For Love or Honor

by Sarah M. Eden

  “Could you truly manage it?” Philip looked hopeful.

  “I have helped to orchestrate massive troop movements,” Stanley said. “This will be far simpler.”

  “I would appreciate it.”

  Stanley nodded. “Have yourselves ready with the most basic necessities. I will see to the rest.”

  “Thank you.” Philip grasped Stanley’s upper arm for just a moment before continuing to walk with Sorrel toward the stairs.

  Neither Stanley nor Marjie spoke as Philip and Sorrel made their way up. Marjie laid her head against his arm. Stanley closed his eyes and simply felt her there. During the months of their separation, Stanley had easily pictured her. He had vividly remembered the scent of her and the sound of her voice. But he had been utterly unable to fully replicate in his memory the impact of her touch.

  He’d tried to imagine it countless times during tedious hours of marching, on the night before Waterloo, through the excruciating pain of amputation and the horrendous weeks that had followed. Nothing had filled the void. Nothing had taken away his pain. It lingered still, gnawing away at him. But in that moment, he felt relief, however small and fleeting.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Marjie shifted and abruptly broke the contact between them.

  He wanted to beg her to not step away, to tell her how desperately he needed her close to him. Do not add to her burdens, Father’s voice commanded in his mind. Stanley pushed the emotions away, reminding himself he had a task, an assignment. “Have your abigail pack enough for the journey. The rest will follow later.”

  “I hope we are easier to deal with than an entire regiment of soldiers,” Marjie said, smiling at him.

  “I think nearly anything would be easier than the army in wartime.” He’d meant his response to sound light, but his mind instantly filled with voices shouting over exploding cannon fire and the chaotic rush of men attempting to maintain rank and fulfill orders in the face of shattering fear. Stanley pushed it all back, reminding himself that a soldier kept marching no matter what.

  “I am glad we are returning to the Park,” Marjie said.

  Stanley nodded, though he didn’t agree. He had dreaded returning to a place that had always felt peaceful, knowing he brought with him too many regrets and wounds for even that haven to offer an escape.

  “I should probably send Lord Devereaux a note explaining why we were not at the ball.” Marjie’s expression had grown thoughtful. “He will wonder why we did not attend.”

  A surge of jealousy shot through Stanley. “Do you write to him often?”

  “Actually, no. I cannot say that I have ever personally sent him a letter. Philip or Sorrel send him invitations and notes when necessary. They say it wouldn’t be proper for me to write to him because we are unwed and unrelated.”

  Stanley nodded. He did have one thing Lord Devereaux did not: twenty-four letters in Marjie’s own hand. Stanley kept them with him always. “Perhaps Philip could send around a note in the morning before we leave.”

  Marjie smiled once more. “I’ll ask him. In the meantime, I suppose I ought to start Jane on the packing.”

  “A very good idea.” Except doing so would necessitate her leaving his side, something Stanley could not conjure any enthusiasm for.

  Marjie touched his arm again. He stiffened his posture and pulled his mind out of the moment, just as he’d learned to do in the aftermath of a battle. Doing so had kept him from breaking down.

  She deserves better, he reminded himself. Do not add to her burdens. Still, another part of him shouted, Rush the wall!

  “Sleep well, Stanley.” Marjie’s blue eyes looked directly into his.

  He nodded. “You as well.”

  He stood in place, watching her as she made her way up the stairs. She reminded him of a butterfly flitting around full of energy and life. Forcing her to be his solace and comfort would drain that life from her. War did that; it destroyed everything it touched.

  “Ye shoulda kissed her, Cap’n.”

  Stanley jerked his head toward the sound of Pluck’s voice.

  “A woman don’t look at a man like that unless she’s wantin’ some affection.” Pluck walked to where Stanley stood, the lone occupant of the very empty entryway. “This ain’t exactly my idea of stormin’ the citadel.”

  “‘Rushing the wall,’ Pluck. Try to keep the metaphors straight.”

  Pluck crossed his arms in front of him. Every hint of soldier had disappeared. Stanley couldn’t begin to count the number of times he’d nearly snapped, “Always a soldier” at Pluck. He never had though. Being a soldier hadn’t yet destroyed Pluck’s joie de vivre. Stanley couldn’t bring himself to be the one to turn the boy into a hardened cynic.

  “Aye. So what is it you’re doin’ if ye ain’t rushin’ the wall? Maybe I weren’t in the army long enough to learn the official word for ‘just sittin’ on our bums waitin’ to be blown to bits.’”

  “We are breaking camp,” Stanley said. He walked toward the book room, motioning for Pluck to follow him. Even with a limp, Stanley moved with the determination born of more than half a decade of marching across Europe. “I need you to take down a list for me.”

  Stanley couldn’t write with his right hand anymore. He’d discovered, however, that telling Pluck something was as good as etching it in stone. Pluck couldn’t write much other than his own name, but he never forgot anything. He’d been utterly wasted in the artillery. The boy ought to have been in reconnaissance. In the end, Pluck had, as Stanley’s batman, been put to good use conveying information between the various commanding officers who had been charged with putting the Continent back together after nearly two decades of war.

  Pluck tapped his finger against his head just above his temple. “Ready when ye are, Cap’n.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Remind me to always bring Stanley along when I travel,” Sorrel said as their carriage rolled up the drive to Lampton House. “He managed to orchestrate the closing of Lampton House in mere hours, something that usually requires a week or more.”

  “He didn’t reach the rank of captain by being inefficient, my dear,” Philip replied.

  That was most certainly true. Marjie had never in all her life seen anything as efficient as Stanley’s oversight of their departure. With only twelve hours’ notice, he had arranged for breakfast to be delivered to all of their rooms on trays and for the carriages—one for Philip, Sorrel, Marjie, and Stanley, and the other for their personal servants—packed and ready to depart an hour after their morning meal. A hot brick had already been placed inside, leaving the carriage interior comfortably warm. A basket of food had been provided for their journey. The London staff had been left with very specific instructions for packing those belongings left behind and sending them on to Nottinghamshire. He had drafted a list of individuals to whom Philip’s social secretary would send regrets and notices of the family’s removal to the country in lieu of the usual calls of farewell. Everything had been seen to.

  Stanley was certainly efficient, though magnificent felt like a better word.

  Philip walked with Sorrel up the front steps of the manor house at Lampton Park, and the butler and staff greeted them. Stanley remained behind to issue directions to the footmen and stable hands. Marjie hovered in the doorway, watching him, worried.

  Stanley rolled his right shoulder as if to work out a tight spot in it. Whatever injury he had sustained to his right leg had rendered his gait a little stilted and caused obvious stiffness in his ankle, but the effects of long hours in the carriage had not intensified his limp nor really changed it in any way. She hoped that was a good sign.

  “Miss Kendrick.”

  She turned at the sound of the housekeeper’s voice. Mrs. Beck, who oversaw the running of the Jonquils’ country seat, smiled sweetly and indicated the maid waiting to divest Marjie of her coat and bonnet.

  “His Lordship asked that you come along to the drawing room, Miss Kendrick.”

  Marjie
nodded and looked one more time out the front windows at Stanley before walking down the corridor toward the drawing room. She had lived at Lampton Park for a month before going with Sorrel and Philip to London. Her mother had decided shortly after Sorrel’s marriage that she did not at all like living at their home in Kent and, having declared herself free of the burden of caring for her crippled daughter—not that Mother had ever expended an ounce of energy on any of her children—wished to enjoy her freedom. She had taken up residence in Tunbridge Wells, where a childhood friend lived. Marjie had been sent to live with her sister. Fennel, their younger brother, was away at school.

  Philip stood at the mantel in the drawing room. His mother, the Dowager Countess of Lampton, sat on a nearby sofa. She was remarkably unpretentious for a woman in possession of more titles and social standing than most anyone Marjie had ever known. Sorrel was not in the room, owing to her ailing state of health, no doubt.

  The dowager looked up as Marjie entered. “Marjie, how wonderful to have you back.”

  “I am very happy to be back, Mater.”

  The dowager countess had insisted Marjie call her Mater, just as all her sons did. Marjie had come to think of the kindhearted woman as a surrogate mother. While in London, she had truly missed Mater’s quick wit and humor, her affectionate nature, even the perpetual black she wore in mourning for a husband who had been dead for a decade. Marjie’s family had not mourned their father at all in their hearts and had put aside their mourning clothes the very day convention had allowed them to.

  She sat beside Mater, contentment settling over her like a warm blanket.

  “Now, Philip.” Mater exuded a fierce focus, her gaze not shifting from him in the least. “Where is my boy? I was specifically told by you, you will recall, not to come to London when he so unexpectedly arrived. You have brought him with you, have you not?”

  Philip snapped his fingers. “I knew we forgot something. Maybe Sorrel remembered to stuff him in the boot with the luggage.”

  “None of your jesting, I warn you.”

  Philip smiled kindly. “Of course we have brought him home, Mater. He is outside playing general. He’ll be in by and by.”

  Mater laughed lightly. “I remember the lot of you playing soldiers down by the Trent for hours on end when you were young, even including some of the neighborhood children on occasion. Little Arabella Hampton was always willing to join in the fun. Though you were the one playing general then.” Tenderness filled the dear woman’s eyes. “Your Father and I watched more reenactments of the War with the Colonies than I can even recall.”

  “Yes, but we actually won,” Philip said. “It’s amazing what one can do when historical accuracy is not a consideration.”

  Mater’s smile remained only a moment before slipping noticeably. “How is he, Philip?” she asked. “Truthfully.”

  Philip hesitated. His brow furrowed. “He is not well, Mater,” he finally answered. “He has sustained some sort of injury to his right leg, though I do not know the details.”

  Marjie saw Mater pale, so she took the woman’s hand in her own.

  “And if I am not mistaken, something has also happened to his right hand.”

  His hand? Why did Philip think something was wrong with Stanley’s hand?

  “He is right-handed, but he now eats exclusively with his left and puts on his hat with his left. The few times he has shaken a gentleman’s hand, I’ve seen him wince, as if the gesture is painful. He tries to hide it, but I’ve noticed.”

  Marjie hadn’t been as observant as Philip had been. What else had she missed?

  “And otherwise?” Mater asked.

  Philip pushed out a long, strained breath. “I think he is very unhappy.”

  Marjie’s heart plummeted. Philip had quite succinctly expressed what she had been trying to identify ever since Stanley’s return. He seldom smiled. He did not spend time in the company of other people. When in public, his rigid posture never eased into anything resembling comfort.

  Marjie felt Mater squeeze her hand. How embarrassingly ironic. The dear lady’s son was struggling and she had to comfort Marjie.

  “He is home now,” Mater said. She had straightened her spine and pushed back her shoulders. Marjie saw a little of a general in Mater as well. “We will see to it that he is well again.”

  Philip smiled and leaned against the mantelpiece, not far from where they sat. “I have already recruited Marjie to help in the effort. With the two of you joining forces, I don’t see how we can possibly fail to pull our Stanley out of this state of blue devilment he’s in.”

  Mater nodded her emphatic agreement.

  An echoing click made its way in from the corridor.

  Marjie was well acquainted with the sound of a walking stick and recognized it instantly. “I believe he is coming,” she said to Mater.

  A moment later, Stanley stood in the doorway. Marjie couldn’t help thinking he looked apprehensive, nervous even.

  “Oh, my dear boy.” Mater’s watery words accompanied her very sudden dash across the room. Her arms were around her son hardly before Marjie realized she had moved.

  For just a moment, he looked like he might lose his balance, but he remained upright. Slowly, uncertainly, his left arm made its way around his mother, his right still grasping his walking stick. All the Jonquil brothers were tall—it was one of their more identifiable traits, one they quite obviously had inherited from their father. Mater’s head did not even reach Stanley’s shoulder.

  “Oh, Stanley.” Mater’s words were muffled, her head pressed into Stanley’s chest. “Forgive me for turning into such a watering pot. I have simply missed you so horribly.”

  “Don’t you know a soldier likes to have a pretty lady cry over him?” Stanley’s arm could not have been applying more than the lightest pressure against his mother, as if he was avoiding actually embracing her.

  “Pretty lady? You boys and your glib tongues.” Mater pulled back, her head moving as she looked him over, though she did not entirely release him. “You have come back to us whole,” she said. “I prayed and prayed for that. The heavens must have listened.”

  Stanley nodded, his eyes moving away from her.

  “Oh, my sweet Stanley.” Mater touched Stanley’s cheek. “Promise you will stay with us for a while.”

  “Until I am required to go back.”

  “Then let us hope that is not for a long while yet.” Mater might very well have been speaking on Marjie’s behalf.

  Suddenly, there was a look of such intense sadness on Stanley’s face that Marjie’s lungs compressed painfully at the sight of it. What was he thinking of? What had upset him so entirely?

  “Stanley?” Mater pressed.

  As quickly as it had clouded, his expression emptied, and he stepped back. “I am a little fatigued from the journey,” he said, his words halting. “I would like to retire for the evening. If you will excuse me.”

  He didn’t wait for a response but moved quickly from the room. Marjie looked from Mater’s surprised face to Philip’s concerned one.

  “He is not well.” Mater still stood where Stanley had left her, looking in the direction of his departure. “I have never known him to be so distant and unaffectionate.”

  “I wanted to see how he would interact with you,” Philip said. “I knew it would be more telling than almost anything else.”

  “He was always so attentive, caring to the point of being a bother at times.” Mater turned back to face her eldest son. There was pain and worry etched in every line of her face. “The embrace he offered just now hardly counted as one. He said not more than a few words, none of them personal.”

  “Something happened to him, Mater.” Philip looked weary, weighed down. “Mariposa said the war was destroying Stanley’s soul. At the time, I thought she was exaggerating—she does have a tendency toward the dramatic.”

  Mariposa’s flair for the dramatic was one of Marjie’s favorite things about that particular Jonquil sister
-in-law. Mariposa had known Stanley while she had lived in Spain and later in France. She had seen him as a solider and had lived through battles herself.

  “I am beginning to think the newest Mrs. Jonquil was spot on the mark,” Philip said. “I very much fear we are losing him.”

  Marjie would not allow Stanley to slip away from them all. His soul was worth fighting for. She would help him, whatever it took.

  As if placed there by some invisible messenger, an idea formulated in her mind. Marjie excused herself and made her way from the room. She caught up with Stanley in the corridor leading to all the family rooms. She had been given the bedchamber she was told had once been Jason and Corbin’s and was, therefore, very near Stanley’s. Though she would have denied it had anyone asked, she had sat in Stanley’s bedchamber during his absence, feeling closer to him by simply being in a room where he had spent so much of his life.

  “Stanley,” she called out to him.

  He stopped only a few steps from his doorway and turned. She came to a stop directly in front of him. She stood close enough in that moment to smell his shaving soap, a scent she had become familiar with during her time spent sneaking into his empty bedchamber.

  “There is something I have been meaning to give you.” She rushed her words, attempting to get them out with what little air she could manage to press out of her suddenly tight lungs. “Would you wait here, please, while I retrieve it? I know precisely where it is and shan’t be but a moment.”

  “I—” He looked uncomfortable. “I rather need to sit, actually.” Was he blushing? “One would think after two days of sitting, I wouldn’t have to do so again, but—”

  “Of course.”

  His injury, whatever it might be, had begun to bother him again, and she was keeping him standing in the corridor. What a widgeon she was!

  “I will bring it to your room. You can sit in there.” She happened to know that a very comfortable armchair sat near the fireplace.

  Not wishing to cause him any further inconvenience, Marjie hurried into her own bedchamber and directly to the portable writing table she’d brought back with her from Town. She opened the lid and shuffled around the stack of stationery, pulling out the sealed envelope beneath: her most recent letter to Stanley, the one she’d written in the hours before his unexpected arrival.