His Heart's Delight

by Mary Blayney

  ~ ~ ~

  It was such a comfort to be home. As the carriage moved up the drive, Christiana looked out the window and absorbed every familiar detail. The roses that climbed the wrought-iron gate were still in bloom and she caught the fragrance on the breeze. She could see the glint of sunshine on the lake, barely visible through the trees. To the north she saw the gentle rise of land behind the house, which protected it from the worst of winter storms.

  She had never talked with Morgan about the country. Was he committed to life in London or did he plan to spend time in Wales. Did he even have a house there?

  She had never asked because she thought it made no difference to their relationship. Until that one kiss, she had been completely blind to her growing feelings for him. And now she would never have the chance to test those feelings, to see if they would grow. And that guilty truth brought tears to her eyes as readily as any other grief she felt.

  Papa came out the front door as the coach drew to a stop. He had the coach door open and was reaching in to help her down before the coachman could jump down from the box.

  “Welcome home, daughter.”

  Tears filled her eyes as he took her arm, patting it with a gentle reassurance she had longed for.

  “Your mother tells me that she and Joanna will only be five more days at Lord Monksford’s and I am to join them for the last two days of the visit. I am not sure I should leave you alone.”

  Oh, she knew she was home. Papa wasted no time on chatter, but began with exactly what was on his mind.

  “I will be quite all right, Papa. I think some time by myself is exactly what I need.”

  At his doubtful look she could not help but smile. Indecision was so out of character.

  “Papa, I am just come from Monksford and have no desire to return before the engagement ball. Please, I am not made of glass. I am more likely to die from the shock of you being so accommodating than I am to go into a decline.”

  He looked her in the eye for a long moment and with a nod his indecision vanished. “Just so you know that I am as mindful of your grief as I am of Joanna’s happiness.”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “If you want to talk with me—”

  She interrupted him. “Not yet, Papa. Not now.” She squeezed his hand. “But thank you.”

  With her arm in his, Papa escorted her to the door. “Since you are home, you must explain to Mrs. Purdy how to prepare that dish we had in London those few days while I was with you. The fish dish with some kind of white sauce. It is the one thing from London that I miss.” He rethought that. “Besides you girls and your mother.”

  “Turbot in oyster sauce.” She handed her pelisse and bonnet to the butler and smiled at him. “How is your grandson, Purdy?”

  “Ben is a wonder, miss. We think he will be walking anytime now.”

  “Oh, but that will keep Hannah busy. May I call on her tomorrow, perhaps?”

  Purdy bowed. “It would be her pleasure, miss.”

  Christiana moved toward the stairway leading down to the kitchen. “Papa, I think between the two of us, Mrs. Purdy and I can contrive, but first I will have some tea, if you please. It may only be a day’s travel from Lord Monksford’s, but my thirst is just as real for only being a few hours old.”

  She turned the corner and proceeded slowly down the stairs, her body stiff from the long carriage ride. Her father’s voice carried down to her. “No, no, Purdy, keeping her busy is the surest way to heal.”

  So Papa and Purdy had plans to keep her occupied. Perhaps Papa was right. She had filled her last days in London sitting in the window seat in her room on Green Street, watching life go on. It had not really eased her heart. Nor had the one or two engagements she had managed. Being surrounded by gaiety was infinitely more difficult than being alone. It was all so meaningless. And there was always the fear that she would have to see Lord Morgan.

  At least here at home she cared about the people, knew their lives and their worries. Please, heaven, here she would feel something besides the aching empty loss of Morgan and guilt over her faithlessness to Richard.

  Christiana walked into the kitchen. There was the long scarred wooden table lined with benches, the familiar earthenware teapot the servants favored, and a plate of the wonderful biscuits that were Mrs. Purdy’s specialty.

  The cook herself stood nearby, her eyes doubtful.

  Christiana barely looked at her, but walked over to the table and picked up a piece of the shortbread. The smell of it was everything that was home. With a shaking hand she tried to take a bite but tears overcame her. She dropped the sweet and covered her face with her hands. A moment later the redoubtable Purdy pulled her into a hug, rocking her back and forth as if she were still a child. Christiana wanted to stay there forever.

  Putting her at arm’s length, Purdy nodded. “You sit and drink some tea and tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” Christiana smoothed her skirts as she sat and Mrs. Purdy poured the tea.

  “Whatever you wish.”

  That included every detail she could summon of Joanna’s pending engagement and her travels in Monksford’s very elaborate coach. Everyone was being so kind to her.

  Mrs. Purdy recounted the well-being of each of her children, all destined for service at Lambert Hill. Neither one of them mentioned Richard and it was as if the London Season had never happened. It was a pretense but at the moment a welcome one. There was nothing here to remind her of Morgan and no one who knew that she had been such a fool. For the moment coming home meant leaving her more painful memories behind.

  She did her best to eat dinner, to reassure her father and the Purdys, but eating the food was like stuffing sawdust in her mouth. Bedtime loomed. But even the invitation of her room and familiar surroundings was not enough to induce her to sleep.

  It was a warm evening, so she decided on a walk toward the stable, where there were rumored to be some new kittens. She had missed this in London: the quiet, the security, the freedom to wander about in the moonlight.

  She smelled the tobacco before she saw him. Sergeant Tidwell was seated on a stump just outside the stable.

  He stood up when she approached and she walked closer. “Good evening, Sergeant.”

  He nodded and made to move back to the stable. “I meant to thank you for bringing me from Monksford. You will return tomorrow?”

  At first she spoke to his back, but he turned to her and nodded.

  “How is your leg?”

  “Mending better now that I have work, thank you, miss.”

  “You’re quite welcome.” She hesitated. “But you know it was Lord Morgan and Lord Monksford who found you employment.”

  “As you say, miss.” He smiled and bobbed his head.

  She turned to walk back to the house and then glanced back. He was on the stump once again. “Sergeant?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  She walked closer, looking at the paving stones at her feet. “Would you tell me, please, what was it like in Portugal?”

  He looked hesitant so she explained a bit more. “I know no one who has been there. I thought perhaps knowing a little of the life there would make it easier to understand.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but understand what?”

  She breathed a laugh and shrugged. “Life?” She paused a moment. “And death.”

  The sergeant shook his head. “Oh, miss, it’s not my place.”

  “Oh, I suppose not in the ordinary course of things, Sergeant, but you do know more about such things than I ever will.”

  He relented. “It was hot in the summer and cold in the winter and had more rocks on the roads than any god could have created.”

  “Yes, I can imagine that made for long, long days.” But that was not really what she wanted to know.

  “Miss, I can tell you about the officers and their lives. They train and lead in battles but they spend a good part of their days doing the same things they would do at home, they gambl
e and hunt and ride.”

  She nodded, expecting that he would say it was hardly his place to give any more details.

  “I will tell you this though, beggin’ your pardon. The good and the brave are not only on the battlefield. Your Lord Morgan Braedon did more for me in one day than any officer ever did in my twenty years of wearing the King’s uniform.”

  “Oh, Lord Morgan is not ‘mine.’ Not in the way you mean.”

  “Yes, miss, he is.” He was so intent on his conviction that any obsequiousness was gone. “He came up to me that day only because you asked him to. That makes him as much yours as any man who would leave you to fight in Portugal. He knew it was important to you and so he went beyond what you asked him to do. He found me work and he made sure my leg was tended to. He did it all when he never knew you would know. He is a brave and noble gentleman, miss.”

  Was he saying that Morgan was more worthy of her admiration than Richard? She could hardly ask him.

  “Miss, I am being bold and I beg your pardon, but it is the only way I know. I spent too many years with men who wanted the nub of the thing and nothing else.”

  She nodded her permission.

  “I see you grieve and want you to know that he died doing what he wanted. Could a man ask for more?”

  She shrugged.

  “We all have somethin’ we regret. We learn to live with it.”

  Was he talking about himself, her, or Richard? Perhaps it applied to all of them.

  The sergeant stood taller with his own military version of polite humility. “No insult meant, miss. I best be leaving now.”

  “No insult taken, Sergeant. Thank you. I thank you for your insight.”

  He nodded with a jerky bow and turned, and moved quickly back to the stable.

  Watching his hurried progress actually made her smile. It was an unusual conversation, but in its way a small gift from a comforting God.

  Everyone has something to regret. The phrase echoed in her mind as she walked back to the house. She knew that, had grasped it sometime ago but lost sight of it lately. Now she was part of the group who faced a loss that would change her life. It was hardly an exclusive club, though some of her dearest friends were members: the dowager duchess, Morgan Braedon.

  She found some solace in that. If only because other people went on and built lives of meaning and purpose. Why should she be any different?

  Christiana walked into the front hall. It was dark and quiet. She was so tired her head ached, and for once sleep came with a welcoming oblivion.

  To her surprise work helped as well. The second night at home she actually slept the night through, having exhausted herself by working with young Purdy in the kitchen garden. And for the two nights following she slept better than she had in weeks.