Regency Rescues

by Isabella Hargreaves

  “I never thought I would suffer for marrying you, even if we had to live on a strict budget. Just being with you has always been enough.”

  They kissed with unrestrained hunger for the first time. Finally, they were married, and even more unexpected, their future seemed financially assured. Their tenacity and fidelity had at last been rewarded.

  “Ahem.” They broke apart. An elderly butler stood in the doorway watching them. He bowed deeply.

  “Jenkins,” Tom greeted the man. “Good to see you again. All in order here?”

  “Yes, sir, and better now you’ve arrived. It’s been an unsettled time since the old master passed away.”

  Tom took Clarissa’s hand. “Come, my love, I can’t wait to begin our life together.” He guided her through the wide doorway.

  Clarissa smiled up at him. Her heart beat hard in her chest. In one short day, she had been saved from a forced marriage by her one true love, had married him, and found out he was now a wealthy gentleman. What a wonderful start to the life she had dreamed of for so long!

  An Officer and a Gentleman

  Bath, May 1812

  At the sound of the brass knocker on the front door below, Marianne Chaseley rose from her seat beside the empty fireplace and looked out the partly open sash window. Pigeons cooed in the park opposite. Spring flowers fluttered their joyous colours in the breeze. Lazy clouds drifted across the blue sky. A perfect day, made incandescent by the visitor on her doorstep.

  Marianne hurried downstairs. A dark-haired sun-scorched officer in a faded red uniform coat stood awkwardly in her threadbare parlour. Major Oliver Hurst’s right arm lay in a sling. Lines of weariness and pain were etched around his eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. He had aged since she last saw him. But, oh, how attractive he still was.

  Hands outstretched, she hurried to greet him as he stood hunched, motionless, beside the mantelpiece. “Oliver, it has been so long! What has happened to you? Did Lucien not return with you?”

  He turned towards her. His sherry-coloured eyes didn’t brighten with delight as she expected. He didn’t smile. He didn’t betray a single emotion.

  She faltered and dropped her hands, clutching them at her waist. Something was very wrong. “What is it?”

  His lips, set in a straight line, opened a fraction to say, “It’s Lucien.”

  Her stomach lurched. She clutched a hand to her mouth. “Tell me. Quickly!”

  “He’s dead.” His voice sounded as flat as a trampled autumn leaf.

  Marianne’s heart shrivelled in her chest. Blood pounded in her temples.

  Lucien, her precious son, her only child, was dead! Gone. Forever. The world turned monochrome. Tears welled and slid past her nose.

  Oliver groaned and fumbled to open his jacket with his left hand. He pulled out a folded handkerchief and offered it to her.

  She waved it away and stood staring at him without seeing.

  He took a step closer and awkwardly dabbed at her cheek.

  She recoiled from his touch.

  “Beg pardon, Marianne,” Oliver said in his gravel-dusted voice.

  “I trusted you,” she whispered. “He trusted you.” Her voice broke into a fractured sob.

  “I did everything I could to train him, to prepare him, to protect him, but he did his duty, and that was to attack at Badajoz. He died bravely, leading his men into the breach in the walls.”

  She had to know more. “Did he suffer?” A tear launched from her chin.

  “He died instantly.” His answer was rushed, flat.

  “How do you know that?” She could hear the pleading in her voice.

  “I was beside him.” It was a sigh of admission.

  Could she believe him? Wasn’t that what all grieving family members were told? Not everyone died quickly. A pulse of nausea swept through her. She swallowed. “Tell me the truth, Oliver. I must know.”

  “I have.” His voice cracked.

  Then the sobbing began. The broken, gushing, chest-aching sobs that wouldn’t stop, no matter how much she tried to gulp them down.

  Oliver guided her to the ancient horsehair couch and seated her there. He handed her his rejected handkerchief and she clutched it to her mouth like a stopper to a bottle.

  For many minutes Marianne sat, gasping with sobs, her aching heart clenched in her chest. Finally, she drew a harsh breath. She had to pull herself together. She must focus on something else.

  “I wish it had been me, Marianne,” he blurted, his voice splintered with emotion. He dragged his hand across his eyes as if to erase a bitter memory.

  No! Not you too! She shook her head. “I’m glad you survived,” she whispered through stiff lips. I couldn’t bear to lose you too! Tears clogged her throat, choking her. She swallowed past the constriction and gulped a breath.

  Oliver looked at her with troubled eyes. A fissure formed between his brows. “But what of you now?”

  She needed to be alone, to think. There were decisions to be made! If only her mind didn’t feel so numb. “I’ll be fine. Do not concern yourself.”

  “Let me help you.”

  No more. “You’ve done enough for me in the past.” She was adamant.

  He hesitated, as though he might argue, but shrugged and sighed in defeat. “I’ll call again another day, when you’ve recovered from the shock... to discuss how I may help you.”

  “Please do not worry yourself on my behalf.” Her voice was a battered croak. She would not be a duty, an obligation for her menfolk’s fellow officer. That was too much. Oliver had helped her so much over the years, when money had been scarce because of her late husband. She had some dignity left. Just enough to wish to maintain a façade of independence—for as long as possible, until the money ran out.

  She led the major to the door and thanked him for his concern.

  He took her hand in his and bowed over it. “May I call on you again?” His eyes pleaded, as though he asked an enormous favour.

  She dredged a smile from some faraway part of her that knew how to do it. “Give me time,” she answered, in a monotone.

  With a final look of sympathy, he departed.

  She dried her remaining tears and gulped a steadying breath. Without her son’s subsidy from his modest army pay, she would be destitute by summer’s end if she didn’t act fast.

  ***

  Three months later, Marianne hurried along a backstreet on her way home, watching carefully where she placed her booted feet on the greasy, filth-encrusted cobblestones as she carried one last load of laundry for the day. She glanced up and faltered to a halt.

  There, not six feet away, stood Major Oliver Hurst, looking tall and ruggedly handsome, even in civilian clothes. Gone was his sling and the stoop of bone-weary tiredness, but not his grimness. He blocked her passage through the narrow alley. His eyes scanned her from top to bottom. “I went to your old residence, but you’d left. I’ve searched for you for weeks.” His voice was matter-of-fact, with a garnish of accusation.

  And now the questions begin. She tilted her chin. “Yes, I moved.”

  “Why?”

  “Why does one normally move house? Because its suits one better somewhere else.” She sounded flippant and cheeky.

  His raised eyebrow questioned her, and his mouth formed a straight line of... annoyance? Distaste? Frustration?

  “Are you accusing me of dunning on my landlord?” she said in counter-attack.

  “No, but I suspect you left because the house’s lease came due and cost too much.”

  You guess too well. She tried to walk past him, but he stepped into her path.

  “You’re not being honest with me, Marianne. Tell me. I can help you.”

  Just seeing you makes me long for a better life that I can’t have. “You can’t help me, Major Hurst.”

  He leant towards her, his expression earnest. “Oliver. My name is Oliver, and I think I can assist you, if only you will let me. Tell me what difficulties you are facing.”

&nbs
p; She drew a calming breath. “Major Hurst... Oliver, I have no intention of claiming your assistance, or that of any man again. I must sink or swim on my own merits.” But I’m close to drowning.

  “So, you are succeeding in supporting yourself?” He nodded at the wicker laundry basket in her arms.

  “I am going on nicely, thank you.” If you don’t count bone-deep fatigue and red-raw laundry woman’s hands.

  “Is that why you look as thin as a scarecrow?” He stepped forward and fingered a pair of buff-coloured trousers in the laundry basket she held. “And are carrying a basket of other people’s laundry?”

  He was too astute. She gave no answer.

  “At least allow me to take you for a meal, so I know you’ve eaten well today,” he said in exasperation.

  “You are most kind, but, as you can see”—she jiggled the basket she held—“I have work to do.”

  He took the basket out of her arms before she could resist. “Then I’ll take this and escort you home.”

  Marianne screamed inwardly. That was exactly what she didn’t want! She did not need anyone, especially him, knowing she now lived in one of the mean little streets beyond the hospital. But, as she needed that washing to survive, she had no choice but to lead him to her basement lodgings. As they approached, the alleys became narrower and smellier.

  With her battered key she let them into her single room, where hearth, living, and sleeping were combined. In one corner nestled a bed built against the wall. In another stood her wardrobe. Laundry, comprising men’s and women’s linen underwear, hung over drying racks set before the low fire. An iron heated on a rack above the flames.

  Even to her eyes, familiar with the scene, the room shouted poverty. There was nothing genteel about it except a few of her personal belongings—those she hadn’t sold to form a buffer against abject penury.

  He turned to her, concern etched in lines on his forehead and around his eyes. “Have you no family or friends who would take you in or assist you?”

  “None who would allow me to impose upon them. I will be a burden to no one.”

  “Let me help you, Marianne. It breaks my heart to see you living thus.” He swept his upturned hand in a gesture encompassing the room.

  “It is not as bad as it seems. I have a little money invested that pays the rent. All I need to do is earn my expenses.”

  Oliver took a step forward. “I understand that you wish to be independent. You were always a proud woman, even when your husband’s behaviour brought you humiliation.”

  A shiver of remembrance ran up her spine at the mention of her husband, Rawden, the dashing, untrustworthy spendthrift she had married; who had died on campaign three years ago. It should never have surprised her that he had treated her with as much contempt in death as he had during his life, by leaving her nearly penniless.

  She looked up at Oliver and saw compassion and frustration on his face. She waited for him to say more.

  “Have you any idea what it does to me to see you living like this, when you deserve to be greeting society in your own splendid sitting room on Royal Crescent?”

  A huff of shocked laughter escaped her lips. As if that was ever likely, at any time in her past or future! Her heart melted at his gallantry, and tears prickled her eyes. “Oh, Oliver, you were ever a kind man. I appreciate your concern, as I have done for all the years you were Rawden’s steady friend. You were the only one trying to guide him on the path of financial sense. But I can’t accept your charity.”

  “It’s not charity! For old times’ sake, let me help!” he pleaded. “Or is it because you can’t find it in your heart to forgive me for Lucien’s death?” he asked, tentative, despairing.

  She shook her head. “There is nothing to forgive. It wasn’t your fault. Lucien was an army officer under orders to attack. It was just one more battle for you both.”

  He was quiet, as though remembering that time. “And what a battle—the worst I’ve ever known.”

  Thank God you were spared.

  She drew a breath to say so, but without waiting for her sympathetic response, he continued, “My last for sure.”

  “Because of your injury?” He didn’t respond immediately, so she waited for his answer.

  “Partly. I was fortunate not to lose this arm.” He shifted the limb. “But mainly because I’m sick of losing my friends and my men. Lucien’s death was the final blow.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t help the dead, so can you see that I need to help the living?”

  She bowed her head. “Oliver. I understand.”

  “Then let me help you!”

  She straightened her shoulders. “I’ll take charity from no one. I have a shred of pride left.”

  “Then, will you take my friendship instead?” His dark eyes pleaded for her agreement. He held out his hand to shake hers.

  How her foolish heart wished for more! “Of course.” She extended her reddened hand.

  Instead, he took both her hands in his. “Thank you.” He leant forward and placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

  It was the first time he had ever kissed her. Her heart felt like it would burst with pent-up longing for his touch, his kindness, his masculine body enfolding hers. She smiled at him through her tears.

  He lowered his head, resting his forehead against hers. “Do you have any idea how long I have dreamed of kissing you?”

  Ohh! He shared her dream! She shook her head.

  “Since the moment Rawden introduced you to me as his wife,” he murmured.

  She sighed. Twenty years ago. She had been a blushing bride of eighteen and he a young lieutenant, like her husband.

  “If you would ever consider me... if you could let go of your love for Rawden and forgive me for Lucien’s death... could you ever love me?” he asked.

  He thought she was still grief-stricken by Rawden’s death! No, no, no! She jerked her hands from his. Instead, she grieved for the love she had once felt for her husband—which had shrivelled, along with all her destroyed dreams for their happy life together. She had only ever wanted him transformed into a loving husband who cared about his family.

  Tears flooded her eyes and she rubbed them away. This was the last time she would cry because of the actions of Rawden Chaseley.

  She had married him with stars in her eyes and the complete belief of a naïve young fool that her love would last forever and was all that they needed. But her love wasn’t enough. It couldn’t make up for his lack of love, for his carelessness with her heart, for his thought only to please himself, whatever the cost to her.

  Oliver stretched a hand towards her. “Could you ever love me?” he repeated. His intense look pierced her.

  Could she ever love him?

  Could she ever stop loving him?

  His smiling face and steady strength of character had bolstered her on many dark days when Rawden’s drinking and gambling had threatened to overwhelm her.

  Her love for Oliver had quietly, stealthily grown until one day, when he smiled encouragement, it had slapped her across the face and driven the breath from her body. She had looked away, bewildered and horrified at its strength. From that day onwards she had been torn between yearning to see him and the guilt of her disloyalty to her husband.

  Oliver’s hold on her eased and he took a step backwards. “I see that could never happen.” He turned from her.

  “No!” She reached for him in panic.

  He turned back, questioning her with his eyes.

  “You’re wrong. So very wrong.”

  He stood immobile.

  “I could...,” she began.

  “What?” His gaze was arrested, fixated on her face.

  She had to go on. “My love for Rawden dissolved to dust many years ago. I was relieved to remain in England with Lucien when his regiment was sent to the Peninsula.”

  Oliver’s eyebrows shot upwards. His eyes asked for more.

  “And as to whether I could love you one day. No... that’s not p
ossible,” she whispered.

  His eyes closed. His shoulders sagged.

  She rushed on, her voice louder, stronger as she forced out her confession. “Because I love you now, and have done for many years.”

  His eyes opened and searched her face for the truth.

  The corners of her mouth crept up into an involuntary smile. “Do you really love me?” Her tears spilled onto her cheeks.

  He pulled her into his arms. “I love you now, as much as ever.”

  “You’re not just saying that because you feel sorry for my plight and wish to help me? Because of your kind heart?” Do you just pity me?

  “No! I love you with my whole being. With every breath and every thought.” His lips sought hers.

  At last! In the middle of dark, lonely nights she had dreamed of this moment. It had been her guilty fantasy for many years.

  After long minutes of her imagined scenes turned real, Oliver paused for breath. “Can you ever forgive me for Lucien’s death?” he murmured.

  “I never blamed you.”

  “Thank you.” He bowed his head. “I loved him as a son. For himself, but also because he was your son. A tangible, living connection to you and a reminder of you.”

  Her heart flipped over at the bittersweet words. The pain of Lucien’s death mingled with the happy memories of his short life, and the role Oliver had played in his growing into the beloved man he became.

  “Will you marry me, Marianne?”

  His words brought her back to the present. This wonderful man who had filled her dreams and helped raise her son, wanted to marry her! If hearts could truly burst with love, then hers surely would. “Yes,” she breathed, and kissed him again.

  Hard reality came back, and she broke the kiss. “But can you afford to marry when you have sold your commission?” she asked.

  “I have waited so long. I have wanted you so long. I have loved you so long. I can’t afford not to marry you!” he said in an amused voice.

  “Do not jest. I have no wish to be a burden to you.”

  “You could never be that. I have more than enough capital to support a wife and children.” He worked to suppress a smile and failed.