Chapter Fifteen

Stanley couldn’t remember a thing that had been said at dinner. The conversations had swirled around him as he’d struggled with his composure. He had never managed the all-encompassing numbness that so many of his comrades had, so he had learned to focus on being a soldier, forcing the thoughts and memories that haunted him far enough into the back of his mind that he could function. At some point, he felt certain he would lose the battle and everything would rush out. He’d come far too close in the drawing room.

No one mentioned the tears he’d fought while Caroline had sat on his lap, but awareness lurked in everyone’s eyes. Marjie had been unusually wary. Whether she was upset to have seen him so nearly unmanned or was, as Sorrel had hinted, feeling guilty at having made off with his gloves and buttons, Stanley couldn’t say. Neither could he decide how he felt about the growing distance between the two of them. He might very well break down entirely if she was near him.

He excused himself the moment the ladies left the dining room on the pretense that he felt unwell. His brothers accepted the excuse, and he hobbled from the room like a coward.

Layton had been sporting that contemplative look that had, in their childhood, always preceded a very thorough interrogation in which one’s secrets and most private thoughts were unearthed and examined entirely against one’s will. Harold had, as always, looked far too saintly to be a flawed human like the rest of his family, and Stanley had no desire to serve as the obvious contrast to that display.

“I ain’t even finished my dinner yet, Cap,” Pluck said as he laid out Stanley’s nightclothes. “Had to give up my seat right next to Jane, Miss Kendrick’s abigail. Fine bit o’ femininity there.”

“My apologies that your duties have interfered with your romantic aspirations.” Stanley fumbled with the buttons on his jacket. He was wound so tightly from the upheaval of the evening that his one good hand refused to cooperate. “If I could get out of this blasted uniform on my own, I would.” He dropped his hand in frustration. “Fiend seize it, I’m so deuced helpless all the time.”

“Here, Cap’n.”

Stanley looked up, knowing his expression was probably mutinous. He needed a seventeen-year-old boy to help him take off his uniform. Pluck stood in front of Stanley’s chair, no look of pity or amusement on his face, holding out to him a pair of scissors.

“What—?”

“Fer yer buttons,” Pluck said.

“You want me to cut them off?” He couldn’t be serious.

“Seems like a good solution to me.”

“What am I supposed to do tomorrow night when I dress for dinner? Am I to present myself with my jacket flapping about me like a deuced, blasted, scraggly bird?”

“I’ll sew the buttons back on,” Pluck answered.

“Do you sew?” Stanley doubted it. Pluck didn’t have any of the other necessary accomplishments to be a useful valet.

A smile more mischievous than amused spread across Pluck’s face. “Jane can sew.”

“I will not give any of the servants more work to do simply because you are feeling like being a troublemaker.”

Pluck sobered in an instant. “Ye ain’t never been one for spoutin’ strong words without provocation, Cap’n,” he said. “But ye ain’t hardly said one sentence since I came in here that didn’t have at least one word ye likely wouldn’t say in front of yer mum. I was just thinkin’ that cutting off them frustratin’ buttons would do ye some good.”

“It would be cathartic, you decided?”

Pluck’s brow furrowed a little. “Is that one of them highbrow profanities?”

A short, low burst of a chuckle escaped Stanley’s throat. “No, Pluck. It means something that makes a person feel better.”

“Why didn’t ye just say that?” Pluck shook his head. “Ye nobs sure know how to talk and talk and never say anything simple.”

Stanley smiled at that.

“So are ye gonna cut them big, shiny buttons off, or should I help ye push ’em through them itty-bitty button holes?” Pluck’s choice of childlike adjectives and his suddenly overly sweet tone did it. Stanley held out his hands for the scissors. He wasn’t entirely adept at using them in his left hand. Careful to cut only the threads and not the uniform itself, Stanley snipped off the first button. He watched it roll down his chest and off his lap, spinning on the floor like a top before coming to a rest near his feet.

He lifted his eyes to Pluck’s grinning face. Oddly enough, the unorthodox approach to undressing was remarkably cathartic. Pluck picked up each button as it fell to the floor and shook the collection in his hand while Stanley cut.

“Daddy Hill would have our hides if he could see this,” Stanley said as he cut the last button off. “He is rather stiff about uniforms, you know.”

“Aye,” Pluck said. “But iffen he can overlook yer not wearing yer sword, I figure he wouldn’t raise too much fuss ’bout cuttin’ yerself outta that blasted uniform.”

Stanley pulled his arms free of his shirt—the task made infinitely easier by the lack of buttons down the front closure and on the usually difficult right cuff. Lud, it felt good to be able do something that simple without needing assistance.

“Not like the jacket won’t be right as a rivet come tomorrow night,” Pluck said, dropping his handful of brass buttons on the dressing table. “We ain’t cut off nothin’ that can’t be put back on.”

That, Stanley knew, was not always the case. He pushed out a breath. His hand was already ungloved. The leg came off next.

“You ready?” Those two words from Pluck in that exact detached tone always started the ritual.

“Take the blasted thing off, and get it over with.”

Pluck’s head jerked in his direction. Stanley understood why. He’d deviated from the established protocol. But he felt too raw for the false casualty of their normal routine.

“Are ye well, Cap’n?” Once in a great while, Pluck actually looked his age. The unnatural aging effect of war would slip away, and one could see the kid he still was underneath. Stanley almost couldn’t bear to look at him in those moments. Too many other young soldiers flashed through his mind—children, really—whom he’d led into battles they didn’t survive.

“I’m tired, Pluck,” Stanley said, pushing the memories back once more. “Help me out of this . . . thing. I want to go to bed.”

Pluck knelt on the floor in front of his chair, and Stanley avoided looking at him as he tugged Stanley’s boots off and set them aside. The steps were mechanical, entirely memorized. Stanley pulled the leg of his trousers up to his knee, where the straps and buckles kept everything held together. Pluck had to help with the buckles, as Stanley hadn’t mastered it one-handed. He hadn’t particularly wanted to, preferring to look the other way while he relived a painless version of the worst day of his entire life.

“Stanley?” A knock on his door accompanied the sound of Marjie’s voice.

His heart immediately flew to his throat. His eyes met Pluck’s. “Rebuckle it,” Stanley urgently whispered. The leg hadn’t been completely detached.

“Wanna put yer boots back on too?” Pluck asked, quickly refastening the buckles.

But the door creaked open.

“Blast it,” Stanley muttered under his breath. What was she doing, coming to his room? Granted, she’d done so before, but that had been pushing propriety to its breaking point. To come again, and so late, was too high a risk, and not merely to her reputation. What if she’d been only a minute later? His leg would have been off already. He wasn’t ready for her to see that—not yet. Not ever.

Pluck tugged the leg of Stanley’s trousers back down over his wooden leg just as Marjie peered inside the doorway.

“Stanley?” Marjie said.

He pulled himself to his feet, hoping the lack of movement in what appeared to be his stockinged right foot would be less noticeable if he was standing. His heart thudded painfully as she stepped inside. It wouldn’t take long, if she was paying any attention, for her to notice that something was wrong with his foot.

“I’ve brought the salve I told you about. Cook made it up from the recipe I gave her.” She crossed toward him, holding out a jar with a slightly green concoction inside.

He inched back. Distance was key—the deception worked only if one wasn’t afforded a good look.

“Pluck.” Stanley relayed his orders in one syllable, and Pluck, being army trained, understood precisely what was expected of him. He took the jar from Marjie and stepped back out of the way again but remained in the room.

Marjie’s gaze darted between Pluck and Stanley. “I am hoping it will help.”

“Yes, perhaps.” If he gave her short enough answers, she might leave more quickly.

“How is your hand today?” she asked.

So much for a speedy exit. “As well as can be expected,” he said with little emotion. She needed to be discouraged from remaining.

Marjie stepped closer. Stanley stepped back. His leg wasn’t fastened as snugly as usual, and he had to grasp the back of the chair he’d been sitting in to keep from toppling over. She needed to go before he completely disgraced himself.

“Marjie—” he began, but she cut him off.

“Your gloves have been off; I think that will have helped.” Marjie reached out, obviously intending to take hold of his hand and examine it for herself.

“Marjie,” Stanley objected. She needed to go.

“And the salve will be soothing, I am certain of it,” she continued, her fingers brushing against his.

“Miss Kendrick.” The words snapped out much as they had when amongst his men.

Marjie’s hands dropped instantly back to her side, and her eyes flew to his face.

“It is time for you to return to your own rooms.” Stanley kept his tone firm, although a little less sharp.

“But your hand—”

“I am perfectly capable of seeing to my own welfare, and Pluck is here to provide whatever assistance I might wish for.”

Spots of color crept across Marjie’s cheeks. “I only wanted to help,” she said in a small voice.

Stanley fortified himself against the urge to reach out for her, to soothe away the look of embarrassment on her face. If he gave in to the impulse, she would not leave. “I do not require your help,” he said tightly.

Marjie shrugged, tipping her head to one side. On the surface, she was the very picture of indifference, but her lips quivered. She opened her mouth as if to say something but seemed to change her mind. In a flurry of skirts, she spun and practically ran from the room.

Stanley stood frozen, his eyes glued to his empty doorway. Marjie had said she had shrugged just like that when her father said something hurtful to her.

“Ye was a little harsh, Cap’n,” Pluck said. “She was just trying to help.”

He had very nearly made her cry.

He grabbed his walking stick and moved as quickly as he could toward the door. The corridor was empty. He stopped a few feet from the doorway to Marjie’s room. He could hear Philip’s voice coming from his own room. To be seen entering Marjie’s rooms at night in only his shirtsleeves and pantaloons would be unacceptable.

“You were a bit harsh on your sister, dear,” Philip said, his voice seemingly floating out from the sitting room that joined the master suites. “She was only trying to help.”

That sounded alarmingly familiar.

“So she said,” Sorrel answered. “But she needs to learn that her interference is not always welcome. The girl drives people absolutely mad.”

“Was it entirely necessary to tell her so?”

Marjie had been rebuffed by Sorrel as well? Stanley knew how sensitive she was. The double rejection would hurt deeply, and he had contributed to it.

He leaned heavily against the wall. He hadn’t intended to hurt her. The harder he tried to do what was right, the worse everything seemed to become.