The Captain's Daughter (London Beginnings Book #1)

by Jennifer Delamere

His eyes continued to search hers. Perhaps he was trying to decipher her innermost thoughts, as she had been doing with him. “But after that, I will be leaving for India. It’s something I must do.”

  She heard the resolve in his words. Disappointment settled on her, heavy and unwelcome.

  “If I thought there was any chance you would come with me . . .”

  The question hung in the air. Rosalyn’s heart began to thud unsteadily as she realized what he was asking. To be married to this man was what she yearned for. But although she believed this love they were tentatively admitting to one another was real, she knew with anguish what choice she must make.

  He was watching her, his whole body tense, waiting for her response. Perhaps he had a foreboding of what her answer would be.

  “Please don’t ask it of me,” she begged. “I cannot do it.”

  Slowly he released a long breath, wincing in disappointment. He let go of her hands, taking a step back. “I understand.”

  He spoke with calm acceptance. She might even have called it stoicism. He loved her, but the words she wished to hear above all else, him offering to stay, were not forthcoming. There were so many facets to this man, and yet he was first and foremost a soldier. How could she ask him to give that up?

  Rosalyn felt betrayed by her own heart. If she loved a man, shouldn’t she want to do anything to be with him? But the idea of leaving England was as bitterly painful as the prospect of never seeing him again. How could she abandon her sisters? And how could she abandon this new life that, despite its challenges, made her feel for the first time as though she were living as the person she was meant to be? Above all, her ever-constant dread of the sea, very real and ever-present, held her captive to this island.

  CHAPTER

  23

  IT WAS COLD in the barracks.

  Nate had forgotten how easily the wind could find its way through the cracks in these buildings. They had not been the best design to begin with, and this one was clearly showing its age.

  He sat on a low stool near the heating stove, cleaning his rifle. His hand ached from the cold, but Nate figured that wouldn’t be an issue once he got to India.

  The drills had gone well enough. Slippery frost on the ground had made some maneuvers a challenge, but the men in his company had shown admirable proficiency in marching and presenting arms. Nate had had no problems keeping up with the others in all aspects, including loading and firing. In a few days, Colonel Gwynn would come to observe their drills. Nate had no doubt the colonel would find him fit enough to resume his army career. He told himself it was better for them both that Rosalyn had turned down his inept and admittedly foolish proposal. She would never have been happy with such a life, and he ought to know by now that he could not allow his mind to be wrapped up in a woman. That path had already led to disaster once before.

  The door to the barracks opened and a man entered, bringing a gust of cold air with him. This brought howls of complaint from the other men. Nate looked up and was surprised to see Jim Danvers. He had not expected to see his old comrade-in-arms until he’d rejoined his regiment.

  Shoving the door shut against the bitter January wind, Danvers crossed the room and joined Nate by the stove. He was a tall man, with alarmingly red hair, who always stood out in a crowd.

  Nate rose to shake his hand. Danvers somehow looked a lot older than the last time Nate had seen him. Had it really been just a year? His face was lined and dry, a result of years of sun scorching, although the tan had faded now in the British winter. Hints of grey were working their way into his temples, too.

  Danvers’ ready smile hadn’t changed, though. “So you did come back! I thought for sure the easy life of a civilian would have tempted you to stay out.”

  To be given such a warm welcome after all that had happened began to ease the gloominess that had been plaguing him. He gave Danvers a wry smile. “Who could pass up these first-class accommodations?”

  Danvers gave a grunt of amusement. “Looks like it’s healed nicely,” he remarked, observing Nate’s hand as the two men released their grasp. “My scar’s not so visible, of course.” He patted his right side, just below his rib cage. “But after six weeks or so, they told me I was good as new. Since that was in the army’s official report, it must be true.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. You didn’t look so good the last time I saw you.” Nate matched his friend’s lighthearted tone, but in truth he spoke in all seriousness. He hadn’t seen Danvers since the attack, after which his friend had been sent to a surgical hospital located in a nearby garrison. There weren’t too many men Nate would count as friends, but Danvers was one. It was both ironic and painful to think Nate had once saved his life, when he was the one who’d put that life in jeopardy to begin with. Now that Danvers was here, Nate had an opportunity to come clean and set things right.

  “I’m not as easy to dispatch as all that,” Danvers returned. “Unless the cause of death be bad army food. Come over to the sergeant’s mess, and I’ll get you a proper meal.”

  “I haven’t officially reenlisted yet,” Nate protested. During these weeks of reserve drills, the men ate in a temporary messing hall that was indifferently run, to say the least.

  “You’re still a sergeant, aren’t you?” Danvers insisted. “I’ll see you get in the door. Besides, if you bring your fiddle, I guarantee no one will deny you entry.”

  Nate felt his mood lightening another notch. “Done.”

  “I apologize for not seeking you out before today,” Danvers said as they sat down to a meal of roast beef and potatoes that was, as he had promised, far better than what was offered in the general mess hall. “I just got back from a short leave and was of course immediately posted to guard duty. Isn’t that always the way it works?”

  Nate knew what he meant. Guard duty—a generally monotonous task taken in twenty-four-hour shifts—came around with irritating regularity. It was the bane of every soldier.

  Nate sobered at Danvers’ mention of guard duty. He frowned, forcefully spreading a slab of butter on his bread. His gaze focused more on the scar running the length of his hand than on the bread.

  “Of course, guard duty isn’t nearly as interesting here as it is in Peshawar,” Danvers continued. “But perhaps that kind of excitement is something one can do without, eh?”

  Nate was astounded that Danvers could speak so cheerfully about the event that had nearly ended his life. He still had a vivid memory of Danvers’ unconscious form, of the deathly pallor on his friend’s face as Nate worked desperately to staunch the flow of blood until the medical men could arrive.

  “I never had a chance to tell you what happened that night,” Nate said.

  “You don’t have to. I got all the details later, after I was well enough to speak with the commander.”

  “I’m sure you got the official version.”

  The meaning of his words wasn’t lost on Danvers. His eyebrows lifted. “So you did not dispatch three attackers while simultaneously managing to sound the alarm for reinforcements?”

  “It was my fault they got into the guard house to begin with.”

  Danvers took a quick glance around and said quietly, “Perhaps we should discuss this after supper, when we can find a private corner?” The long table where they sat was rapidly filling with other diners. Many were throwing curious glances at Nate, no doubt wondering what he was doing there. Danvers probably didn’t want them to overhear anything that could put Nate in a bad light.

  Nate had to admit this was a good plan. Much as he wanted to unburden himself to his friend, he knew he could not publicly contradict what the army had decreed.

  Danvers set about introducing him to the other men at the table. Aldershot was headquarters for a number of regiments, so few of the men here were known to him.

  “Tell us, what have you been doing since returning to England?” Danvers asked. “What’s out there for a veteran of Her Majesty’s service? It will be a long time before I need that
information, of course, but it’s good knowledge to have.”

  Several of the men nodded at this. Perhaps they were nearing the end of their enlistment. Nate was glad that Danvers’ injury wasn’t going to keep him from continuing to serve in the army. He knew Danvers had never wanted to do anything else.

  Nate told them about working at the ostler’s, but it was when he spoke about his weeks filling in for his brother at the Opera Comique that he garnered their unqualified attention. Several of the men who were attached to engineering regiments were fascinated to hear his detailed description of how the limelights worked through the careful manipulation of oxygen and carbon gases. Others simply wanted to know what it was like to work backstage at a theater—especially for such a famous show. Nate spent the rest of the meal answering their questions. It surprised him to find he was looking back on his time in the theater with great satisfaction.

  When he told them about the problems he’d faced moving supplies to Paignton, nearly everyone at the table had a comment. As seasoned soldiers, most had experienced the kind of logistical problems that arose with the need to meet unusual demands with limited resources.

  The one thing Nate didn’t talk about was Rosalyn. Every moment he’d spent with her—both joyful and painful—was a memory for him only.

  “Nate is also an excellent fiddle player,” Danvers informed them.

  “Can you play the music from HMS Pinafore?” one of the men asked eagerly. He was a stout, round-faced man with short black hair that seemed to stand straight up on his head.

  “Bayne is a fine tenor,” another man explained, indicating the sergeant who had just spoken. “But despite that, he’s still a first-rate soldier.”

  “In truth, I’ve never played anything from Pinafore,” Nate admitted. “But I’m sure I can find plenty of other music.”

  Much later, after Nate had played everything from jigs to marches, the room finally began to clear out as men made their way back to their sleeping quarters. By the time Nate set about wiping down his fiddle to put it away, he and Danvers were virtually alone. The remaining four men were busy at a game of cards in the opposite corner of the room.

  Although it was late, Nate was reluctant to leave. There was still so much he wanted to get off his chest.

  Danvers seemed in no hurry to go, either. He leaned back in his chair and lit a pipe, puffing on it for a few moments. When he spoke, it was to move the conversation in a direction that took Nate by surprise. “Tell me, Moran, will your sweetheart be joining you on this latest excursion to India?”

  “No,” said Nate. “She won’t.” He shut his fiddle case with a sharp snap. He paused, realizing that when Danvers had said “sweetheart,” his thoughts had immediately turned to Rosalyn. “Ada broke off the engagement,” he added, knowing that was who Danvers had been referring to.

  “Tough luck,” Danvers commiserated. “I suspected something like that. Tonight you talked about your life in London in great detail and yet said not one word about Ada.”

  “Women and the army don’t mix,” Nate declared bitterly.

  Danvers raised his bushy red brows. “That’s an interesting claim. Can you explain your reasoning?”

  Nate met his eye. “I need to tell you what really happened the night we were attacked.”

  Danvers took another puff from his pipe. “I’m all ears.”

  “Just before we reported to the guard shack, the post from England arrived. There was a letter from Ada. It had been three months since I’d heard from her, and I was desperate to know what had caused the silence. Was she ill? Had some accident occurred?”

  “It might just as well have been the vagaries of the mail service,” Danvers said.

  “That’s true, but I was inclined to think the worst.” Even now, it galled Nate to think of the hours—days, even—he’d spent worrying over her. “At any rate, I put the letter in my coat pocket, intending to read it at the guard shack. But Taylor and I were the first two posted on patrol. When we separated for our rounds, I took a quick scan of my area and determined all was quiet before taking myself to a place where I could finally tear open the letter and read it.” He looked Danvers squarely in the eye. “It was the first time I was derelict in my duty, and it was because of a woman. Just the sort of thing you used to warn us against.”

  Danvers murmured something that might have been assent, but offered no criticism. He merely looked at Nate thoughtfully. “Care to tell me what was in the letter?”

  “She told me she’d decided to marry someone else. It came completely out of the blue. I was so thunderstruck that I just stood there for who knows how long. When the attack came, I wasn’t at my post. As you well know, we were caught flat-footed.”

  “But we rallied and eventually got the upper hand,” Danvers pointed out. “You were instrumental in the victory.”

  Nate grimaced and shook his head, the overwhelming weight of his guilt as real as any physical pain. “By then the damage had been done—to you, especially.”

  “They did not achieve their aim, though.”

  “If you had died—”

  “But I didn’t.” Danvers leaned forward, nearly poking Nate in the chest with his pipe as he brandished it for emphasis. “Moran, this is the army. We accept that there are risks. We know—all too well—that fatal errors will occur. It’s a hard truth we live with every day.”

  This gravity and unflinching candor was unlike Danvers’ usual buoyant demeanor. But Nate knew it was the underpinnings of his friend’s soul. There was no better man in the army.

  Nate swallowed. There was nothing he could say. Danvers was right, but it still did not assuage his guilt.

  Danvers gave him a comforting slap on the arm. “Don’t worry—you’ll have plenty of opportunities to prove yourself on guard duty in the future.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on,” Nate replied grimly.

  “Wait a moment.” Danvers’ eyes narrowed as he inspected Nate. “That’s not the sole reason you’re re-enlisting, surely?”

  “I couldn’t live with myself otherwise. It’s a black mark on my life that I must erase.”

  “Moran, we all got medals! As far as the army is concerned, we’re heroes!”

  “But I know the truth,” Nate insisted.

  “So it’s not enough to tell you I forgive you?”

  “All I know is, I can never forgive myself.”

  Danvers shook his head. He settled back in his chair and tamped down the tobacco in the bowl of the pipe, but it was clear he was considering Nate’s words. “Moran, I don’t think I mentioned what I was doing on leave this week. I was in Somerset making arrangements for my wedding.”

  “Congratulations,” Nate said, his astonishment temporarily overriding his worries. “This seems unexpected.” He’d never known Danvers to express any particular interest in getting married. In fact, he used to mercilessly ridicule some of the men—Nate included—about mooning too much over women.

  “It’s true that I never considered myself the marrying kind,” Danvers acknowledged. “But that has changed. And I have you to thank for it.”

  Nate stared at him in surprise. “How so?”

  “When I was at the hospital recovering, the chaplain’s daughter came to visit me every day. It was her habit to extend help and comfort to all the patients. But somehow, she ended up taking a special interest in me. And eventually . . .” The twinkle returned to his eye. “Well, I took an interest in her, too. If I hadn’t been forced to stay behind with the 89th, I never would have met her. On the long voyage home, as we were returning with the regiment to England, we became engaged.”

  Still dumbfounded at this news, Nate could say nothing.

  Danvers gave him a sympathetic eye. “My friend, it would appear you’ve been castigating yourself for no reason. If you return to the colors because you believe it’s your calling, that’s all well and good. But if you do it solely out of guilt, you will only be compounding the error.”

  “No
,” said Nate. “I’m happy—amazed, even—at how things have turned out. But that still doesn’t absolve me for what happened.”

  “Perhaps not. But then, absolution doesn’t come through what we can do, does it? It comes from another source. One greater than ourselves.”

  This was perhaps the most surprising thing to come out of Danvers’ mouth all evening. He was not the kind of man who spoke of spiritual matters, either directly or indirectly. It may have been a novel way to receive such a godly reminder, but Nate knew his friend was right. Never once had Nate gone to God to ask for forgiveness. He’d been too intent on earning it.

  “You have changed.” Nate was too choked up to say anything more. As the weight of self-reproach that he’d been carrying all these months began to lift from his shoulders, he realized just how heavy the burden had been.

  For the briefest moment, it looked as though Danvers would succumb to emotion, as well. He blinked and turned aside, ostensibly to set down his pipe, which he did with overly deliberate care. By the time he turned back to Nate, he was able to shrug and give him a sly grin. “If I’ve changed, I suppose we can blame it on spending too much time with the daughter of a chaplain.”

  Rosalyn didn’t have time to dawdle. Her errands had taken longer than she expected, and she needed to be at the theater soon. But still she paused at the window of a pawnshop. After weeks of searching, she knew full well it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Still, it was a dream she clung to.

  She stood at the door, telling herself there really was no time to go in. While she lingered in indecision, a woman half-walked, half-stumbled out of the shop. She had no coat, and Rosalyn saw her flinch as the bitter wind hit her. She bumped into Rosalyn, offering no apology as she walked past. But Rosalyn had gotten a look at her face and immediately recognized Penny, the woman who had taunted her at the brothel. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  “Penny!” she called.

  The woman stopped, turned. “Who’s askin’?” she said crossly.