On a Midnight Clear

by Sandra Sookoo

  “It is doubtful I will come back this time,” he had said, for he’d already played at war for more years than he’d wished. His luck was bound to run out. Sometimes a soldier just knew. “Please live a happy life.”

  She’d wrapped her fingers about the bit of brass. “Be safe all the same,” she’d whispered after arguing about his assumed luck and the location of the cottage.

  Then they’d parted, and fate hadn’t put them back together before the party concluded, but he never forgot her.

  “Not to belabor the point, but you did give me the key to this cottage,” she said, and the dulcet tone of her voice recalled him to the moment.

  “You consider that as good as ownership?”

  “Wouldn’t you?” She shrugged. “Suffice it to say, I needed a respite from London and remembered this place. It allowed me to hide when disappearing became vital.”

  “Because of the boy?” Belatedly, he remembered the lad he’d glimpsed upon entry. Who was he to her?

  “Among other things.” Shadows flooded her eyes, gone with her next blink.

  What the devil did that mean? “However, you made that decision on the presumption that I would die, or at the very least, not return from the war. Which I did.”

  “Yes, but...” The tendons in her throat worked with a hard swallow. She stared in silence at her hands still in her lap.

  As she searched for words, Cecil studied her. Sarah had aged since that night, but the changes time had wrought were only for the better. Her figure wasn’t as slim as it had once been. Now she possessed curves in all the right places, the swell of her bosom and the roundness of her hips only accented the nip of her waist. Experience and secrets she wore about herself like a cloak, and damn it, they made her all the more intriguing.

  What had happened to her since they’d parted? Had she given him any thought over the years, wondered if he’d survived?

  “I don’t begrudge you the sanctuary here in your time of need. However, I own the property—one of the ‘gifts’ given by my father in exchange for my staying away from London, and since injuries sustained in battle prevent me from returning to the field, I intend to occupy this cottage.”

  “Oh, Cecil!” Unexpectedly, she sprang to her feet, tears in her eyes. “I never thought you’d be so cruel.” Then she fled the parlor, and the emphatic tap tap of her bootheels on the stone floor echoed back to his location.

  Bloody hell. How could she know what sort of man he was, of what kind he’d become during this last year? With a stifled moan, he grabbed his cane and heaved himself up from the sofa and then set out after her. Why did women have a penchant for running when emotions came into play?

  Of course, such things were foreign to him. A military man didn’t show emotion if he could help it. They made a man weak and vulnerable, and that could be used against him if he became captured by the enemy. However, since his arse had ended up in various hospitals for the last seven months, he’d known his fair share of emotions. Anger, guilt, despair were all popular visitors in his life even now. He still struggled, but he never let anyone see.

  When Cecil gained a tiny entry hall, he paused. Where had the fool woman gone? Then the scrape of iron against stone reached his ears, and he started forward once more, this time into the large common room he remembered from his childhood. Instead of being decorated in a manly style with antlers on the hearth and animal heads as trophies mounted on the walls, it had taken on more feminine touches.

  Braided rag rugs lay scattered over the floors and added a much-needed splash of color in the otherwise gray room. A brown brocade sofa was perpendicular to the hearth but a comfortable-looking leather chair—a holdover from his father’s era—faced it. A small round table rested nearby at its side while a low, rectangular-shaped table separated the two pieces. Another chair sat on the opposite side, a lady’s chair with a basket of yarn as well as needlepoint supplies waiting. There was even a footstool—complete with a needlepoint-worked cushion—resting before the leather chair. Books lay stacked in neat rows on the mantle. Silver candlesticks dotted the hearth; lanterns rested about the room in strategic places.

  And when he glanced up, a sense of nostalgia swept over him. The wooden beams running across the ceiling that supported the upper story remained, their dark wood a contrast against the whitewashed ceiling. When he slid his gaze to the far corner of the room and rested it on the curving, wooden staircase, he sighed. That feature had been the pride and joy of his mother. She delighted at it, said it lent the cottage a fairy story quality and refused to let his father update the quaint piece.

  With his chest tight from remembrances, Cecil took in the remainder of the room.

  A couple of furs were stretched over the floor in front of the massive hearth at the back wall. There was a fire crackling merrily behind the grate, and that was the source of the wonderful hearty smell he’d caught earlier. He’d bet all his meager savings there was a stew in the iron pot over the fire. And Sarah had just slid two pans of dough inside the hearth near the flames. His stomach rumbled again at the thought of sinking his teeth into fresh bread.

  How long had it been since he’d eaten anything of the type? The sisters in Bath thought fare such as that too harsh on a recovering body.

  When she straightened to her full height and stood contemplating the flames, her shoulders bowed, he bit back a curse. “I want you to know that I didn’t exploit your kindness from that night by taking up residence here,” she said in a soft voice.

  He remained quiet. What was there to say? She’d obviously thought the war would have taken him and set up housekeeping here.

  Sarah slowly turned. She faced him, her eyes clouded with apprehension and worry. One hand was fisted in the fabric of her pinafore apron. The shawl had slipped to the floor, forgotten, at her feet. Did she do all the work about the place herself? Had she not married again after mourning for her husband? Perhaps she loved him still; they hadn’t talked of him that night. “Will you toss me out? Toss us out? At Christmastide?” A tiny waver sounded in her voice, and that tell jabbed at his chest, for he’d heard it one other time, when she’d wished him well before they’d parted.

  Good Lord. He hadn’t expected to grapple with something of such magnitude this day. But there was no guile in her face, no cunning or manipulation. For all intents and purposes, she was a woman beset with anxiety for her future. How well he understood that. “I am too tired for moral conundrums.” As she looked at him with wide eyes and a tight expression, he sighed, feeling more exhausted than his eight and thirty years. “Not immediately, but I will move in just the same.”

  “What?” Worry was swept away in the face of alarm and perhaps panic. She twisted both hands in the apron.

  “It is my house. You are the interloper. And I’m retired, perhaps a bit disenfranchised by many things. I do not wish to argue the point of residency at the moment.” Gripping the head of his cane more tightly, he gave her a half bow. “In the event you wondered, I will take the larger of the two bedchambers abovestairs.” He stepped toward the spiral staircase, but the terror in her expression gave him pause.

  “But I... we... There is no available space for you up there.”

  His limited patience cracked. He was tired after traveling for the last two days. His leg ached from the forced inactivity. His belly twisted in on itself from hunger. And his cottage was occupied by a woman from his past he didn’t know what to do with just now. “Madam, do not provoke me further. I am of no mind to involve the local constabulary at present. Now, do we have an accord?”

  Chapter Four

  Sarah felt at sixes and sevens from not only Cecil’s unexpected appearance, but from his assertion he would stay, regardless that the cottage was already occupied. She gawked at him, struck mute. At least she’d sent Simon outside in lieu of this confrontation. He didn’t need to bear witness to what might be an ugly scene. Then her thoughts spun again. How had these two threads of her life found each other? And if Cecil kn
ew where she was, that meant anyone else could find her too.

  Not that he’d been looking.

  “I... That is to say...” What, exactly, was there to say? She’d taken it upon herself to move into this place and use it for her own devices without his permission, a key pressed into her palm after a wild indiscretion notwithstanding. But he couldn’t stay here. His presence would cause no end of problems to the delicate web she’d woven for herself.

  On the other hand, perhaps she was in the wrong, and she shouldn’t stay either. A conundrum to be sure.

  Yet, if she protested his high-handedness, he would raise hell and call in the authorities. The last thing she needed was scrutiny from the constable. It might lead to other questions, and that might lead to Cecil finding out that he was the boy’s true father prematurely. She would tell him, of course she would, but not just now. Cold fear lanced down her spine. He had every right to demand she give the boy over to him, and that she couldn’t live with. Sarah pressed her lips together to still their trembling as he walked about the common room, examining bits of bric-a-brac or the few paintings on the wall.

  How does the place look to him now?

  She swallowed down the fear as best she could. It was Cecil’s cottage, though, and he seemed like he needed a respite from the world. Already, lines of fatigue framed his mouth and exhaustion clouded those intense eyes. Had the journey to reach this place taxed him too much? What to do? For the first time in a long while, she had absolutely no idea how to conduct herself, and it was odd.

  One glance at the animosity in his face, the abject dislike flashing in his blue eyes when he turned to regard her, and she suppressed the urge to shudder. Was there no warmth in him at all? Did he not remember their one night together with lingering fondness that might extend to this situation? She sucked in a breath, and then another in the attempt to still her rapidly beating heart. Perhaps they could come to a rational compromise once he calmed... if he ever would.

  “I’m not certain...” Words failed her when he once more tried to approach the spiral staircase that had become so dear to her. She trained her gaze on the right side of his face where the series of scars marred his skin. What had the poor man suffered? Her chest tightened. She didn’t need to add to his aggravation by asking questions. When he looked daggers at her and she sliced her focus away, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms, for she’d lost her shawl in her original flight from him upon his arrival. “I’ll wager you know your way around.”

  “That’s the most intelligent thing you’ve uttered since I arrived,” he growled, his hand tight on the head of his cane.

  “I realize the circumstances are not ideal, but you needn’t act like a bull. Such an attitude will not solve the problem.” Injured or not, her usurping his cottage or not, he didn’t need to come the crab with her. The situation was shocking for them both. So much had happened in intervening years since they’d last seen each other, and they were strangers besides. For Simon’s sake, she would offer this man kindness in the face of his ire even if it meant shattering her own placid existence for a time. “Feel free to go upstairs and have a lie down. I shall remove my belongings from the bedchamber when there’s time. Right now, I’m going to prepare my son for the news. If you can manage it, mind the bread and don’t let it burn.”

  Surprise flickered over his face and he paused mid-step. His lips almost curved into a grin, and she was somewhat disappointed. What would he look like when he allowed himself the smile? “The boy is your son?”

  “Yes.” It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt out the truth, but just like when she’d attempted to write to him regarding the news, she couldn’t find the words. Apparently, it wasn’t any easier to do in person.

  His eyes narrowed. “You married again?” Was that interest deep in his gaze due to a personal attachment or had he merely inquired out of politeness and curiosity?

  “No.” Unaccountably, the question hacked through her resolve to remain unaffected by his sudden visit, and before he could ask her anything else, she mumbled an excuse, ran into the entry hall and then was out the door, her heart pounding and confusion settling into her brain. Let the man work out the arithmetic if he wanted to know.

  What is wrong with me? Why was she such a coward about certain parts in her life? There was no shame in bearing a child out of wedlock, at least not for her. Not anymore. The boy had given her the peace she’d sorely needed, and a focus when she’d lacked one.

  She glanced about the garden. Simon wasn’t there. Why did he choose this day to go wandering off? Already the shadows of night were gathering, for winter days were short, and stupidly she’d gone off without her shawl. The cool breeze bit through her wool dress and apron. “Simon?”

  A quick search around the perimeter of the cottage didn’t reveal her son. Worry squeezed her chest. Too early to panic, for the boy often chased down rabbits and other animals if he spied them in the woods, and if he’d cleared the tree line, he would be easy to spot in the open countryside. Still, she wished he didn’t have the penchant for exploration.

  If she ever lost him...

  Increasing her pace, Sarah let herself through the garden gate and began the walk down the rutty, muddy lane. She inwardly cringed when she thought about the state of her boots or hem... and Simon’s person once she found him. A bath was certainly in the offing for the child, but then, when wasn’t it? Little boys seemed to collect dirt like a magnet.

  Eventually, she found him at the end of the lane, just inside the gate and sitting atop a battered, leather-bound trunk that she guessed was Cecil’s. Her chest tightened. No doubt all his worldly possessions were in that piece of luggage, and that meant his presence in her life was all too real.

  Shoving those thoughts aside, she rested her gaze on Simon. “You shouldn’t have wandered away so far.”

  “I wanted to walk a bit.” He shrugged as if that explained his absence. “Then I found this trunk.” He rapped his knuckles on the piece where he’d alighted. “It is quite mysterious.”

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “It’s not your concern.”

  Simon cocked his head and regarded her with a somber expression. “Mama, who is that man in our house?”

  Who indeed? Was he even the same man that she’d known once upon a time? “Captain Stapleton. He is... ah...” She swallowed—hard. Another lie tripped off her tongue. “He is here for a visit.”

  “Why? Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Not exactly.” Memories of that one, glorious night bubbled into her brain and she was helpless against the tide.

  The scent of melting candle wax assailed her nostrils and she swore she felt the heat of so many bodies pressed in the ballroom. She’d met the captain’s gaze from across the floor, almost as if she’d not seen the couples twirling and moving over the polished parquet. The bright lake blue of his gaze had speared her, intrigued her, and when she’d given him a smile as an invitation, he came toward her despite the dancers he was obliged to maneuver around, for he moved directly across the dance floor in that commanding way he had.

  “I cannot recall the last time I saw such a beauty while on leave,” he’d murmured the second he reached her side.

  Sarah had cooled her flaming cheeks with a movement of her fan, for the captain was quite handsome, and would be so even without the scarlet uniform with the brass buttons winking in the light. He was just the right height that she didn’t have to tilt her head back exceedingly far merely to stare into his eyes. “And you are full of gammon tonight, Captain.” But she’d been pleased nonetheless that he’d noticed her appearance. She’d taken great care that evening to look her best, for it had been the first event she’d attended since the death of her husband seven months’ prior. The crimson brocade gown set off her skin and hair to advantage.

  His eyes had twinkled with mirth and a touch of wicked intent that left her gasping. “Is your dance card full, Mrs. Presley, for I would very much like to claim a set with y
ou.” His baritone whisper had sent thrills down her spine that she could still feel to this day.

  She’d held up her arm so he could see the tiny card that dangled from her gloved wrist by a ribbon. “I am afraid I’m spoken for all night.”

  A wide grin curved his sensual lips and she’d become enamored with his mouth. “Then allow me to rectify the situation.” Taking up the equally tiny pencil attached to the card, he slashed out the names on a few of the lines. Afterward, he scribbled in his own name in their place. With a speaking glance, he released both card and pencil.

  When Sarah had peered at what he’d done, she laughed. “You have claimed all the waltzes.” How deliciously scandalous of him.

  “They are the only dances that matter.”

  “How very high-handed of you.”

  “At times a solider knows what he wants.” He’d scooped up her hand and pressed her fingers to his lips, lingering more than a few seconds longer than proper as he held her gaze. “I look forward to claiming the first one, and of having you in my arms for more than mere waltzes.”

  And he’d been good on his promise, for after the second set they’d shared, after the dinner where they’d flirted outrageously with each other as if time only existed in that one night, he’d whisked her upstairs, and she’d willfully gone.

  Sarah hadn’t been with another man since that night. Bearing her son notwithstanding, she’d never entertained the thought of being courted by anyone though a few of the village men had tried. She’d also not wished for Simon to know another as his father. It hadn’t felt right, so she’d grown adept at deflecting potential romance and put forth the tale that she was still hopelessly in love with her deceased husband.

  But the memories she’d made with Cecil had remained, and they’d seen her through the periods of loneliness she’d sometimes experienced over the years.

  “Mama?” The plaintive note in Simon’s voice brought her back to the present.