Mrs Milford was not unconscious for long. Within a short time, she moaned softly. Her face was deathly white.
‘Mama!’ repeated Juliana, with urgency. ‘All is well. He is gone!’
Mama’s eyelids fluttered open. ‘Juliana!’ she said weakly. ‘I am so sorry!’
‘Hush, Mama! You are not to blame. It is that man! That overbearing, autocratic monster!’ Mama made a high-pitched keening noise. ‘No, Mama, please be well. You are safe. Listen to me. You are safe!’
The housemaid soon returned with the hartshorn, quickly followed by the footman who had brought a vial of laudanum. Harry opened the hartshorn and wafted the pungent scent under Mama’s nose. It revived her a little. She coughed forcefully, and struggled to sit up. Juliana assisted her, feeling the trembling in her slight body.
Charlotte passed Juliana the laudanum.
‘Mama, here is laudanum. Will you take it?’
Mama reached out a trembling hand and took the glass. She drank a small amount and spluttered as it hit her throat. Her hand shook even more. Juliana took the glass from her.
‘Would you like to stay here, or go to your chamber, Mama?’ Juliana asked gently. There was no response. Her mother’s eyes were closed again.
‘If she wishes to retire, I will carry her, if she permits.’ Harry was all concern. Juliana did not know how she had come to rely on him so much, but in that moment she was again grateful fate had brought him into her life.
‘Thank you, Harry.’ He looked at her and his eyes softened.
Turning back to Mrs Milford, he asked if she would like to be carried to her room and this time she nodded. He lifted her, carefully and gently, his strong arms carrying her as if she was no burden at all. Juliana and Charlotte followed, Charlotte quietly directing the housemaid to fetch a hot brick for Mrs Milford.
Mrs Milford. A name that was likely fabricated, like Juliana’s own. Her mama was not Mrs Milford. Juliana was not Miss Milford. Yet she was certainly not Miss Hunter! The idea disgusted her. Whatever else the General had done—and it galled her to think of the conscience money he had been paying all these years—he had not married Mama, not offered her respectability. So Juliana had no name. She was simply Juliana.
Harry left them as soon as he had deposited Mama on her bed. He squeezed Juliana’s shoulder as he left. Juliana and Charlotte, working quietly and gently, divested Juliana’s mother of her outer garments and made her comfortable under the covers. She barely stirred.
‘Come, Juliana,’ whispered Charlotte. ‘Let her sleep.’
‘She will need me when she wakes.’
‘I will ask one of the maids to sit with her. Susie, perhaps. Your mama likes Susie.’
‘Very well—but I will stay until Susie arrives. And I will tell her she must send for me immediately when Mama wakes.’
‘Of course.’
True to her word, Juliana waited until Susie, the young, shy housemaid, arrived. Charlotte was on her heels. ‘Come now, Juliana. You can do no more here.’
Reluctantly, Juliana left. Mama was sleeping soundly, as the laudanum had taken full effect.
* * *
She did not wake at all during the evening. Juliana, already exhausted from her own lack of sleep and distress, spent the evening in a haze. She responded when spoken to, but her mind was again not functioning. Worry about her mother’s distress, coupled with the knowledge of her status—her lack of status—haunted her. It was all just too much. After checking on her mother, she sought her own bed and fell into grateful oblivion.
* * *
Harry was experiencing similar disorder in his thoughts. He had arranged to meet two friends at his club and kept the engagement. But all through the evening he found himself wishing he was back at home. How was Juliana faring? Was Mrs Milford sleeping peacefully still? What was to be done about their situation, about General Hunter? The conversation they had overheard left little room for misinterpretation. The ‘illegitimate girl’ could be none other than Juliana herself. Yet he could not help hoping for some miracle.
Earlier, he had met with a man he had used before, one who had contacts throughout London. Money had changed hands and the promise of more. The man undertook to find out if General Hunter had, indeed, been sending money to Brussels and to Juliana’s school. He promised his enquiries would be discreet.
Harry frowned. What would he do with the information, when he had it? If it simply confirmed what they all expected, how would that change things? Harry thought no less of Juliana for being illegitimate—after all, she was not to blame for her parents’ sins. He knew Mrs Milford was good, kind and honourable, but her behaviour clearly signified guilt. And Juliana was right about General Hunter—who knew what his character had been twenty-two years ago? Perhaps the birth of Juliana had made the General forswear intimacies with women. The General’s wife might have still been alive when Juliana was born—indeed, it would explain why the General had been unable to marry Juliana’s mother. He shuddered. The entire debacle was a mess.
And my Juliana is in the centre of the storm.
He frowned. My Juliana? When had he begun thinking of her as his Juliana? He shook his head slowly. That way led to disaster. He could not marry, he had nothing to offer a woman—least of all someone as proud, headstrong and passionate as Juliana. She deserved someone who was whole, someone dependable and reliable. Someone who was clean from the taint of evil and cowardice. Not like him. He had never before wished so much that he was like other men—able to love, and to marry, and to claim love for himself.
Yet when he pictured her, his heart swelled. Juliana, defiant and angry with General Hunter, defending her mama like a stubborn ewe protecting its lamb. Juliana, white and anguished as she listened to the Wakelys in the theatre. Juliana, quiet and unnaturally subdued as she tended to her mother today.
Damn it! Someone should look after her! Strong as she was, he knew that Juliana deserved to cry, or rail against her fate, or share her worries about the future. Instead she would try to carry all of it on her own slight shoulders. Charlotte was a good friend to her, he knew, but Charlotte, like Juliana, had grown up in Europe, not England, and could not fully advise her friend on Juliana’s next steps.
As he travelled home, his mind circled around and around the problem. If the worst was true and it became widely known, Juliana and her mother would no longer be welcome by many in society. Almack’s vouchers would be out of the question, and even appearing in a public place would expose them to potential insults. The ton guarded itself fiercely and even those who had fathered or borne illegitimate children themselves would criticise anyone who failed to keep their ‘mistakes’ away from public view. Unfair as it was, everyone knew the rules.
Should Juliana marry, her husband would join her in being exiled from the higher reaches of society. In the Army, making a bad marriage would affect the progress of one’s career, as it would be held up as evidence of a man’s bad judgement.
Juliana, married. His heart stilled briefly. He could not imagine any man being worthy of her—least of all himself. Just for a moment, Harry imagined being the one who would become her husband. What a joy and a privilege that would be!
He pictured himself telling his Major that he was marrying a girl of dubious parentage. Major Cooke would rail at him for stupidity and suggest he bed her instead.
In his head, Harry gave a defiant speech back to the Major, asserting his right to marry whomever he chose, for, of course, a woman like Juliana would be worth any sacrifice.
If he were a different person, if he were free to marry, then he would count it an honour to win the hand of such a woman.
But she needed a better husband than him.
Averting his thoughts from his own inadequacies, his mind turned instead to the meetings he had attended earlier, at the War Department. The news had been troubling. Napoleon was on the move and
his armies were gathering. It looked like war would be upon them again before long. Dark clouds were gathering in Europe and the sense of foreboding he felt had its echo in the troubles of those closest to him.
* * *
As he sipped a last brandy before finding his own bed, he was suddenly, unexpectedly, assailed by old memories. Dust, heat, the smell of blood, death and fear. His stomach felt sick, his hands shook and his heart raced uncontrollably.
No! He thought. Not now! He had not had one of his turns for months. Not now, when he needed to be strong. Breathing slowly and carefully, he sat the glass down, seated himself in the comfortable chair by his bedroom fireplace and tried to avoid thinking about the war. About that day.
Concentrating on his own breath, he slowly drew air into his lungs, noticing how his chest expanded, how the air cooled his throat. Holding his breath for a count of five, he then exhaled as deliberately as he could, gradually emptying his lungs. He closed his eyes and did it all again. And again. Bit by bit, moment by moment, his heart rate returned to normal, his tremors settled and his stomach gradually became stable.
Opening his eyes, he returned to reality. Exhaustion made it difficult to even stand up. Moving slowly and carefully, like an old, old man, he prepared for bed.
Why had this happened now? In the three years since Badajoz, he had worked hard at controlling his weakness, his cowardice. He had managed to conceal it from his senior officers, thank goodness.
Evans knew, of course, and had roused him from nightmares many times in the early weeks and months after the incident. By the time he had come home after the Spanish campaign, Harry had built a careful mask of gaiety to conceal his rotten brokenness. He had built it on memories of his youthful persona—the wit and humour that had carried him from school to Oxford to the purchase of his Army colours. With practice, it had become a way of life.
He climbed wearily into bed, watching the flame on his nightstand candle guttering in the slight draught.
Why now? Why had his demons returned tonight?
General Hunter, who had been there. That was part of it. The other part was Juliana. This he knew, without fully understanding why. She had pierced his armour, that circle of distance he held around himself. Concern for her, combined with the escape and return of Napoleon, threatened his path ahead. Why it had triggered memories of what had gone before, he could not be exactly sure. Was it fear? Perhaps. Or was it his conscience reminding him he should not become close to any woman? He would not want Juliana infected by his poison. She deserved better.
He blew out the candle.
* * *
Juliana woke with a start. Confused for a few seconds, she suddenly heard a faint cry and was instantly wide awake. Mama!
Fumbling for her flint, she eventually succeeded in lighting the candle beside her bed. Without even stopping to grab a robe, she padded quickly in bare feet to her mother’s room.
‘Mama?’
Silence. She approached the bed. Her mother was sleeping soundly, her features relaxed and peaceful. Pausing for a moment, listening to her mother’s even breathing, Juliana shook her head in confusion. Had she imagined it?
There it was again! A faint cry, coming from somewhere else!
Moving quickly, she exited her mother’s room, closing the door carefully behind her. She moved to the centre of the landing and waited. There it was again—an anguished, strangled sound, coming from the room to her right.
In her confusion, she could not quite remember whose chamber it was. She had been told in a long list when Charlotte had showed her around the town house—but that had been an age ago.
Juliana did not hesitate. Someone was in trouble, so she must act. She opened the door, stepped inside and lifted her candle.
It was Harry! And he was clearly in the throes of a nightmare. His hands gripped the sheet, which had been pushed down below chest level. His lean, muscular torso glistened with sweat and his body was shaking. There were tears trickling down the sides of his face.
What should she do? Before the thought was completed she had already taken the three steps needed to reach him. Placing her right hand on his shoulder, she spoke softly.
‘Harry. Harry! Wake up!’
He responded instantly, sitting up dramatically and staring straight ahead. He was clearly confused and not yet quite awake.
Juliana spoke soothingly. ‘Harry, all is well. You are having a nightmare.’
He looked at her unseeing, his eyes wide and unfocused.
‘I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘So sorry!’
Why was he apologising?
‘Harry, wake up. You are at home and all is well.’
This time, he did awaken. ‘Juliana!’ He looked at her directly, his eyes sweeping from her face down to her thin nightgown and back again. ‘What the devil are you doing in my room?’ His voice croaked a little. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair.
‘You were having a nightmare. I thought it was Mama.’ She studied his expression. Why was he so angry?
‘You should not be here. Have you no care for your reputation?’
‘Pfft!’ Juliana indicated with a toss of her head how little she cared about her reputation in such a moment. He looked at her again, deliberately making a leisurely examination of her form, half-revealed through the thin cotton of her white nightgown. His eyes met hers again, a challenge in his expression. Oh, he was clever! ‘Very well, I shall go! But do try not to wake the whole household again!’
As she left his chamber, knowing his eyes were on her, Juliana could not help smiling. Indeed, it was shocking that she, an unmarried woman, had gone into his room. She really ought not to have done it. Even if she was illegitimate and likely to be outcast from society in the near future.
Regret was not, however, an option in this case. She enjoyed the feeling of daring it had given her and the fact that she had made him flustered. She had also enjoyed the flutterings in her body caused by his perusal of her and by the sight of his bare torso. In the midst of all her trials, it was good to have a moment of rebellion and excitement.
As she climbed back into bed, she wondered about his nightmare. What had caused him to be so distressed? Everyone had nightmares from time to time, she knew. Despite his disapproval, she was glad she had woken him. He had done so much to support her, it was satisfying to be able to offer him some help in return.
She blew out the candle and closed her eyes. Her thoughts this time were not of Mama, or of General Hunter. Instead she saw only Harry. His body—a thing of beauty, such as she had seen recreated by artists with paintbrush and chisel. His gaze as he made that leisurely tour of her form with knowingness and need. Harry, she thought. Harry.
* * *
Harry’s mood was rather different. She had seen him! Seen him in the midst of his nightmares. Seen his ugly, twisted soul. How long had she stood there? Did she pity him, perhaps? She knew now that he was weak. Dashing away the unmanly tears that she had surely noticed, he sat now in the darkness, dejection in every line of his body.
At least he had spoken like a man of sense, chiding her for being in his room. What had she been thinking? A young lady, in a man’s bedchamber! Much as he had ached to see her in his chamber—under what unlikely circumstance, he could not imagine—the reality was bittersweet. She had looked stunning in the candlelight, wearing nothing but a flimsy nightgown and with her long dark hair unbound and flowing over her shoulders.
He tried not to think of her expression, but knew he would be awake for hours, searching his memory for signs of disgust in her beautiful face. Self-loathing and physical frustration were not a combination that led to peaceful sleep. Clasping his arms around his knees, he sat in the darkness and cried like a child.
Chapter Fourteen
Juliana awoke feeling strangely hopeful. It seemed that, despite everything, her heart believe
d all would be well in the end. She was unsure about the source of her confidence. She was still the bastard daughter of a dishonourable general. She had no clue about her own future and the lack of knowledge about her past still bothered her. Her mama was still ill and likely to remain so for a while. Despite all of this, Juliana could not ignore the fact that there was a warm glow sited somewhere in her chest.
She took a moment to recall again last night’s incident. In her mind’s eye, she replayed the scene. Harry, half-naked, vulnerable and gorgeous. How he had looked, sitting in that bed, the candlelight adding a glow to his smooth skin. The way he had looked at her.
The whole thing had a dreamlike quality, yet was also immediate and visceral. Her heart was pounding. In an attempt to calm it, she tried to find another aspect to last night’s incident to focus on. She soon found it—his nightmare.
Nightmares were horrible, distressing experiences. Juliana wouldn’t wish them on anyone. Yet, assuming that he—like herself—only experienced a bad nightmare on a few rare occasions, it was almost fortuitous he had experienced one on the very night when she was sleeping lightly, worrying about Mama. The walls in the town house were thick. Under normal circumstances she would never have woken from sleep on the basis of the faint sounds coming from his chamber.
Knowing all was well as soon as she had woken him, Juliana acknowledged that seeing him as she had—tousled, handsome and sleepy—was extremely endearing. There was a beautiful vulnerability about him that touched something within her heart. Any helplessness had soon vanished though—once he was properly awake he had reverted to typical opinionated Harry. Remembering his ire, she chuckled slightly as she rang the bell for the maid. It had most definitely been worth it.
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