Healing the Soldier's Heart

“No, I cannot go.” Sophie sat up and threw the coverlet back, revealing her woebegone face. Dark circles ringed her pretty blue eyes, and her pink-and-white complexion had taken on a sallow tone. She gave her tangled curls a shake. “I have too much to do. You’ll have to go without me. And besides, I need time before I see the lieutenant again. I must practice and prepare myself, you see. We are pretending a faux courtship so his visiting mama will leave him in peace.”

Lucy’s heart hitched in her chest, and she barely registered the remainder of Sophie’s words. “Go without you? Faux courtships? This is like a plot in a farce, Sophie! You are the only person I would know there. If you won’t be coming along, whom will I sit by? How shall I get started?” She absolutely despised new situations. The way she had survived—and even thrived—at Cornhill and Lime Street Charity School was by knowing exactly where she had to be and what was expected of her at any given moment. And that only came through routine. If the routine changed—well, she had to start all over again, a most unpleasant practice.

Lucy grasped a long, dark ringlet of hair and began twirling it around her index finger, trying to think of a way to convince her friend to accompany her. “If you intend to go through with some sort of fake courtship, you might want to talk matters over with Cantrill.”

“Oh, dear Lucy, on any other day you know I would be there. I love working with the veterans’ group. And I love—” Sophie broke off, a flush creeping over her dimpled cheeks. Ah, yes. Her feelings for the lieutenant would be obvious to anyone, even a blind and deaf dormouse. She sighed and closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. “But there is simply too much for me to do. And I need more time to compose myself before I see the lieutenant again.”

Lucy sighed. She was being too selfish. Here Sophie was, trying to help both Amelia and Cantrill, and all Lucy could think about was herself. She reached out and patted Sophie’s shoulder. “Poor dear. You are working so hard to make Amelia’s debut a success. Is there anything I can do to help? If you are willing to give up your day off for the cause, then I will gladly sacrifice mine, as well.”

Sophie smiled and shook her head again. “No. Go—go and read to Ensign Rowland. You deserve a day off, and I know that you planned already to meet with the gentleman. And—” Sophie darted a quick, searching glance up at Lucy, a glance that seared through all artifice “—I have a feeling you are rather intrigued by the ensign, is that not so?”

“Don’t be silly.” Lucy rose, putting an end to the interview before Sophie’s questions got too probing. “But I made a promise, and it would be most rude not to keep it. So, I suppose this means I shall see you after the meeting, then?”

“Yes.” Sophie rose. “That blonde blur you’ll see scurrying down the hallway will be me.”

With a chuckle, Lucy descended to the kitchen and out the back door, breathing deeply of the balmy spring breeze to calm her nerves. She hadn’t thought far enough ahead when she made her plans with Ensign Rowland. If only Sophie could come along. Courage was much easier to muster when one had a close friend nearby. When she met with the ensign a few days before, she was able to muster courage—to be breezy and nonchalant in her speech. But then, ’twas a brief meeting. She hadn’t had to read to him that first day. Now she was alone, and her performance was imminent. Did famous opera soubrettes have an attack of nerves before going onstage? Probably not. If performance were a part of your daily round, ’twas quite likely that you’d simply get used to it.

Saint Swithin’s perched majestically on a hill, its proud façade overlooking all of Bath. Why, it was intimidating even to look upon, much less consider what—or whom—awaited her there. By the time she reached the front steps, she was quite winded. She paused a moment at the top of the stone steps, exhaling as slowly as she could, her heart pounding in her chest. Bowing her head a moment, she counted to ten. It would never do to approach Rowland as though she had been running a footrace through the park.

As she drew herself up, shaking her skirts, she caught a glimpse of a handsome, angular face. Gracious, Rowland was here already! He turned toward her, a smile lighting his eyes as he extended his hand in greeting.

“Ensign Rowland,” she gasped and then cleared her throat. She hadn’t meant to meet him so soon. She needed more time to compose herself. But there was nothing to do but brazen through her nerves and her breathlessness.

He nodded, his smile growing as he surveyed her. She paused a moment, awaiting some sort of spoken response, and then shook her head. Of course, he was not going to speak. Botheration. That was the entire point of their meeting, was it not? To help him overcome his affliction?

To cover her confusion and deter his rapt attention from her now hotly glowing cheeks, Lucy took his hand and bobbed a curtsy. The brim of her bonnet would hide the pinkness of her face for a moment. But she hadn’t anticipated on the tingle that shot up her arm at his touch. Goodness, she was making a cake of herself.

And if she went inside the church with him, her embarrassment would be writ clear on her face for everyone to see. Lieutenant Cantrill and Rowland’s other cronies would surely laugh at her and jest to Rowland about it later after the meeting was over. No, if she was going to hide her roiled emotions, it would be much easier to do so from just one man than a dozen.

“Shall we sit out here and enjoy this fine weather?” She indicated a nearby stone bench with what she hoped was a carefree gesture. “After such a wet and cold winter, I vow I am quite in adoration of this spring weather.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the ensign nodding. She allowed him to steer her over to the bench and then sat, gathering her skirts about her with as much grace as she could assume.

“Well, then.” She waited as he took his seat, stretching his booted legs out before him. Then she opened her reticule—her curiously light and flat reticule. Oh, gracious. She had left her book at home.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry; she was such a bundle of nerves. An emotion bubbled up her throat, and for a dreadful instant, she thought she was going to burst into tears. Instead, she chuckled, unable to hold back any longer. At least laughter relieved the unbearable anxiety she felt.

Rowland glanced at her, puzzled, one eyebrow quirked. She turned her reticule inside out, showing him a few coins and bits of lint. “I came all this way, Ensign Rowland, and I never even had the book with me.”

* * *

Lucy Williams had the most enchanting laugh. And when she giggled, as she was doing now, her brown eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed a dusky pink. It was delightful simply to gaze upon her, drinking in her mirth at the absurdity of the situation. He handed her his handkerchief, which she used to dab her eyes—she laughed so hard that tears just touched their corners.

Her laughter slowed, and as her joy began to fade, confusion took its place. He wanted to reassure her—to wipe any trace of discomfiture away. So he withdrew a battered book from his coat pocket and handed it to her.

She took the volume, handling it with a gentle touch to keep from pulling the worn pages apart. “Poetry? Ah, some of the finest. Sir Walter Scott, Dryden...” She continued perusing the pages. “I shall have to be very careful with this, ensign. I can tell just by looking at it that this is a book you have consulted many times.”

He nodded, eyeing her carefully. His throat worked, but no sound came out. He remained silent and watchful.

She traced over a dark splotch on the cover. “In fact, I would wager this book has been to battle.” She kept her eyes lowered, her dark lashes fanning out over her cheeks.

He nodded again. He read those poems often in the field. More than once, Sir Walter Scott had given him the courage to see another battle.

“I bet I can find your favorite.” She grasped the book, settling the spine on her lap. Then, with infinite caution, she let the volume fall open. And just like that, the pages settled, revealing Marmion.

She began reading in clear, dulcet tones, as though reciting for a schoolroom of young ladies or as an elocutionist in a performance. Her voice, lit from within with warmth and fire, began the introduction to the first canto,

“November’s sky is chill and drear,

November’s leaf is red and sear:

Late, gazing down the steepy linn,

that hems our little garden in...”

The spring breeze ruffled her lavender skirts as she continued to read, stirring her black curls so that they touched her cheek as she read. He gazed at her, saying the words in his mind as she read them aloud. He knew the poem like he knew the hills and fields back home in Essex—it was as familiar to him as breathing. And yet he had never felt the passion and the pathos of Flodden Field until Lucy Williams read the poem aloud.

She paused a few times, darting quick little glances up as she read through the six cantos. Whenever her eyes left the page, he studied his boots as though they were the most fascinating things in the world. She was nervous enough as it was without having a mute soldier ogling her like a green lad.

“To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay

has cheated of thy hour of play,

Light task, and merry holiday!

To all, to each, a fair good-night,

and pleasing dreams, and slumbers light!”

After repeating Scott’s final words, Lucy sighed and closed the book, taking a few deep breaths. “Goodness, Ensign Rowland, I have not read for so long aloud in many a year. Growing up, when I was in school, I often had recitations. But as a governess, I have the luxury of passing on the task of reciting to my charges.” She turned to him, a smile hovering about the corners of her mouth. “Did I perform well enough?”

Again, his throat worked. He strained against his infirmity, longing to offer a flowery compliment. Or at least a thank-you. But no matter how hard he tried, his voice was gone. So he merely nodded, struggling to let his gratitude show in his expression.

She inclined her head as though he’d really spoken. “Thank you, Ensign. I do appreciate the compliment. And the captive audience.” Her smile widened to a grin. “Shall I read another?”

He grasped the book and flipped to another page, with another favorite, and handed it back to Lucy. “Ah, The Lady of the Lake. Excellent choice. I had my eldest charge, Amelia, recite this last year.”

She read again, putting the same fervor and enthusiasm into her performance as she did before, though she must be getting tired. Those were long poems and did not precisely come trippingly off even the smoothest-speaking tongue. And yet, she sat here, under the shade of an elm tree, reading him poems that he fancied. On her day off. When she could have been doing a hundred other interesting things. His heart surged with gratitude, and a bit more of the cotton wool fell away from his view of the world.

Behind them, the doors of the church banged open, and the general hubbub announced that the veterans’ group was dispersing. Lucy paused midverse and closed the book, smiling with what might have been a pang of regret. But if it was real disappointment or feigned for his benefit, he could not be certain. She rose, dusting off her skirts, and returned the poems to Ensign Rowland.

“I suppose I should be going,” she announced. “The house is in uproar. Amelia’s debut is later this week, and everything is in chaos until that fateful night.”

“Ah! I see you found one another.” Lieutenant Cantrill broke away from the crowd and started over, holding his good hand out to Lucy. “When I didn’t see you inside, I was worried that perhaps neither of you could make it.”

Lucy bobbed a curtsy. “Lieutenant, I do apologize for worrying you. The weather was so lovely, and I have been cooped up of late. So Ensign Rowland and I decided to stay outdoors.”

“No, no. That’s fine. All well and good, then?” The lieutenant glanced over at Rowland for confirmation, and he gave a short grunt. It was all he could muster under the circumstances.

“Excellent.” Cantrill turned back to Lucy. “Will I be seeing you at Miss Bradbury’s debut, then? I—uh—that is, I had planned to attend as my mother will be in town—”

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Lucy nodded briskly. “Sophie told me of your plans, sir. I hope that everything works out well for you.”

James’s head snapped up. Cantrill had plans with Sophie Handley? This could be rather diverting. It would take his mind off his own infirmities at least.

Lucy prattled on in the same no-nonsense tone. “But of course I won’t be present at the party. I must take care of Miss Louisa, and she is none too pleased that she will be missing her sister’s debut.” She turned to James. “Louisa is two years younger than her sister and quite distressed that she cannot attend all the grand functions that her sister will be enjoying. It has been my job, of late, to ensure that Louisa’s feelings are not too sadly trampled.”

James smiled and nodded. Miss Williams really seemed to enjoy her two charges. She spoke of them almost as an indulgent older sister would. It brought to mind his sister Mary and how much they enjoyed each other’s company.

Miss Williams continued. “Of course, Sophie plans to turn Amelia into a diamond of the first water. And being so pretty and graceful herself, I know she will accomplish her goal.” She turned to Cantrill with a playful grin. “Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”

James couldn’t suppress a grin. He turned to Cantrill, one eyebrow raised.

Cantrill reddened. “Yes, yes. Of course.” He turned to Rowland. “Well, then? I suppose we must be off.”

However much he wanted to see the lieutenant squirm about Sophie, James had no intention of going back to his flat with Cantrill—not with such a fine spring day ahead of him, and such pretty company. He offered Lucy his arm. “C-C-C-r-r-r...” he stammered. He cleared his throat. “C-C-Crescent?” It was all he could say, but hopefully Miss Williams would catch his meaning. She was rather astute after all.

She did. Tucking her arm through his elbow, she cast him a dazzling smile. “Yes, thank you, Ensign. I shall be delighted if you would see me to his lordship’s door in the Crescent.”

Chapter Three

James Rowland had spoken. A single word, of course, and stammered to be sure, but he had spoken. ’Twas an excellent sign. Whether this development was due to her reading or some other mysterious aspect, she could not fathom. But it was progress. That much was certain.

She cast a sidelong glance at Rowland as they strolled back to the Crescent. If he was surprised or elated by his utterance, he kept his counsel. His face had settled into its usual angular lines, and he remained silent. Did he know that her entire purpose in reading to him was to help him overcome his infirmity? Did he know that Lieutenant Cantrill and Sophie had put her up to it? Oh, she was entirely willing to help, but their brief session together made her feel awkward. As though she had helped a child to win a race by holding back as she ran. It was a confusing emotion, because she hadn’t held anything back from him—other than the truth. It was time to tell him.

She paused, tugging on his sleeve. “Ensign, I would speak to you if I may.”

He stopped, and several passersby bumped into them. The ensign steered her away from the crowded sidewalk to a small side street where fewer people jostled along. As they reached the corner of a garden, she turned to face him, the warm sunlight touching her face as she spoke.

“Do you want to regain the power to speak, sir?” Her words sounded too harsh, too frank even to her own ears, so she rushed on. “The lieutenant thinks that if I read to you perhaps that can help you overcome your infirmity. But I don’t want to help you unless you wish for me to do so.”

A flush crept over his face, and his bright green gaze remained rooted on the ground. Oh, this was awful. She had hurt his feelings and made him feel ridiculous. And meanwhile, she didn’t feel so wonderful herself.

“I want to read to you, because I enjoy your company,” she continued hastily. “I have very few people with whom I can converse. I have no family and little acquaintance beyond the schoolroom. So reading to you was actually quite a bright spot in my world for me to look forward to this week. But...I shall stop if you don’t like it.”

He shook his head, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “C-c-continue.”

“Do you want me to continue meeting with you, then?” She wasn’t certain what that single word meant. Or did he want her to continue blathering away like an idiot? By the way he was nodding his head, he indicated that he wanted her to keep meeting with him. “Very well, then, sir.” She took a deep breath, unsure if she should go on. But then, if he wanted to recover, he would have to work as well. It was the same sort of agreement she offered the Bradbury sisters in the schoolroom. She would offer what help she could, but her pupils would also have to work hard.

“I will continue to read to you, but we will work together to help you regain your voice.” She looked up at him, willing him to look her straight in the eye. “You spoke to me today. Can you speak to anyone else, sir?”

“M-M-Macready and C-C-Cantrill.” His voice was rough, like sandpaper across her skin. She suppressed a shiver at his tone and continued in her same businesslike manner.

“If they are your brothers in arms and you are able to speak with them, then that indicates something profound, Ensign. I am not sure how we shall go about making matters better for you. I am sure we shall have to try several different methods. But I wanted to be honest with you. I wanted to make sure this is what you want. And if it is, then I shall help you in any way I can.”

The poor man—his eyes were cast down and his hair mussed, a flush still stealing over his face. Well, one could hardly blame him. It would be difficult indeed to admit to needing help for any particular weakness or to have anyone—especially a woman who was practically a stranger—question him on it. She took his arm again and allowed him to steer her back onto the main street from which they had deviated.

They plodded on in silence, a silence that Lucy relished. She was tired, too. And addled a bit. And rattled, if she were to admit the truth. She had just agreed to help the ensign regain the power of speech—the very thing he lost on a Belgian battlefield. It was no small promise and no small task. And what if she failed? She said a silent prayer for help and for hope. She would need a great deal of both in the coming weeks.

His lordship’s fashionable townhome—situated right in the heart of the Crescent—loomed up ahead of them. If his lordship saw her with the ensign, there might be trouble. Servants—even high-placed governesses—were supposed to conform to certain kinds of behavior. And even though her relationship with the ensign was entirely above-board, she wasn’t about to do anything foolish that might cause talk.

“We can stop here. The house is just about a block away, and I don’t want to get into any kind of trouble,” Lucy explained in haste, heat flooding her cheeks. “His lordship wants his female servants to remain unmarried, and so I don’t want to do anything to stir up gossip. Not that it would. Or that it should—” She broke off, feeling like an utter fool.

He patted her shoulder. “V-very well,” he responded. He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips for a brief, chaste kiss. “Th-th-ank you, M-Miss Williams.” He bowed, releasing her hand.

Butterflies chased themselves around her stomach, and she struggled to remain composed. Outwardly composed, that was. “Of course, Ensign.” She bobbed a curtsy. “And thank you for the pleasure of your company. I can assure you, I spend many of my days off traipsing around the booksellers, hoping to scout a new volume. It was a rare treat to have pleasant company with which to share my day off instead of being all alone.” Botheration. Now she sounded like a dried-up old spinster. If only she had as much gift for pretty speeches with Rowland as she did with Cantrill—but then, she didn’t care about Cantrill.

On the other hand, she suspected that she might be caring more about Rowland than she should.

* * *

Rowland stretched out on the settee in his humble flat, his mind spinning. On the way back from walking Lucy home and then for the better part of the afternoon, he had replayed their conversation—well, her conversation with him—in his mind. That she was willing to help him, that she cared enough about a fellow human being to offer assistance—that alone was enough to fill him with gratitude. But he couldn’t stop thinking of Lucy as she read and as she spoke to him.

She had a certain manner of flicking her glance sideways—a sharp look out the corner of her eye that sent his heart racing. There was no coquetry in this gesture. It was not practiced. It was simply part of who she was, but it was enough to send his heart pounding every time she did so. He was much happier concentrating on how this glance made his heart leap than in dwelling on her words from their walk to the Crescent. But, unbidden, they crept back into his mind. Her clear, dulcet tones asking, “Do you want to regain the power to speak, sir?”

No one had asked him that. Everyone assumed he did, but no one asked him in such a direct and forthright manner before. The doctors in Belgium had scratched their heads at his predicament, and after his superficial wounds healed, had sent him on his way. “He’ll speak when he’s ready,” they pronounced.

Back home in Essex, Mother threw her hands up in despair. “You’re just being stubborn,” she wailed. “Your sister Mary can’t find a match—not with her stammer. And you—you were our only hope. Be a man, like your other brothers in arms. Look at Captain Brookes, missing a leg. And now he’s married and running the family farm! Look at Lieutenant Cantrill, supporting himself in Bath. And you, barely wounded, can’t get a position anywhere because you won’t speak? James—our family is in desperate circumstances!” And so it had been until Macready, Rowland’s closest friend in the 69th, had invited him to share his flat in Bath as he recovered from his battle scars.

Among his brethren soldiers, his inability to speak was a given, as much as his green eyes or blond hair. It was a part of him, much as the others now carried more visible scars of the war. And yet none of them had asked him if he wanted to recover, just as they were recovering thanks to the curative waters of Bath. Cantrill had gone so far as to recruit Lucy for the job without asking Rowland if that’s what he wanted.

He brought his booted foot down hard on the floor, the force of the blow smashing a china plate as it fell from the mantel. He gazed at the fragments. They were as jagged as the pieces of his life. His lack of ability to flirt with Lucy, or even chat about mundane topics like the weather, drove him to distraction.

He grasped his head in his hands, willing his temper to stay controlled. No one understood what he wanted. No one had bothered to ask before.

No one, that was, but Lucy. She respected his privacy, acknowledged his right not to get well. And that spoke volumes about her character.

The front door banged open. “Rowland? Are you here?” Macready’s voice, hale and hearty despite his many wounds, echoed throughout the little flat.

Rowland grunted. Macready must be back from taking the waters.

“So, how was the meeting?” Macready limped in, discarding his jacket on a nearby leather chair. “You look like you are having a bit of a study. If your forehead had any more lines, you could compose music upon it.”

“Funny,” Rowland replied, keeping his tone sarcastic. He didn’t want to share everything about Lucy yet. Certainly not her beauty or her sparkling character. Macready, with his Black Irish looks and his gift with words, might find her beguiling. He could charm her in ways that Rowland lacked—until he regained his power of speech.