Lily George

by Healing the Soldier's Heart

  The coiled tension within James broke. He laughed—the first time he’d really laughed in a fortnight. “You l-love M-Mary?”

  Macready’s face grew pale, and his eyes darkened. “It’s not funny. Cease with your laughter.”

  “No, no.” James shook his head. He’d seen the glow in Mary’s eyes at dinner that night. She, no doubt, returned Macready’s feelings tenfold. “I’m just so relieved. Mary is a g-good girl and will make you a fine wife. I should love to call you b-brother-in-law.”

  Macready’s shoulders, which had risen defensively, settled back into position. “Thank the good Lord above. I thought for a moment you found the idea too ridiculous to even entertain. I am, after all, penniless and wounded. Hardly much of a man.”

  “W-well, I know you. You’re a g-g-good fellow. I know you’ll p-p-provide for M-Mary.” He hesitated briefly. ’Twas odd to be asking these questions of Macready but so tradition dictated. He’d nearly died that night at Waterloo. So his character was, in some ways, quite apparent to James. No further character references would be necessary. On the other hand, one’s sister had to have food and clothing and shelter—the necessities. “I s-s-suppose I should ask h-how.”

  “My father wants me to return to Essex and help manage the estate. My elder brother, Samuel, will take over, but I can help manage the tenants. We’d have our own little home and a small living. It’s not much, but it would be enough.” Macready looked down at the floor, as though fascinated by its surface. “I was planning on leaving Bath soon anyway. My wounds have healed enough that I can begin working again. And seeing your progress with Felton, I was inspired to work. Then, when Mary came, I knew the necessity of it.”

  James nodded and rose, extending his hand. “Well then, my good fellow, I look forward to calling you ‘brother’ soon.”

  Macready clasped his hand warmly. “There’s just one thing,” he added. “Your mother. I am sure she will object to me, as penniless as I am.”

  “I won’t d-deny that Mother has some rather high-flown plans for Mary, but my sister has no d-dowry and few connections. Our name is respectable but not illustrious. The likelihood of her finding a spectacular match is highly unlikely.” James shrugged. “B-besides, I’d rather she m-m-marry for love. She d-deserves happiness.”

  “I shall spend the rest of my life trying to make her happy,” Macready said gallantly. “And what of you? When will you marry your love? Sooner rather than later, I hope.”

  “The s-s-sooner the b-better. If I have m-my way, Lucy and I will share in each other’s h-happiness b-b-before long,” he admitted.

  “Good. I was afraid that your mother would interfere there, as well. She didn’t seem very enamored of Lucy at dinner the other evening.”

  “My mother thinks she is a lot more influential than she is,” James replied with an uneasy laugh. Macready’s conversation was not adding to his feelings of certainty. He’d put a stop to it now. “I’ll marry Lucy. Even if we have to elope to Gretna Green.”

  *

  Lucy smoothed her lavender skirts with a nervous gesture. This gown, like the buttercup-yellow one she’d worn to dinner, had been part of Sophie’s wardrobe, left behind when she fled Bath. The rest of the gowns were in the satchel she’d brought with her. Perhaps if she arrived with a peace offering of several pretty gowns for Mary, Charlotte Rowland would look more kindly on her.

  She let herself in the gate and permitted herself a moment’s luxury of looking at James’s home one more time. How peaceful it was and how lovely. Not imposing like Lord Bradbury’s residence but snug and comfortable as a home should be. This was a home meant for a family. A home that asked only to be lived in. The kind of home that she’d dreamed about in the orphanage. Just a place of her own—to be with people she loved.

  She knocked on the door, and Mrs. Peyton answered. “Oh, bless you. What on earth have you got there?” She took the satchel from Lucy’s shoulder and beckoned her in. “Come in, come in. Mrs. Rowland is waiting for you in the parlor.” The housekeeper smiled kindly. “I made cinnamon scones, my specialty. I hope you like them.”

  Lucy nodded, her heart warming to Mrs. Peyton. What a good find she was. James was certainly lucky to have her.

  Mrs. Peyton led the way to the parlor and opened the door with a flourish. Charlotte Rowland sat near the empty hearth, a small table laid before her. Lucy’s nose wrinkled appreciatively at the scent of those scones. Goodness, she was hungry. She had been so nervous she hadn’t been able to eat all day. But now that she was actually going through with the meeting, and now that she could smell those delicious scones, her head swirled. She sought a chair near the table before her knees gave out.

  Charlotte waited to speak until Mrs. Peyton had retreated, closing the door behind her with a gentle click. “How good of you to spend some time with me, Miss Williams.” Her voice was so quiet, so well bred. Why, just from her tone, you could tell that she came from a cultured, cosseted background. “Here, have some tea. You look rather peaked.”

  “Thank you.” Lucy accepted the steaming teacup gratefully. “It smells wonderful. But please, call me Lucy. I feel like I know you so well already. Your son has always spoken so highly of you.” It was a little white lie, but still—one had an obligation to be socially polite.

  There was a brief knock at the door, and Mrs. Peyton bustled back in. “I forgot to leave your satchel, Miss Williams. Here you go.” She laid the leather bag on a nearby settee and bowed back out of the room.

  “What did you bring?” Charlotte arched an elegant eyebrow in surprise.

  “A friend of mine is a modiste here in Bath, and she left me several gowns when she moved away,” Lucy explained. “But as a governess, I have very few occasions to wear pretty clothes and bright colors. I thought Mary might like them.”

  The frozen polite look on Charlotte’s features thawed ever so slightly. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Not at all,” Lucy replied, smiling warmly. “I am glad they will go to good use. Mary has such fair coloring with that golden hair and those lovely eyes—these gowns will suit her beautifully. They might well have been made just for her.”

  “You seem rather fond of Mary.” Charlotte passed the plate of scones. “You have struck up a friendship quickly, haven’t you?”

  Was that a thread of suspicion running through Charlotte’s tone? Lucy hastened to cover any damage she’d done. “Well, growing up as I did, I warm to people rather quickly. It may seem odd to others, I am sure.”

  “Growing up as you did? How did you grow up?” Her tone remained polite, but her large eyes bored into Lucy over the rim of her teacup.

  There was nothing to do but tell the truth. The cinnamon scone, so tender and flaky just moments before, crumbled into ashes in her mouth. She swallowed, choking down the lump of pastry with difficulty. “In an orphanage,” she mumbled.

  “Gracious.” Charlotte set her teacup aside. “That must have been difficult.”

  “Good things came from it, and I am quite grateful for the experience. It made me value what I’ve earned,” Lucy continued.

  Charlotte nodded. “I understand. My family lost everything, so I have come to value not only what we no longer have but what we were able to salvage.”

  “Yes, I understand what you mean.” It was nice to have common ground. Charlotte Rowland no longer seemed formidable. She was now very much like Lucy, trying to eke out an existence and making the best out of difficult circumstances.

  Charlotte sighed deeply. “This is rather a thorny issue to broach, Miss Lucy, but I feel I must forge ahead. I asked you here today with an ulterior motive. You see, it has come to my attention that my son is quite enamored of you.”

  A strange buzzing sounded in Lucy’s ears, and the tips of her fingers went numb. “Yes.” ’Twas all she could manage.

  “Has he proposed to you?” Charlotte’s voice was so quiet she could hardly hear over the buzzing in her ears.

  “Yes.”

  �
��And what did you say?”

  Lucy could not meet Charlotte’s gaze, but it burned her skin like a candle flame. “I told him I would not say yes unless I met with your approval.”

  Charlotte’s chair creaked as she sat back. “Thank you for that. I appreciate your caution.”

  Lucy’s lips trembled so badly she couldn’t form any words. She pressed them together to still them, and blurted out her desperate question—the question that would decide her fate. “And have I your approval?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lucy attempted to swallow as she scanned Charlotte Rowland’s patrician features for any sign that she was considering a positive reply. But her throat was suddenly dry. She picked up her teacup with trembling hands. Charlotte’s face belied no change of expression. Lucy took a single burning mouthful of tea and waited. After an eternity, Charlotte spoke.

  “My son is determined to have you for his wife,” she began. “He told me as much the night of our dinner party. While he respects me, he loves you more. So, in his mind, what I feel about the matter makes not one whit of difference.”

  “But it does matter to me,” Lucy whispered. She set her teacup aside and clasped her hands together to still them. She wanted Charlotte Rowland’s approval more than anything. “Having lost my own dear parents, I know the sadness of no longer having family in my life. I would not wish that for your son. I won’t marry him if you do not consent.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like you, my dear Lucy. You seem a bright girl and a generous one. I am rather fond of you, even though we’ve only met recently. But our family is quite destitute. I have every reason to suspect that Lieutenant Macready will make an offer for Mary. I can hardly say no—for Mary has no chance on the marriage mart. Her stammer and her lack of dowry preclude any spectacular matches. But I had planned on James to restore our fortunes.”

  “Why is it dependent on James?” Lucy licked her lips nervously. Surely Mary had as much responsibility to the family as her brother. Why should she be allowed to marry for love if James couldn’t?

  “The flaws that are insurmountable in a woman can be excused in a man.” Charlotte ticked off the reasons on her fingertips. “Stammer…lack of dowry… But a woman might marry James for his title, even though it’s impoverished. Some heiresses are like that. They want the cachet of a title in exchange for money. And James is handsome, though I say so myself. His military record speaks well of him. A woman might be willing to overlook his flaws because he has so many good things in his favor.”

  Lucy shuddered a little inside. What Charlotte said was true. But on the other hand, it was so cold. So impersonal. And it reduced love and marriage to a mere contract. But perhaps it was not truly that emotionless. Many women likely found James attractive. She’d been dreaming of his dark green eyes, his angular face and his unruly sandy hair since their first meeting. Another woman would come along who would love him and care for him. There were probably girls standing in line to take her place. Girls who could offer him love in addition to wealth or position.

  “James has a good job with Felton,” she argued hesitantly. “He’s trying to earn the money to make you and Mary more comfortable. He’s been able to afford this house on the strength of his work for Lord Bradbury, and he has already secured more commissions. Perhaps he doesn’t need to marry money.”

  “Ah yes, his work with a carpenter.” Charlotte waved her hands with a dismissive gesture. “A gentleman does not work with his hands. He manages his estate, he collects from tenants. As soon as James marries well, he will stop working in the shop. And the money he makes is nothing compared to what an heiress can bring him.”

  “You sound as though you already have someone in mind.” Lucy’s stomach churned violently.

  “There are a few girls in Essex who would fit the bill quite nicely.” Charlotte folded her hands in her lap. “Daughters of merchants, farmers, you know—money but no title.”

  Lucy nodded slowly. She’d known this moment would come, but it was still a slap in the face. “Then I do not have your approval.”

  “I would never withhold my approval. As I said, you seem like a sweet girl, and I know James is besotted with you. But I am asking you as his mother to let him go. Let him move on to great things. By relinquishing your hold on him, our family may gain comfort and peace at last.” The expression in Charlotte’s eyes changed from haughty to pleading in a matter of seconds. “You have all the power in the world at this moment. Use it well.”

  Lucy stood, her knees wobbling so badly she grasped her chair for support. “I would never do anything to hold James back. From the first moment I saw him, I wanted only good to befall him. You have my word, Mrs. Rowland. I will not accept his proposal.”

  “Thank you.” Charlotte sank against the back of her chair as though winded from a long hike. “Do not tell him I asked this of you. He might not understand.”

  Her eyes clouded with tears, obscuring her vision through a thick, watery haze. “I’ll keep quiet. Excuse me. I must go.” She couldn’t burst into tears in front of James’s mother. She must hold herself together until she reached the sanctuary of her room. She fled from the room and out the front door, running through the streets of Bath as though a highwayman chased her heels. She bumped into passersby, and her bonnet was knocked off her head by the force of their collision, but it did not matter. The bonnet dangled on its strings, hitting her shoulders with every step she took. Her hair tore loose from its pins and tumbled about her shoulders.

  She reached the Crescent and let herself in the back door of his lordship’s home, uttering little broken cries that sounded foreign to her own ears. She raced up the stairs and threw open the door of her room, the hot tears she had suppressed finally pouring down her cheeks.

  “Lucy? Whatever is the matter with you?” Louisa rose from the settee and threw her arms about Lucy. “Are you ill?”

  Lucy’s body was numb. Funny, she couldn’t even feel Louisa’s embrace. She stood as still as a statue and allowed her tears to spill over her eyelids, wetting the Aubusson rug beneath her feet.

  “I’ve never seen you like this. I’m calling the doctor.” Louisa turned to go, but Lucy caught her arm.

  “I’m…not ill.” She untied her bonnet and cast it onto her vanity table. Then she sank onto the settee, her teeth chattering loudly.

  “Tell me what happened.” Louisa began removing the few remaining pins from her hair, combing through the dark waves with her fingers.

  She had to tell someone. She could never tell James the truth of what happened. She had promised she would not. And Sophie was gone. She had no one to confide in but her charge. ’Twas improper to do so, but the ache in her heart demanded a release. Haltingly, she murmured her conversation with Mrs. Rowland to Louisa. When she finished her tale, Louisa sat back and regarded her, her wide brown eyes filled with tears.

  “And so you’re going to refuse him? Oh, Lucy. Don’t do it. Papa will get more commissions for the ensign, just you wait and see. He’ll be the most famous cabinetmaker in all of Bath. He doesn’t need to marry some old farmer’s daughter for money.” Louisa shuddered.

  “What she says is true, though.” Lucy took a long, deep breath to calm her nerves. “If I were an heiress, this wouldn’t even be a question. But I am penniless, too. I knew all along this would be the case—that’s why I refused to accept him the first time he asked.”

  “I’ll give you my money,” Louisa avowed stoutly. “You can have half of my dowry. I’ll make Papa sign it over to you as a wedding gift.”

  Despite her heartache, Lucy couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Louisa, you are a dear. But I could never, ever accept your money.” She sniffed and blew her nose in her sodden handkerchief. “I love James and so I must let him go. I don’t have such a bad life. Better than most, I admit. It’s just that I was silly enough to believe in something that can never, ever happen.”

  “When do you see the ensign again?” Louisa asked. “Is he expecting an a
nswer from you?”

  “I suppose he is coming to show his lordship the library tomorrow,” Lucy answered. “I think he wanted us to meet today, but I can’t. I need a little time to compose myself so I don’t break down completely.” She sought a dry spot on her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. They burned as though she had rinsed them in salt water. And she was tired. So very, very tired. A weariness that invaded her bones.

  “Lucy, why don’t you rest.” Louisa grasped her hand and tugged, pulling them both to their feet. “I’ll go study my French while you nap.” Lucy began to protest, but Louisa shook her head firmly. “No, I won’t hear of it. You’ve had a terrible shock, and you need to sleep.”

  Sleep would be nice—just an hour or so to forget. Her nerves were so tightly wound of late. It would be good to stop thinking of James and Mary and Charlotte—of his lovely home. Of the look on his face when he whispered, “Tomorrow.” Of the thought of a merchant’s daughter wearing his ring.

  She removed her lavender gown. She would never wear it again. She would send it ’round to Mary with a note on the morrow. She pulled a soft cotton night rail over her head and settled deep under her coverlet. ’Twas odd to be sleeping in the middle of the day with the sunlight pouring in through the windows. It was like being sick abed. Which, in a sense, she was. Sick at heart.

  *

  James whistled merrily at his work. He had but one table leg to finish and his lordship’s library would be complete. Tomorrow he would meet with Lord Bradbury and get his final approval for the room. After that, he would begin working on the library and ballroom of the Earl of Cavendish’s home in Bath. ’Twas twice the work of Lord Bradbury’s library, and the Earl was paying accordingly. There was a certain emerald and diamond ring that winked alluringly to him from a shop window that morning—a ring that was just suited for Lucy’s slender fingers. Thanks to his commissions, he could go purchase the ring in the morning on his way to his lordship’s home.

  The door to his workroom opened, and Felton stuck his head inside. “A visitor for you.”