Chapter Sixteen

Marjie knew she looked horrendous. A night spent weeping had left her with red, puffy eyes accented by dark circles of fatigue.

“I do not require your help.”

“You are enough to drive a person to insanity.”

Stanley’s and Sorrel’s words had not quieted overnight. Each reverberation cut at her. Father had said the same sort of things again and again. Sorrel could be impatient when she felt unwell; Marjie knew as much and tried not to let it bother her. But she had never expected Stanley to push her away so coldly.

She had spent the morning in her room, working indifferently at her embroidery. Avoiding everyone had proven a good strategy in the past, as she could not make a nuisance of herself that way. The hours of unchanged scenery had begun to wear on her, however, and she opted to take a turn in the gardens.

Despite the nearness of November, the weather had not become overly chilly. Her gloves and spencer kept her relatively warm as she wandered amongst the hedges. In the quiet of the gardens, she could think.

Stanley apparently didn’t welcome her efforts on his behalf. She would have to impose upon herself the same distance and detachment she had adopted with Sorrel after Philip had suggested she not fuss so much. Stanley had insisted he could see to his own welfare. He had the salve and had not, she’d noticed with satisfaction, worn a glove over his burnt hand. She did not yet know what injury he had suffered to his leg but would trust Pluck to see to it.

If only she knew of an unobtrusive way to help.

She pulled herself from her all-consuming thoughts in time to realize Stanley was approaching from the house. His limp seemed to be improving a little. He still held his foot stiffly as he walked and seemed slightly unsure of his balance, but he appeared less dependent on his walking stick. That had to be a good sign. Marjie tucked the observation away, unsure if voicing her happiness aloud would be unwelcome.

“Good afternoon, Stanley,” she offered when he came near enough to hear. She held back the inquiry into his health that automatically formed in her mouth. He does not wish for your help, she reminded herself.

“I—” He stopped short, his eyes narrowing as he focused on her face. “You’ve been crying.”

“It is the cold air,” Marjie lied haltingly. “It irritates my eyes.”

He stood silently watching her. Marjie could feel warmth spread across her face under his scrutiny.

“I don’t like when you cry.” Stanley spoke so softly Marjie barely heard him, his sadness evident.

Marjie swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. This was the Stanley she had fallen in love with. He was compassionate and tender and gentle. Yet she couldn’t dismiss the version of him she’d been confronted with the night before. He’d spoken sharply. He’d shown no desire for her to remain, no joy in her company.

“I am fine, I assure you.” She attempted to summon a believably content expression. “Have you tried the salve yet?” She wished the words unspoken the moment they’d left her mouth. The question sounded far too much like her usual fretting, and he wouldn’t like that.

But he didn’t look upset. Perhaps she hadn’t annoyed him with her inquiry after all.

“You did not exaggerate its effectiveness. I shall be certain to take a great deal of it with me when I am called back into duty.” A momentary flash of pain appeared in his eyes. Marjie had seen the look before, always when Stanley spoke of returning to his post with the army.

“I will write out the recipe.” She kept her hands at her side through sheer willpower. How she wished to smooth the lines of worry that had appeared on his face. “Then you can have more made if need be.”

“Thank you,” Stanley said, his voice and mannerisms oddly detached from the moment.

“Perhaps some of your men could benefit from the ointment as well.”

Stanley nodded, the same distant look still in his eyes. “It would be the only good thing I did for any of them,” he muttered.

As a nonfusser, Marjie was a complete failure. She pressed her hand atop his walking stick without a single thought for her earlier vow to keep her distance. His eyes returned to her face. The deep misery in his expression reverberated as an ache in her heart. If only she knew how to help. Such an intrusion would probably be unwelcome, but she desperately needed to do something.

Marjie reached out and gently cupped his face. Stanley closed his eyes, his expression seeming to grow even more pained.

All those long weeks of wishing he were near and imagining touching him, holding him, feeling his arms around her again came rushing back. Nothing had gone as she’d expected since his return. There had been no joyous reunion, no furthering of the connection she had felt with him from the moment they’d first met. She had, instead, found herself walking a fine line, never knowing if he appreciated or resented her presence in his life.

Just as she decided she ought to pull her hand back, Stanley turned his head and lightly kissed her palm.

Her heart skipped a beat before lurching back into rhythm.

Stanley shifted again so his lips lightly brushed the very tips of her fingers. “Marjie,” he whispered.

She stepped closer to him, each breath requiring effort. The warmth of him penetrated the chilled air, and the familiar scent of his soap enveloped her senses. The tension in her eased in that instant.

This was home.

Her hand slid from his face to rest on his chest. His free arm wrapped around her. At the contact, she saw him wince—his right arm had pulled her closer.

“Your hand,” she whispered in concern.

He shook his head, his eyes still closed. Marjie rested her head against his shoulder and felt him rest his cheek against the top of her head. He had held her in precisely that way in the very same garden on the day he’d left to rejoin his regiment. That tender moment had been marred by worry and uncertainty. In this embrace, she felt hope.

“I am sorry I snapped at you last night,” he said. “It was unpardonable of me. I was weary and concerned at the risk you were taking with your reputation and—” She felt him sigh. “I am sorry. I ought to have been kinder.”

“You are entirely forgiven,” she said. “I should try harder not to be fussy. I realize how very unwelcome—”

“Marjie.” Stanley interrupted her confession.

She pulled back enough to look up at him.

“Do not belittle your compassionate nature. This world needs more humanity, not less. It is in far too short supply.”

“I think you have seen too much inhumanity, Stanley. You have lost faith in mankind.”

“But not in you,” he whispered. “Never in you.”

He leaned closer to her, just a breath nearer, but Marjie’s heart responded loudly. Her hand, almost of its own accord, shifted from his chest to his neck as he continued to close the distance between them.

His mouth brushed hers so lightly it might have been nothing more than the touch of a breeze. He didn’t loosen his embrace. Her heart thudded erratically in her chest.

At the sudden sound of footsteps on the graveled garden walk, Marjie froze. She could feel Stanley tense. Her eyes flew open. His expression registered a moment’s regret before he stepped deliberately away from her. That he seemed as reluctant as she went a long way toward easing her disappointment at the loss of his touch.

She turned toward the approaching footsteps and hoped her countenance was not too tellingly flushed.

An upstairs maid hurriedly walked to where Marjie stood and bobbed a curtsy. “Pardon me,” she said. “There’s a visitor to see you, Miss Kendrick.”

“A visitor?” Who could possibly have come to visit her? Mother had, in a letter to Sorrel, declared her intention to remain in Tunbridge Wells through at least the remainder of the year, necessitating that both Marjie and Fennel be accepted as guests at Lampton Park during the holy season.

“Yes, Miss Kendrick. ’Tis Lord Devereaux.”

Lord Devereaux. His arrival was unexpected but not unwelcome. She had wondered since leaving Town how he was. She knew he did not look forward to the approach of Christmas, as that had been his late wife’s favorite time of year. It had held a special significance in their courtship, which simply added to his discomfort.

“Tell him I shall be there directly.”

The maid curtsied once more and quickly returned in the direction of the house.

Lord Devereaux had wanted to get to know Stanley, and Marjie wished for Stanley to get to know him. They were both good and kind gentlemen, and she simply knew the two would like each other. The fact that making the reintroductions would also allow her more time in Stanley’s company certainly contributed to her eagerness.

Marjie turned back around. “Stanley—”

She saw nothing more than the back of him as he made his way down the garden path. He hadn’t offered so much as a farewell. He had simply left her standing there. In light of the embrace and all-too-brief kiss of only a moment before, Marjie had not expected abandonment.

She stood watching him a moment, unsure of what she ought to do. She could easily catch up to him; he did not yet move swiftly. Dare she risk being seen as cloying and fretful? Suppose he left because he once again wished to be alone. He had apologized for being short with her the night before but had not indicated that he had not meant his words of rebuke.

“I do not require your help.” He had spoken clearly and precisely. There could have been no mistaking his meaning.

Marjie took a deep breath. She could give him space. Just as Philip had said, she needed to learn when to be attentive and when to back away. And Stanley had kissed her. Heavens, he had kissed her. That was reason enough for hope and optimism.

When she arrived in the drawing room, Mater and Lord Devereaux were speaking. They acknowledged her entrance, greeting her as she moved to sit nearby. After a moment, Mater drifted to a chair a little distance from them.

“I was passing through the general area and couldn’t resist coming by to see you,” Lord Devereaux said. He looked happier than Marjie remembered seeing him before. “I have come to a decision of which I think you will approve, though I am beginning to wonder if I am destined to regret it.”

“And what decision is that, my lord?” Marjie smiled in return. Lord Devereaux, despite his continued grief, was an easy conversationalist. Should he ever decide to marry again, he would make some lady a very fine husband.

“I have thrown the Duchess of Hartley into a full fit of hysterics by accepting her invitation to join her annual Christmas house party after three consecutive years of refusing.”

“You have not.” As near as Marjie could gather from their conversations at various ton events, Lord Devereaux had not intended to accept. The annual gathering of his closest friends had begun early in his marriage, and the month-long festivities reminded him a great deal too much of his wife.

“I have, indeed.”

She laughed at the dramatic expression of shock Lord Devereaux managed to produce.

“I am so happy that you will not be spending Christmastime alone,” Marjie said.

“Something I would never have even considered doing without your gentle but persistent prodding.” His gratitude held not a hint of censure at her interference in his affairs. “I have decided that you are correct on one very vital point.”

“Only one?”

He laughed lightly. “One very vital point,” he repeated, emphasizing the word vital. “It is time and past I rejoin Society, and though I suspect I shall always miss my dear Miranda, I believe I will be happier spending some time in the company of others.”

“The society of true friends will always be welcome,” Marjie said.

“You seem to have quite a full house here.”

“We do. With so many of the Jonquils living nearby, there is never any shortage of people.”

Lord Devereaux glanced quickly at Mater before returning his gaze to Marjie and lowering his voice. “How is your young captain?”

“His injuries are more extensive than I at first realized.” Marjie kept her voice low as well. “And I fear he is unhappy. His experiences with Wellington’s forces weigh very heavily on him.”

“He joined the army at a young age,” Lord Devereaux said. “The violence of war can be scarring at such an impressionable time of life. Waterloo was, as I understand it, especially horrific.”

Marjie nodded, remembering the story Pluck had shared of Stanley rescuing him from an explosive and dangerous fire. That haunted Marjie. She could see in her mind the terrifying image of Stanley literally on fire.

“I do not know how to help him,” Marjie said.

Lord Devereaux had long since taken on the role of older brother. She felt at ease sharing her worries with him. He would neither laugh nor dismiss her concerns.

“I had hoped to see him, actually,” Lord Devereaux said.

“I was going to ask him to join us, but he—” How did she explain without completely disgracing herself? She had been on the verge of, she hoped, being quite thoroughly kissed when word of his arrival had reached her and Stanley had subsequently left.

“I assume Captain Jonquil was less than enthusiastic about my arrival.” A single corner of Lord Devereaux’s mouth twitched upward.

“I am not certain your presence is the reason he . . . disappeared.”

“I suspect it is precisely the reason. Most gentlemen dislike the idea of a rival.”

“A rival? You do not think he believes you and I—that we—”

Lord Devereaux chuckled. “Are romantically attached to one another?” he finished for her. “That is exactly what I suspect.”

“But that is absurd. You are—”

“Too old?” Lord Devereaux raised an eyebrow.

“That is not at all what I was going to say.”

“Too homely? Too prosy? Too boring?”

Marjie shook her head. “Now you are teasing me again.”

“Then what is your objection?” His expression was not entirely jesting, she noticed. “There are some who would still consider me eligible despite my advanced years and hermit-like tendencies.”

“I had meant to imply only that you are not interested in a wife.”

Lord Devereaux began to fidget a bit, shifting about on his chair. “I have considered the possibility of late.” He steepled his hands in front of him, something Marjie had noticed he did when he felt contemplative. “I have been lonely and find myself thinking that I would like the companionship one enjoys in marriage.”

His words surprised her. She hadn’t realized he might contemplate marrying again. She had known from their very first meeting that he was painfully lonely. She recognized that in him, for she had been lonely as well. While she hoped he found far more than mere companionship in marriage, she knew that to have someone with whom he might talk would be beneficial. The emptiness of his home would not pain him so acutely, and he could begin to find some pleasure in life again.

“Is this why you are joining Their Graces’ house party?” Marjie asked. “So that you might find a wife?”

Lord Devereaux’s expression lightened once more. “No. I am merely considering the possibility, not actively pursuing it. The house party is little more than a step toward rejoining Society.”

“When do you plan to arrive there?”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “I am to arrive a full three weeks in advance of the remaining guests. I think Her Grace is afraid I will back out if she does not have me under lock and key.”

He would have company, and that, Marjie knew, would alleviate a great deal of his loneliness.

“I hope you have a splendid sojourn,” she said.

“And I wish you luck with your thick-headed captain. If he has not yet realized how entirely devoted you are to him, I begin to think he does not deserve your affections after all.”

“I wish you could have talked with him finally,” she said. “You would like him better if you knew him.”

“I had wanted, if nothing else, to convey a message to him,” Lord Devereaux said. “A tenant family of mine had a son who fought in the war. The boy was killed at Albuera when he was only eighteen years old. A fortnight later or so, they received a letter from a young Lieutenant Jonquil.”

Marjie listened raptly. This was one of Stanley’s letters, the ones he wrote to the families of men who were killed, the letters he had said probably made no difference at all.

“He was not their son’s commanding officer,” Lord Devereaux continued, “but he took the time to send them a brief note expressing his condolences and sharing a few small memories of the boy. They still speak about that unlooked-for kindness whenever their son’s name is mentioned.”

If only Stanley knew. His letters had indeed touched those who received them.

“I had hoped to thank him on their behalf,” Lord Devereaux said. “But I did not wish to embarrass him by doing so in company. These tenants of mine are not literate—the local curate read the letter to them—and so they could not pen their own note of gratitude. I must say, Captain Jonquil’s thoughtfulness impressed me.”

“He has sent other letters as well,” Marjie said. “He has written to the family of every man in his squadron who has fallen.”

“I imagine that is a lot of letters.”

Marjie nodded. Stanley had said as much.

“I do not know any of the other recipients,” Lord Devereaux said, “but I am certain that those letters are as treasured by them as they are by the Wells family.”

Those words remained in Marjie’s head long after Lord Devereaux’s departure. Stanley was so certain his letters were unappreciated and unwanted. He had said in the gardens that he never did any good by his men. Here was another piece of the puzzle. Stanley doubted his impact, his influence for good. He felt himself something of a failure. Marjie truly believed there were people throughout England who would disagree, and not just Stanley’s family. In her heart, she knew Stanley needed to know that.