by Lily George
Brookes took a hearty swig of his coffee, allowing it to burn down the back of his throat. The whole morning was vaguely disorienting and slightly off-kilter. He needed the strength of the black brew to bring him back to reality. He breathed in deeply, allowing the bitter steam to permeate his senses.
But even while he struggled to waken more thoroughly, a dawning sense of wonder flooded his being. He triumphed over the night. The pale light of morning woke him, not the shock and sudden fear of death. The fuzz of a two o’clock nightcap didn’t cling to his tongue; instead he only tasted clean, harsh black coffee. After Waterloo, he’d surrendered the hope of sleeping through the night, or the possibility of a night free of horrific nightmares. But tucked up in his bed, warmth suffused him, leaving him refreshed and…happy. For the first time in ages, he was happy.
This transformation he laid at her door. Gratitude surged through him. Eagerness to see her again made his heart beat faster. He wasn’t a man who believed in messages of faith of any kind. And yet, recalling the fit of her tiny foot in the palm of his hand, he decided she was made only for him.
But did Harriet share his feelings? He recalled her brisk movements as she drew on her stockings and boots, shielding herself from his eyes. She had been silent when they ambled over the hills, returning to the Park. He couldn’t imagine himself with any other woman, but did Harriet regard him with the same intense devotion? Brookes set his coffee cup down carefully on the tray, and rolled his head back on the pillows.
He must improve himself. Only by bettering himself would he be worthy of Harriet, but what improvements could he make? He should take the waters at the bathhouse every day. He would work like a dog to make the mill profitable. He would continue to keep his tenants well-housed and fed. He would see to it that Lady Handley received the best of care. He would arrange matters so that Harriet and all of her family were safe and secure for the rest of their lives. And then, when he had finally proven himself worthy, he would beg for Harriet’s hand. He had a sudden vision of pouring his mother’s sapphires and diamonds out at her tiny feet. He smiled. Harriet deserved all of that, and more.
Brookes looked up from his breakfast tray, focusing on a spot on the wallpaper across the room. Only one problem remained.
Sophie Handley.
That knocked the wind out of him. It was akin to the sickening feeling he had experienced during his boyhood fall from the tree. He still remained under some obligation to Sophie. And Harriet, fine and good, would never betray her sister, even if she felt the same sense of destiny he did. Trapped by his own sense of duty, his soldierly instinct failed him. He tried to remember the way he and Sophie had left things. Weren’t they only going to try to become better acquainted? No obligation existed beyond that. Except, of course, that polite society might frown upon a man leaving one sister for another. Or that Harriet might feel she was betraying Sophie by marrying him.
Obligation, however vague, trapped Brookes. He needed an exit strategy. His sense of wonder and optimism refused to be deterred. He would find a way.
Harriet’s eyes burned as though tiny grains of sand abraded them, and her stomach churned so violently that she had turned away her luncheon. She sat, balancing her elbows carefully on the table, and peered over the rim of her tea cup at Sophie, who chattered away at Rose.
“Rose, I think old Mrs. Crossley liked me very much. She said I was so pretty and kept complimenting me on my hair and dress. I am sure she is going to speak well of me to the captain, don’t you?”
“Oh, I am sure she will, dearie. It’s a good thing that you’re already getting the approval of the captain’s family.” Rose leaned over and patted Sophie’s arm.
A bitter taste flooded Harriet’s mouth, and she swallowed convulsively. Sophie might not be so merry if she had known what happened in the bathhouse between Harriet and Brookes, while she worked her charms on Mrs. Crossley. Harriet’s cheeks burned with embarrassment at the memory of the hurried moments of pulling on her stockings and boots. She’d dared not meet John’s gaze. And the awkward walk back to the Park, knowing that guilt and shame must be burned on her face for all to see. But Sophie hadn’t noticed anything unusual. She spent the entire rest of the day—and a good portion of the next—discussing her good fortune with Rose. If Mrs. Crossley noticed anything, she kept her surprise well-concealed.
But a devastating remorse overwhelmed Harriet. Perhaps she should cancel her visit to the Park that afternoon. Yes. She would send a quick note around after they had finished their meal.
“Hattie,” Sophie snapped, breaking through Harriet’s trance. “Don’t you think Mrs. Crossley liked me?”
“Oh, yes. She found you quite charming, I’m sure.” Harriet managed a weak smile for her sister.
Sophie sat back in her chair with a satisfied puff, allowing Harriet to return to her problem. No, she couldn’t cancel her trip. Canceling might send the wrong message. If she refused to come, John might realize how deeply their conversation in the bathhouse had affected her. He might surmise that she was developing a tendre for him. Mrs. Crossley had said he was a master tactician. If she reacted wrongly, then he would guess the truth, and all would be lost…
“I’m sorry, Sophie, what did you say?” Harriet set her teacup down with a little crash.
“I was asking how many rooms Brookes Park has.” An irritated pout pursed Sophie’s rosy lips. “Goodness, you’re vague today.”
“I have such a headache.” Harriet rubbed her brow with shaky hands.
“You poor dear, I noticed you didn’t seem to feel quite yourself. Why don’t you run along for a nice rest?” Rose bustled around the table and pressed her hand to Harriet’s forehead. “Ah, you feel clammy. Off to bed now. You’ve been working too hard on that book of yours.”
“I’ll go to the Park later, after I’ve had a nap.” Harriet stood up, hoping her knees would support her unsteady legs. “Sophie, you’ll come with me, of course.” She couldn’t run the risk of being alone with Brookes again. She would only make a fool of herself, and compromise her sister’s chance at happiness.
“No, I don’t think I will. I promised Mary I would visit this afternoon.” Sophie smeared a ridge of butter across her bread, daintily biting a crescent out of the middle.
“Off you go, then.” Rose turned Harriet by the shoulder and sent her on her way with a tender shove. “I’ll check on her ladyship and make sure she’s partaken of her lunch tray. Don’t worry about a thing.”
Harriet trudged up the stairs. Closing the door to the little room she shared with Sophie, she pressed her back against the doorjamb. Tears pricked at her eyelids. She lay down across the quilt, fully clothed, and let the tears wash over her the way the water at the bathhouse had caressed her feet. She was the worst, most deceitful sister in the world. She loved Sophie’s beau. She coaxed the most private, innermost thoughts from Brookes and then tempted him by challenging him to bathe in the hot spring. Disgust at herself and her behavior made the bile rise in her throat.
None of these things were done willfully, but the end result was the same. She was in love with John Brookes, but for all intents and purposes, he belonged to Sophie. What he may or may not have felt was irrelevant. Honor bound him to Sophie, at least until she finally made up her mind, and any part Harriet might play in trying to break that bond was reprehensible.
Her sobs finally eased, and Harriet turned her pillow over to find a dry spot. She thought that a bath would help with the torments he felt. She hadn’t meant to become any kind of siren. In fact, she was surprised to find that she could wield that kind of power over a man, because she was not attractive. Not compared to Sophie. But she had, and now she had to face up to the consequences.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she sought comfort in prayer. Harriet prayed for strength, wisdom and guidance. She lay still on the little bed until the familiar f
eelings of comfort and peace filled her soul. Her work at Brookes Park must proceed, no matter what happened. She must continue writing her book, and ask John for his help. This was the only way she could write the book that might reverse her family’s fortunes. But she would do all this without letting John know that she loved him. There was no need, for he was not a free man.
Harriet sat across the desk from Brookes, pen poised in hand. She scrubbed her face with soap and water before leaving the cottage, hoping that she erased every trace of her tears. The urge to close her lids over her burning eyes was almost unbearable, but she could not drop the mask of her customary efficiency and good cheer. In keeping with her scheme, she kept silent, never mentioning the bathhouse, or her family’s troubles. She made excuses for Sophie and peppered John with mundane questions about the war. Dates, facts, figures. No need to ask any more questions about his feelings or the suffering he had endured. Those queries might lead to dangerous territory.
Aunt Katherine snored gently in the corner, punctuating the scratching sound of Harriet’s pen as she hastily scribbled her last few notes. Coming to the end of her sentence, it was time to end her day and go home. Setting the pen into its holder, she offered him a bland smile. “I think that’s all the questions I have today, Captain.”
“Are we back to ‘Captain’ again? I thought you were going to call me John.”
“Of course, John. Old habits, you know.” Harriet sanded the pages, waiting for the ink to dry.
“Before you go, I would like to talk to you about something more, if I may.” Brookes put out his hand, lightly clasping her wrist to hold her still. “Can you stay for a bit longer?”
Thunder rolled outside, followed by a brief flash of lightning that made Harriet jump.
“See?” Brookes indicated the window with a nod. “The weather’s turning nasty again. Better to wait it out for a bit.”
Harriet peered out of the window, watching the rain slant against the pane. “It does look rather bad.” The weather had been fine when she left the cottage. The sudden change in the weather impeded her escape, and her brows drew together with irritation. She looked over at Mrs. Crossley, who still snored contentedly, undisturbed by the downpour. Nothing too intimate could happen with his elderly aunt nearby. If she refused, he might suspect that something was amiss.
She sat back down, pulling her pen back out of its holder. “Very well, John, what did you wish to tell me?”
“Come and sit by the fire. Sometimes, having you sit across the desk from me—it makes me feel as though there are obstacles in our way.” He stood up, beckoning her to follow.
Harriet’s eyes widened at his words. Perhaps he had guessed her innermost thoughts, even though she had tried so desperately to conceal them. “I beg your pardon?”
He turned and smiled at her. “I don’t know. Some things are easier told when we sit side by side near the fire.”
If he hoped to disarm her, it worked. “Very well.” Harriet rose from the desk and strode purposefully over to the hearth, choosing a slipper chair. She sank into its depths, noticing that she sat within Mrs. Crossley’s line of vision should the old woman awaken. Brookes settled in a leather armchair across from her. “What is it?” Her heart pounded heavily, like a cannonball in her chest. Surely, he guessed her thoughts and decided to let her down easy. Or perhaps even upbraid her for betraying her sister in the first place.
He stared into the fire, his jaw hardening. Then he slowly turned to face Harriet.
“I want to tell you the truth. Everything that happened at Waterloo. What happened to me the day I lost my leg.”
Chapter Sixteen
Harriet folded her hands in her lap. Without a graceful way to bow out, she waited. The firm set of John’s jaw and the deep gray color of his eyes indicated his all-too-familiar determination. But aside from his usual resolve, she sensed his vulnerability. This confession drove him. Refusing him this chance would be cruel. She pressed her back against the chair, softening her glance to encourage him to continue.
“Waterloo was a mess, make no mistake. Most people don’t understand how confusing a battle can be. Throughout my career, I had seen it all before many times, and I could usually impose my own corner of order upon the chaos I witnessed. And I did, the moment we were given the order to charge. I honed in on my duty, and I performed my tasks precisely.” He paused, and ran his tongue over his lips.
“You must know that as a soldier, it was my job to kill with a mechanical efficiency. And I did… I shouldn’t tell a woman about this. It may upset you.” He ran his eyes over her face, as though assessing how candid he could afford to be.
Harriet shook her head. She must allow him to keep on, no matter how nightmarish his experiences might sound to her ears.
“Waterloo was different from other battles. I am a career soldier, and still, the horror of it stays with me to this day.” He swallowed, and locked Harriet’s eyes in his own gaze, compelling her to understand. “It was slaughter. We outnumbered the French and outflanked them. One of the Scots Greys captured the French standard, and when he carried it off the field in triumph, the will of our enemies went with it.”
Harriet nodded her head, keeping her eyes soft and her voice low. “I understand, John.”
His shoulders unclenched a bit at the sound of her voice. “There was no one left to kill, Harriet. We had completely obliterated the French. Our orders were to cover the other regiments while they withdrew from the field. It was supposed to be over. But that’s not what happened.” He broke off, and cleared his throat.
Harriet said nothing, but kept her expression neutral. A sudden movement or change might cause him to shy away, like a wounded animal.
“My men began charging the French artillery. They were maddened by victory and bloodlust. My own horse gave out under me, so I found another mount and rode after them. But Harriet, I couldn’t stop them. God help me, I tried. Stupid fools. I shouted at them until my voice went hoarse, and rode like mad, trying to make them hear sense. But they were cut down before my very eyes.” His voice grew hushed, awed. “The precision of the gunfire was quite astonishing to behold.”
Nausea broke over Harriet like a wave but she kept her shoulders relaxed and her countenance still.
“I was keeping abreast of Major Ponsonby, whose mount—not one of his usual ones, but a lesser one he must have found on the field—got mired in the mud. Harriet, the mud at Waterloo was more debilitating, in some ways, than the gunfire. The horse got stuck knee-deep in the muck and Ponsonby could go no farther. He surrendered to the French, but he was killed by one of the lancers anyway.”
Harriet swallowed, but held still. The devastation he felt that day was palpable, but John pressed forward, not ceasing his confession.
“About that same moment I was hit with grapeshot. The force of it was so strong it knocked me off my mount. I fell, and rolled over into a wagon rut to escape notice. I must have blacked out, because when I woke up, night had fallen.”
He fell silent. Goose bumps broke out over her arms, causing an involuntary shiver to run down her spine. She tried to suppress the quiver through her body, but her shoulders made a sharp, jerky movement despite her best effort. If John noticed, it didn’t break his concentration. He stared into the fire, as though what had occurred on the battlefield of Waterloo could be answered within the flames.
“Are you tired of listening?” His voice sounded as though it came from a million miles away.
“No.” She kept her tone soft and neutral. “Tell me more.”
Brookes held on to Harriet’s voice as he would a life raft. She would help him through this. “When I awoke, I had no idea where I was or what was happening at first. But then I heard looters going over the field. Did you know that soldiers often loot the dead or dying?” He leveled a glance at her face.
“I never did it, and I wouldn’t allow my men to. To me it’s a disgusting and disrespectful practice, but I suppose to some men, it was a way to earn a living. These looters were Prussian, I could tell by their uniforms. They were picking through the dead, taking anything of value. I’d never suffered through the aftermath of battle before. Always, I had ridden off the field in triumph. But not the night that followed Waterloo.” He noted the dawning horror in Harriet’s eyes. He paused for a moment, unsure if he should go on, but then the words poured out of him in a rush. “The looters weren’t just pillaging among the dead, they were murdering the living. If you had been lucky enough to make it through the battle, they would kill you for whatever possessions of value you might have.”
He faced Harriet squarely. “I was next. I could tell they were only about a yard away. I knew they would go over me with a fine-tooth comb, for I was in my officer’s uniform, which denoted some wealth. I had no idea what I would do, except I wanted to die honorably, like a good soldier. So I grabbed my sword and waited.”
His breath came faster now, while he relived the moments in which his life hung in the balance. “Stoames found me. He had been looking for me all day and most of the night. The Prussians saw his lantern beaming and dropped down amongst the corpses, playing dead.” His mind flashed back to that night…Stoames sank down beside him, trying to find a way to move him out of the rut without making his injuries worse. “I whispered to him what they were doing, and where he could find them. Stoames located the looters and took care of them in the same way they had taken care of the injured in their path. And then it was over. The nightmare of the field was done. We had only to wait through the night for help.”