by Heather Snow
“Not from the wars, of course, but the same principle. Trauma fatigue, maybe?”
Her brow furrowed and she said weakly, “No, of course not.”
But he was right. He knew it. “I can think of nothing more traumatic than what you’ve been through, Pen. It must be why you’ve had so much success helping soldiers when you’ve had no formal studies in mental philosophy,” he said. “Because intrinsically you understand what we are going through.”
Several emotions played on her face as she took in his words, staring at him as if she’d never seen him before. After several long minutes, her expression smoothed. “You may be right,” she said, a touch of wonder in her voice.
“Yes. And that makes you a survivor. Like all of the men you’ve helped.” He reached out a hand to touch her cheek. “Like me. You decide how you go on from here, as we all do. If you want to wear colors again, you can. If you want to haunt the ballrooms, you should. And if you want to waltz . . .”
He dropped a hand to her waist and ran the fingers of his other hand down her arm to lift her hand into his. A lone, remaining tear slipped down her cheek as she looked up at him, but then she placed her hand on his shoulder, light and fragile as a butterfly. “Then we waltz,” he said, and pulled her into a slow twirl.
He hummed in three-quarters time, and god-awful humming it was, as he had no sense of pitch. But they waltzed around that darkened bedchamber until he was nearly hoarse.
And then Penelope let him hold her while she slept. As he lay awake, stroking her skin, he prayed he’d gotten through to her. Pen was too beautiful a soul to suffer a moment longer over things that were not her fault. He also gave thanks that he’d been given the chance to help her even the tiniest bit as much as she had him.
Chapter Sixteen
Later that week, Penelope sat in the parlor with Liliana, poring over the bolts of fabric that had just arrived from London. The two women were sorting them by color and style, matching them to the patterns Penelope had selected. Tomorrow she would take it all to the village and leave the lot with the draper. The man’s wife had done such a lovely job creating the yellow ball gown for Penelope on such short notice that Liliana had decided to employ them to create a new wardrobe for two-year-old Charlotte, as well as layettes and other items for the coming baby, rather than taking her business to Town.
“No, Lily,” Penelope clucked as her cousin held up a striped muslin next to a patterned silk that clashed terribly. “You would never put the two of those together in the same dress.”
“You wouldn’t,” Liliana said wryly. “I, on the other hand, have the fashion sense of a chemist. Oh, wait . . .” She scrunched up her nose in a face that made Penelope laugh. Liliana put down the fabric she’d been holding and looked woefully over the array of materials before them, shaking her head. “Charlotte, no doubt, will be ecstatic. Even at two, she has a better sense of style than me. You should see the mutinous pouts she gives me some days, and usually on the days when I think I’ve dressed her quite well.” Liliana sighed. “I am so grateful to have you here with me.”
“Me, too,” Penelope answered warmly, even as a twinge of sadness settled in her heart. Her niece, Charlotte, had been born barely a fortnight after Michael had taken his own life. Penelope had been in no state to be of any help at all with the new baby, and she always felt a bit of guilt for what she’d missed out on. She knew Liliana also felt guilt of her own, as she had been unable to support Penelope as she would have liked to, so caught up was she in the demands of her newborn.
Nor had Penelope been able to turn to her society friends. It had been quite some time before she’d felt able to reengage, and by then, she’d lost any interest in the parties and fashion that had once been so important to her, which left her nothing in common with the young ladies and matrons who’d been her friends. Her life had quite literally entered a black phase that she was only just coming out of.
“Oh, not just because you are saving poor Charlotte from fashion mortification,” Liliana said. “Did I tell you that you were right about the nurse Miss Eden?
Penelope looked up from her task with a start. “No. What do you mean?”
“Upon your recommendation, I asked Geoffrey to have his man of business look more closely into Miss Eden’s background. It turns out that the references she’d provided were forged. Eden wasn’t even her real name. It was Haley, and she’d been turned out from her previous employer’s home for drunkenness that resulted in neglecting her charge.”
“Oh my,” Penelope said, shocked.
“Yes. Thankfully, the babe wasn’t hurt, but I am so grateful you listened to your instincts and said something to me.”
“So am I,” Penelope agreed. Maybe she had been too hard on herself these past years. Maybe she did need to forgive herself. Maybe she needed to trust herself more, too.
The women worked quietly for a few moments, each lost in her own thoughts.
“I am glad to see that you’ve put away the blacks,” Liliana said as she held up two more clashing color swatches. “It wasn’t right, seeing you in them.”
Penelope looked at Liliana in surprise, but her cousin had turned her eyes back to the layette patterns on the table. It seemed everyone had noticed what she was doing except her. But no longer. Since the day of the assembly, she hadn’t worn black once.
Gabriel’s eyes had lit up that following morning when she’d entered the breakfast room in a morning dress of light blue muslin. The smile that had wreathed his face had filled her with a quiet happiness. Oddly enough, however, while it didn’t bother her to wear her old dresses anymore, they no longer seemed to suit her. Even Gabriel had remarked after a few days that pastels didn’t seem to fit her anymore. He suggested she might order a new wardrobe, selecting rich fabrics in jewel tones. Better suited for the deeper, more mature woman she’d become. You’ve been through fire, Pen, he’d said, even as he was removing a lovely pink frock from her body. It’s only right that you come through it swathed in a more vibrant shade. And then he’d taken her through an entirely different sort of fire, the kind that scorched her nerves to cinders before leaving her sated and sleepy and immensely pleased.
“Did you decide to put away your mourning because you are ready to move on with someone else?” Liliana asked then with characteristic bluntness and a pointed look that brought heat to Penelope’s cheeks. Had her cousin just read her mind?
Was she hoping to move forward with Gabriel? Emotion clogged her throat, a combination of excitement and hope and longing all mixed with a very real fear that it would be an awful mistake. You’ll get hurt, her heart warned.
And yet the past three weeks had been some of the best she’d ever known. She and Gabriel had spent their days together, out-of-doors when the weather permitted, or pacing the long gallery when the rain or sleet dictated. Most of that time was spent in deep conversation, digging to uncover hidden associations that contributed to his battle fatigue. Some they discovered quite by accident, such as when they’d been walking by the stables when one of the horses was being shoed. The clanging sound and the whinny of the protesting horse had thrown him back into a terrible memory of his own stallion being lanced by a French cavalryman, right from beneath him. Others came from the hard work of taking those memories out and examining them. Many moments had not been easy, not for him—and not for her, either. When he spoke of the deep terrors and hardships he’d experienced over the years in battle, she’d often been unable to check her own tears.
She’d heard many horrors of war, of course, from many a soldier. But never had she experienced them as deeply as she had when they came from someone she love—
Oh, God. Someone she loved.
“Would it be so bad, Pen?” Liliana asked gently.
Penelope’s gaze snapped to her cousin, who was looking at her with understanding. Goodness, her love must be written clearly on her face for Liliana to have picked up on it. Matters of the heart had never been Liliana’s strong suit.
“I don’t know,” Penelope whispered. And she didn’t. She pictured Gabriel in her mind as he’d been these past few weeks, every day growing stronger and more confident in his future. He and Geoffrey had developed a friendship of their own, and Gabriel often rode out with him and assisted with projects on the estate. While he still couldn’t bring himself to venture into the mine, he’d spent many afternoons helping to build a schoolhouse in the small mining village.
Luncheons and dinners with the four of them were lively and terribly interesting, with much of the conversation centered around ways Gabriel could support the plight of war widows and their children. Much talk was made of how to attack the problem with both policy—which Geoffrey vowed not only to support but to help Gabriel present in the House of Lords—and practicality. Discussion of opening a mill on Gabriel’s estate in Birminghamshire, along with a small village similar to what Geoffrey had done here at Somerton Park, was well under way, the men putting numbers to paper to explore the feasibility of it.
Early evenings were spent playing cards and games with Liliana and Geoffrey. Penelope learned that Gabriel was not horrible at whist. When she asked him later that night why he’d lost so often when she’d partnered him in London, he’d retorted that he hadn’t been able to concentrate on his cards in those days, as his mind was so focused on wanting her.
When she’d held up their winnings and tartly demanded if his superior play that night meant he no longer wanted her, he’d scooped her into his arms and growled, “It’s different now, because I have you.” She’d happily let him have her again and again throughout the long night.
All in all, her time spent with him was the perfect blend of quiet domesticity and scorching sensuality. Everything that she wanted.
Unless . . .
“Are you still worried he might be mad?” Liliana asked. “I must say, I’ve seen no evidence.”
“Neither have I,” Penelope admitted. “Not really. Not since we left Vickering Place.”
“Do you think it had something to do with his environment there, then?”
Penelope shook her head. “It can’t be that, since he was having the episodes at his home long before he went to the sanatorium. No, it must have been the accumulative effect of his battle fatigue that brought on the attacks.” And he was getting better every day. How well he’d handled the assembly the other night showed that. “I believe he will continue to improve.” But was she willing to stake her future on that?
The future of any children they might produce?
At the idea of a baby of her own, sheer longing settled into her middle. She clutched the pattern of a tiny nightdress to her, imagining that it was for her baby. Hers and Gabriel’s. Was that what she wanted?
She could already be with child, she knew. She and Gabriel had spent every night of the past three weeks in each other’s arms. After that first passionate encounter against her chamber door, however, Gabriel had insisted on spilling his seed outside of her—so she knew the prospect of passing on any madness worried him, too.
And yet there had been that once . . . Just because she’d been married for a half year without conceiving didn’t mean it wasn’t possible.
“Then is it the fact that he’s Michael’s cousin?” Liliana probed. “Do you feel like you’d be betraying your husband’s memory with a member of his own family?”
“No,” she said firmly. She might not be proud of the wife she’d been while he was alive, but she did not feel that finding love again would be a betrayal.
“Well,” Liliana said, “I can hardly answer whether or not Lord Bromwich is the right person for you, but I can say I’m glad he is in your life for however long he remains there. You’ve been more yourself in the past month than in the two years before it. I was afraid that Michael’s death had damaged you beyond repair—that you might never let someone else into your heart.”
Penelope stared at her cousin, the moment seemingly eerily familiar. She’d said much the same words to Liliana once, long ago, in this very house. But where Liliana had been mourning a father’s unconditional love, Penelope was only now coming to terms with the love she and Michael had shared.
Gabriel had helped her to realize that Michael had loved only Michael. Oh, he’d cared about her in his own way, but it was more that he saw her as an extension of himself rather than loving who she was. She didn’t know if Michael would ever have done what it would have taken to get well. He’d been too addicted to the elation when he was feeling high. Not that anyone could get well for another person, of course. But Penelope wondered if he could have given it up for her, for their marriage, would he have made the sacrifice if it would have meant her happiness over his?
Gabriel, on the other hand, was a man accustomed to sacrifice. She had a feeling he would give everything for someone he loved.
The question was, did he love her? And if so, was that love worth taking a risk of her own?
* * *
Rain chased Gabriel into the stable, just behind Stratford. The sudden deluge had cut short their afternoon of laboring with the men in the village, but nothing could dampen his spirits.
He couldn’t remember having ever felt so alive! Not even as a young man, before the ravages of war had marked him. He still couldn’t sleep at night, but it was no longer horrid dreams that kept him awake into the wee hours. It was plans. Plans for his future. They tumbled about in his mind—even when, by all rights, he should be exhausted from days of hard work and nights of sweet passion in Penelope’s arms.
Penelope.
It had been so long since he’d dared to dream about what lay ahead for him. Contemplating a lonely descent into madness had taught him to live moment to moment. But now . . . it seemed that a whole world of possibilities was open to him once again, that everything he’d ever wanted was within his grasp.
Even her?
She was another thing he’d never allowed himself to hope for—first because she’d been the wife of another and then, later, because he’d been fit for no one.
But now?
Could he allow himself to hope? Because it was one thing to share a bed—two grown people enjoying pleasure and comfort in each other’s arms. But would she even consider a life with him after what she’d suffered with Michael? Yes, as days slipped into weeks without experiencing any bouts of madness, even he’d begun to believe that perhaps battle fatigue was all that was behind his episodes. But was that belief enough to ask Penelope to risk a future with him?
Or would the specter of madness always be in the corner of both of their minds, keeping them from being truly happy?
Thunder rumbled loudly across the sky, followed by a crack of lightning as he and Stratford dismounted. The stable was alive with noise and activity, as stable hands tried to settle the spooked horses.
“Would you mind if we rubbed our mounts down ourselves?” Stratford asked. “It appears the grooms have their hands full.”
“Of course not,” Gabriel said, tying his horse off next to the earl’s. He followed Stratford to collect towels and a curry brush and then started the circular strokes, working from head to tail, enjoying the task. He had to admit, the storm and the whinnies of frightened horses made him a bit edgy, too, but keeping his hands busy stroking the horse seemed to calm him.
Coping. That’s what Penelope had called it. Every day he got better at it. Perhaps in a few months he’d trust himself enough to ask for Penelope’s hand. And perhaps she’d feel confident enough to accept.
“It’s a shame about the rain,” Stratford commented as he rubbed down his own horse. “But I suppose you’ll be wanting to see plenty of it now that you are planning to build a mill on your land. You’ll need full streams to power your machinery, even if you decide to use the newer steam engines as your main source.”
Gabriel moved his towel over the horse’s back. “Yes. I think I know just where I’ll situate it. There’s a small waterfall that has a goodly portion of land around it. I may still decide
to build with the steam engine in mind, as it does seem to be the way of the future. But the falls will give me options.
“Much depends on the cost, however, what with the need to build housing right away. I’m planning to start with cottages straight off, rather than barracks, as you did. Since I’ll be employing mainly women, many of whom will have children, I’d like to get families settled into real homes as quickly as I can. I’ll need to get a schoolhouse up, as well.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to manage that much expense up front?” Stratford asked over the back of his own horse.
“Possibly,” Gabriel answered. “The estate can support the initial phases. I’ve written to my solicitor, as well as to my man of business, to inquire about taking out loans for the rest.”
“Good.” Stratford nodded. “I think you have a solid strategy in place. When do you hope to break ground?”
Gabriel’s hand stilled midstroke, causing the horse to flick his tail irritably. That was the question, wasn’t it? It had been invigorating to make plans and explore possibilities, but the reality was that in order to bring them to fruition, he would have to leave the earl’s home and return to his own.
Without Penelope.
Just the thought made his heart clench. This time at Somerton Park with her had been sanctuary. She was the reason that he was on the road to recovery, he had no doubt. But once he stepped back into his life, he would be stepping back into it alone. He could not ask her to accompany him and live with him as an unmarried woman. Even for a widow, that would be beyond the pale.
But he had to have the courage to move forward and reclaim his life. “I’d like to get started this spring,” he said.
How was he going to manage without her?
Why should you have to? a voice whispered in his head. After all, Stratford had told him more than once that he would have accomplished nothing without the love and support of his wife. He’d spoken honestly and frankly about his need for her to help him be the best man he could.