by Brown, T. J.
She turned over and looked at him. His eyes were closed and she stared at his face as if to memorize it. The bump in his nose, the stubble shadowing his chin. She reached up and ran her fingers down the line of his jaw.
His arm tightened around her at his touch. His eyes flickered open. “My commander is right.”
“What’s that?” She nestled her head back in the crook of his arm.
“I am one lucky son of a bitch. I had originally been slated to head to France with the rest of the foot soldiers, but I was switched to the remount depot in the 1st King’s Dragoon at the last moment.”
She cleared her throat. “That’s good, though, right?”
“Granted, I would much rather work with horses than fight. I may still get sent to France or Africa, but I won’t be fighting. I just wonder how many of the young men I trained with will be sent to the front.” He paused. “And I wonder why I was selected for remount when no one else was.”
Prudence shifted in his arms, thinking of the note from Victoria still in the pocket of her cardigan. She knew Andrew struggled with living off her money; how would he feel if he knew that she had pulled strings to get him out of fighting for his country, especially considering that he felt strongly enough for the cause to enlist? “Perhaps someone heard that you were enrolled in veterinary school? I’m sure it is on your record somewhere that you grew up on a farm. It’s not so surprising.”
“Maybe, but half of the men in my squad were brought up on a farm, so that can’t be it.” He suddenly frowned. “What’s that?”
Her stomach tightened. For a moment she thought he had seen the note, but that was silly. “What’s what?”
He pointed across the room. “That.” He raised himself up on his elbows, frowned, and then sat up.
She followed his finger and realized what he was pointing at.
The bassinet.
“What do you think it is?” she asked carefully.
“Well, it looks like . . .” Understanding crossed his face and he turned to her, incredulous. “Are you? Are we?”
She blushed and lowered her eyes. “Yes, as a matter of fact . . .”
He jumped off the bed. “Why didn’t you tell me? What if we hurt it?” He stared at her stomach, horrified.
She began to laugh uncontrollably, her joy immeasurable. Everything that had come before, her sorrow over losing Sir Philip, her pain over Rowena’s betrayal, her confusion and heartache over Sebastian, all of that was worth it if it led to this moment of near-perfect happiness.
But she was brought down to earth when she remembered that she was still hiding something from him.
The corners of his mouth began to twitch upward until finally he broke into a sheepish grin. “I suppose you think me pretty amusing, but how would I know? I’ve never been pregnant before.” His hazel eyes grew serious. “Oh, my love, what a time for us to start a new life, eh?”
She sat up and held out her arms. “I think it’s the best time. How should we meet the death and destruction of war except with the hope and faith of new life?” She smiled. “And, no, we won’t hurt the baby. Now come back to me. I’m getting chilly!”
They nuzzled under the covers until Prudence felt drowsiness overcoming her. She struggled to make herself get up and put the groceries away, but the lure of sleeping in her husband’s arms was too tempting, and she fell asleep hoping nothing was in the bag that might spoil.
As she slept, images of blinding gunfire and the echoes of guttural screams flitted through her mind. She awoke with a start, her heart pulsing rapidly. Frozen with tension, she listened intently, but of course the flat was dark and silent. The only sound she heard was her husband’s light breathing next to her.
Quietly, Prudence slipped out of bed and put on her robe. She shut the bedroom door softly behind her and turned on the small lamp above the kitchen table. Putting the groceries away, she found a small package of coffee beans in the bag. Holding her grinder between her knees, she ground the beans, a grim satisfaction filling her as the scent of coffee permeated the air. She had come a long way, she thought. Starting as a woman who didn’t know how to cook, clean, or do laundry, she had learned to do all three—with varying degrees of success. Unfortunately, familiarity with such chores hadn’t increased her fondness for them, but she had learned to appreciate them. She’d come to realize that knowing how to grind coffee and make supper was far preferable to doing without.
Andrew had also picked up a loaf of fresh bread, a round of Stilton, several perfectly ripened apples, and a bottle of ale. Apparently, he thought she wouldn’t have much food in the house with his absence. She did prefer grabbing something from a street vendor or eating with her friend Katie rather than cooking. It seemed like an awful lot of trouble to go through just for herself. She looked at her stomach with a mixture of joy and trepidation. She guessed it wasn’t really for one any longer, was it?
She sliced up some bread and apples. The cheese was soft and warm and would be good spread on the bread. She hoped Andrew wouldn’t expect anything more.
“I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to be standing here, with you in our own little home.”
She turned with a smile to where Andrew leaned against the door. He had put his trousers back on, but his torso was bare, giving her a good view of the chest etched from years of labor. Most footmen were not so well built, but his early years on the farm had given him a strength most of them lacked and she gloried in it.
“We may not have had the most regular start to our marriage, but we have made something pretty wonderful out of it, haven’t we?”
“We have. Come and sit. The coffee is almost done. Are you hungry?”
His eyes glowed. “Starved.”
Prudence blushed, knowing he wasn’t just talking about his stomach. “When do you have to go back?”
He sighed and sat, slipping an arm about her backside as she put a plate in front of him. “I have to leave in the morning.”
“So soon?” she cried. “That wasn’t nearly enough time. I thought you had two days!”
“I do, but it will take most of the day to get back to Plymouth. But let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about only good things. Let’s talk about the baby.”
Prudence poured them both a cup of fragrant coffee. “What about the baby? I haven’t met him yet so I don’t know him.”
Andrew’s eyes widened. “A boy? Are you sure?”
“You’re so easy to tease. As if I would know!”
He rose from his chair. “It gets chilly fast once the sun sets. Do you want me to put some coal in the stove?”
“If you’re cold. I don’t have that much left, though. This is the first cold snap of the year.”
“I’ll just put on a shirt.”
She smiled. “That would probably help.”
He went into their room. “It looks like a hurricane blew your clothes off in here.” He laughed.
She snorted. “I think one did.” She refilled their coffee cups and put the pot back on the stove. “Would you like me to get the Sunday paper? It’s a few days old and the news isn’t much fun, but we could read something besides war news.”
The hair on the back of her neck prickled at the sudden silence from the bedroom. No. Oh, please, no. She whirled toward the bedroom, only to find Andrew already standing in the doorway, holding a piece of paper.
Victoria’s note.
“What is this?”
She stood frozen, her heart beating in her ears. She searched his face, desperately looking for any signs of how he was feeling, but his features were inscrutable.
She couldn’t deny what she had done, so she took the offensive. “I asked Victoria to see if she could have Colin move you to a safer job. Remount duty is more suited to your abilities, anyway.”
“Actually, I discovered in training that I’m a crack shot. And that is hardly the point. When were you going to tell me about this?”
She swallowed against the lump swelling in he
r throat.
“You weren’t going to, were you?”
Prudence stared at the worn red-and-beige mat on the floor. She shook her head ever so slightly. She felt as if she were a naughty schoolgirl who had been caught out.
“So you used your abovestairs, posh friends to keep your poor farmer-turned-coachman husband out of harm’s way?”
“What would you have me do?” she cried. “Watch you march away to battle while I’m left to care for a baby all by myself?”
His jaw clenched several times before he took a deep breath and answered, “Yes, as a matter of fact that is exactly what I expect of you. That is what women all over England, nay, all over the world, have to do. Why should you be any different? Why should I be exempt from fighting while my countrymen have to do battle in the muck and the mire? Did you expect me to hide behind your skirts?”
She moved toward him, her hands clenched. “No. I expect you to live. I expect you to come back to me alive and in one piece! Someone has to care for the horses, why shouldn’t it be you?”
“And why should it be? Because you decided to play God?”
She had never seen him so angry and disappointed. Her heart sank and the babe within chose that moment to make its presence felt for the first time. It shivered inside her like a butterfly testing its wings. She wanted to cry out and tell Andrew, but the disgust on his face stopped her. Her anger, confusion, and fear rose to the surface, and she lashed out in frustration, sweeping the cup nearest her onto the floor. It shattered, shooting shards of glass everywhere.
She stared at the pieces, shocked at her own temper. Andrew turned and went back into the bedroom without a word.
Carefully, she picked up the pieces of pottery and mopped up the mess. Tears streamed down her face. She was just finishing up when Andrew came back out, fully clothed.
“Where are you going?” she cried, fear and regret hollowing out her chest.
“Out,” he said shortly. “We’re too upset right now to discuss this further. I’ll be back later for my things.”
Part of her wanted to cry out and stop him from going, but the other part wanted to insist that everything was his fault in the first place. He had decided he needed to join the army. To leave her and their baby. She was only trying to help him, to save him. Who cared about his absurd pride if his life was kept safe?
She waited until he was out the door before running into their bedroom and throwing herself onto the bed that had so recently been the site of their lovemaking.
She wept, ugly sobs that she hated herself for, but she couldn’t help it. Only one year ago, she had been living in a fine home, with a family who loved her and servants to care for her. Life had been leisurely and lovely, with music, books, social gatherings, outings to museums, and constant companionship. Now she was lonely and afraid, and the one person who kept her safe had chosen to leave her. No matter how hard she tried to understand, it was beyond her realm of acceptance.
She must have slept because she awoke sometime later, hearing the closing of the front door. She froze, her heart clenching. Had he left without even saying good-bye?
Then she heard him moving about quietly, gathering his things, as she lay racked by indecision. Should she get up and tell him she was sorry? Beg him to forgive her? But for what? For doing whatever she could to keep the father of her baby alive? For that she needed to apologize?
She shut her eyes when he came into the bedroom and held her breath as he stood over where she lay curled up on their bed. Then she felt his hand on her shoulder and he drew close. He pressed his lips briefly to her cheek and she crumpled. Grabbing his hand with hers, she pressed it to her lips. She couldn’t let that row be their last interaction before his departure.
His other hand ran over her hair, just once, and then he pulled away, gently but insistently. He was leaving and she could do nothing in the world but let him go.
chapter
seven
Rowena stood, arms folded, just inside the barn, watching the men from the village checking out the aeroplane. She had already gone over it, but apparently they didn’t think she was capable of inspecting it herself. Fine.
Granted, when they had agreed to ready the plane for its flight to Kent, they had no idea the pilot would be a woman, but that didn’t give them a right to treat her with disrespect. She suspected that the only reason they hadn’t refused was that one of the men recognized her from when she used to come with Jonathon.
Rowena carried a small overnight bag with her and was dressed in the pair of soft cotton trousers she’d had a local seamstress make up after Aunt Charlotte’s lady’s maid had refused. She wore a warm woolen jacket and had tied her hair back and tucked it down the back of the jacket. Her helmet and goggles were already on her head. Her clothes were logical and practical, and Rowena wasn’t about to let a bunch of ignorant townsmen make her feel uncomfortable.
When she had telephoned Mr. Dirkes the previous week to find out if she could store her Vickers here, he’d mentioned that he’d been struggling to find competent pilots to ferry his planes around since the outbreak of war. He wanted to bring the aeroplanes currently housed in the barn to his factory so they could be used in the war effort.
Rowena hadn’t even let him finish before she offered to help. Mr. Dirkes had given a perfunctory protest, but, at her insistence, had agreed with relief. He knew she was fully capable of flying.
When the men finished the inspection, they pushed the aeroplane out onto the field. Rowena’s mouth had gone dry and her palms were slick with sweat. Nerves always struck before her solo flights. During the early weeks of summer she had stayed in Surrey and had taken her Vickers out almost every day. She had earned her pilot’s license in a little over a month, joining a small, select group of women pilots in Britain. Her triumph was only partially marred by her not being able to share it with Jon.
The day shone clear and crisp and she was glad she’d worn a scarf. The wind was light out of the northeast, though she knew it would no doubt pick up the closer she got to the coast.
When she got to the Flying Alice, she realized she’d forgotten the small wooden toolbox she used to climb up in the aeroplane. The smirk on one of the men’s faces told her he had noticed her error.
Impatiently, she motioned to the other man to lift her up. He did, his hands lingering on her back end. Her face burned and she resisted the urge to smack him. How dare he? The look on his face showed both his trepidation at manhandling a noblewoman and delight that he had put a trouser-wearing hussy in her place. He glanced at the other man for approval and he guffawed.
Rowena held her hand out for her small case, and once she had it, she leaned forward. The man stepped forward to hear her, still leering.
“How dare you, you little pissant of a man. My uncle will make mincemeat of you.”
He stepped back and shrugged, though she could tell she had shaken him. “I can’t imagine the lord of the manor is too thrilled with his niece wandering around dressed like a tart.”
Her face burned and she suspected it was true. “Start the propeller,” she snapped.
He gave her an insolent salute and went around to the front of the aeroplane.
It took him several attempts to start the propeller, and Rowena took deep breaths to calm herself. She didn’t need to be distracted as she flew. She’d never crashed, but knew it was a very real possibility every time she flew.
She pulled down her goggles and scanned the gauges in front of her. Like those in her Vickers, they were fairly basic. Oil-pressure gauge, speedometer, and fuel pressure. The red tick marks on the speedometer indicated maximum speed and the speed at which the aeroplane would stall. As she performed these mundane but important tasks, her pulse sped up. It had been too long, far too long, since she had been in the air. Her envy at Victoria’s purpose-filled life faded as she readied herself and her aeroplane for flight.
She worked the rudder pedals and rode out the bone-jarring trek across the field a
s she picked up speed. She pulled back on the yoke, her heart lifting along with the nose of her aeroplane.
Then she was flying.
Once the aeroplane was in the air her nervousness ebbed, and she kept one eye on the speedometer while enjoying the never-ending thrill of watching the earth fade behind her. The wings flexed and the plane pulled to the right as a gust of wind hit, but Rowena held steady and climbed a bit higher. Once she reached the speed and the altitude she wanted, she straightened the nose out and turned until the compass needle read southeast.
As always, the sensation of being above all of her problems filled her with a sense of well-being that she had never felt while her feet were on the ground. The sky was bluer, the air crisper, and the sun brighter. Up here she was in control of her own destiny. Yes, she depended on the machinery to perform, and the weather to behave, but she had only herself to rely on, and somehow she trusted herself to rise to any occasion. Whereas on the earth, indecision held her captive and she doubted her choices to the point where she often couldn’t act at all. It had become worse after she had made the rash decision last fall to beg her uncle to allow Prudence to join them at Summerset. That decision had been catastrophic, had placed Prudence in a horrible situation, and had led to the end of a relationship Rowena had valued above almost all others.
Then, even knowing that she and Jonathon faced almost insurmountable obstacles to their relationship, she had allowed herself to be seduced, only to be brokenhearted when he had, unsurprisingly, walked away from her.
No wonder she was insecure about her decisions.
But here, up here alone in the sky, she was as confident as a sea eagle soaring among the cliffs. In the air she was powerful. Brave. Dauntless.
She took a deep breath and let this rare feeling of assuredness wash over her. It would be at least two hours before she arrived in Kent, and then she had to look for Mr. Dirkes’s factory and landing field.