Chapter Seventeen

Ever since Lord Devereaux’s brief, unexpected, and, as far as Stanley was concerned, entirely unwelcome visit, Marjie had spent a great deal of each day in Philip’s library bent over the desk, writing letters. She had an air of anticipation and purpose about her that had Stanley worried. That something of significance was in the planning, he had no doubt. Further, that this occurrence related somehow to Lord Devereaux’s interview with Marjie, Stanley was absolutely certain. The conclusion that had nagged at Stanley since the not-nearly-elderly-enough widower’s departure a week earlier was that Lord Devereaux, blast him, had advanced his suit, perhaps to the point of being accepted.

Stanley tortured himself with unanswerable questions. Ought he not to have kissed Marjie? If he were being perfectly honest with himself, compared to how he would have liked to have kissed her, that brief interlude hardly counted. Had he alarmed her or trespassed upon her good nature? On the other hand, perhaps he should have put more fervor into his efforts and, as Pluck would say, stolen a bit more of her heart. Except, that would not have been honorable, knowing as he did that she was as good as engaged even before Lord Devereaux had descended upon them.

His hand was healing to the extent it ever would. There were fewer points of irritation and cracking, thanks to both the absence of constant chafing and the soothing nature of Marjie’s salve. Sorrel’s advice about his walking stick had proven beneficial, and though the shift of weight it created had led to some blisters on the stub of his leg, his limp was improving. Just out of curiosity, he’d attempted to cross his room to the washstand that morning without his walking stick and had, to his complete surprise, managed it without falling on his face. He probably could have gone farther if the leg had been secured more tightly and if Pluck hadn’t performed one of his annoyingly hilarious dances of joy. The boy really did need to work at being a properly subdued servant. How was a one-legged man supposed to enjoy any of his accomplishments when he was laughing too hard to maintain his balance?

Stanley smiled briefly at the memory before the weight of reality sank in. He welcomed the improvement in his health but found it horribly ill-timed. Just the day before, he had received a missive from Horse Guards informing him that a Colonel Fallwell, representing Lord Hill, would be arriving at Lampton Park in three weeks’ time to ascertain Stanley’s fitness to return to his duties.

“Although the wars are officially at an end, peace is not yet established,” Lord Hill’s letter said. Stanley had read it multiple times, his spirits lowering with each repetition. “Experienced officers are thin on the ground just now, so many having sold their commissions and returned to civilian life, and His Majesty’s Army is in need of your organizational and leadership skills.”

Lord Hill seemed to know the precise words that would negate all the arguments Stanley had built up over the weeks of his furlough. The army did not expect him to fight or march into battle, something he could not remotely do. He was needed to organize those who would undertake the minor skirmishes still occurring. He would be required once again to decide which of his men were sent into a fight and which remained out of harm’s way.

Stanley understood the thinly veiled reference to the large number of officers who’d left the army following Waterloo. Many of those who had volunteered to fight for their country had done so with every intention of returning home once Napoleon had been defeated. Stanley, however, had seen his oath of service as just that—an oath, a promise to his country and King. So long as he was needed, he would serve.

“The difference between a gentleman and a blackguard is honor,” Father had said to Stanley when he was still quite young. He’d never forgotten those words, and indeed, had spent his life attempting to live up to them.

Life in the army had simply solidified his determination. Honor meant everything to a British soldier. No accomplishment, no matter how vast, was praiseworthy if accomplished dishonorably. On the field of battle, when the fighting was fiercest and most horrifying, those officers who led their men, who fought despite injury and threat to their own safety, were the ones who earned the respect of their fellow soldiers.

Honor was the very fiber and soul of a man. Stanley had given his word to serve his country, and he would not break that commitment, regardless of what it cost him. To do so would sound the death knell to his integrity. Thus, his improved health robbed him of the only honorable means of escaping, if temporarily, his return to the field.

He would be sent back to France, where his regiment was. Stanley could sit a horse, though not at a full gallop and certainly not with any degree of grace. But that had little bearing on his situation now. The cavalry charges he had participated in again and again were no longer necessary. He would be doing precisely what he’d been doing before Lord Hill had sent him home temporarily: organizing patrols and guard rotations, helping suppress uprising among the citizenry. The lingering bitterness in Napoleon’s former troops had increasingly led to attacks on British soldiers. Stanley would be handed the task once again of arranging for the burial of his men who were unfortunate enough to cross paths with those bent on revenge. There would be more letters to send to grieving families. There would always be letters.

And there would always be another war. Sometimes, there was more than one. They’d been at war with the former colonies in the midst of the war with Napoleon. Things were never entirely peaceful in India. No matter that England liked to think of itself as having reached a period of peace, another war always lurked in the shadows.

Stanley swung around, having covered a good portion of the garden. November had come in as cold as he ever remembered it being. No doubt the warmer temperatures of the Continent had confused his inner thermometer. He welcomed the bite of the air, however, and he understood the necessity of exercise. He needed to build his strength and endurance before returning to his post.

Marjie would be married soon enough, and her letters would stop. He could never prevent her from entering his thoughts, but she would be lost to him so entirely that thinking of her would not be comforting as it had once been. He would have her twenty-five letters and nothing else.

He could have almost borne the thought of returning to the army if there had been any chance Marjie would be there with him. Her faith in him would have sustained him through the darkness of descending back into that abyss. Her presence would have soothed him when the inevitable weight of death and suffering bent him under its load.

“Selfish coxcomb,” he muttered at himself. She would be in agony living that life, and he knew it. Lord Devereaux offered her safety and security and a shield from the horrors of the world. She belonged at home in England, living happily in peace and comfort.

Stanley made his sorry ascent of the front steps. Stairs were still difficult. He took them slowly and slightly sideways. The morning mist had only just begun to dissipate, and memories of his childhood enveloped him. The manor house at Lampton Park had always stood as a beacon of sorts. He would lean out the window of the traveling coach whenever returning home from Town or school. The house would come into view, and every care and worry would simply melt away. He missed that simpler time.

Beck, the butler, held the door open as Stanley stepped inside, the warm air caressing his wind-bitten face. By the time he had limped his way to the base of the front staircase, even his foot had begun to thaw. One benefit of a wooden leg was its imperviousness to the weather. He smiled wryly at the thought.

“More letters for the post, Miss Kendrick?” Beck asked in his always correct way.

Stanley’s eyes, as always, refused to shift at all from the sudden sight of Marjie. She should always wear blue, he had long ago decided, though perhaps without that one golden curl hanging over her shoulder. A man could endure only so much temptation before tossing his best intentions out the window.

“Yes, please.” She handed a stack of sealed missives to the butler.

A stack? Stanley hadn’t ever received multiple letters from her at one time. Certainly they weren’t all for Lord Devereaux. His less-than-charitable side hoped the pile contained not a single letter for his lordship.

He could tell the exact moment Marjie realized he stood there. She grew suddenly very still, and a look of something like guilt crossed her face. Her color deepened by more than one shade. Odd, that. Why would she be so entirely uncomfortable over something as commonplace as sending letters? It wasn’t as if he didn’t know she was a faithful correspondent.

Unless she felt guilty being so closely in company with a gentleman she had embraced and by whom she’d been kissed within moments of her apparent engagement to another gentleman entirely.

If her embarrassment hadn’t been almost immediately followed by a very friendly smile, Stanley would have worried that those moments he cherished every bit as much as her letters had seriously undermined their friendship.

“Good morning, Stanley.” She spoke with every indication of sincerity, and yet, the slightest hint of uneasiness lurked.

“Good morning. You appear to have been busy.” He indicated the letters Beck was even then walking away with.

“Yes, that—I—” Why was she so nervous? “I do like to write letters.”

“Yes, I know.”

The familiar tap and drag rhythm of a walking stick and limp drew their attention before another word was spoken between them. Sorrel stood at the first-floor landing. Her descent was more awkward than his own had been earlier that morning.

“She looks pale,” Marjie whispered.

Sorrel looked more than merely pale. She looked exhausted and in a significant amount of pain.

Marjie moved to the foot of the stairs and looked up as her sister made her way down. “Are you feeling well?” she asked her sister.

“Yes.” Sorrel’s monosyllabic response would have been sharp had she managed more than a minimal amount of volume. “I am hungry.”

“I am certain a tray could have been brought to your room,” Marjie said.

“I am not an invalid.” The desperation in her response was not difficult to decipher. Sorrel was attempting to convince herself that she spoke the truth.

Marjie’s gaze turned to Stanley. “What should I do?” She mouthed the words, but Stanley understood. Marjie worried about fussing, thanks to Philip’s hints and Sorrel’s very direct complaints, and had to fight her natural inclination to help.

He returned his attention to Sorrel, trying to decide how they might help without raising her hackles. She lowered herself to the next step just as the last drops of color drained from her face.

“Marjie!” Stanley called out, knowing he would never get to Sorrel in time. Unfortunately, his instructions were either too late in coming or too vague.

Sorrel hit the step hard with her right hip before Marjie realized what was happening and grabbed hold of her sister. A moan of pain indicated Sorrel had not, thankfully, lost consciousness. Stanley moved closer as quickly as he could. Sorrel, of all people, could be counted on to shake off any offer of assistance, even if doing so meant being left in an undignified heap on the stairwell. Instead, she lay in Marjie’s arms without the slightest resistance.

“Stanley,” Marjie whispered. “What should I do?”

He straightened, issuing a whistle he knew would bring the staff faster than he could reach the nearest bell pull. That whistle had successfully caught the attention of his men during the chaos of battle.

Beck appeared first. His barely concealed confusion at the unusual summons slipped into concern as his gaze fell on the sight of the countess, apparently helpless in her sister’s arms. But Stanley had no time for sympathies, no matter how appropriate.

“Have Will report here at once,” Stanley instructed, naming the largest of the Lampton Park footmen. He could easily carry Sorrel back up to her room, something Stanley knew himself incapable of. “And send one of the groomsmen to Dr. Habbersham. Lady Lampton is in need of him.”

“Yes, Captain Jonquil.” Beck turned, about to undertake the task.

“Philip should be found,” Marjie said. “He will wish to know.”

Of course. Leave it to Marjie to understand what Sorrel needed most. “Beck.”

The butler turned back.

“Send word to the stables to have a horse saddled.” Philip had gone riding with Layton. Stanley could track them down, knowing all too well the usual Jonquil brother riding paths, some of which were difficult to explain. He would find them faster if he went personally.

A nod and the butler exited the room entirely.

“Any particular message you wish me to deliver to your husband, Sorrel?” Stanley asked, fully expecting a stinging reply. Truth be known, he hoped for one. Anything less would be indicative of greater illness than she had let on.

Sorrel lifted her eyes to where Stanley stood watching her. Frustration mingled with pain in her gaze. She opened her mouth as if to answer him, but no words escaped. Then something happened that Stanley had never seen before. Sorrel’s chin quivered, and tears gathered very suddenly at the corners of her eyes.

“I will see that he is here as swiftly as possible.”

He moved as quickly as his battered body would allow. He passed Will on his way out. The rather burly footman would see to it Sorrel was returned to her bedchamber without incident. Not until Stanley actually arrived at the stables did he remember that riding was not as easy for him as it had once been.

If he was soon to be recalled to the Peninsula, as Hill’s letter indicated, he’d best grow accustomed to riding despite the lingering awkwardness of it. He hoped only that neither Philip nor Layton noticed the odd set of his leg and the utter ridiculousness of his struggle to mount and dismount. While he may have been forced to lay bare his mutilated hand, he had no intention of confessing to everything.