It Happened One Season

by Stephanie Laurens

  He did so, and when the music started, Philippa leaned close and whispered, “Lady Dearne is very kind to invite us, don’t you think? Mamma is in raptures.”

  “Adelaide is an excellent hostess, as I recall. I confess that I welcome a respite from the curst social whirl of London. It’s a pretty little estate. You will like it, I think.”

  “I know I will.” She surreptitiously slipped her hand into his. He entwined his fingers with hers and smiled.

  Before the end of the evening, Nat had been dragged about by Eugenia, who wanted everyone to meet her brother the War Hero, a role he was loathe to play. Philippa, too, was introduced around, and though everyone was polite, several were cruelly, if unintentionally, condescending. She said nothing, but he knew she felt their patronizing deference deeply.

  Nat managed to convince Lady Reynolds to allow him to escort Philippa home in his carriage while she attended another rout party with Adelaide. Lady Reynolds seemed so pleased with his solicitousness, not to mention the chance to spend more time with a countess, that she agreed without even bringing up the issue of propriety.

  After Nat had settled Philippa on the carriage bench and climbed in beside her, he asked if she minded very much missing the rout party.

  “Not at all. I find I am a bit tired.”

  “I thought as much. I wanted to slap some of those old biddies who didn’t seem to think you could put one foot in front of the other without their help. Some people never quite know how to treat you, do they?”

  “A great many people either smother me with unnecessary concern or keep their distance as though my lameness were somehow contagious.”

  “Idiots.”

  “Well-meaning ones, though.”

  “A friend recently told me that you and I are very much alike in the way we keep distance between ourselves and the rest of the world. Yours is not always self-imposed, though, is it? Idiots and fools impose that distance. It is their loss. They never get to see the warm, beautiful woman behind the limp. But I do. If we marry, Philippa, I will try never to deliberately put up walls between us. You may have to deal with me in my worst moments—my bouts of melancholy, my lack of patience, my damnable temper—and wish that I had indeed built a wall to hide behind. The first time we met, both of us were hiding from the world. I suspect there will be times when we will still want to do that. But let’s never hide from each other.”

  “I will never hide from you, Captain. I have no wish to do so. I have never been more perfectly at ease with a gentleman.”

  After a few moments of comfortable silence, he said, “I do not know how you bear it here, Philippa. Town life is unsettling to me.”

  “How is it better in Oxfordshire?”

  It was not, in fact. It was simply quieter there, with fewer opportunities to run into people he had no wish to see, and to whom he was forced to be polite. All things considered, however, living outside the military world was no easier in the country than in Town. He could find no joy in country life, no meaning, certainly no excitement. No life-or-death decisions, only decisions regarding which field to plow or how high to build a fence. He found the mundane nature of it stifling, even demoralizing.

  “There is always something to keep me busy there. Digging drainage ditches, building new fences, repairing tenant roofs. It is not important work, by any means, but it keeps my mind and body occupied.”

  “Why is it not important?”

  “I am accustomed to soldiering, where every day can be a life-or-death struggle. I cannot find purpose in ordinary work.”

  “You would rather be on the battlefield again?” Her big sherry-colored eyes were filled with incredulity tinged with sadness. “Putting your life, and the lives of your men, at risk?”

  “God help me, I would.” There. He’d said it. He’d finally confessed aloud to her, and himself, that he’d rather be back on a battlefield. And he was apparently about to confess more. “I would love nothing more than to put my life on the line once again, to rush headlong into battle, knowing I might not make it out alive.”

  “But why?” Her voice was tremulous, as though she were on the edge of tears. “Why would you want to risk your life like that?”

  “To prove that I can. To prove that I still have the courage to do so.”

  “But of course you have the courage. Did you not prove it over and over again in your career, risking your life for your men and your country? Heavens, Nat, even I know of the bravery of the 52nd Foot. Some say 52nd turned the course of the battle, paving the path to final victory. And you led them, Nat. Not only at Waterloo but at countless battles in Spain and Portugal. I don’t believe I have ever met anyone so courageous in all my life. There is surely no need to prove it. Certainly not to me.” She paused and looked directly into his eyes. “Please tell me you have no need to prove it to yourself.”

  Oh, but he did. More than anything, he did. His inexplicable reaction to that final unprecedented French bombardment smacked of cowardice, and it had been tearing him apart inside.

  He shook his head, as though denying her statement without actually doing so in words. “It’s hard to explain,” he said, “to those who have not experienced war. It sounds silly, I suppose, but life feels flat without that rush, that surge of energy that fills your blood and propels you into battle. I can find nothing here in England that gives me that same thrill. Dammit, Philippa. Am I insane, do you think?”

  “No.” She smiled and an expression of relief gathered in her eyes, as though she had in fact momentarily considered that he might indeed be mad. “No, you are not ready for Bedlam yet, Captain. I am sure it is simply a matter of learning to live a different kind of life. You need to find a new perspective. To find joy in things that do not threaten your existence. Learn to appreciate peacefulness.”

  Peace. He shook his head. Peace was killing him. “I wish I could be like you, Philippa. Content. Happy. I truly do. Sometimes I feel as if I might fly apart at the seams. I wish I could forget the wars and get on with my life.”

  “No, you should not forget. It is important to remember what happened, no matter how horrific. You will never forget the lives lost and ruined, but neither will you forget what you fought for, and how those sacrifices made our country safe. Don’t try to forget. Try instead to remember well, and fight in other ways to make sure it never happens again.”

  “How did you get to be so wise?”

  “I learned long ago that sometimes the best way to overcome pain is by staring it straight in the face.”

  He almost said that such things were easier said than done—dismissing that old adage about adversity building character—but realized how insulting that would be to her. She had certainly faced her own infirmities head on, and he was quite sure she was a better person for it. She was not pitiful or pathetic or needy. Quite the opposite, in fact. Could he learn from her example, or was he too damaged?

  “Soldiers are not the only ones impacted by wars,” she said. “May I take you somewhere tomorrow? I’d like to show you one of the ways I have found to give purpose to my life.”

  The curricle’s bonnet was up against the threat of more rain when Nat drove them to their destination the following afternoon.

  “I know you are feeling somewhat lost without the life-and-death struggle of war.” Philippa waited for Nat to come around to her side of the curricle and help her down. After he did so, she said, “But there are more ways to find one’s life threatened than at the end of a bayonet or rifle. There are daily battles to stay alive right here in London. This is Marlowe House.”

  “What is it? Looks like an old almshouse.”

  “It once was, I believe. But it has been greatly expanded and is now a facility for the widows of soldiers and their children.”

  Nat blinked owlishly. “Soldiers’ widows?”

  “The soldier husband and father was the sole source of support for many families,” Philippa said as they walked toward the entrance. “When they lost him, they also lost
his desperately needed income, no matter how meager it might have been. Some of the widows are able to find work—brutal unskilled labor with long hours and little pay. But others are forced into the lowest levels of existence—thievery, prostitution, and worse. The children fall under the thumbs of petty criminals, pimps, or ruthless chimney sweeps. It’s a life of wretchedness, filled with despair, illness, hunger, and early death. Yet their husbands and fathers sacrificed their lives for us.”

  “Many a time I wrote letters for soldiers, to be enclosed with a portion of their pay and sent home to wives and mothers. I remember times when the pay was late—months late, sometimes—and those men would be frantic with worry. We tried to send back pay to the families of those killed, but were not always successful in locating them. And even if we did, there was always another battle to distract us, so the widows of the dead were, I am ashamed to admit, sometimes forgotten.”

  “They were forgotten by everyone, including the government. But a group of wealthy widows determined to do something for their less fortunate sisters. The Benevolent Widows’ Fund has raised enormous amounts to support war widows and orphans. They took over and expanded this old almshouse and made it into a sort of halfway house where the families can stay until they can find honest work and a safe place to live. Marlowe House provides training for the women, to provide them with skills to find decent employment, and schools for the children. No one leaves Marlowe House, mother or child, without being able to read and write.

  “I have been a volunteer here for two years, when Mamma allows it. I help out in the schoolrooms. It has been the most rewarding thing I have ever done. Would you like to come inside and see what we do?”

  “I would indeed.”

  They toured the schoolrooms and kitchens, the various workshops where women were trained in sewing and housekeeping and gardening and more. They observed a class in session where women were being taught basic arithmetic. Philippa could see that Nat was impressed. It made her proud to know she had a small role in keeping this humanitarian project alive. She hoped Nat would understand and be proud of her, too.

  After the tour, as they were thanking the supervisor for her time, a woman shyly approached and bobbed a curtsy. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but I ’eard as ’ow you was called Cap’n Beckwith. That right?”

  “Yes, I am Beckwith. I was once a captain, though I have sold my commission. Is there something I may do for you, ma’am?”

  “Oh, sir. It’s right pleased I am t’make yer acquaintance. Name’s Daisy Garth. My Alfie spoke real well o’ yer, sir, in ’is letters from Spain. Didn’t write ’em ’isself, o’ course, but told whoever took down ’is words what t’say. An’ ’e always ’ad summink nice ter say ’bout ’is Cap’n Beckwith. Right proud, ’e was, ter be under yer command, sir. Right proud.”

  Nat smiled at the woman. “Alfie Garth. Sandy hair, notch in his left ear, forever whistling through that big gap between his front teeth?”

  Daisy Garth grinned, showing a similar gap. “That’s ’im, all right. Gar, yer ’member ’im. Outa all them soldiers, yer ’member my Alfie.”

  “Of course I do. Who could forget that smile? He was a good soldier, ma’am. Worked hard and never complained. He fought bravely and well. I was proud to have him in my regiment. He fell at … Orthez, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, so I were told. It mean a lot t’me, sir, that yer ’member ’im and ’as such kind words fer ’im. ’E’da been right pleased.”

  “And I am pleased to have met you, Mrs, Garth. I am glad you were able to find such a fine place as Marlowe House.”

  “I’da been dead fer sure wifout it, mos’ like, an’ me little uns, too. This place be a godsend fer all us living ’ere, an’ no mistake.”

  “Orthez was over two years ago. Have you been here all that time?”

  “Gor, no. I din’t even know ’bout this place ’til six months ago or there’bouts.”

  “Then where did you—” He stopped as Philippa caught his eye and shook her head. It would not be wise for him to ask such questions of the women here. He would likely be appalled at the answers. And outraged.

  Daisy Grath shrugged and dropped her eyes. “I managed. ’Ad to feed me babies, din’t I? But now I’m learnin’ fancy needlework an’ ’ow to make patterns for clothes and such. They tell me I might be able to get me a position in a fine ’ouse with a gentry family, ’elping out with linens an’ darnin’ and maybe even makin’ new clothes fer the children. Ain’t that summink? Who’da thunk it?”

  When they left Marlowe House, Nat wondered aloud if he might be able to find her a position at Dearne’s estate, or maybe even his own.

  Philippa smiled. Sometimes it took the pain of others to make one forget one’s own difficulties.

  Chapter Four

  The next day, Nat was invited to join a party of Lady Reynolds’s friends at Vauxhall. He hadn’t been to the famous pleasure gardens since he was a young pup and had heard it was no longer as fashionable. He was, though, counting on all the dark walks still being there. He planned to lead Philippa down the darkest path he could find and finally kiss her. He was going to kiss her senseless, by God.

  At every recent party or other social event he’d been dragged to, there had been no opportunity to sneak away and steal a kiss. Even that evening of Eugenia’s musicale, when he’d escorted Philippa home in his carriage, or when they’d visited Marlowe House, it had not seemed the right time. The conversation had been too serious, too uncomfortable. A kiss would have been awkward at best.

  He’d been wanting to kiss her for some time now. It fact, it was rather startling how much he looked forward to it. And to more than kisses.

  When they’d made their bargain, he’d assumed their eventual physical intimacy would be comfortable and pleasant, but not heated. He had believed it would be a true marriage of convenience, with a solid core of friendship. But no passion. No fire. No rapture. He no longer believed that. His attraction to her had increased tenfold. And he was fairly certain she was not indifferent to him, in that way.

  She was so sweet and innocent, though, having been kept in cotton wool like a china doll most of her life. And even though she clearly was not as fragile as everyone believed, Nat had no wish to frighten her with his own heated desire. It was time, though, to start getting her accustomed to his touch and his kisses. Vauxhall was the perfect venue for a first kiss.

  After a cold meal of chicken, cheeses, custards, and the obligatory paper-thin ham, several members of the party left their supper box in the Grove to join in the dancing near the orchestra pavilion.

  Nat approached Lady Reynolds. “If you have no objections, ma’am, I should like to take Philippa on a walk through the gardens.”

  Philippa beamed. “Oh, I should enjoy it above all things, Mamma.”

  “Do you really think you ought, my dear?” Lady Reynolds said. “You do not want to become overtired. You did a good bit of walking on Bond Street today.”

  “That was shopping, Mamma. There was hardly any walking at all. In fact, the only exertion involved was the trying on of a dozen bonnets.” She turned to Nat. “I purchased the most fetching chip straw confection you ever saw. I plan to wear it to Lady Dearne’s house party.”

  “I look forward to seeing it on you,” Nat said.

  Lady Reynolds frowned. “But Philippa, the gardens are vast here and the paths are long. If you tire your hip, you’ll be in bed for a day or more recovering.”

  Nat had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Devil take it, but that woman was insufferably imperious. It never ceased to amaze him that Philippa had somehow managed to maintain not only a cheerful disposition but a keen sense of humor while under her mother’s domination.

  “I believe,” Philippa said, “that there are many benches and small pavilions throughout the gardens. I promise you I will stop and rest if I get too tired.”

  “And I promise to make her do so,” Nat said. “She will come to no harm under my watch.”<
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  “I sometimes wonder, Captain,” Sir William Reynolds interjected in a voice dripping with scorn, “if you fully appreciate our Pip’s limitations. She cannot be always dashing about like other girls.”

  “I do indeed appreciate her limitations, sir,” Nat replied with equal scorn. “But I also appreciate her strengths. I believe she can accomplish more than you give her credit for.”

  “Really, sir,” the baronet said, “you have only known her for a short time. We have watched over her for her entire life. You must trust that we know what is best for her.”

  “When we marry, it will become my responsibility to watch over her, as you put it, and you must trust me to do so. A short walk along the garden paths will do her no harm. I promise to bring her back in one piece.”

  He did not wait for a response, but took Philippa by the elbow and led her out of the box.

  “That was masterfully done, Captain.”

  Philippa could not stop smiling as they strolled along the wide public paths crowded with other groups and couples. She had heard tales of darker, more private paths deeper in the gardens, and hoped that was where they were headed. She was determined to be kissed tonight.

  “I sometimes wonder that they ever let you out of the house,” Nat said. “God’s teeth, Philippa, how do you bare it?”

  “I am used to it. It is the only life I’ve known. And all that overprotectiveness is based on love. They care for me.”

  “So do I, but I hope I never smother you with so much concern. When we are married, I should like to better understand your physical condition. I do not wish to make assumptions regarding your stamina that may not be true.”

  “You understand my condition very well, Captain. Do you know that I feel more steady on my pins with you than with almost anyone else? But I will certainly arrange for you to meet with my physician.”

  Philippa felt steady with him because Nat always compensated for her limp by adjusting his weight and the angle of her arm in a way that made her feel that she was walking almost normally, with less of a lurch. It was almost a natural adjustment that he seemed to do without conscious thought. Or perhaps it was a very conscious thing, a more subtle, less obvious solicitude. Longer walks did sometimes cause her hip to ache and her limp to become more pronounced, but Nat always seemed to be aware of the slightest sign of fatigue, and stopped when he noticed it. Best of all, he showed no shame in being seen walking with a woman with so jerky a step. Her limp did not appear to embarrass him at all. Instead, he seemed pleased to have her on his arm. Even as some curious glances followed them as they strolled down the Grand Walk, he was unmoved by the attention.