surprise, his father, in formal dress, was seated in a chair, a cane resting against it, his mother standing nearby.
“I fully intend to greet my own guests on this occasion,” Ashworth said to Anthony, reading his expression accurately.
“I tried to talk him out of it,” his mother said, scowling at her husband. “He is not having one of his better days, but he is so stubborn as to be nonsensical. He wanted to attend the dinner, and I put my foot down at that.”
“The woman is a terror,” Ashworth said, patting her hand.
His father’s health had improved significantly in the time since Anthony had returned home, but he was in no way strong enough to exert himself in such a manner, especially if he had not been well today. “I am happy to do the honors, Father,” he said.
“No such thing,” Ashworth said. “I missed out on the festivities earlier, and I intend to greet our guests and introduce them to the new Earl of Halford, returned to us so recently from the dead.” He coughed and cleared his throat. “Now, enough of this. I will use my cane, and should I require it, this chair will remain at the ready.”
“You will be prudent though, Ashworth?” the marchioness asked. “I could not abide it were I to lose you.”
“Hush, woman,” he said. “I did not marry a watering pot, and for good reason. After I greet the guests, I will return to my room and rest, as instructed. You may join me there after the ball and then cry all you wish.”
“Foolish man,” she said. “I could throttle you at times.” He chuckled as she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, something Anthony was not sure he had ever observed either of them do before. It was startling, actually, but rather more pleasant to observe than he would have thought.
“Halford,” his father said when the marchioness left to attend to some final details in the ballroom. “I would speak with you.”
“Yes, Father?” Anthony said.
“Marwood wants an announcement made this evening, and you know my own wishes on the issue of matrimony. The work is already done, and Lady Elizabeth has been given certain expectations regarding marriage to Ashworth’s heir, as you already know. I need to know if you have come up to scratch yet.”
Anthony should have anticipated this. “I assure you I intend to do my duty as expeditiously as possible,” he said, “but I have not had an opportunity to speak to Lady Elizabeth privately. She deserves better treatment than to rush things in such a manner. I am afraid Marwood must wait.”
“And yet, Marwood wants the deed done even more swiftly than I and thinks the ball the perfect place to make the announcement. I confess I cannot entirely disagree with his reasoning.” He sighed gustily and shifted a bit in the chair. “Although I suppose your argument makes sense too. Very well, but see to speaking with Lady Elizabeth soon, do you hear?”
“I do. Thank you for understanding, Father,” Anthony said.
“Don’t thank me. Just see you get the business taken care of. Marriage and producing heirs is your primary responsibility as far as I am concerned.”
“In that order, I presume,” Anthony said.
“Don’t be impertinent,” Ashworth growled, then chuckled again. “Of course in that order. I want heirs, not just more grandchildren, fond as I am of the first two.”
“All is in order,” Lady Ashworth said upon returning to their side. “Oh, it is so exciting to be hosting a ball at Ashworth Park again! What did I miss?”
“Not a thing,” Anthony said.
“I doubt that, considering to whom I am speaking. Now, smile, both of you. The guests are arriving,” she said. “Ah, Sir Frederick, Lady Putnam, as you can see, Lord Ashworth is here to greet you this evening. Is not that wonderful? And your lovely daughters are behind you, I see. Allow me to present them to my husband, the Marquess of Ashworth.”
From the narrowed, calculating look in Lady Putnam’s eyes, Anthony was almost certain she’d overheard the last bit of his exchange with his father, specifically the part about marrying and producing heirs. What could possibly be more foreboding than that?
It was time for the ball to officially begin. Heaven help him.
* * *
The ball had begun, but Amelia was not ready. Knowing she would be pressed for time, she had asked for a dinner tray to be sent up to her room.
She had arrived at Ashworth Park with two worn day dresses and an evening dress that was also suitable for church. Lady Ashworth had generously provided her with an expanded wardrobe, which included two evening gowns. They were modest, certainly not the first stare of fashion, but well suited to a lady’s companion. She had worn the light green muslin at dinner last evening.
Tonight she was wearing the plum-colored gown, the more elegant of the two. It was made of silk rather than muslin and set off Amelia’s auburn hair and green eyes nicely. Lady Ashworth had insisted on the fabric when she’d seen it at the modiste’s, and the resulting gown was Amelia’s favorite. She had worn it only once before and was excited to have another opportunity. She wanted to look her best tonight of all nights and was feeling both nervous and excited to be at her first formal ball.
Lady Elizabeth and Harriet and Charlotte Putnam, along with other young ladies from the surrounding area, would be dressed in their finest, and Amelia wanted to feel at her best around them. A small part of her also hoped Anthony would view her in a flattering light; she did have some feminine pride, after all.
On her dressing table sat her small treasure box; she’d left it out after adding her third-prize ribbon from the three-legged race to its contents. She moved to the box and opened it again. Her mother’s brooch caught the light and gleamed. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, gold with colored gemstones set in unique, ornate patterns. Tonight was a special occasion, Amelia thought, and the brooch would add a festive touch to
her otherwise unadorned gown. She removed it from the box and put the box away.
Her mother’s brooch. She tenderly ran her fingers over it. It was an exceptional piece—surprising considering her father had sold anything of value they’d had in order to help the poor of their parish and had done so with her mother’s full consent. Amelia was grateful this piece had been spared to become a special memento.
Her father had not given it to her until the very end; he had waited intentionally, he’d told her, as he had suspected Amelia would have sold it for medicines otherwise. “A waste of resources on a dying man,” he had told her at the time. Amelia had wept.
She brushed aside a tear now and tried to pin the brooch to her gown. It would not show at its best against the deep plum color of her dress, but Amelia didn’t mind as long as it kept her parents’ memory near her heart for the evening. When she could not pin the brooch on with ease, she examined it further and discovered the clasp needed repair.
Disappointed, she carefully returned the brooch to her box of treasures. As much as she longed to wear it on this special occasion, she did not want to chance losing it in the crowd of people at the ball. She would be devastated if that happened.
She pulled on her evening gloves, slipped the loop of her fan over her wrist, and descended the staircase.
Lady Ashworth and Anthony were near the entrance of the ballroom, greeting everyone in turn. As Amelia drew closer, she could see that Lord Ashworth was with them as well. He was seated in a chair and still looked thin and pale but better than he had when she had seen him last. Amelia had not spent much time in his room keeping company with Lady Ashworth lately since she had been busy preparing for the fete. The marquess’s health was obviously improving, and Amelia’s heart gladdened at the sight of him.
“Miss Clarke, how very fine you look this evening,” Lord Ashworth said.
She curtsied deeply before him. “Thank you, my lord. I am pleased to see you looking so well.”
