Saving the Soldier's Heart (The Emerald Quest Book 2)

by Beckenham Jane

  Using his free hand, Clayton lifted his injured leg up each step, the muscles refusing to work despite bone and wound healing. The leg pained him incessantly, which eased his conscience regarding his excessive imbibing. The doctors requested he exercise, but bloody hell, how did one exercise when in pain?

  And so he drank to eradicate the pain. And failed there, too.

  At the top stair, Clayton made his way down the hall, opening his bedroom door.

  He stilled.

  There she was, asleep as if she were Little Red Riding hood, her copper hair cascading in a silken veil across the pillow.

  His pillow. His bed.

  She clutched the coverlet in fisted hands, holding it as if it provided comfort.

  And you’re throwing her out in the morning!

  What the hell had his mother been thinking?

  Oh, he knew. She’d berated him for weeks, trying to get him to “open up” as she’d put it. To put the war and “all that” behind him.

  But how the hell did he do that when it revisited his dreams night after night?

  And so he drank himself into oblivion. Much easier that way.

  From the doorway, he heard her soft ruffled snore. She was a comely thing. Skinny. As if she’d not eaten for weeks and her eyes when he’d told her to go had been wide and horror-filled.

  So let her stay.

  Hell no. He couldn’t do that. He wanted...

  What did he want?

  Just for the dreams to go. That’s all. Simple.

  If only it were that easy.

  Leaving the door slightly ajar, Clayton made his way back downstairs. It looked like it was going to be the sofa for him.

  So what was new? Many a morn he’d woken only to realize the booze had overtaken him and he’d fallen asleep, empty glass still in hand.

  Back downstairs he took up residence in the library again, but sleep did not come, which Clayton wasn’t sure was a good thing, or not. He stared up at the ceiling, in the fading light of the fire’s flames. It cast a ghostly wash across the room.

  He’d loved this room as a child. The shelves of books that reached the ceiling, everyone different, loved. The history it gave his home.

  An Elizabethan jewel, Bellerose Manor overlooked the river Wye. As one of the finest examples of a fortified medieval manor house, parts of Bellerose dated back to the 12th century. Bellerose was family. Home. History. His past and his future.

  And you’re letting it slip away.

  Clayton squeezed his eyes closed. Bloody insidious war. It had destroyed everything.

  Hope. Dreams.

  Shut up!

  Eyes opened wide, he stared ahead and in the dim light of late evening he closed himself off from the world. Just as he wanted to.

  Chapter Two

  Morning dragged Clayton unrepentant into consciousness; though he fought it every second while the winter sun eked through the open curtains and forced him back to reality.

  Opened curtains?

  Since when?

  He shoved upright and winced as the ever-present pain ricocheted through him. He massaged the nape of his neck, kneading the muscles to eradicate a batch of kinks.

  “Sleeping on a sofa too small to house you is a recipe for waking up with a back and neck ache.”

  “What?” Clayton twisted around to the accompaniment of another stab of pain behind his eyes. He closed them as sunlight speared his vision.

  Bliss. No sight. No sound. Silence.

  “It’s no use feigning sleep, Mr. Abbott. You need to wake up, clean up and eat something. You’ll feel better then.”

  Clayton opened one eye slowly, then the other.

  Maggie Francis stood at the end of the sofa with her arms folded across her middle. Her expression dour, yet somehow it couldn’t decimate the naturalness of her beauty. With her auburn hair softly framing her heart-shaped face, and full lips, he found himself wondering how they would taste beneath his.

  Whoa! Stop!

  She fixed her blue eyes on him and glared.

  A groan charged from his chest and he slumped back on the sofa. “I don’t think I’ll ever feel better again. Nice of you to take my bed, by the way.”

  A sudden gentle hint of pink stained her cheeks. “Yes, well, I wasn’t to know it was your bed. Besides, it was the only one made up and you were inebriated and rather rude.”

  “Sorry. So, what are you still doing here?”

  “Feeding you, then I intend to get stuck in and clean up this hovel.”

  “Hovel!” Shame slammed into his barely operating brain. It was true, however. He’d let Bellerose Manor slip into a state of dishevelment while he’d buried his head in a bottle of whiskey.

  Her foot tapped a tattoo that sounded like a sledgehammer inside his brain. “Do you have to do that?”

  Her lip curled in disgust. “Your home is a disgrace, did you know that?”

  Clayton dragged a hand through his hair, only to feel as if his scalp was being torn from his skull. He gritted his teeth, hand dropping to his side again. Sweet mercy, all he wanted to do was sleep...and forget. “You’re meant to be gone.”

  “Tough. I’m still here. It’s past ten.” She tapped her watch, mouth pursed. “But you would have known that if you hadn’t spent the entire night with your head stuck in that bottle of...of whatever rotgut you’re imbibing.”

  Clayton grabbed the empty bottle lying beside him and shoved it toward Maggie. “It’s bloody good whiskey, I’ll have you know.”

  She raised one perfectly arched brow. “Is that meant to impress me?” Her foot started that bloody tapping again. “Now get yourself up. There are clean clothes waiting for you.”

  “You blustered your way in unasked.”

  “I did not. Your mother employed me.”

  “Unbeknown to me.”

  “That is not my problem. Might I suggest you stay sober long enough to know what is going on around you. It might improve your communication somewhat.”

  “So tell me why you’re still here. I thought I communicated quite clearly last night that you were allowed to stay one night and no more.

  “Someone has to sort you out.”

  Clayton swung his legs off the sofa, eyes widening as a wooziness washed over him. “Bloody hell.” He fisted his hands and shoved himself upright, then quickly grabbed at the arm of the sofa until the bloody swaying abated. “I told you I don’t need sorting out.”

  Her eyes widened a fraction. “Really? These curtains haven’t been opened in ages, the rooms carry a distinct staleness about them, though that it is more likely to be the stench of whiskey.” Her mouth clicked in disgust. “The floors need a good scrub and I would gather, by the state of that kitchen, it’s not seen a mop for I don’t know how long.”

  He turned to her then, grateful the swaying had abated. “And you know this because?”

  “I made it my business to.”

  “Rather presumptuous, don’t you think, since you’re not staying?”

  She ignored his pointed remark about her pending departure. “I went into the kitchen this morning to get myself a cup of tea. I presume that was allowed?” She pointed to the tray of tea and toast. “That’s for you.”

  He eyed the food, and realized it was quite some time since he’d actually eaten anything that resembled food. “I haven’t been in the kitchen for some time.”

  “That’s rather obvious. If you had, you’d know exactly what state it was in. Now eat up, then clean yourself up.”

  “Or else,” he shot right back. “Try enlisting for the Hun. I think you’d do well there. Maybe if they’d had you on their side, they’d have won.”

  “Well, they didn’t.” She reached for the Daily Telegraph and handed it to him. “Armistice is all the news. The war is over.”

  “I wish.”

  Her brows creased. “The fighting has ceased, Mr. Abbott. Germany surrendered.”

  “And what about the thousands still in the trenches never to come ho
me, and those...those maimed or killed by that bloody mustard gas.” His voice rose. “Those wounds don’t heal. Look at this.” And he drew his trouser up to just above his left knee. The scar was ruddy; a tangle of corded ridges that had been crudely stitched in an effort to stem the bleeding while gunfire had chattered all around them. “I can barely walk. The pain ever-present. Then there’s...”

  Shut the hell up. Don’t think about the other...

  “You breathe. You walk. You are alive.”

  Didn’t she see? Couldn’t she understand? “I hobble, but then, what does it matter. No one wants to see this face.” He jerked a thumb towards his damaged visage.

  “You are upright. Many are not. Many have lost a limb, a life, loved ones. You came home. Be grateful for that.”

  “Are you always this forthright and bossy, Miss Francis?” A sudden smile played along Clayton’s lips. He liked that she didn’t cower, that she could give as good a comeback as he. “Cat got your tongue?”

  “I’ve been put in my place.”

  “Really? That, I very much doubt. You are a rather formidable young woman.”

  “I’m nothing of the sort. I just want to work. I need this job.”

  “Are there not jobs in London?”

  She shook her head and suddenly the inner strength he’d witnessed in her seemed to deflate. “I can’t stay in London.”

  “Not wanted by the police, are you?”

  Her gaze shot up, spearing him a direct hit. “Good Lord, no.”

  Her shock at his assumption pleased him. He didn’t want a criminal element moving into Bellerose.

  Moving in?

  What am I thinking? She’s leaving, remember?

  “That’s alright, then, I wouldn’t want an axe murderer in my midst.”

  For a moment she remained silent, and then his words dawned true. “You mean I can stay?”

  Could she? He wanted to say no. “Only if you cease calling me Mr. Abbott. Clayton will do.”

  “But...”

  He held up a hand to silence her. God, he needed silence. His head pounded enough to wake the dead. “It’s that, or you go.”

  “All right.” She offered a curt nod, though Clayton couldn’t help but notice the wash of relief in her soft blue eyes, noting also that the tautness to her delicate frame gentled as well. Although tall, her lithe figure and coloring gave her a definite waif-like appearance that juxtaposed with her obvious strength and determination. “You may look like you’d blow over with the merest puff of wind, Miss Francis, but you do seem to have bulldozed me easily enough.”

  She gave him a tight smile. “If you are Clayton, then I am simply Maggie.” And with that, Maggie Francis, the-housekeeper-he-didn’t-want, turned and walked out of the room and closed the door behind her.

  “There’s nothing simple about any of this.” Clayton picked up his cup of tea. He sipped at it, the heat of the liquid warming him as it slid down his throat.

  Somehow he’d been worked into a corner he couldn’t get out of and right now he didn’t’ have the energy to fight. He’d done enough fighting the last four years.

  And besides, she made a darn good cup of tea.

  But it’s not the tea that is interesting, is it?

  ***

  The moment she closed the door behind her, the façade she’d held stiffly in place disintegrated. She smiled, couldn’t stop smiling. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” She’d done it. She danced a jig on the spot, and then scooted across the floor as if she were dancing in the grandest of ballrooms. “A new life, a new beginning.”

  “Miss Francis...Maggie.”

  Maggie’s footfall stalled and she swallowed back her embarrassment, though her cheeks heated. She turned to face him. “Yes, Mr. Abbott.”

  A dark brow arched and her gaze lowered for a heartbeat, and then returned to his. “Clayton.”

  “I just wanted to say, welcome to Bellerose.” He held out his cup and saucer. “Do you mind if I have another cup of that delicious tea.”

  Her mouth quirked into a tiny smile. “Not whiskey, then?”

  “No. I think it’s a bit early.”

  “Just a tad.” She took the cup from him. “I’ll be right back.”

  Turning from him, Maggie rolled her eyes. For goodness’ sake. Dancing! The man had caught her dancing as if she were some dizzy trollop out on the town.

  Once she’d remade the pot of tea for her new employer she returned to the kitchen.

  She stood with her hands on her hips in the middle of the large room and shook her head. “Right. This place needs fixing.”

  Just then, the door leading out to the small back garden, if the tangle of weeds and rotting plants could be called such, opened. A young girl of barely fifteen or so entered, shepherding in two younger children. “Now be quiet you two, go and sit, while I...” She caught sight of Maggie and stilled, eyes wide and full of fear. “Who are you?”

  Maggie took in her disheveled appearance, the tattered woolen stockings and shoes that were obviously too big for her. The younger children were faring no better, wearing an assortment of hand-me-downs.

  Maggie’s heart broke. She’d seen children like this before–in London–after the Zeppelins had torn holes in row upon row of houses.

  Those inside had had little chance of survival and the ones that had, had become homeless in an instant.

  She blinked away the memories.

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  Nervousness washed across eyes that had seen far too much for such a young age. She shepherded the children behind her. “I’m Florrie...I cook for Mr. Abbott. Well, I try, but it’s hard. I can’t leave the young uns at home. It’s cold, this place is warm – at least it is near the fire. You won’t tell ‘im will yer? I can’t lose me job. There’s not enough as it is.”

  Maggie spied the large sack Florrie held in her other hand, realizing she must pocket a few scraps to help feed the children.

  She nodded towards the two who peeked from behind Florrie’s grubby apron.

  “They’re me brother and sister. Ma died of the bloody sickness that came from Spain. We all had it, and Ma looked after us. Me Dad, he was off at the front, but the stupid bugger got himself killed, so it was just Ma and me and them.” She flicked a thumb toward her siblings. “The kids got it first, then me and Ma. Then I woke up. They was crying pitiful, and Ma.” A hiccupping sob purged from her lungs and tears streaked down her already grubby cheeks. “She was staring up at heaven, blood...”

  Maggie had heard enough. She understood those memories, the sight of death. She stepped over to Florrie and drew her into an embrace. The child went willingly, her sobs intensifying. “Shush.” She caressed Florrie’s greasy hair. “No more. You do not have to explain.”

  As she comforted the young girl, her siblings stared hungrily at Maggie. They were obviously starving. “Right, we need to get started.”

  Florrie’s weeping ceased and she pulled away, suspicion darkening her red-rimmed eyes. “Wot you mean?”

  “I mean, Florrie, that you’re not on your own anymore.”

  “You work ‘ere?”

  “I do now.” In offering such confirmation, an immense sense of relief settled over her, hope renewed at this new beginning.

  “I been telling ‘im I need help, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “I’m not surprised. I think he has had other things on his mind.”

  Firstly, she told Florrie to give some bread and cheese and a tumbler of milk to her siblings, and then over the next hour she and Florrie set to cleaning the kitchen from top to bottom.

  He caught her on her hands and knees, her skirts hauled up to prevent them getting soaked in the water as she scrubbed the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Clayton stood in the doorway to the kitchen.

  Maggie scrambled to her feet, dropped the scrubbing brush into the pail of slop-brown water and tugged her skirt loose from her knickers so that the hem dropped to a respectable length. “W
hat you should have done a long time ago.”

  His brows rose, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Damn it. He was laughing at her. She tipped her chin up, refusing to give in. “It’s a disgrace that you’ve let such a beautiful home slip to this state. I’m not prepared to live in a hovel.”

  “If I remember, I didn’t ask you to.”

  He’d caught her offguard. “We have an agreement on that matter. This house is broken.” As was its owner.

  “So you keep telling me.”

  “Then it’s about time you listened.”

  “You’re being bossy again, Maggie.”

  Maggie.

  He spoke her name as if it meant something, not simply an employee.

  Oh, Maggie! She shook her head. That couldn’t be right. She stared at him then. He’d bathed, changing out of those well-worn clothes. Now he wore a striped shirt and a pair of dark brown trousers. He’d shaved too, his hair still damp, though one lock kept falling forward and he brushed it away absently.

  “Can I help you?” Distinctly uncomfortable with his presence, and with this sudden and unaccounted need to brush that strand of hair away, she fisted her hands in her pockets.

  Such silly thoughts.

  “I came to see if you were still here.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You thought I would run when I saw the state of this place?”

  “I had wondered.”

  “Don’t think I’m leaving because of some dirt. I’m made of sterner stuff than what this house can throw at me.”

  He smiled then, taking her by surprise.

  Clayton Abbott, the owner of this house exquisitely sited on a bend in the river Wye was rather a handsome man when he smiled.

  Oh, Maggie!

  Perhaps it would be best if he didn’t smile, though she wasn’t quite sure why.

  A stifled cough from behind Florrie diverted Clayton’s attention and his smile faded, eyes morphing into darkness once more. “Who are they?” He pointed to Florrie’s siblings.

  Florrie, bless her heart, didn’t hesitate in stepping forward and bobbed a curtsey. “Them’s me brother and sister, Mr. Abbott.”