True caught up with him by a large potted plant at the low wall at one end of the terrace. “What is it, Wy?”
“Will you go for a drive with me tomorrow? I want to show you something.”
His voice was eager, boyish, and utterly irresistible to True. But still . . . “I . . . I don’t think that would look good, Wy. What excuse could we offer? Would it not look peculiar?”
His gaze was fond, and he reached out and caressed one curl, letting it run through his fingers. “Just a short drive in an open gig, my dear. I would not compromise you; you should know that by now. Have I not asked you to marry me?” he teased.
“You did not ask me, sir,” she said, laughing. “You reluctantly said that as I had been compromised, you supposed we must marry!”
“I did not say anything in such an unchivalrous manner, I hope. But about the drive . . . have you not been wanting to see the countryside? I know you are an avid naturalist.”
True rolled her eyes. “I pick weeds and wildflowers, Wy, nothing so grand as a ‘naturalist,’ please. At home I find herbs that I need to brew healing potions.” She paused. “I will go with you, if you think you can explain it to your mother. I would not have her think badly of me.”
“How could she? You are the sweetest of girls, and no one with a brain could think ill of you.”
He chucked her under the chin as he said that. If only he meant it, she thought, or at least, if only he meant more by it than just that he was fond of her as a friend and sister. She had acknowledged the danger to herself. She could love him, if she allowed herself, and she was not going to do that.
But still, the chance to be alone with him, driving through the English countryside in autumn, was irresistible. “All right. Take me driving tomorrow, sir!”
He put his arms around her and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek, but he did not release her immediately, as he should have. He stood gazing down at her in the circle of his arms. True heard a rustling sound behind her, but was lost and dazed in Wy’s moonlit eyes, golden like a cat’s. It was like there was a spell on her when he surrounded her with his strong arms, holding her close to him, a spell that kept her motionless. But then he released her and smiled.
“It is settled then. Tomorrow morning at eleven.”
• • •
Drake tossed and turned in his bed. Not once since that afternoon with Truelove by the river had he slept for so many hours unbroken. He longed for that sleep, the oblivion of it, the sweet release. He had been able to snatch a few more hours here and there, but only by remembering the feel of her arms around him, a soft bosom under his cheek, a small hand stroking his hair. If he could just recapture that feeling, that utter peace and contentedness, he could sleep, he was sure of it. He turned over on his back and stared into the blackness.
But the memory, or at least the sensory part of that memory, was fading. He needed a repeat of that afternoon to refresh his recollection, but he doubted very much if True, even as kindhearted as she was, would agree to slip away with him to the riverbank so he could sleep in her arms again. He snorted at the idea. Ridiculous, no matter how enticing the thought.
Well, he knew one thing after all these months. If he had had any intention of marrying, it could not be soon. He might recover from these awful nightmares, but it would take some time, years perhaps. How could he inflict his sleepless nights on a wife? He knew that they would have separate chambers as all in their sphere did, but their rooms at Thorne House would be side by side, and she would know of his sleeplessness. Inevitably they would spend some part of the night together. If he should fall asleep after lovemaking and descend into one of his nightmares . . . how horrible! He tried to imagine Arabella Swinley cradling him in her slender arms, bringing him to his senses gently and gradually, as True had, stroking his hair, murmuring sweet words to him. She would likely kick him out of her bed, and who could blame her?
He hoped he had begun the journey back to health, but he was a long way from arriving at his destination. Until he did, he would not even think about marriage. He willed himself to sleep, finally, but again, the nightmare field of Mont St. Jean surrounded him with all its bloody horror, and the weight of his dead horse and poor Captain Lewis pressed down on him, and he awoke screaming to find Horace bending over shaking him awake.
“Wake up, sir. Another narsty night, it be. I shall get your breeches.”
• • •
True glanced over at her companion as he handled the ribbons of the small, lightweight gig with easy skill. As a sop to propriety, they had a tiger up behind them, as they would if this was London. He was really just a small stable boy, but he seemed to be enjoying the ride as much as True was, a grin on his not-too-clean face as they trotted along the country lane at a spanking pace.
At home she had a pony cart, for some of the calls she had to make were a ways away from the vicarage. But the speed did not compare to this lovely gig, and her skills were not those of a top sawyer, as Lord Drake evidently was.
With the thought of home came worries. She hoped her villagers were not missing her too much. Mrs. Saunders, a plump, tidy widow and member of her father’s congregation, had promised to look after things for her, and Faithful would take care of what she could, but True worried anyway. It was not just that it was her duty; she enjoyed visiting the shut-ins and elderly, for they often, despite illness and deprivation, were less complaining than they had a right to be. And the older ones told marvelous stories of village life back in the middle of the last century. It always seemed to her to be a more colorful time, more vivid and lively.
But every one of her “special friends,” as she called them, urged her to take this holiday, just as her father had, saying yes, they would miss her but that she was entitled to a bit of fun like any girl. Girl! She was a spinster of what was called “uncertain years,” meaning no one was unkind enough to remember her true age. She had meant this to be a time of serious soul searching, a time to make her decisions about Mr. Bottleby and the rest of her life, but she had come to no decisions.
She glanced again at Wy. She had awoken in the night to the sound of echoing screams and had gotten up, alarmed. How she wished she could go to him. How precious, to have the right and tender obligation to give comfort. Today he looked remarkably cheerful, though, for the kind of torment he was going through. Perhaps he had decided that what could not be conquered must be endured. He was a soldier and had likely been through worse than nightmares in his many years.
He would overcome eventually, she had no doubt of it. But on this lovely autumnal day, with the sun shining and the leaves brilliant and golden around them, she was not going to concentrate on gloomy thoughts. It was a day for happiness, just to be beside Wy and bowling along a country lane in such a well-sprung vehicle.
“Tell me where we are going!” she said. “I am dying of curiosity.”
“When we get there.” His grin was sly. “I will give you a hint. Do you remember talking about Stanley, and how much he seemed to enjoy his job, and the country?”
She nodded. “He said he had lived in Bristol all his life, but that he had fallen in love with the countryside . . . or words to that effect, anyway.”
“Well, it has to do with that.” He snapped the reins and Dancer, recovered from her twisted ankle, and Juniper, a bay matched in size and speed to Dancer, picked up the pace.
They trundled along in silence for a while. Again, True’s mind wandered and she worried at the problem of what to do about Mr. Bottleby. One day she would think she should marry him, and the next she would be sure she could not. She must make up her mind!
What was wrong with her? He was handsome enough; not like Wy, but not repulsive. Not that she should even be considering looks, but those thoughts would intrude, especially when she looked at Wy. Mr. Bottleby was not dirty, he had no bad habits, nor vices, did not smoke, gamble or drink. He was Godly, forceful and energetic, hardworking, sincere, but . . .
And that was what it
always came down to. A feeble “but.” It was almost as though her mind was stalling, refusing to make a decision, because she knew that yes or no, she would have to leave Lea Park once she decided, to let Mr. Bottleby know in person what she was going to do. She would not refuse or accept his generous proposal in a letter. Already she had been a guest at Lea Park for a month, but leaving meant she would have no excuse to come back, no excuse to see Wy’s dear face again.
And that was the root of her indecision. She did not want to leave his side. She worried that if she left, Arabella and Lady Swinley would find a way to cajole him into marriage, and she thought that he was not ready for that yet, not ready for such a life-changing occurrence. Given time—time to heal, time to find peace in his heart—he would make a wonderful husband, maybe not for Arabella, but . . .
Who was she trying to fool? Arabella would make him a good wife, for she had many admirable qualities and talents, and he would be the man who could tame all of her unhappy quirks. He could possibly turn her into the woman she had the potential to be: good, loving, sweet. A lesser man would let her rule the roost, and that would be disastrous for her. It was not that True felt that women needed to be tamed or subjugated, but Arabella had a tendency to pouting and selfishness. The sooner she was out of her mother’s clutches the better, and marriage was her only way away from Lady Swinley. With the right influences—Wy and his mother, to name two good ones—she would be a brilliant viscountess, and countess, someday, and more importantly, a good woman.
“We’re here,” he said, pulling up on the road outside of a large, vacant, rambling house. It was enormous, with numerous outbuildings and stables.
The tiger ran around to hold the horses and Drake jumped down from the gig, wincing as he hit the ground. He reached up and swung True down to the road, then took her arm and walked her down the lane toward the building, opening the gate for her, guiding her through, and shutting it behind her.
“What is this?” she asked, looking up at him. “Why are we here?”
“This, my dear,” he said, motioning with a grand sweep of his arm, “is the Drake School of Carpentry and Animal Husbandry!”
Chapter Ten
“The Drake . . . what?”
He laughed at her look of puzzlement and took out a key. “Come inside. I’ll show you around.”
The door was sheltered in a stone alcove that protected the entrance from wind. Tangled masses of vegetation climbed the stone and wound around the pillars, giving True the feeling that this house had not been inhabited for a very long time. It was brick, two full stories plus an attic. The first floor consisted of a drawing room, library, parlor, and a large back kitchen, all with the musty smell of disuse. Drake threw back the draperies in the drawing room, and was rewarded by a shower of dust. They exited quickly, laughing and sneezing as the cloud of dust filled the room.
“This house needs a good turnout!” True said, coughing and brushing her skirts.
The second floor had eight bedrooms of varying size, as well as a couple of dressing rooms. The attic, Drake said, had servants’ quarters. True explored, her “housewife’s” eye taking in the furnishings that remained, what would need to be repaired, the condition of the wall coverings and floors, all the minute details her companion said he had not noticed when he had looked at it with the agent in charge of the property. He lounged against the door frame and watched her with laughter in his eyes.
“I was here the other day,” he said, “and I swear to you, I did not even notice that the wallpaper is moldy, as you have so kindly pointed out, and that half the bedrooms are missing wardrobes.”
“But you must notice, sir, you must!” True rattled a cupboard door and it fell off in her hand. She shook her head, propped it against the cupboard and stood, dusting her gloves off. “A house is not just the walls and the grounds, but every stick of furniture, and the linens and the plates and the—”
“Stop, stop!” he cried, his hands up in mock surrender. He took her arm and they descended to the first floor again and went out the kitchen door that faced the stable in back. “Before I decide to purchase this place, I shall consult with you, for you clearly have a much steadier head on your shoulders than mine. If I start talking about moldy wall coverings and wormy furniture to the land agent it will help me get a better price, I warrant.”
True pulled her arm out of her companion’s grip and put her hands on her hips. “I am going no farther until you tell me what you are talking about.”
Drake laughed. He put his arm around her shoulders and stood with her, gazing out from the back stone steps over the outbuildings; besides the stable there was a chicken house, a barn, and a couple of sheds, one of them leaning on such an angle it would not survive the next strong wind. It was perhaps a shabby scene, but it was gilded for her by the amity between her and her companion. True sighed and laid her cheek against Wy’s chest. This felt much too nice, being held in the circle of his arm.
“You gave me the idea for this when you marveled at how much Stanley knew about carpentry, and how it was a pity he could not pass that knowledge along. Do you know how many men went into the army because they were trained for nothing else? And do you know how many others there were who were experienced craftsmen? A good carpenter, farrier, blacksmith, whatever, could always name his own price. I thought that some of the fellows out of work since Waterloo might like to train in one of the trades. And I further thought that some of the men, like Stanley, could train them.”
True pulled herself away, with difficulty, from the comforting rumble of his voice, reverberating in his chest and against her cheek. She gazed up at him with admiration. “Wy, what a perfect idea!”
“It won’t solve the problems of the world, but it might help a few fellows support their families, or just make a living. I know old Nosey said our army was the ‘scum of the earth,’ but a lot of the men are decent enough fellows given half a chance. We wouldn’t have won the war without them. I sent a message to my steward about it, and he sent me the key to this place. It is about halfway between Lea Park and Thorne House.”
Impulsively, True threw her arms around Drake’s waist. “I think it is a marvelous idea, Wy, truly marvelous, just like you.”
She felt his hesitation, but then his arms settled around her, and they stood gazing out at the humble stable yard and farm buildings, while he talked about this vision of a school for teaching the trades, employing ex-soldiers as the teachers, housing the students and teachers there, too, and hiring some ex-soldiers and their wives to look after the physical needs . . . cooking, cleaning, and so on.
Drake felt a curious calm overtake him as he held True close. With her, he could talk of anything; he never needed to worry about witty chat, nor that he bored her. She already knew more about his war experiences than any other person outside of those who were there.
In short, he could say anything to her but what was in his heart. He suspected that he might be a little in love with Miss Truelove Becket, which was funny because he had thought he would never fall in love with anyone, but what did he have to offer her outside of material things? He was half of a man, emotionally if not physically. He had a terror of marrying and then finding that he would never get any better, never be able to sleep through the night untormented by nightmare visions of his own death, or of the faces of the men he had killed. What kind of a future was that to offer a lovely young lady like Truelove? She deserved her wise and good vicar, who would value her and give her a life of toil, yes, but honest work that True would thrive on.
He held her close to his heart, breathed in her essence, and wished things were different.
“Shall we walk?” he said, determined to be cheerful at all costs. He would beat the demons that plagued him one way or another. “There is a little wooded area with a brook running through it. I can like no place that does not have water access, you know; a brook or a stream is essential to me. I would like you to see it. I thought some of the fellows might like to f
ish while they are staying here.”
He whistled to the stable boy and called out to unhitch the horses for a while, and he led True through a field. It was some time before they made their way back to the house.
• • •
The next morning Arabella determinedly cornered Lord Drake in the breakfast room as he helped himself to eggs from the covered chafing dish. She took a plate and spooned on a tiny helping of eggs and a slice of ham. And she would have to be careful that she did not eat even that. Despite what he had said at the inn, she was sure that Lord Drake would approve a dainty appetite. It was time to steel herself to necessity, and set all her efforts to the task at hand. “I must say, my lord, that your . . . your infirmity appears to be healing!”
He scowled at her, but then saw her motioning toward his abandoned cane with her fork. “Oh . . . yes. This last month the exercise of walking with you ladies has done my leg good, I think.”
She dimpled up at him as he pulled out a chair for her. “Soon you will be as good as new! One would never know you were in that awful battle.”
“On the contrary, Miss Swinley,” he said, taking the seat next to her. They were the only two in the breakfast room at that early hour. “I wish no one to forget about that battle. I was lucky enough to be given an injury that will heal. Many of our poor soldiers lost limbs on the battlefield.”
She nodded, determined not to scold him for bringing up subjects unfit for a lady’s ears. If he wanted to talk about the dreadful war, then she would do it. If True could, she could. With the determination of a field general planning an attack, she took a deep breath and said, “Why, I think our gallant soldiers injured in the line of duty should be given a pension for their work for our country.”
“There is some provision for the injured, Miss Swinley. Chelsea Hospital is for the care of elderly and severely disabled soldiers. It is pitiful, but it is something, I suppose.”
Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) Page 11