Chapter Eleven

Marjie saw Stanley only three times in the three days following their conversation in the conservatory. He made an appearance at dinner each night but retired to his rooms immediately thereafter. From what she could ascertain from the comments of the staff, he had been out and about. Mater could boast an abbreviated conversation. Everyone had seen at least a glimpse of him—except for Marjie.

He’d gone all the way to Nottingham just that morning without a single word of good-bye. She had spent the day lost in her own uncertainty.

The manor house was a classic example of a rambling country residence. Its corridors seemed to twist and turn endlessly. Yet it was not imposing or intimidating. One almost felt invited to wander its expanse and become hopelessly and comfortably lost within its walls. Marjie found herself doing precisely that as she passed the time between tea and dinner.

She hardly noted her surroundings nor attempted to orient herself as her mind focused exclusively on her time in the conservatory. Speaking of Father and her guilt over his death had been relieving in a way she could not have imagined. She understood in her mind that she could not possibly be considered responsible for her father’s passing, yet in her heart, she felt a twinge of uncertainty.

Sorrel, she knew, would have dismissed her concerns with quick and inarguable logic—she was extremely sensible in a way Marjie could never be. Fennel would have probed deeper into her worries and concerns and, no doubt, left her feeling even more emotionally spent than she already did. Mother would have refused to listen.

Stanley had allowed her to voice her concerns. He had comforted her with a simple touch. He had neither belittled nor dismissed her feelings. He had been precisely what she had needed in the years since her father’s death.

She stopped her aimless walking and closed her eyes as a moment recreated itself in her mind. Only two days after they had first met, Stanley had walked with her through the formal gardens at Kinnley. She had expressed concern that Sorrel was growing ill again, and somehow, during the course of their slow wanderings, she had admitted to the constant fear that lurked in the back of her mind that Sorrel would yet succumb to the fevers that plagued her. Marjie had not admitted that to anyone else.

“I feel so very helpless,” Marjie had confessed, blinking back the tears that had threatened.

“I understand that feeling well,” Stanley had said. “After my father died, I felt very much the same way watching Mater so obviously suffering from her loss.”

“What did you do?”

“I found a way to help. I saw to those little needs of hers that Father had always been so attuned to: a shawl when she was chilled, an embrace when she was troubled, companionship when she appeared lonely. It was the one way in which I could help. There were aspects of her burden I could not shoulder nor relieve.”

“So you devoted yourself to those things you were capable of addressing?”

“Precisely.”

“And that was enough?” She had never felt like her efforts were sufficient. “You didn’t feel frustrated or lacking somehow?”

Marjie could still feel the warmth of his hand as it had rested on hers lying on his arm.

“Of course I wished I could have done more. I believe we all feel that way at times. But I realized I was doing all I could, and no person can be expected to do more than that.”

In that moment, pondering his words, she had felt some of her worries ease. Doing what she could to help had never felt like enough until Stanley had assured her that it was. No one else had ever bothered to tell her her efforts were important or necessary or helpful. Was it any wonder she loved him so entirely?

The distance she felt growing between them hurt and confused her. What had she done to push him away? Had he found, during their separation, that he did not care for her the way he had seemed to? Had she merely been a diversion while he’d passed the time waiting to be recalled to the army?

“Ah, Marjie. Precisely the person I was looking for.”

Though she recognized her brother-in-law’s voice without needing to look at his face for verification, she opened her eyes. Philip stood directly in front of her, a look of amusement lurking in his eyes.

“I hope I am not interrupting anything,” he said, his gaze darting around the deserted corridor with such a theatrical look of expectation that Marjie grinned at seeing it.

“I believe my moment of communion with the corridor is quite at an end, thank you,” she said.

“Excellent. Might I convince you to accompany me into the library?” Philip motioned to the door directly beside Marjie. Had she spent her moment of reflection in full view of the room? She could feel heat sneak into her face. At least he could not possibly know what she’d been pondering as she’d stood there. That would truly have been mortifying.

She stepped inside the library and, at another gesture from her brother-in-law, sat in a chair near the fireplace.

“If you will forgive me, I will forgo the usual pleasantries and simply delve directly into the heart of the matter.” At Marjie’s nod, Philip continued. “I am worried about Sorrel.”

Her sudden alarm must have shown.

“She is relatively well, I assure you. It is, actually, the fact that she seems well that concerns me. I realize that sounds very contradictory. I am not as familiar with the history of her ailments as you most likely are, and I am hoping you can set my mind at ease.”

“I will do my best.”

“The fever we were anticipating when we left London has not come to fruition.” Philip’s brows were drawn together, his forehead lined in thought. “Though she was a touch warm the evening of Lord and Lady Techney’s ball, she never became truly feverish. Her limp has become more pronounced, and though she goes to tremendous lengths to hide her discomfort”—he gave Marjie a knowing and commiserating look, to which she nodded her understanding. Sorrel was remarkably determined never to allow others to see what she saw as a weakness in herself—“I can see that she is in more pain than usual. The brace Mr. Johns created for her had seemed to be working relatively well up until these last couple weeks.”

“Perhaps she simply pushed herself too hard,” Marjie suggested. “She is not accustomed to the rigorous demands of the ton, even if it was not the dizzying whirl of the Season.”

“I have thought of that possibility.” Philip’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly. Marjie did not often see the impeccable Earl of Lampton with anything less than perfect posture. Only Stanley’s rigidity of late rivaled Philip’s very proper bearing. “I forget sometimes that she will not admit when she is worn to a thread, and I fear I did not always consider her difficulties when planning our schedule. Come spring, I will insist on curtailing our activities when the Season descends. I think, however, that is not the culprit in her current circumstances. Not the only culprit, at least.”

“What is it you suspect?”

“Let me tell you rather what I have observed. I am hoping you may have suspicions or, at the very least, thoughts on what may be behind the state of her health.” Marjie nodded, and Philip continued. “As I said, she is in more pain than before, but more than that, she seems to be struggling to walk, relying more on her cane than she has been in recent months. It is as if her balance is off, as if her hip has once again, despite her brace, become prone to misbehaving. ‘Slipping from joint’ was the phrase the surgeon, MacAslon, had used when explaining why he was unable to fix her hip as he had the rest of her leg. The hip was shattered enough to prevent it from fitting together as precisely as it ought but not so badly that it is unusable.”

Marjie had heard as much when she had first come to live with Philip and Sorrel not more than a month after Sorrel’s corrective surgery. A fleeting thought that perhaps Stanley had suffered a similar injury moved swiftly through her mind.

“As if to negate my assumption that she had simply overused her weak leg, she seems to be ill.”

“But you said she was not—”

“Not feverish,” Philip said. “But in all other respects, ill. She has virtually no energy. I have never known her to sleep so late in the day, nor to appear so entirely unrested upon awaking.”

“Perhaps she is tired from the journey?” They had made the long trip from Town only a few days before.

“We have traveled distances before, and though I could see she was tired, she never allowed that to stop her from rising at her usual hour and pushing through her day. Especially not several days later.”

That was true enough. Though Marjie loved her sister dearly, she had to admit Sorrel was remarkably stubborn.

“What is more, she returned her breakfast tray this morning entirely untouched. She did little more than pick at her luncheon and took only the slightest bit of nourishment at tea before insisting she had no appetite.”

Marjie had never known Sorrel to be a poor eater. She was by no means gluttonous but had never been one to skip meals. The only time Sorrel ever chose not to eat was in the midst of her fevers, when she was too ill to do so.

“Has this happened before?” Philip asked. “If she were feverish, not that I wish for that, this would make a great deal more sense. She insists she is fine and has even become irritated with me over my concerns. She told me to stop being a ‘fussy nursemaid.’”

“Then she isn’t terribly ill.” When Sorrel was truly ailing, she was far more accepting of the help she required. If she was objecting so vocally, she was far less unwell than her symptoms would indicate. “I cannot say this has happened in the past; her illnesses have always followed a very predictable pattern. Were this her usual ailment, she would have been quite feverish already and would now be on the road to recovery.”

Philip pushed out a breath that could either have been relief or frustration. “Perhaps I should send for Dr. Habbersham.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Marjie said. When Philip looked ready to object, she hastily explained. “If you subject her to doctors when she has no real need of them, she is far less likely to submit to their care when she does.”

Philip offered a small nod as if to acknowledge the wisdom of her words. “Do you think she has any idea how much I worry about her?”

“Yes.” Marjie was certain of it. “And I imagine she wishes you didn’t have to.”

“True.” They sat a moment in silence before Philip spoke again, his forehead still creased with lines of worry. “Have you made any progress with Stanley?”

Marjie’s heart ached further simply hearing his name. “No.”

“I have attempted to talk with him about his experiences, hoping he would reveal something that would explain the change in him, but he was entirely unwilling.”

Marjie nodded. Stanley had been very closed off about his experiences when they had spoken about her letters. “I cannot help but suspect that he does not talk about his time away because he does not wish to think about it.”

“I have heard former soldiers speak of their army days,” Philip said. “To be sure, they focus on the more lighthearted moments as opposed to the battles and suffering, but I cannot say I have any experience with someone who avoids speaking of it entirely.”

“He told me he did not write to anyone because he did not want us to worry.”

Philip laughed but without an ounce of humor. “Because six months of silence would convince us all that everything was fine.” He shook his head. “If he had merely wished us not to worry, he would have written the sort of things soldiers write to their families, speaking only of friends and the weather and the places he was seeing. He would have made it sound as though he were on an extended holiday. Not writing at all doesn’t make sense. Stanley was never the secretive type. There had to have been more of a reason than that.”

Marjie thought so as well. Stanley hadn’t written to anyone. She could understand his concern that she or Mater would have worried if he’d shared the more difficult experiences he’d had, whatever they were, but surely he didn’t think Philip or any of his other brothers would have wallowed in concern over him. They were made of sterner stuff.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Yer High and Mighty Lordship.”

Marjie turned toward the sound of the voice. Stanley’s valet stood just inside the door. He was a young man, probably close to her own age, who always looked just a touch cocky.

“Yes, Pluck?” Philip had already transformed into the picture of dandified elegance he always presented to the world. He swung his quizzing glass on its ribbon, looking bored and utterly carefree.

“I was told to post these here letters fer Cap’n Jonquil, but I’m thinkin’ iffen yer High and Mighty Lordship would frank ’em, it would be a great help to them that’s getting the letters. ’Twould save them the cost of paying for ’em when they arrive.”

“Of course. I will frank any and all of Captain Jonquil’s correspondence.” Philip’s eyes had narrowed. Marjie let her gaze jump between Philip and Pluck. Had she heard correctly? Stanley was writing to someone?

“There’re two letters,” Pluck said, holding them up.

Philip gave Marjie a look of confusion as he rose and took the missives. It took but a moment to frank them in preparation for posting. Marjie had long thought it an odd quirk of the postal system that the recipient was required to cover the cost of sending a letter. It had always seemed to her it ought to be the other way around. Philip, whose status as a member of Parliament gave him the right to send mail that did not have to be paid for on the receiving end, had franked all of her letters to Stanley, as well as those she sent to Fennel. Her younger brother, no doubt, appreciated not having to spend his pocket money on letters from his sister.

Marjie came and stood near Philip’s desk, looking across at the letters lying there. One was addressed to a Mrs. Goodwin and the other to a Mrs. Hammil.

“I am certain there is an explanation,” Philip said.

Marjie blinked back a tear. If he was writing to these women, why had he never written to her?

“I’ll jus’ give these to the butler,” Pluck said, reaching for the letters.

“No.” The suddenness of her response surprised even Marjie. She grabbed the letters off Philip’s desk. “I’ll give them to him after I finish the letter I am writing to Fennel.”

She was nearly to the other side of the house before she finally admitted to herself the reason for her insistence on keeping Stanley’s letters, even temporarily. She had wanted a letter from him so desperately for nearly half a year that to finally hold one, even one not addressed to her, was a temptation she hadn’t been able to resist. Those two sealed missives, addressed to women she had never even heard of, represented months of dreams that had never come true. She clutched the folded parchment even as she felt her heart crack painfully inside.