by L G Rollins
“How is he?” Hugh asked.
“The same,” Martha said, then turned her back toward the duke, choosing instead to focus on the dress in her hands.
She heard him move up closer, then around so that he was beside her instead of behind. “I am sorry he isn’t better.”
“You of all people shouldn’t be sorry,” she said, not bothering to keep the bite out of her tone. “You’ve helped us, and I am grateful.”
“Why are you suddenly so formal?”
Martha glared up at him.
He looked down at her, taking in her eyes and the tight set of her mouth. After a moment he spoke, “It appears I ought to apologize.”
“So you can understand wordless expressions, not just give them.”
“Touché.”
Martha turned away and began fiddling with the sleeves of one of the costumes. Anything to distract her from acknowledging that her anger was quickly dwindling.
Hugh slipped a hand over hers. “Martha.”
It was said so softly, with so much care, that she couldn’t help but look back up at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have stayed silent in the corridor the other day. You were only trying to defend me and keep the conversation from the care you’re providing your family. Which, by the way, I find a very noble and attractive act.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Do you?”
“Certainly.”
Blast her fickle anger. With him looking at her like he was, she simply couldn’t stay upset. Of course, time had changed her opinion on the incident as well. “I don’t think I realized before how hard it truly is for you to speak in front of others.”
“From the time I was born, it’s been hard for me.”
“The problem isn’t that you stutter,” Martha said. “It’s that other people aren’t big enough to look past it.”
He smiled. It was small, only a slight tick of his lips, but she found it impossible to look away. Blinking, Martha spoke on, if only to distract herself. “I suppose since you spoke so freely with me, I assumed you did as much with all your friends.” She knew better now.
His hand came up, cupping her face gently. Her breath caught at the touch. “I speak more freely with you because you are different from any other person I’ve ever known.”
“You mean you haven’t met any other ladies who’ve taken up working as a maid for the vicar just to put food on the table?”
“Not a single one.”
Was it just her, or was he leaning in closer? Or perhaps it was she who was leaning in?
“Shocking,” she whispered. “One would think, as a duke, you would have met all sorts of interesting people.”
“I think I could meet every lady of the ton”—his arm slipped around her waist, pulling her still closer—“and never would I find anyone else—quite like you.”
He smelled of sandalwood soap. Her hand snaked up his arm, almost unbidden.
But the sound of feet coming down the corridor stopped her. Hugh moved away just as Peter bounced into the room.
“Anne’s coming,” Peter said. “She said she needed to gather thread and needles first, but then she’ll be right up. She said she can do as much sewing as you need, too.”
Martha nodded her understanding—she didn’t trust herself to speak just now.
“Sewing?” Hugh asked.
It was hard to tell from that single word if his world had been as upended by their nearness as hers had been.
Dared she even hope?
“Yes,” she said, pushing past the heat still filling her, trying to sound normal. “We are putting on a mummers’ play.”
“I’m St. George!” Peter said.
Hugh looked dutifully impressed.
“And Grandfather will be the doctor,” Peter continued. “Tim will be sad he won’t be joining in, but Martha said he can be the dragon next year.”
“And who will your sister be?”
He’d spoken more than one word? Now it was Martha’s turn to be impressed. She shot Hugh a quick rise of an eyebrow. He only gave her an equally short shrug and waved it off.
“Yeah,” Peter said, coming up closer to her. “Who are you going to be?”
“What if I’m Slasher?” Martha said with a playful grin.
“Oh!” Peter’s eyes grew wide. “Then I could kill you before I slay the dragon!” He stepped back then thrust his hand forward as though spearing her with a sword.
Martha placed a hand over her stomach—the spot the short boy’s sword would have gone through her—and feigned a swoon. If she wasn’t mistaken, Hugh chuckled. It wasn’t as full as his laugh had been when she joked about his surname not scaring her off. Still, it was every bit as deep and warm.
“But,” Peter asked, standing up straight once more, his nose wrinkling. “You’d have to dress like a boy.”
“Yes,” Martha said, “but it isn’t terribly unheard of for women to play the parts of men, at least not in a mummers’ play.” Especially those women who desperately needed the extra money during the coldest days of the year. In addition, a costume that would hide her identity would be a boon.
Peter unexpectedly turned toward Hugh. “Who will you be?”
“Oh,” Martha said, taking Peter by the shoulder and pulling him closer to her. “His Grace is quite above anything like a mummers’ play.” After all, if there was anyone in the area who didn’t need a little extra money during the winter, it would be him.
Peter, however, only seemed to ignore her. “You could be the dragon. Then you could kill me. And then I could kill you, too! But don’t worry; Grandfather will bring you back to life, just like he does me.”
“Will I have to swear my—fealty to you after he brings me back?” Hugh asked.
Though Martha had caught Hugh’s brief pause in the middle, he had done a remarkably good job of hiding it.
Peter pursed his lips. “Of course. That’s the whole point.” Martha doubted Peter had noticed the hesitancy at all. What would it take to convince Hugh that he didn’t need to hide anymore?
Hugh nodded his understanding.
Actually, now that Martha thought about it, Hugh would make a most intimidating and believable dragon. She didn’t know if she dared ask him, but he hadn’t balked at the idea so far.
“The dragon doesn’t speak hardly at all,” she said.
“Except for pledging fealty,” Hugh said.
“Yes, except that part.”
Peter pipped in. “But you could growl and roar all you want. And everyone always loves the dragon, no matter he doesn’t say much.”
Dear Peter, thinking that Hugh would turn down the position because of it not having enough lines. She rubbed his arm even while speaking to Hugh.
“What do you say? We do need a dragon.”
Hugh looked from her to Peter, then back again. “Very well. I’ll do it.”
Chapter Seventeen
Martha slipped out into the winter morning, softly shutting the church door. Her hands were not as sore as they had been those first few weeks, but they were still a bit chapped from that morning’s washing of the draperies. Staying up until well past midnight altering costumes hadn’t helped either. She tucked her hands deeper into the pockets of her pelisse. Blessedly, Stonewell Castle was not a far walk from the church house. It was even closer than her family’s rented rooms.
Still, Martha hurried. It was a bitterly cold morning. Perhaps when she arrived back at the castle, she would check on Tim, and, so long as Peter didn’t mind staying with his brother a bit longer, she could go back to bed for a bit. Warm blankets and soft pillows sounded heavenly at the moment. Or maybe she’d ask for a hot bath to be drawn for her. Gracious, but that sounded even better.
Snow crunched behind her. Martha pulled to a stop and turned around. Lord Comerford stood directly behind her on the path.
All pleasure she had been feeling in anticipation of things she would do abruptly evaporated.
“
Lord Comerford,” she said with a curtsy. Drat. She had been so careful to come and go without being seen. Now, she’d allowed herself to become distracted with thoughts of beds and baths, and she was likely sunk.
“A bit cold this morning for a constitutional,” he said, eying her closely.
“I wished to visit my parents’ graves.” It wasn’t a complete lie; when she had first reached the church house that morning, she had known a sudden desire to see the grave and had stopped by for a few minutes.
“Ah, yes. Your dear parents are no longer with you, are they? My condolences.”
“Thank you, sir.” Martha turned a bit. “If you will excuse me, I wish to return to the house. It is, as you said, a very cold morning.”
She took several quick steps before Lord Comerford stopped her by calling after her. “What I cannot understand is why you wanted to see their graves this morning, when it is so cold, and Sunday is only a couple days off. Why not wait until then? That is, unless you were there to visit someone else as well.”
Why couldn’t he go back to ignoring her? She’d been quite pleased with the new arrangement. “I awoke missing my parents this morning, sir, that is all.” Again, not a lie. She awoke every morning missing her parents to some degree or another. A shiver ran through her, one she knew Lord Comerford would easily see. “As I said, I am quite cold and eager to return.”
“There is more than one way to stay warm, Martha.”
“I have not given you permission to use my Christian name, sir.” Her voice didn’t waver, neither did she hesitate. Simply put, she’d had enough. She was exhausted, her hands hurt, and she was worn thin with worry over Tim. Martha turned and faced Lord Comerford fully. “You will leave me alone for if you don’t, I will make your true nature known to every lady at Stonewell Castle. I know how desperately you need to wed.”
His jaw grew tight, and his hand turned to a fist.
She continued on. “Do you truly want to risk losing every option currently open to you?”
“I see.” His words came out slow and taut. “You have the better of me, Miss Cratchit.”
“Then I bid you good morning.” Martha turned her back to the cad and, with head held high, saw herself to Stonewell Castle.
Hugh sat comfortably on a chair in Tim’s room while Anne worked to pin the silver dress up and down and in every which direction to fit it to Peter’s form.
“Do you really think we can make this look like armor?” Peter asked him as he eyed the maid’s work carefully. “I didn’t want to upset Martha, but it still looks like nothing but a dress to me.”
Hugh suppressed a laugh. He hadn’t intended to stay for the fitting, but he’d been looking for Martha and had peeked into Tim’s room. Instead of her, he’d found Peter standing on a stool, looking at himself in the full-length mirror wearing a dress, an expression of utmost concern on his young, boyish face. Peter had informed Hugh that Martha wasn’t yet back from the church house, his voice sounding as distracted and distressed as he appeared.
It was clear Martha had rather a lot going on just now, so Hugh had summoned Anne to begin on this costume, at least.
“I’ve always wanted to be St. George,” Peter continued. “But what if, when I step out, everyone thinks I’m a girl?”
Hugh would have worried the same thing in Peter’s situation. Nonetheless, he was confident that between Anne and Martha, the silver fabric would look quite masculine by tomorrow’s performance.
Anne stood, looked Peter over once, and gave him a nod of satisfaction. With the gatherings taken out and the dress pulled to fit his narrow frame better, it already looked far less feminine. Anne started undoing the buttons up the back, and in only a minute, she had the dress off Peter and had slipped out of the room, the garment in hand.
Peter’s sigh was one of relief—loud and unmistakable. Hugh found himself wanting to laugh again. He never used to do that. Laughing used to be such an oddity for him, but as of late, it had been far more commonplace. Peter stepped down from the stool and hurried over to the trunk at the foot of the bed.
Hugh’s gaze moved to Tim. A bit of guilt churned inside him. He was determined to apologize to the little boy but had yet to find a time when he was awake. Even now, he rested with his back toward the room, his chest rising and falling evenly.
How long could such a small boy remain feverish and still be expected to make a full recovery? Hugh wished he knew.
He also wished he knew what to do about his feelings regarding Martha. How did a gentleman even begin to court a lady? He’d barely managed to keep her friendship since she’d come to stay at Stonewell Castle.
Hugh’s gaze moved from Tim to the window on the far wall. What did one do when one wished to garner the love of a woman? Give flowers? Read poetry? Somehow, after all the hours they’d spent discussing her concerns and troubles, something as trifling as flowers or poetry seemed insincere. Then again, what did he know? Maybe flowers and poetry were exactly what Martha would want.
Peter pressed something papery into Hugh’s hand. “You be the captain, how about.”
Hugh looked down to find a much-loved paper doll in his hand. The soldier’s face was nearly faded away and his clothes looked embarrassingly weathered. Hugh shook his head; poor man, he must have been the laughingstock of his company.
Peter knelt next to Hugh’s chair, soldiers in either of his hands. He gently bounced one up and down as he spoke for the paper doll. “The French have taken the bridge. We have to get it back. What do you say, General?” He bounced the other doll. “We can’t lose that bridge. It’s the best one around! Quick, Captain, what’s your strategy?”
Peter looked up at Hugh, his eyes squinted and his nose wrinkled. Silently, he waited.
Hugh looked from the boy to the soldier in his hand. Peter expected him to come up with something? Gads, how had he even been roped into playing at all? The lad would make a good man of business someday. Then he could rope people into profitable deals and sound decisions all day long. Perhaps he ought to send Peter over to Sir Roberts.
Peter hadn’t looked away. “It’ll be easier if you come down here.”
On the floor? Hugh hadn’t sat on the floor in years . . . well, excepting the time he sat beside Martha in the church house. He hated to disappoint the boy. There weren’t any other children at Stonewell Castle for Peter to play with—well, none who were well enough, thanks to Hugh. Moreover, he could clearly remember what it felt like to play alone, to have to be all the soldiers himself.
Hugh moved off the chair and folded himself onto the floor, one leg bent upward, the other lying flat. He placed his soldier standing up near the other two.
“I say, at-t-tack at dawn.”
Peter slowly lowered his soldiers, his brow deepening. “You don’t talk very well, do you?”
This was why he had played alone as a child. Even as an adult, he wasn’t good enough for paper soldiers. Hugh shook his head in response.
Peter didn’t pull back, didn’t take back the doll. His expression didn’t turn to horror. Instead, he simply stared, seemingly curious.
“Is that why you don’t talk much?”
Hugh nodded again.
“Is your tongue broken or something?”
“Something is.” The many doctors the late duke and duchess had insisted Hugh see had never figured out why he struggled to speak.
“Were you born that way?” Peter asked.
Hugh gave him another nod.
Peter looked down at the soldiers in his hands. “Tim was born like he is, too. He doesn’t walk so well.”
Strange though it was, Hugh didn’t feel Peter was disgusted by him. Though it made sense he wouldn’t be. He was Martha’s brother, after all, and had likely learned at her feet.
“Your soldier doesn’t have to talk if you don’t want him to,” Peter continued. His eyes brightened suddenly. “He could be called the Silent Captain.” But then he slumped once more. “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound as go
od as the Silent Duke.”
Hugh let himself smile at that. “The Silent Duke does—sound intimidating.”
Peter laughed. Hugh’s back stiffened at first, but it was such a boyish, easy sound that Hugh didn’t get the impression the boy was laughing at him, he was merely pleased by what he’d said.
Hugh relaxed. “The captain can t-t-talk. A little.”
Peter scooted a bit closer and picked up his general once more. “We’ll attack at dawn. Have your men ready!”
“What’s this?”
Hugh twisted around, his gaze traveling to the bedchamber door. Martha stood there, still dressed in her pelisse, her cheeks pink from cold.
“We’re taking back the bridge!” Peter cried.
Martha moved over and knelt next to Hugh. “Indeed?”
Hugh lifted his paper soldier and put as much arrogance into his words as he could. “I’m the c-c-captain.”
“We thought about calling him the Silent Captain, but that wasn’t intimidating enough. So he talks instead.”
Martha looked at him with wide eyes.
Hugh only shrugged off her wonder. “If I can’t be intimidating, what’s the point?”
Martha laughed, her surprise apparent. She placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed herself to a stand. The touch was simple and easy, but it brought a much fuller smile to Hugh’s face and left his heart racing. Martha walked over to the far side of the bed, bending down over her brother.
“He’s been sleeping all morning,” Peter said. Then, as Martha moved back their direction, he held out one of his lower-ranked soldiers. “You could play, too.”
“Taking back the bridge won’t be easy,” Hugh added. “We—need every soldier we can get.”
Martha took the paper doll from Peter but didn’t sit back down. “I was thinking of maybe resting for a bit and getting warm again.”
Hugh reached out and took her hand. He wasn’t wearing gloves, though she was. They were thin, however, and he could easily feel the cold he hadn’t noticed when she’d placed her hand on his shoulder. No doubt, that was due to the thick shirt he wore, which was beneath a waistcoat, followed by his likewise thick jacket.