Owen pulled his heavy coat tighter about him as a breeze whistled by. He noticed the way the wind rustled Miss Davies’s bonnet and her hand shot up to steady it.
Though Owen was thrilled that his friend felt recovered enough to enjoy some time outdoors in a wheelchair, he knew the real reason he’d come along was Miss Davies. Perhaps it was some sick twist of fate that had stranded him at Gatherford Park just when he’d thought he could safely escape the maid’s captivating green eyes and sweet smile and eloquent words and return to his usual life of wandering the country with his friends, engaging in all manner of revels without a worry for anyone but himself and his companions.
Instead, Owen found himself trapped and he would need to fend off his unwanted interest for who knew how long. For all he knew, they could be stuck here all winter.
But watching Miss Davies carefully push her brother over the gravel path around the barren estate, chatting amiably and pointing to this spot that had the prettiest blooms in spring and that spot where a flock of chickens had run loose last summer, provided a certain warmth.
Her attitude was quite changed from last week when they’d prepared to set off. He’d been sure that she could not wait to be rid of them. Perhaps Miss Davies saw this as an opportunity to bridge the gap between herself and her brother.
Owen was pleased for his friend. Despite his broken leg and the pain that accompanied it, Davies’s spirits seemed almost as high as when the war finally ended. Maybe he felt the war to win his sister back had in fact ended in victory.
For that reason, Owen forced himself to be content with staying until the doctor cleared the lieutenant for travel. Owen would simply have to exercise caution until that day came, keeping himself as neutral toward Miss Davies as possible despite the longing in him to get closer and learn more. So far, as this walk proved, he could not claim success.
As they walked, Davies shared more stories of their time in the army, both the humorous and lighthearted tales of everyday life among soldiers as well as the harrowing and disturbing stories of treacherous terrain and living conditions, hard fought battles, and lives lost.
Miss Davies listened intently, hanging on her brother’s every word. Sometimes she chimed in to offer her opinion or ask a question about some detail or other. But never did she shrink away from the harsh details of war. Even many men who hadn’t experienced it for themselves would blanche at some of the things the lieutenant now spoke of. But not Miss Davies.
Owen should not have been surprised that she was made of sterner stuff. After all, she had waited in the servants’ hall with himself and the butler, holding Davies’s hand and wiping the sweat off his forehead and offering conversation to distract him as much as possible from the pain.
Her eyes had widened and she’d gone pale when she saw the state her brother was in. Owen and Mr. Taylor both tried to dissuade her from coming nearer, but the fierce determination that had flashed through her green eyes told them that she would not be shooed away.
Regardless of any of his other feelings for Miss Davies, Owen had to admire her bravery.
“Jessup, you’ve fallen behind again. Are you telling me you can’t even keep up with a man in a wheelchair?” Davies called out over his shoulder. Miss Davies also turned to peer at Owen, her eyes turning into half-moons as she giggled. Owen scrunched his nose at the insult and increased his pace to draw up next to the pair.
“My goodness, I must still be recovering from the physical feat I accomplished in carrying you back to the house.” He smirked down at his friend playfully.
“Too right you are, my man. I cannot say enough how dearly I appreciate it.” The lieutenant’s voice grew grave and he stared down at his gloved hands resting atop a thick blanket over his lap.
Owen squirmed at the sudden seriousness of the conversation. He infinitely preferred lighthearted banter to any kind of thanks for doing his basic duty.
“Just don’t make me do it again, Davies. I don’t think I could survive it,” Owen chuckled, hoping to lighten up the mood again. He’d had more than a lifetime’s worth of dour circumstances and gloomy conversations. He turned the talk to a person, and subject, he found far more enjoyable. “Miss Davies, do you have any particular hobbies you indulge in during your spare time?”
Miss Davies laughed a little and Owen’s eyebrow raised in curiosity. He didn’t think it a particularly funny question.
“I hardly have any spare time for hobbies, captain. But when I do, I like to read poetry. I’ve even begun to write some myself. Her Ladyship has graciously set aside some time from my duties each week for me to work on it though I fear I’m taking advantage of her kindness. I do not wish to slack off on my work, or make it appear as such.”
Her voice was light but Owen did not miss the sad smile that overtook her face for a moment. This news came as a revelation to Owen. He did not read much himself and never had. Whenever his governess approached with a book Owen had escaped and scampered up a tree or jumped into the pond instead. It did not often cross his mind that anyone willingly read poetry let alone wrote it.
“Is it very difficult? Writing poetry, I mean. I must confess I’ve always found the stuff to be a bit dull,” Owen admitted. He watched her from the corner of his eye, hoping that he hadn’t offended her with his honesty.
“I too find some of it dull. It’s simply a matter of finding the right words, the words that interests you and inspires you. I follow the same policy when I write so I don’t find it terribly difficult. It can be challenging, yes, but very rewarding.”
Miss Davies looked up at him, this time with a genuine smile. His heart gave an uncharacteristic flutter at the expression. She seemed pleased to be able to speak of her interests with someone. She must not have had many opportunities to do so.
“Won’t you let me read your writing sometime, Violet?” Davies pleaded, glaring up at his sister from his chair.
“Absolutely not. I won’t say my poetry is awful, but it is certainly not worth showing around.” The resoluteness in Miss Davies’s voice was almost comical and Owen could see her good-natured smile as she denied her brother.
The two bickered back and forth for a while and Owen gladly observed that they seemed more and more like real siblings every day. Perhaps Davies’s injury had been some sort of strange blessing in disguise.
Owen also gave himself over to observing Miss Davies in particular, his curiosity overwhelming his caution. With the knowledge that the maid was also a poet, her behaviors made more sense to Owen. He saw the way her eyes floated over the landscape, lingering here and there over crooked tree trunks and bushes buried under melting snow—all things that anyone else would completely disregard, including Owen himself if he hadn’t thought to look through Miss Davies’s eyes.
And of course he saw the way she saw him. Her gaze, though often brief, seemed to seek a deeper understanding of him. On the one hand it made him feel exposed yet on the other, he wished to open himself to her understanding. But Owen knew this must be avoided at all costs.
It would not, however, keep him from admiring her keen sight and sharp mind that surely turned even the most mundane events and objects and sensations into beautiful lines of poetry. Perhaps if Owen could read some of her work he would enjoy the artform.
Miss Davies pulled the wheelchair to a stop and came around to the front. She adjusted her brother’s blanket which had slipped slightly over the course of their walk, mindful of his injured leg made bulky and awkward by his wooden cast.
“Are you sure you’re quite alright? Are you warm enough? Comfortable? I can remove my shawl and bundle it up against your back if you need to be propped up further,” Miss Davies inquired as she fussed over the lieutenant. Her eyes scanned him up and down for anything amiss.
Owen also admired how attentive she was to those in her care. She stopped often to check on Davies and ensure all was well and she handled his chair with caution, carefully pushing it over the shoveled path to avoid any bumps. He could tell she was sinc
ere in her concern for both Lady Neil and her brother, not simply driven by obligation.
“As a matter of fact, I am feeling a bit cold and tired now. Let’s head back if that’s agreeable to you all.” Davies did indeed sound winded and weary and his sister agreed immediately. She slowly turned his chair around and they began the walk back, the grand house looming large ahead of them.
Owen allowed himself to slip behind the Davies siblings again. The lieutenant's mention of being cold had caused Owen to realize that he had been so caught up in watching Miss Davies that he hardly felt any chill at all. The realization troubled him. He could not even hate winter as much when the maid was nearby.
He caught back up before Davies could scold him again and joined into their conversation. They spoke more of army life as Miss Davies seemed very curious about it. She asked about everything from meals to sleeping quarters to uniforms to daily duties. She asked them to explain the differences in ranks and what responsibilities each entailed.
For the first time in a long while Owen felt as though he were a normal man. Once most people found out he’d been in the army and fought in Belgium, their demeanor toward him changed. Some gave him pitying looks and lamented over the struggles he must have endured. Others changed the subject, not willing to confront such a grim subject. Others seemed afraid of him as they wondered what terrible things he must have done.
But not Miss Davies.
Talking with her of his life in the army felt relaxed and natural. He did not feel the need to mask his experience to protect her sensibilities as he so often did. He could speak of it as he could speak of anything and he knew she would listen with real interest and understanding.
It felt relaxed and natural, but Owen constantly reminded himself as they walked and talked that it was far from right. At least for a man like him.
He sighed with relief when they reentered the house and Miss Davies went off to the servants’ hall while Owen pushed the lieutenant to the saloon turned bedroom. Dr. Slaterly had determined that it would be a while yet before Davies could begin using a crutch to make his way around the house so the Neils had the ground floor saloon transformed with almost all the same comforts of a real bedroom.
Owen started the fire and situated them both nearby to thaw themselves. Davies requested his book brought over and Owen complied, rolling his eyes at his friend’s smug expression. Surely the lieutenant saw the advantages of his condition, including commanding Owen around for once.
Davies lost himself in his book while Owen lost himself in the fire. He pulled his chair even closer and stared at the flames, relishing in the heat that nearly drowned him—and his recollections of their walk.
Owen did not know how long he sat there, leaning toward the fire, gazing into its red and orange and yellow tendrils as it consumed the wood underneath. The fire turned green sometimes, in his imagination—the color of Miss Davies’s eyes in the sunlight. The crackling of the flames on the logs turned into her gentle laugh. He knew he should not indulge these imaginings but surely a few minutes could not cause too much harm.
He must have been lost in thought long enough for Davies to look up from his book and call attention to it. “You must be watching a captivating play in those flames, Jessup.”
Owen jumped at the sound and hoped that the shadows cast by the firelight concealed his reddened face.
“Just thinking,” he mumbled.
“I did not realize you were capable of thinking for so long a period,” Davies laughed. “What could be holding our attention so firmly?”
“Just this and that.”
Davies let out a raucous laugh. “You do not fool me, friend. You never could. You’ve always been a terrible liar.”
Owen nodded in agreement. It was true that he could not tell a convincing lie, but he did not often have anything to lie about therefore he’d never developed the skill. But this was one topic Owen did not wish to broach with Miss Davies’s older brother of all people.
The lieutenant did not push Owen to reveal his thoughts directly. Instead he sought a subtler route.
“Do you not think my sister is a lovely young lady?”
“To be sure,” Owen acquiesced, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.
“I really do feel so awful for all the things I said and did to her. She was just a child, she did not deserve to be treated in such a horrid fashion. It’s a wonder she turned into such a kind woman with all that in her past. Coming from a family like ours could turn anyone bitter and cruel.” Davies sighed and he closed his book, now taking his turn to stare thoughtfully into the fire.
Owen frowned at his own miniscule worries and instead turned his attention to comforting his friend. “You can’t change the past, Davies, but you can change the future. And you’re well on your way to doing just that. Miss Davies seems to warm up to you more each day. She’s a cautious young lady and rightfully so. She just needed more time to come around.”
Davies gave a hesitant smile. “I hope you are right. It does seem as though she’s beginning to regard me as a brother again. I also notice that she seems to regard you with some interest as well. You know, if you developed an attachment to her I would not be opposed to such a thing.”
The lieutenant shot a sly look to Owen, who wanted to kick himself. He’d been trapped in Davies’s underhanded plan to discover his thoughts. It only went to show that their years serving side by side had forged a mental connection that awarded them both with easier access to the other’s mind.
Owen should not have been surprised that Davies had guessed the situation exactly for what it was. He sighed and shook his head in resignation. His eyes returned to the flames but instead of the fireplace in the saloon in Gatherford Park, Owen saw a miserable campfire with soldiers and their wives or widows huddling together and towns ablaze, homes and livelihoods destroyed.
“You know as well as I do that another war could come along at any moment. And if it does, I will take up arms again. That is the oath I swore to myself—to protect my country and my countrymen. What point is there in developing affections for anyone, let alone marrying and starting a family? I could be called away for months or years or forever. My duty is to protect, not cause pain and suffering.”
Owen did not mention Miss Davies by name, but she was the only woman to come to mind as he spoke his fears. He'd never allowed himself to come this close to harboring a real interest and thus far it had been easy to keep any female acquaintances at arm’s length as far as the romantic realm was concerned. He did not understand why it should be such a struggle now, but it was and he would have to deal with it until they could leave.
Davies sat in silence for a moment, pondering Owen’s words and formulating his own. Owen fidgeted as he observed the solemn look on his friend’s face.
“I do not say this simply to recommend my sister. A hundred more wars may come, but they may just as easily not. But do you not think that is all the more reason to enjoy life and find happiness while you can? For God’s sake, I lived through a war and was nearly killed by an overturned carriage.”
He laughed ruefully at the realization and Owen knew he was right, at least on one count. Life was fickle indeed. He should know that better than anyone else.
But when Owen imagined Miss Davies sitting by the fire, writing mournful poetry over a lost beau, he did not think he could bring himself to agree with the rest.
Could happiness now possibly be worth heartbreak later?
Chapter 7
The clacking of the knitting needles soothed Violet into a content trance. Her eyes focused on the tips of the needles threading through the soft white yarn. She did not mind stitching, but if she could she would knit everything. It wouldn’t be very practical or comfortable, but knitting had a way of calming her and easing her mind into a blissfully blank state.
She did most of her knitting in the summer and early fall before the chill settled in so that Lady Neil would have new scarves and shawls by winter. She made
some for herself and the other servants if she had time and extra material.
But a baby was an excellent excuse to put her beloved knitting needles to use. Violet had gotten a later start on her project than she would have liked with her brother and her poetry writing taking up a fair amount of her allotted free time, but the tiny garment and blanket set were coming along well.
Violet was so given over to her task that she failed to hear Mrs. Baird approach the long table in the servants’ hall where she liked to work. She did not even notice when the housekeeper stood before her in silence, watching her work.
“That is a lovely little set you’re working on,” Mrs. Baird said, causing Violet to start.
“Thank you. I think I shall be happy with the outcome and I think Lady Neil will appreciate the gift.” Violet smiled down at her handiwork, envisioning the baby that would soon wear it.
“I am sure she will be thrilled. I have never had a kinder mistress, save for the late Lady Neil. I think the two would get along swimmingly if she’d lived to meet her daughter-in-law.” Mrs. Baird lowered herself into the neighboring chair.
Her words sparked Violet’s curiosity. She'd learned much of Lord Neil’s family since she’d come to serve under his roof, primarily from Mrs. Baird’s anecdotes. She’d come to the house when the late Baron of Neil was but a teenager, she’d seen him wed and become a father, and she’d attended his funeral. Now she would soon see his son become a father.
It made Violet wonder how many generations of Neils she would come to know in her time with the family, if she was lucky enough to stay on for decades like Mrs. Baird.
For a flash of a moment she saw into her future. She still mended and tidied and attended to her mistress’s toilette. The only difference was the hurried clicking of tiny feet on the hardwood floor and high-pitched laughter floating into the air. Violet blinked and shoved the vision away, returning her attention to her project.
“How have things been with your brother? He's been here over a fortnight since his accident, a month in total. Are you glad he’s stayed longer?”
Healing the Captain's Heart: A Clean Regency Romance (Resolved In Love Book 2) Page 8