by Shana Galen
His footsteps faded, and after a moment, Nash heard the door open and close.
Nash sighed and fell back into the grass, the blades scratchy against his back and neck. Sometimes he thought he did want to fight, but most of the time fighting was such hard work. And Nash was tired. He wanted to sleep and never wake up. Even now he felt the weight of his Gribeauval pistol in his pocket. Rowden hadn’t managed to take that away. If Nash had the stones, he would prime it, cock the hammer, stick it in his mouth, and fire.
That would end his pain and make life easier for everyone. He wouldn’t be a burden to his parents. Colonel Draven wouldn’t need to worry about him. Rowden could go home. It was the easy way out, and Nash was not too proud to admit he was tempted to take the easy way. The last two years had been nothing but uphill and the summit was still not within reach.
He felt inside his pocket, rubbing his thumb over the filigree on the gunstock. He wondered if it needed polishing.
The grass crunched again, and Nash froze. Was Rowden coming back or—no. The grass was crunching from before him, not behind. Slowly he withdrew his pistol from his pocket then sat and aimed it in the direction of the sound. He was at a distinct disadvantage as he couldn’t really even see shapes in the sunlight. But he could sense a presence, and he trained the pistol toward it.
“Would you mind not pointing that at me?” said a female voice. It took him only an instant to place it as Miss Howard’s. Had he fallen asleep? Was he dreaming that she was here?
“I don’t approve of weapons,” Miss Howard went on in a cheerful, mildly lecturing tone. “Diplomacy is far more effective than warfare.”
Nash lowered the pistol and slid it into his pocket. “Words are powerful weapons. I daresay more than one war has begun because of injudicious rhetoric.”
“I can’t argue, but I don’t use words as weapons. You have nothing to fear from me, Mr. Pope.” She moved closer, and he thought she must be standing in front of him now. “Might I sit beside you?”
“You’ll soil your dress,” he said. He wanted her to sit beside him for some reason. And the fact that he wanted it made it dangerous and something to reject.
“It’s an old dress. Quite ugly,” she said and promptly sat beside him. He scooted away from her, needing some distance between them. But it was too late. He caught the scent of pine and smoke and cinnamon and knew they were part of her unique fragrance.
“Why do you wear it then?” he asked. Stupid question. Why was he talking about clothing? He had no idea what he wore himself. He’d pulled clothing at random from the clothespress and did his best to dress himself. He’d gotten pretty good at it, but he doubted he looked presentable.
“I’m poor and don’t have many others.”
Her response made him forget whatever retort he had planned. No one discussed how poor they were. It wasn’t done.
“I...”
“You needn’t feel sorry for me,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. Nash jumped at the contact. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him casually or without violence. Her hand was small and light, but he pulled his arm away as though she’d burned him.
“My parents are missionaries and they gave all they had to the parish church,” she went on, not sounding offended by his rejection of her touch. In the meantime, Nash wished she would touch him again. If she did it again, he wouldn’t pull away.
“There were four of us children, and we never had enough to eat or new clothing to wear, but my parents took care of the church before their own.”
Nash would have expected some bitterness in her voice, but she spoke matter-of-factly and without rancor. In fact, she sounded almost bemused. As though growing up in poverty was entertaining and watching her parents give away all their worldly goods a diversion.
“Is your family living in Milcroft?” he asked, thinking he would need to have a word with the vicar. This family was obviously being taken advantage of. It did cross his mind that there was no reason he should care as this was not his concern or his problem, but it bothered him, nonetheless.
“Oh no.” He could picture her waving her hand to dismiss the very notion. “This was in London. And Marrakesh. Constantinople and Rome and Cairo.”
“You’ve traveled the world.”
“You could put it that way. My parents went wherever the heathens might be.”
“Are there many heathens in Rome?”
“The Catholics,” she whispered conspiratorially then laughed. She had a laugh like a bell. Not one of those small dainty bells at the end of a pull that summoned servants, but a large booming church bell that rang out in a large city.
He almost smiled in response. Instead, he waited until her laughter died down. “But you’ve come to Milcroft to reform the heathens here. Presumably, you mean to start with me.”
“Is that what you think?” she asked, still sounding amused. “That someone would travel all the way from Cairo to Milcroft because Mr. Pope needed to find religion?”
When she put it that way, it did sound rather self-absorbed. “Then why are you here?” he asked, losing patience.
“Here in Milcroft or here in front of your house?”
“Both. Either.” He shook his head. “Yes.”
“I am in Milcroft because my parents left me behind while they travel to the Far East to join another missionary group. I have been entrusted to the care of Mr. Higginbotham while they are away, though at three and twenty I hardly think I need a guardian. Still, after the incident in Cairo I suppose they don’t trust me.”
This was a lot to take in, and Nash was trying to sort his questions. Unfortunately, the first that came to mind was the least important. “Who is Mr. Higginbotham?”
She laughed then went quiet. “Oh, but you really do not know. My goodness! You are a heathen. Mr. Higginbotham is the vicar of Milcroft. Don’t you ever attend church?”
“No. You mustn’t have been here long if you don’t know that.”
“Only about six weeks. Or perhaps eight weeks. Time seems particularly slow in this part of the world.”
Nash could not argue with that. There were times he thought a week had passed and it would only have been two days.
“And why are you in front of my house?” he asked, this being the question he’d wanted to ask before. She was not, apparently, wrong about him being self-centered.
“I wanted to apologize.”
“For?” He could think of any number of things she might apologize for, but he wondered what she thought worthy of regret. She had been trespassing on his land. She had been singing a bawdy tune. She had pulled him down on top of her. Though he hadn’t minded that last part so much.
“For offering you assistance.”
Nash waited for her to go on as that statement made no sense whatsoever.
“And so I apologize, but you see, I didn’t realize.”
“You didn’t realize.”
“Yes. I saw you were stuck in the mud and offered you assistance, but I didn’t realize you were blind.”
The word blind shot through him like a lance. He hated it. Hated to be reminded of his defect. But the blow was tempered by his genuine confusion. “Wouldn’t you be more likely to offer a blind man assistance?”
“Me? Oh, no. Definitely not. I never offer to help the blind.”
Nash wasn’t certain he had heard her correctly. “You don’t offer to help the blind?”
“Never. I don’t help the lame either. Or the deaf and dumb. I simply won’t do it.”
He must have stared at her with open-mouthed bewilderment because she spoke again. “You seem confused.”
“You are a confusing person.”
“Because I don’t help the crippled?”
“Yes.”
“But surely you understand why I won’t lend assistance.”
“I can’t claim to understand, no. It seems exactly the sort of thing the child of missionaries would do.”
“Oh, it is, but I hope
you don’t consider me a typical child of missionaries.”
He did not consider her a typical human being. She was odd. Very odd, but in an almost endearing way. “I will not make that mistake again.”
“And I will not make the mistake of offering you assistance again.”
He supposed that was what he wanted. He hadn’t asked for her assistance in the garden and had even rejected it. “Are you saying that you did not realize I was partly blind the other day?”
“Have you not been paying attention? That is my whole point.”
“I have been paying attention,” he said. He had the low throb in his brain to prove it. “But you might explain it again.”
“Of course.” She sounded as though she were speaking to a small child. As though what she said made perfect sense rather than being absolutely backward and inside-out. “It’s very simple, really. Those who are blind or deaf or crippled want to be treated with the same dignity as everyone else. You told me in the garden that you did not need assistance. You wanted to extricate yourself from that mud alone. Had I known you were blind, I would have left you to it.”
“You offered assistance because you thought I had perfect vision.”
“Exactly. I thought you were just being a typical man and refusing help out of stupidity.”
Nash all but choked at that statement.
“But it turns out you were just being determined. I have been scolded by enough one-legged beggars to know that they would rather do it on their own. It’s a point of pride. To offer assistance would be to imply I thought you were not competent. I did not mean to make you feel so.”
“That’s certainly an...interesting way of thinking about the world.”
“I shall take that as a compliment.” She sounded satisfied with herself, and Nash felt even more confused by her. Why was she sitting here speaking to him? He’d threatened to have her arrested for trespassing. He’d pointed a pistol at her. And yet she sat beside him chattering as though these were the most normal things in the world.
“I suppose you have not wanted to ask anyone for help with your house,” she said after a moment. He could imagine she was looking at Wentmore. He did not know what she looked like and even the brief feel of her beneath him in the informal garden hadn’t given him much more than a vague impression of woman.
“No,” he said. He hadn’t expected the vehemence in his voice.
She laid a hand on his arm again. “I was not about to offer assistance. I told you, I will not do that again.”
He did not pull his arm away from her touch this time. He was too busy thinking that perhaps there had been something to her earlier gibberish about never helping the blind or crippled. He was easily offended at even the idea that someone might think he could not take care of his own affairs.
“I imagine it was once an enchanting home. Not too manicured but just wild enough to provide fodder for the imagination. Do you have brothers and sisters?” she asked.
“Of course.” Why was he answering her? Why did he not tell her to go away?
Why was her hand still on his coat sleeve?
“Did you run about playing at being Guinevere, Launcelot, and Merlin? When my sister and I had to stir a large pot at the hearth, we would always pretend we were Merlin and that was our cauldron. We’d toss in a spice and say a spell.”
Nash couldn’t ever remember playing any games like that. He vaguely remembered a set of toy soldiers. “I think we played War. Since I am the youngest of my brothers, I always had to be the French.”
She patted his arm and removed her hand. Immediately, he wanted to tug it back again. “That is too bad. But then I suppose you could enact a dramatic death scene on the field at Agincourt. Lots of moaning and groaning and spilling a bladder of sheep’s blood at just the right moment.”
Who the devil was this woman? What sort of children carried around sheep’s blood to enact death scenes?
“Quite.”
“Well,” she said, and he could hear in her voice she was preparing to leave. “I suppose I should return to the vicarage before Mr. Higginbotham notices I’ve gone. There is probably some chore or other I was tasked with this morning which I’ve clearly forgotten and which he will waste no time in asking if I’ve completed.”
Nash wondered what sort of chores she was required to complete. He wondered if she resented her parents leaving her with Higginbotham, and if he was a relative or a complete stranger. But she was leaving, and Nash would not ask her to stay. And he certainly would not ask when she would come back again.
He started to rise to his feet. “Good—”
“Shh!” Stiffening suddenly, she clutched his arm and squeezed it tightly. “Do not move,” she whispered. “Do not speak.”
Four
Pru thought she must have allowed her imagination to run wild again. When she’d been a child, her parents had chastised her for that more times than she could count. But then she had never seen things that were not there before. She had imagined a bump in the night was a spirit or sparks from a fire were fairies dancing, but she had never imagined a peacock.
She closed her eyes and opened them again. The bird was still there. Its majestic tail feathers were lying flat and out of sight in the hedgerows from whence it had emerged, but she would have recognized that bright blue breast anywhere. She had seen peacocks in Constantinople and Cairo. Never had she expected to see one in Milcroft.
“What is it?” Mr. Pope asked, not even bothering to lower his voice.
The peacock jumped at the sudden sound and then turned and melted back into the overgrown shrubbery. She turned to scold Pope and noticed he had drawn his pistol again. Really, the man was impossible.
“I told you not to move or make a sound. And then you made a sound and moved.” She pushed at the pistol. “You can put that away. He’s gone.”
Mr. Pope lowered the pistol but seemed to hesitate before putting it back into his coat pocket. “What was the danger?” he asked.
“No danger,” she said. “Unless I am going mad.” She said that last bit under her breath, but not quietly enough.
“There was nothing there.” He turned to look at her directly, and for what must have been the dozenth time today, she found it difficult to catch her breath. She knew he could not really see her. Langford had said Pope had some vision left in his right eye, so perhaps he could see something of her, but she still felt as though Mr. Pope saw her much more clearly than other people. For one, he looked at her. Most people looked past her. She was not pretty or even interesting to look at, and most people’s eyes skimmed right over her. A man like Pope would not usually even give her a moment’s attention. It was a bit dizzying to be so close to a man with his looks. He was still pale and thin, but he looked slightly better than he had on Saturday. And even pale and thin, that black hair falling over his forehead and one eye and that beautiful blue eye she could see were arresting. He had thick black eyebrows as well and short black stubble on his jaw. He might be thin, but he was powerful. She had felt the strength of his forearm even under the layers of his coat and shirt.
It would take little more than a few weeks of hearty meals and exercise before he was quite the prime specimen of maleness. She sighed, just imagining it.
“Miss Howard, I do not appreciate your games.”
She frowned. What was he going on about? Oh, yes. The peacock. “I was not playing a game, Mr. Pope. I saw him, but for a moment I doubted what I saw. It’s so rare and unusual. But I closed my eyes and then opened them again, and he was still there.”
“Who?”
“The peacock.”
“The what?”
“The peacock. I saw a peacock standing amongst the shrubberies. His tail feathers were lying down, but he had the blue breast and crown and those long stick legs. And now you must think me completely mad.”
“You’re not mad. I thought all the peacocks were gone.”
“All the peacocks?” she said, jumping to her feet. “T
here are more?”
He rose to his feet as well. “No. Don’t go traipsing about looking for peacocks. No wonder you forget your chores. I said I thought they were all gone.”
“But why were they here? Where did they go? Oh, damn it!” He blinked, and she realized she shouldn’t have cursed. “I mean, drat it. I must take my leave. Now I shall never know about the peacocks.” She would think about that peacock for days. Perhaps someone in Milcroft knew why peacocks were at Wentmore. But then she’d have to explain why she’d gone to Wentmore—again—when she’d been told to stay away.
“You could come back,” Mr. Pope said, seeming almost surprised at his own words.
“I could?”
He shrugged. “If you want.” Clearly, he did not care if he ever met her again.
“If I come back, you will tell me about the peacock?” She was not too proud to admit she wanted the story of the peacock and a chance at another sighting. She wouldn’t mind seeing Mr. Pope again either. He was a strange and all but intoxicating mixture of gruff and genteel. She liked the contrast.
“I might,” he said.
Pru rolled her eyes. Men were so difficult. But two could play at this game. “Then I might come back. Good afternoon, Mr. Pope.” She started away, waving. Of course, he didn’t wave back. He can’t see you, numbskull, she told herself. Still, she walked until she was out of sight of the house then she picked up her skirts and ran.
When she reached the wooden bridge leading into the village, she slowed, stuck her bonnet back onto her head and tied the ribbons under her chin. She pressed a hand to her belly, trying to slow her breathing then made her way toward the vicarage, smiling at the people she saw and trying to look as though she had all the time in the world.
“Oh, there you are!” Mrs. Blimkin said when Pru slid into the kitchen. Mrs. Blinkin stood at a table in the center of the kitchen, copper pots and pans and herbs dangling above her head. She was carefully placing dough into a pie pan. “The vicar was looking for you.”
“Oh?” Pru tried to sound innocent. “Why?”