by Emily Larkin
Major Reynolds grinned. “How could I forget?” He turned to Isabella. “Wellington claimed the best house left standing, but there was a hole in the roof where a cannon ball had come through, and one in the floor. They hung the ballroom with yellow silk, and as for the hole in the floor . . .”
“They laid a mat over it.” The lieutenant took up the tale. “And posted a man to see that no one fell in!”
Reminiscent laughter lit the major’s eyes. “Now that was a ball!”
On impulse Isabella turned to the lieutenant. “I’m hosting a party at the theater tomorrow night. The Venetian Outlaw is playing.” She included young Harold Reynolds in her smile. “Would you care to join us?”
Both men bowed and expressed pleasure at the invitation, and Isabella was aware of a sense of relief. With the light-hearted Lieutenant Mayhew as one of her party, the major must enjoy the evening—however much London stared and laughed at him.
The theater party comprised the Washburnes, himself and Mayhew and Harry, and Lady Isabella and her cousin. Mrs. Westin was a woman of middle years with faded blue eyes and a kindly face. She was dressed in widow’s black. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Major Reynolds,” she when they were seated. His scar appeared not to disconcert her; she looked fully at his face as she spoke. “Do you enjoy the theater?”
“I do.”
Their box was private, and yet the bustle of the theater surrounded them. The ceiling echoed with the sound of hundreds of conversations, with the squawk of instruments being tuned, with laughter and catcalls as the more common members of the audience filled the pit below.
“Major Reynolds is something of a thespian,” Mayhew said, leaning forward. “I’ve seen him tread the boards on a number of occasions.”
Nicholas was aware of Lady Isabella turning her head to look at him, an expression of surprise on her face. Alongside her, Harry looked equally surprised.
“You act, sir?”
Nicholas shrugged. “It was a tradition among the Light Division.”
“Is he any good, Lieutenant?” Lady Isabella asked, sounding slightly bemused.
“First rate!” Mayhew answered. “I wish you could have seen his Romeo, ma’am. It was unsurpassed.”
“Romeo?” Lady Isabella said, sounding even more bemused.
Nicholas shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “A comic rôle.”
“I’ve never laughed so much in my life,” Mayhew said. “And as for Wellington, I thought he’d die choking!”
“Wellington?” said Mrs. Westin, a note of reverence in her voice.
“We were in winter quarters,” Mayhew explained. “Fuentes de Oñoro, wasn’t it?”
Nicholas nodded.
“We found a disused chapel in Gallegos and put on performances. Wellington rode over sometimes to watch.”
“A chapel,” Mrs. Westin said, with a slight frown.
“The Bishop of Ciudad Rodrigo felt just as you do, madam,” Mayhew said. “He laid a solemn curse upon the enterprise.”
His smile, at once apologetic and charming, won an answering smile from Mrs. Westin. “Well, if Wellington didn’t disapprove . . .”
“On the contrary. I’ve rarely seen him so willing to be pleased. And if you could have seen Reynolds, ma’am, you would understand. His Romeo is the funniest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Fortunately the curtain rose at that moment. The various pairs of eyes that had been fixed on him—Gussie amused, Harry awed, Lady Isabella astonished—turned towards the stage, where a picturesque and gothic grotto was revealed.
A man stepped onstage, a letter in his hand. He paused a moment as the hubbub of the audience subsided, and then read aloud, his voice carrying over the subdued murmur coming from the pit.
“‘A man once honored with your friendship has important secrets to communicate. Repair alone this night, at the hour of eight, to the grotto in the palace gardens.’”
The actor lifted his head and gazed out over the audience, his expression perplexed. “From whom is this appointment? Its mystery bespeaks an enemy rather than a friend.”
A clock offstage struck eight times, and Nicholas released the breath he’d been holding and settled himself into enjoyment of the play.
After the first act, when the actors had retired from the stage, a box attendant brought refreshments. Lady Isabella had spared no expense; the selection of cakes and beverages was excellent.
Nicholas leaned back in his chair, enjoying the noise rising from the crowd below, the indefinable scent and atmosphere of the theater. He sipped his burgundy. The wine was velvety on his tongue, slightly spicy.
“I hear that London is calling you an ogre,” Mayhew said in a low, laughing voice.
Nicholas grunted. “What else have you heard?”
“That you’re laying siege to an acknowledged beauty.” Mayhew glanced past him at Lady Isabella. “You always did have good taste.”
“We’re merely friends,” Nicholas said, and ignored Mayhew’s expression of disbelief. He had decided on a bride: Clarissa Whedon. She had no beauty, but her nature was quiet and yielding and her mother, with four daughters to dispose of, must be pleased to receive his offer, ogre or not.
He listened with half an ear as Mayhew regaled Harry with tales of army life. “. . . ate acorns for dinner. The commissariat had sent the wagons by the wrong route . . .”
“A comic actor, Major?” a voice said quietly beside him. “You have unexpected depths.”
He turned his head. Lady Isabella sat where Mrs. Westin had. Her mouth quirked into a smile. “I must confess I find it hard to imagine you as Romeo.”
“I mostly took the rôle of villain.” Nicholas raised a finger to his cheek, tapping the hardened skin lightly.
Her gaze flicked to it. “Major, if you don’t mind me asking . . . how did you acquire the scar?”
The babble of voices faded. In his ears were shouts, the crackle of flames, the sound of a man screaming. “The billet I was in caught fire.”
“Ah,” she said. “How unlucky for you.”
Nicholas met her eyes. “No,” he said. “I was lucky.”
She considered the words in silence for a moment. “There were others in the billet?”
“Four of us.” Crammed into a dirt-floored hovel with a tiny, creaking loft beneath the roof. “I’m the only one who got out.”
“I’m sorry,” Lady Isabella said simply.
Nicholas shrugged. “It was a long time ago.” He raised his glass and took a mouthful, but he tasted smoke on his tongue, smelled the scent of burning flesh. For a moment he experienced nausea, twisting in his belly. Bile climbed up his throat.
Nicholas lowered the glass, his fingers tight around the stem, and forced himself to swallow the wine.
“Forgive me for asking, Major. I apologize.”
He focused on Lady Isabella. Her expression was as contrite as her voice. She had seen his discomfort.
“Not at all.” He forced a smile. “It was a long time ago, and as I said, I was lucky.”
Her sober expression didn’t alter. Was that pity in her eyes?
Nicholas straightened in the chair. The last wisps of memory faded, the whiff of smoke, the nausea. “I was lucky,” he said firmly. “Twelve years of soldiering, and no injuries in battle. Few men can say that.”
Her gaze went to the scar again.
“What do you see?” he asked her bluntly. “When you look at it.”
“Pain.”
He raised his hand to his cheek, to the ridges of melted flesh, the roughness, the smoothness. “When I look at myself in the mirror I remember how lucky I am.”
“You do?” Her tone was dubious.
“Yes,” he said firmly. I survived.
Lady Isabella’s expression relaxed into a smile. She believed him.
Nicholas relaxed, too. No more pity.
“Do you know . . .” Lady Isabella’s voice was musing. Her gaze rested on the scar again. “I hardly notice it n
ow. Only when—” She glanced at him, meeting his eyes, and colored slightly.
“Only when someone calls me an ogre.” He finished the sentence for her.
Her cheeks became pinker. “Yes.”
I hope my wife will learn to see past it, too. To ignore it. “What’s your opinion of Clarissa Whedon?” he asked abruptly.
“Clarissa Whedon?” Interest brightened her eyes. “Do you intend to offer for her?” She bit her lip. “Forgive me, Major, that was an impertinent question.”
Nicholas made a gesture of negation. “Yes, I do intend.” He tilted his glass and watched the play of light on the wine. “What do you think of her?”
“She seems a nice girl.”
Nicholas glanced at her. There was a slight frown on her brow, as if she searched for a word. “Placid,” Lady Isabella said at last, meeting his eyes. “She seems very placid.”
“Yes,” Nicholas said. That was the word he’d been searching for last night. Not stolid; placid. Calm and unruffled, quiet. And young enough not to be set in her ways. Young enough for a husband to mold her. He smiled and lifted the wineglass to his mouth. Exactly what he wanted in a wife.
After the curtain had fallen, in the bustle of movement and noise, of comments, of cloaks being sought, Gussie turned to Lady Isabella. “May I bring Grace around tomorrow?”
“Certainly. Would she like to play with the kittens?”
“She would like to have one,” Gussie said wryly. “The ginger one.”
“Not an hour goes past without her asking after it,” her husband said from behind her, his tone a mix of amusement and resignation. “She even has a name for it: Saffron.”
“We give up,” Gussie said with a grimace, but there was laughter in her eyes.
Lady Isabella’s mouth tucked in at the corners, as if she was trying not to smile. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I’m so sorry!”
“Kittens?” Mayhew asked, stepping up alongside Nicholas. “You have kittens, ma’am?”
“Yes.” Lady Isabella turned to him. “Do you know someone who’d like one?”
“Me,” Mayhew said. “Would you by any chance have two?”
“Yes,” Lady Isabella said again, looking at the lieutenant with all the astonishment Nicholas felt.
“Why do you want kittens?” Nicholas asked, putting up his eyebrows.
“To give to my niece and nephew,” Mayhew said promptly. “They’re twins,” he explained to Lady Isabella. “My sister’s children.”
Lady Isabella smiled at him, approval warm in her eyes. “Certainly you may have two kittens, Lieutenant Mayhew. I would be very pleased to give them to you.”
Nicholas pulled on his gloves. For no reason that he could identify, he felt slightly disgruntled.
Chapter Nine
Monday didn’t start auspiciously. The second housemaid fell down the back stairs and broke her leg.
“Two maids short,” Mrs. Early said, stout and agitated. “It can’t be done, ma’am. Not a house of this size, and with Miss Durham staying.”
After Isabella had soothed the housekeeper and sent her off to the registry office to hire a new housemaid, she carried the news upstairs to Mrs. Westin’s parlor, where she found not just her cousin, but Harriet as well.
“Oh, let me help!” cried Harriet, putting down the handkerchief she was hemming. “I can dust and make beds and—”
“Thank you, my dear, but it’s not necessary.” Isabella smiled at her. A pile of handkerchiefs lay on the sofa alongside the girl. Isabella picked up the top one. It had been hemmed so neatly that the stitches were almost invisible. In each corner a violet unfurled purple petals. “You did this?”
Harriet nodded.
The next handkerchief had yellow primroses at each corner, and the one underneath pink roses, each petal delicately rendered in thread. Isabella brushed a fingertip over one of the flowers. The needlework was superior to anything she was capable of. “Beautiful,” she said. “You’re a fine needlewoman.”
Harriet blushed shyly at the praise.
Isabella put down the handkerchiefs and turned to leave the room, holding the door open for Rufus, who followed—as always when she was at home—at her heels.
“Ma’am?”
Isabella turned back. “Yes?”
“Has . . . has the mail come this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Was there anything for me?”
“No, my dear.”
Tears filled Harriet’s eyes. She twisted her hands in her lap. “Oh, what shall I do if my aunt doesn’t—”
“There will be time enough for worry if the moment comes.” Mrs. Westin didn’t pause in her knitting. “Don’t borrow trouble, child.” There was no censure in her voice, just calmness.
Harriet bit her lower lip. She looked down at her lap, tears trembling on her lashes.
“My cousin is right.” Isabella smiled at the girl. “It’s too soon to worry.” But privately she was beginning to worry. It had been a full week. Surely a reply must come soon from the Lake District?
Little Grace Washburne came in the company of her mother, to ecstatically carry off the ginger kitten, and after a light luncheon Isabella sat down in the morning room to read the letter she had received from one of her sisters, the remaining kittens curled up in their basket and Rufus warm across her feet.
She was absorbed in a description of her nephew’s first venture astride a pony when the butler entered the room, carrying a visiting card on a salver. “A gentleman to see you, ma’am.”
Isabella examined the card. “Mr. Fernyhough? Who is he?”
But the butler didn’t know.
“Did he say why he wishes to see me?”
“A matter of business, ma’am.”
Isabella tapped the card with a fingertip. “I’ll see him in the drawing room, Hoban.”
She poked her head into Mrs. Westin’s parlor to warn Harriet that a visitor was in the house, and then went down one flight of stairs to the drawing room.
Mr. Fernyhough was dressed with great plainness and propriety. His bow was respectful, his face earnest. He looked to be not more than twenty-five. Something about the arrangement of his features, or perhaps his manner, reminded Isabella of a half-grown puppy.
“Forgive me for intruding, ma’am,” he said, upon being invited to sit. “A complete stranger! But I needed to be certain . . .” He bit his lip and then blurted: “Is Miss Durham all right?”
The name shocked Isabella into stillness. “Miss Durham?” she said cautiously.
“Miss Harriet Durham. I believe she’s in your care.” Mr. Fernyhough leaned forward, his expression even more earnest than it had been. “Is she all right?”
“I don’t perfectly understand, Mr. Fernyhough,” Isabella said, taking refuge in cool hauteur. “Why would I have a Miss Durham in my care?”
Mr. Fernyhough sat back in the crimson-upholstered armchair. His manner became flustered. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I was given to understand— The landlady at the Rose and Crown in Stony Stratford told me that . . .” He fixed beseeching eyes on her face. “Miss Durham has run away and I’m trying to find her, to be certain she’s safe and well.”
“What is your relationship to Miss Durham?” Isabella asked carefully.
“We are friends,” Mr. Fernyhough said, but color rose in his cheeks.
Isabella lifted her eyebrows. “Friends, Mr. Fernyhough?”
Mr. Fernyhough’s face became scarlet. “At one time we hoped to marry.”
Isabella looked at him with interest. A very different man from Major Reynolds. Mild, with that puppy-dog face. “May I ask why you didn’t?”
“Her grandfather forbade it,” Mr. Fernyhough said simply. “He wanted Harriet to marry a military man, not a country parson.”
“You’re a man of the cloth?” Isabella asked, startled.
“Colonel Durham presented me with a living two years ago. I consider myself very fortunate to be distinguished by his patronage.”
But Mr. Fernyhough didn’t look fortunate; he looked miserable.
Isabella abandoned the hauteur. “Harriet is upstairs. Would you like to see her?”
Mr. Fernyhough’s face lit up. “She’s here? Oh, yes, I should very much like to see her!” The joy left his face. “No,” he said, heavily. “I’d better not. If the colonel were to ask me . . . He has already accused me of harboring her, of aiding her.” His expression became indignant. “As if I’d do such a thing!”
But if you truly loved her, wouldn’t you? She didn’t say the words aloud, but perhaps Mr. Fernyhough read them on her face, for he flushed again and lowered his eyes. “I must support my mother and my brothers and sisters, ma’am. I depend upon Colonel Durham’s patronage. If he were to withdraw it . . .”
So it wasn’t backbone Mr. Fernyhough lacked, but rather an independent living. Isabella sighed.
“Would you give Miss Durham a letter from me?” Mr. Fernyhough’s eyes pleaded with her.
“Of course,” Isabella said. “You may be assured that Harriet is quite well. She’s upstairs with my cousin.”
Mr. Fernyhough hung onto those few words with painful eagerness.
“We’re waiting for a letter from her aunt,” Isabella continued, slightly disconcerted by the intensity of his gaze. “As soon as it comes I’ll send Harriet to her. By post-chaise, of course.”
“I’m most grateful to you, madam—as I’m persuaded Harriet must be, too.” Emotion choked Mr. Fernyhough’s voice. “Without your aid I don’t dare think what may have happened to her.”
“I will ensure that no harm comes to her,” Isabella said, uncomfortable at the gratitude shining in his brown eyes. “Of that you may be certain.”
“Her reputation . . .”
“Yes,” Isabella said quietly. “The damage is irrevocable. It is unfortunate.”
Mr. Fernyhough lowered his gaze to his clasped hands. His fingers were gripped tightly together. “I wish . . .” He swallowed and looked up and attempted a smile. “But it’s of no use.” He unclasped his hands, took a letter from his coat pocket, and extended the letter to her. “You may read it if you like, ma’am. There’s nothing improper.” He flushed again, faintly. “I just want to say goodbye to Harriet and . . . and wish her happy in the future.”