Captain of Her Heart
The door to the library swung open, and his butler, Bunting, entered, his eyebrows raised to his hairline. “Miss Handley to see you, Captain.”
“S-Sophie?” he stammered in bewilderment. Had she come to make amends or offer some explanation of her standoffish behavior? Her rejection stung more than he cared to admit.
“No. Miss Harriet Handley.” Bunting opened the door wider, and motioned Harriet into the room. A look of astonishment was still pasted to his usually blank countenance.
A rush of pleasure suffused Brookes. An afternoon spent in Harriet’s company was preferable to proving himself anew to Sophie. But his happiness faded when he spied her. No wonder Bunting was dumbfounded. She looked positively untidy, with her rumpled gown and none-too-clean apron. He rose from the desk and grabbed her hands. “Whatever’s the matter?”
She dropped his hands as though they were on fire. “I have a proposition for you, Captain.”
The most adorable streak of dirt bisected her cheek. Against his better judgment, he reached up to rub it with his thumb. “Proposition?” he echoed.
“Oh, sorry.” She laughed ruefully, scrubbing her cheek with the corner of her apron. “Yes. Or a business deal. Whatever term you like.”
A tug of his old mischievousness pulled at his insides. He liked the sound of proposition. “Tell me.”
“I want to write with you.”
His hope deflated. Well, after all, what had he expected her to say? That she wanted to court him? He motioned her to the settee, and sat down across from her. “I don’t understand you. What do you mean? Do you want to write a book?”
“Yes. Remember how we spoke about the need for realistic books about the war? Well, I want to write one. And I want your help so I can do it well.”
Her words cast him into unfamiliar territory, so he fell back on his soldier’s training. He peered at her, trying to assess her thoughts. Did she really want to write his memoirs? The thought of sharing what he had suffered made Brookes recoil. His palms began to sweat.
“I’ve always wanted to be an authoress. In fact I wrote a few books before Papa died. But I want to try it again. I want to write something and sell it. For money.”
He quirked the corner of his lip in amusement at her unnecessary afterthought. Then he directed his attention back to her scheme. He shook his head, attempting to clear his thoughts. “Why write anything new? Why not try to publish what you already have?”
She looked away, blushing. “I don’t have it anymore.”
“Why do you need me?” His words held an edge. While he liked the idea that Harriet might need him, was she merely using him for her own gain?
“I thought we could be a team. An equal partnership. I will write, and you supply the facts.”
In the army, he had been carefully schooled never to show weakness. He did not forget that training now.
“I can see how I can help you. And it’s not that I don’t want to assist you. But if you’ll forgive me—how does this help me? Aren’t most partnerships mutually beneficial?”
“Um…” She bit her lip, looking at a complete loss. “It might help you to talk about the war.”
That was the last thing he wanted to do. He shook his head. “I may not want to.”
“You’d only have to talk about what you want, or verify facts, I promise. And—” she stared at him beseechingly “—if we worked at Tansley Cottage, you could see Sophie more often.”
Brookes turned away. Could he really talk about the war? His ghastly experiences might shock this slip of a girl. He wanted to help her, but his memories of the war still bled like open wounds. He had no desire to take off his bandages and show the gashes to Harriet.
A compromise was in order. He sighed and turned back, staring deeply into her pale face. “My answer is yes, on two conditions.”
“Name them.”
“First, you speak with Stoames, as well. He served as my batman and he is a walking military encyclopedia. He knows a great deal more about the war than I do. Any details beyond what Stoames can supply, I will endeavor to help.”
“Agreed.”
“Second, we work here at Brookes Park. I get very busy and may need to beg off at a moment’s notice. There’s more room to work here, too.” It was safer, too. He liked the security of his own four walls, his own familiar territory.
She nodded, but a shadow of uncertainty crossed her face. “All right.”
What had he done? Brookes swallowed nervously. He needed to get away from her, and get back onto sure footing. “I’ll fetch Stoames, and we will explain the plan to him.”
“I would love to.” She dazzled him with the brightness of her smile.
He loved that smile. Remembering her weakness, he added, “Feel free to choose a book or two while I am gone.”
The blood pounded in Harriet’s temples. Pressing her hands together, she forced herself to stop trembling.
Now she might see him often, to keep her vow to Sophie, but the arrangement was strictly business. And she would write a book, and possibly save her little family in the process. Harriet gulped several lungfuls of air. Her composure returned, and her hands ceased shaking. She gazed down at her lap, startled to see she still wore her dirty gardening apron.
She looked a perfect sight. No wonder he seemed so shocked by her proposal. Sophie would never visit anyone looking less than flawless. Even in poverty, Sophie still managed an elegance that Harriet could never attain. But then, she sought his advice on a business matter and did not make a social call. He was Sophie’s intended and not her young man. So who cared what she looked like?
Harriet shut off her thoughts with a snap. She gazed around the library, taking in the floor to ceiling shelves crammed with volumes bound in red and brown Moroccan leather. Brookes’s offer of a new book tempted her, but she was too indebted to him already. She’d stayed awake until the wee small hours of the morning reading the volume of John Donne she borrowed the day before. She wanted to reread the book, savoring Donne’s words again before returning it. Still, it would do no harm to look over the vast selection, and make a mental note of which books to borrow next time. She rose from the settee and studied the shelf in front of her, arms clasped behind her back.
Footsteps echoed in the hall, and the library door swung open. A man strode into the room, followed by Brookes. He looked about a decade older than the captain, his features roughened by long exposure to the weather and hard living. But his brown eyes held a kindly twinkle that put Harriet at ease.
“Miss Handley, allow me to present Matthew Stoames, my batman. I believe you met him once or twice before the war.”
“Mr. Stoames, it’s been so long I hardly remember the occasion. How do you do?” Harriet bobbed a little curtsy.
“Very well, Miss. Though you may call me Stoames. Everyone else does. Don’t know what I would do if someone kept calling me Mister.” He swept a courtly bow in her direction.
“Miss Handley is writing a book about the war and requires our assistance. I told her that you were the best military authority she could hope for.” Brookes leaned against his desk, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I’ll be happy to help the young lady whenever she wishes.” Stoames nodded at Harriet.
Harriet flashed a grateful smile in return. “I really must be going, but I would like to start work this week. Is that all right?” The sooner the better. After all, if she finished quickly, she might provide Mama with a comfortable living in the space of a year or so.
“Yes, but if we work on Friday, we’ll have to finish quickly. The village is having the Blessing of the Wells.”
Harriet had completely forgotten the village fete. “Will we have time to work, then?”
“Of course. Come over later in the morning, and we will be done in time for the well blessing and afternoon tea.” Brookes cast a glance over his shoulder at the window. “The clouds are gathering again. I am sure it will rain soon. Let me call my carriage for you.”
Another kindness she might never repay. “No, I am happy to walk. The cottage is only a quarter of an hour from here, and I love the exercise. Until Friday, then, gentlemen.” Her voice squeaked a little, betraying her nerves. She quit the library with a speed usually reserved for one being chased by yapping hounds.
She didn’t cease her sprint until she reached the crest of the hill that looked over home.
I did it. It’s over. He said yes!
Chapter Five
Harriet handed her precious few coins to the shopkeeper.
“Thank you, Miss. Can I get anything else for you?”
“Oh, no. This is all I need.” Harriet tucked the parcel under her arm.
“Very good. Don’t forget now, we’re having the Blessing of the Wells later on this morning, to be followed by a cream tea at the village hall. Please come, and bring a friend.”
Harriet smiled warmly in reply. “This will be my first time to attend the event. My family came here shortly after the ceremony last year. I must confess I am intrigued. Such a funny custom, don’t you think?”
“Oh, it’s a tradition in Tansley. We do it to give thanks to God for the many hot springs that run through our village. They bring us our good health.”
Harriet glowed in the warmth of human interaction. The buzz of activity in the little country store mounted as villagers dropped by to do their weekly marketing. She thoroughly enjoyed the chance to talk to someone outside of her tight-knit family circle, but the shopkeeper was busy and had other customers to attend to. “I shall be there. I cannot wait.” She turned to leave, halting when she spied a line of soldiers on horseback creating a commotion in the middle of the street.
“What on earth?” Harriet turned back to the friendly shopkeeper. “Who are those soldiers?”
“A regiment of cavalry officers. From what I hear, they will be summering near Tansley.”
“I see.” Harriet reached for the doorknob. “Good day.”
“Good day, Miss.”
Harriet left the store, inhaling the aroma of fresh paper and ink that wafted up from her paper packet. The paper smelled fresh and crisp, like newly felled trees. The ink had a sour, tangy scent. The two odors excited Harriet, reminding her of late-night sessions spent writing by candlelight, trying to get to the heart and the soul of the stories that ran constantly through her mind. Her fingers practically itched to take up the pen right then and there. Hugging the parcel a little closer to her chest, she quickened her pace. Harriet crossed past Tansley Cottage, trudging up the hill toward Brookes Park. She hastened her steps, afraid she lingered too long and ran late for her appointment with the captain.
The imposing gates of Brookes Hall loomed up ahead. Those gates enforced dignity and majesty onto the scrubby hill. Harriet swallowed her nerves as she hurried past. The meticulous and handsome nature of Brookes Hall struck her nerves, setting them on edge. The house, made of gray stone, grew darker with every passing year, lending the estate an air of weathered distinction. The counterpanes faced the courtyard squarely, needing no shutters, framed with no curtains. This house had nothing to conceal.
The pale sun rose higher in the sky. Harriet was late. Even so, she paused briefly in the courtyard, resting her package on a nearby planter. She clasped her hands together, willing composure and calm into her inner being. Unbidden, her favorite Bible verse flashed across her mind. I can do everything through Him that gives me strength.
Spirits lifted, hopes buoyed, Harriet stiffened her spine and crossed the courtyard to the front door.
Bunting showed Harriet into the library. A fire glowed in the fireplace, warding off the morning chill. “I’ll let the captain know you are here, Miss Handley. Do you require anything to get started?”
“Is it all right if I sit at the desk? I need to spread my paper out so that I can begin writing notes.” Harriet wiped her clammy hands on her skirts.
“That will be fine, Miss. Though I can bring you a table of your own if you wish to sit closer to the fire.”
“Not at all, Bunting. If you don’t think the captain will mind, then this will do nicely.” Harriet began unpacking her parcel onto the blotter of a massive mahogany desk.
“Very good.” Bunting bowed and closed the door behind him so that it almost made no sound at all.
Harriet smoothed the sheets of foolscap with shaking fingers. She breathed deeply, inhaling the masculine scents of leather-bound books and polished wood. The familiarity of the room struck her anew, causing her eyes to mist over. She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes to dry the unwanted tears. Gazing up, she spied a portrait occupying the place of honor over the mantel. The painting showed a pretty young woman with deep gray eyes who held a baby in her arms. A toddler stood proudly beside them, resting his chubby hands on his mother’s arm. Harriet crossed over to the mantel and peered at the picture closely. That sweet tableau must be Brookes’s mother, his older brother, Henry, and the captain as an infant. The cozy domesticity of the painting aroused feelings of panic in Harriet. She bit her lip and looked away.
A clock ticked in the corner. Each swing of its pendulum struck Harriet’s nerves, like an omen or a warning. She had made a mistake in coming back, in proposing the whole ridiculous idea to begin with. Closing her eyes, she pictured her papa. He seemed so close to her in this familiar room. Papa had secrets. Her family had secrets. She did not need to go delving in Captain Brookes’s personal life for the very selfish reason of writing a book. Why invade a good man’s privacy to suit her ambitions? Harriet’s cheeks burned with shame.
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. It was time, long past time, for her to leave.
The door creaked open, announcing Brookes’s arrival. “Good morning, Harriet.” His rich, warm baritone filled the room, startling Harriet. “I apologize for taking so long to meet you.”
She spun around, her pulse pounding.
Harriet looked up at him, her eyes so blue they were almost black. He had seen this expression in her eyes once before, the first day they had met on the hill. At that time, she had been speaking of her faith, but now her eyes were so dark, they reflected something else. Fear, perhaps? He surveyed Harriet as he would a battlefield, raking his gaze over her, trying to gauge strategic points and weaknesses. Her lips trembled nervously, and she bit them in an effort to hold still. This observation gentled him, and his mouth curved into an encouraging smile. “I had to approve our well dressing. The servants finished the decorations this morning.”
“Well dressing? Do you have a hot spring here at Brookes Park?”
“Yes and the servants have it properly kitted out in a mass of flowers. It’s impressive. When we finish here, I would be happy to take you to see it.”
She blinked and nodded, giving him a little half smile. He motioned her to a chair near the hearth. “I’ll ring for some tea.”
“I’m afraid I will take up too much of your time, Captain.”
“Not at all. Next week, when the celebrations are over, we will have more time to talk. Today, we will get started. Where do you want to begin?” He sat down across from her, stretching his good leg out toward the warming blaze.
Her brow furrowed. She reached a hand up, tentatively touching her right temple. “I don’t know.”
“Would it help if I asked Stoames to join us?”
“Yes!” Her quick acceptance caused Brookes to lift an eyebrow. Why would Stoames make that big of an improvement to her manuscript? She colored under his gaze.
Bunting bustled in, balancing a tray with a lavish tea set in one hand. “Bunting, will you find Stoames, and ask him to join us?”
“Of course, Captain.” Bunting placed the tea tray gently on an inlaid table near the fire.
“We’ll have a little refreshment and start the discussion in that manner. Perhaps we both will feel less awkward.” He motioned her toward the table.
She smiled at him, the pinkness in her cheeks ebbing, busying herself with the teapot. He regarded her squarely. “What interests you about the war?”
She poured the tea. If she was still nervous, her hands did not betray her. Not a single drop spilled outside of the fragile china cups. “I want to know the truth about war. Perhaps I feel it is time to write a realistic history, so that those of us who never go to war can know what it is like.”
That sounded a bit daunting, but he nodded anyway. Best not to show any reluctance. “Then where should we begin?”
“What made you decide to become a soldier?” She gingerly sipped at her steaming hot tea.
“Well, you know I was the second son. My elder brother, Henry, inherited the estate. I had to seek my fortune elsewhere.” He took a careful taste.
“Well, yes, I know,” Harriet replied, stirring her tea with a small silver spoon. “But why the army? Why not the navy? Why seek the service at all? You could have been a curate, or sought a career in the church.”
“Army life is most appealing, especially to a young lad full of romantic notions. I love to ride. Riding is my passion, since boyhood, and I wanted to make my living at it. I sought adventure, desired to fight grand battles. And I never had much faith in God, so following the church simply never occurred to me.” He attempted a laugh to soften his words, but it caught in his throat, making an odd, strangling sound.
Her mouth dropped open. “You don’t have faith?”
“I had very little when I embarked on my career. I’ve lost it completely since Waterloo.” Absentmindedly, he stroked his leg, where wood joined ravaged flesh.
“I am very sorry to hear that.” She met his steady gaze. He might well have bared his wooden calf, he was so exposed. No, it was worse even, he had bared his soul to her. And judging by the expression in her eyes, Harriet did not like what she saw. Was it possible that his lack of faith was more unattractive to her than his wooden leg?
He pretended not to understand her look, and set his teacup down with a defiant clink. They needed boundaries. He would talk to Harriet about the war, but never about faith. His mind flashed back to the fields of Waterloo, where men lay dying while their brothers in arms and enemies alike stripped them of their worldly possessions. Never once did they show mercy, not even to their fellow countrymen. His lack of religion was his own affair. In fact, he had earned it. “Where on earth is Stoames?” he barked in irritation.
“Here I am, Captain.” Stoames opened the library door with brusque swiftness. “My apologies for taking so long.”
“Not at all,” Harriet replied smoothly, and poured another cup of tea.
He accepted it with a hearty smile. “Now, what were you discussing?”
“The beginning of my hallowed career.”
Stoames raised his eyebrows at the captain’s biting tone. “Well, I started as the captain’s valet before the war, and then I joined up as his batman. We had some terrific sport in the fields of Belgium.”
“Tell me, Stoames, did you have any trepidation about joining the army?”
“No, no, can’t say I did. To young men, going off to war is a vastly exciting experience. Lots of pretty ladies kissing you goodbye, the pomp of military bands—it stirs your blood, you see. The captain and I were both young and a little wild, and the idea of seeking glory on a battlefield was like something in a story.”
“An epic poem,” Brookes said with a snap, and looked at Harriet from beneath his lowered brows. Did she recall her silly foolishness about Homer and the romance of war?
Harriet blushed anew, and the roses in her cheeks reminded him again of the roses in the courtyard. He remembered kneeling next to his mother in the dirt, handing her pieces of string so she could tie the roses down when the wind blew too hard. His mother had tended those blooms so carefully, nurturing them while they grew, sheltering them from storms. Like most young women, Harriet must have been raised like that, too. She couldn’t help her own naïveté. The anger melted away. He ran a weary hand over his face, scrubbing the last of his ill temper from his expression.
“Harriet, I must be off for a while.” The abruptness of his tone startled his companions, who both looked at him with questioning eyes. “I need to finish the preparations for the Blessing of the Wells.”
“Of course.” Harriet jumped up from her chair. “I’ve taken up too much of your time.” She scurried to the desk and began stuffing the paper back in a pile, spilling half of it in her haste. Brookes’s eyebrows drew together. Barking at an innocent young lady was certainly an unappealing trait in a man. His defensiveness about his lack of faith made him too snappish. A twinge of guilt assailed him.
“I can show you the well, if you like,” he replied with an elaborately casual air, remembering his earlier promise.
“I would love to see it, but I must return home. Sophie and I need to get ready for the Blessing service and the tea, and I must look in on Mama.”
Stoames helped her, neatly tying the sheets of foolscap with a piece of red twine. He then leaned over and whispered something in Harriet’s ear, which Brookes could not hear. Harriet looked up at Stoames, her features softening, and gave him a radiant smile. A terrible tenseness grabbed at Brookes, and he glowered at his batman. Stoames gazed back at him, an expression of innocence on his roughened face.
Unreasonable jealously tugged at his insides. Brookes’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed.
Stoames can’t be in love with her. I won’t allow it.
Chapter Six
“What was that all about?” Brookes spat out the words and turned to his batman. “What did you say to Miss Harriet?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Stoames gazed up at the ceiling, his features schooled to blankness.
“When you were helping Miss Harriet, you whispered something in her ear. Something that, judging by the beatific smile she gave you, made her excessively happy. I must know, what did you say to her?” He clenched his fists, flexing them, balling them up at his sides.
“Begging your pardon, Captain Sir, I don’t want to tell you. It’s a private matter and I don’t wish to provoke your anger.” Stoames clasped his hands behind his back but his shoulders hunched forward defensively.
“Tell me at once or I may lose my temper and plant you a facer. I may be getting older, and I may be lame, but I can still fight with the best of them.” Heat flooded his face, but he refused to recognize the overpowering emotion as jealousy. There was no possible reason to be envious of Stoames’s attention to Harriet. After all, Sophie was his future bride.
Stoames stared squarely at Brookes. “I told the lady not to lose heart. I told her that you would, in time, come around to talking about the war. You may not realize it, sir, but your behavior was almost uncivil. If Miss Harriet is to write her book, she needs your assistance, and she needs you to give it willingly.”
The fire inside Brookes extinguished. He slumped into the chair behind his desk, dropping his hands. Utterly defeated, he gazed at Stoames in discomfort. “I was uncivil, was I not?”
“I only said almost uncivil, Captain.”
Brookes leaned forward, resting his elbows on the mahogany wood. He toyed with the blotter, creasing it with his thumbnail. The paper crackled against his skin. “Next time, I promise to be kinder.”
Stoames sat in the chair across the desk, gazing at his master eye to eye. “You’ll have to face it, you know. You must make up your own mind about which young lady you want. It won’t do to keep taking your confusion out on Miss Harriet.”
Brookes’s thumb stilled, and ice replaced the fire in his veins. Had he tipped his hand? “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”