Chapter Twenty-Six

Stanley stood stiffly in his bedchamber. He had assumed the stance of a soldier, reminding himself that his time as a civilian had, for all intents and purposes, come to an end. Colonel Falwell had arrived at Lampton Park. Stanley was to present himself to the waiting officer in a quarter of an hour. He dreaded it.

“Always a soldier.” He’d taken to speaking the words out loud. He had an obligation to serve, and he would not be disloyal.

Pluck had been completely silent since luncheon, a sure sign that he too felt the weight of the coming interview.

“You realize, of course, that just because I am returning, you are not obligated to do so as well.” Stanley had reminded Pluck of that fact multiple times over the weeks since he’d first learned of the colonel’s scheduled arrival.

Pluck usually threw back something cheeky and humorous. His expression in that moment, however, was nothing short of entirely offended. “I go where you go, Cap’n. Plain as that. Now shut yer mummer and finish gettin’ dressed. There’s a deuced colonel downstairs.”

Stanley’s heart froze in his chest. Blast the boy, Stanley couldn’t convince Pluck to stay behind where he would be safe. He insisted on following Stanley back into the army. If Pluck was killed, Stanley would never forgive himself. There would be no one to send a letter to. Stanley knew, though Pluck had never said so outright, that the boy had come to think of Stanley as his family. In return, Stanley felt responsible for him.

A knock sounded at the door. Pluck opened it. Marjie stood framed by the opening. Stanley was supposed to be keeping a distance between them but, confound it all, he needed her to calm him down.

“Am I presentable?” He knew his words weren’t as light as he’d hoped them to be.

She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe and tipped her head to one side, inspecting him. “The hat makes you seem seven feet tall.”

“Imagine how tall we look on horseback.”

“So it is a matter of intimidation?”

“Always.” He strutted to where she stood.

Pluck muttered something under his breath about the fancy toffs in the cavalry being all flash. Lud, the boy really was nervous. Stanley had signed up with the intention of remaining in the army. Pluck had joined to escape the streets of London. Stanley might be able to talk him out of returning to duty.

“You are missing your sabre,” Marjie said, “but I have not seen you wear it since you returned.”

Stanley shook his head. Even Marjie’s presence couldn’t entirely release the tension building in him.

“Would it be unforgivably intrusive of me to ask why?”

Stanley could see his sword in his mind the way he always remembered it, a length of steel so covered in blood that none of the metal beneath showed through. It was the last thing he recalled seeing before Shadow, a horse he’d had for years, had suddenly jerked beneath him and fallen dead. For a moment, Stanley hadn’t felt any pain, even as he’d looked at the mangled remains of his right leg. In agony, however, he struggled to pull himself away from the battlefield, knowing he would likely bleed to death there where he’d fallen. In that moment, certain he would die at the hands of the enemy, the irony of it struck him. He had often cursed the French for the losses they had inflicted, for killing so many, but he was no different. The evidence had dripped from his sword even as his own blood ran from his body.

When he’d awoken after the amputation and had emerged enough from the subsequent fevers to make sense of his surroundings, one of the first things he’d seen had been that sabre. Pluck had cleaned it meticulously, but the leather loop at the handle was stained a deep red Stanley knew would never come out entirely. He’d refused from that moment on to wear the sword. He did not need the reminder of the things he had done.

“Will Colonel Falwell be upset if you don’t wear it?” Marjie asked.

Stanley opened his eyes at the sound of her voice. “He probably already knows.” Lord Hill knew, after all.

Marjie smoothed the wrinkles on Stanley’s left sleeve, her eyes focusing too keenly on the abstract gesture. She always had a hard time looking at him when she was worried or upset. “You’ve sewn the buttons back on the right sleeves.”

“The colonel may be willing to overlook a missing sabre, but I doubt he will countenance flapping sleeves.”

“And the gloves.”

Stanley nodded.

“You must be certain to put the salve on your hand tonight.” Marjie straightened his collar without raising her eyes to his face. “It will probably be very irritated.”

“Please look at me, Marjie.”

She lifted her face, and Stanley instantly wished he hadn’t made the request. Tears hung in her eyes.

He was doing the right thing, blast it. He was honoring his obligations, keeping his word. So why the deuce did everything keep getting worse?

“I need to go downstairs for my interview.” Stanley tightened every muscle, set his jaw. The right thing was not always easy, but it was what he always did. “Colonel Falwell is waiting.”

“He is going to take you away from me.” Marjie’s whispered words were thick with anguish. “He has come to break my heart.”

Stanley kept his arms firmly at his side. How he wanted to simply hold her, to give them both the comfort of an embrace in an impossible situation, but he needed to learn to live without her, and the sooner he began, the better off they would both be. “Perhaps it would have been better if we’d never known each other. This wouldn’t—”

Marjie pressed her fingers to his lips. Stanley took in a sharp breath. How he needed her! He held himself very still, as if at full attention in a drill.

“There are things I regret in my life, Stanley, but I will never regret knowing you. You have changed who I am, changed me for the better. Do not wish that away.”

“Time to go, Cap’n.”

Stanley nodded to Pluck but never let his gaze stray from Marjie’s face.

“Will you have to leave today?” A frantic tremor shook her voice.

“No. I will be given my marching orders, most likely for a couple days from now.”

Her gaze grew intent. “You will not leave without saying good-bye?”

“I promise.”

Marjie smoothed his sleeves once more. “You had best not keep the colonel waiting.”

Stanley took a fortifying breath. He memorized the feel of her touch. After he received his orders, Stanley would keep his distance entirely. He would slip back into the role of soldier, where all emotions were pushed aside and he made do with what little hope he had. He straightened his shoulders and made his way down the corridor.

Colonel Falwell sat at Philip’s desk when Stanley entered. Philip had apparently left. The colonel rose, his uniform impeccably clean, down to the high-polished medals that marked him as a man of vast experience. Stanley saluted as was expected, beginning the usual greeting ritual between two officers, one of whom far outranked the other.

“I hope I am not late, sir,” he said.

“Not at all, Captain Jonquil. Am I correct that this is your batman?”

Stanley nodded, motioning Pluck forward. “This is Private Stone, Colonel Falwell.”

The colonel acknowledged Pluck’s salute. “Obviously you were artillery.”

“Yes, sir.” Pluck could be rigidly proper when required. He even looked almost respectable in his artillery uniform.

“Do you plan to return to duty when Captain Jonquil does?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if he chooses to sell his commission?”

Pluck hesitated a moment. Stanley understood, though he doubted Colonel Falwell did. Pluck knew Stanley wouldn’t leave the army, so it was an answer he hadn’t expected to have to give. “I’d’ve followed my cap’n right into Napoleon’s drawing room iffen I’d had to,” Pluck said. “An’ I’ll follow him wherever he goes now.”

Colonel Falwell nodded. “You are dismissed, Stone. I will send for you if you are wanted again.”

Pluck offered another salute and left the room, pulling the door closed behind him. The colonel retook his seat at the large desk, instructing Stanley to sit as well.

“If all our officers inspired the kind of loyalty in their men that you have,” Colonel Falwell said, “we would have trounced Napoleon in one year instead of twelve.”

Stanley sat rigidly in his chair. Pluck’s loyalty might very well get him killed. “Private Stone’s attachment stems from a sense of obligation, not—”

“I speak of more than just Private Stone.” Colonel Falwell wove his fingers together, resting his intertwined hands and his forearms on the desk. “You have caused quite a stir at Horse Guards.”

“I don’t understand.”

The colonel’s gaze never left Stanley’s face. He knew better than to squirm under the eyes of an officer. He sat with his back straight, shoulders back, expression empty.

“Lord Hill has been quite concerned over you. We realize he is something of a soft touch when it comes to his men.”

“Sir—”

Colonel Falwell raised a hand to stop Stanley’s words. “No need to defend him. Hill is a born soldier and one of the finest officers this nation has ever had. The truth of the matter is he loves his men beyond what is probably advisable. It leads him to worry a great deal. Much of that worry has been surrounding you of late and the state of your health.”

Colonel Falwell leaned back in the chair, his gaze sweeping over Stanley. “You are walking far better than I was led to believe you could.”

“My balance and gait have improved a great deal these past weeks.”

Colonel Falwell leaned his prominent chin against one fisted hand, the arm bent, the elbow resting against the arm of his chair. “And your seat?”

“I road at a gallop yesterday.” That had been surprising and reassuring. Life in the army would be far harder if he was unable to ride well.

“A full gallop?”

“No.” The rhythm of his mount’s hooves had barely shifted to that of a gallop, certainly not reaching top speed.

“And your right hand? Is it usable?”

One thing could certainly be said for the army: efficiency always won out over tact. “I cannot grip a quill, sir, but I have been writing a little with my left.” He’d been working on another letter for Marjie, a longer one, and it was taking a great deal of time and effort.

Colonel Falwell nodded but did not comment. Stanley waited. The mantel clock ticked loudly in the silence. Stanley wished the interview were over. He already knew the outcome. Drawing out the inevitable only made the tension worse.

“Are you eager to rejoin your regiment?” Colonel Falwell asked after an uncomfortably long moment had passed.

“I am anxious to return to my duties.” He had rehearsed that answer. He believed in honesty, but one simply didn’t tell a commissioned officer that one would far rather visit the teeth drawer on a daily basis than return to life in the army.

“Ah, but that is not quite the same thing, is it?” Colonel Falwell shifted in his chair, his hands clasped in front of him still, but his gaze locked on Stanley. The man could probably make Wellington himself feel disconcertingly evaluated. “Why did you join the army, Captain Jonquil?”

That was another unexpected question. Stanley found he did not have an immediate answer.

“I know the usual reasons,” Colonel Falwell said, “and I can see any number of them applying in your situation. You are a younger son and are, therefore, obligated to earn your living. The army is a common choice for young gentlemen in your situation. You are also a natural leader.”

Stanley had never thought of himself that way.

“After meeting the earl just now and having known your father for many years before his passing, I believe leadership ability is a common trait amongst you Jonquils.”

“I did not realize you knew my father.”

Falwell nodded. “We had occasion to work together at a time when Parliament had decided the army had quite enough funding, though that was not at all the case. He supported our cause but was a cautious allocator of funds.”

That sounded like Father—giving and compassionate but always very careful.

“There are those who join the army for the glory they anticipate.” Colonel Falwell motioned with his hand, though no one in that category was present. “Those are the men who suffer the greatest disillusionment. I do not, however, believe you are among their ranks. I think you saw the King’s service as a means of doing good in the world.”

Stanley couldn’t prevent shifting in mounting discomfort. That had been one of his chief motivations in purchasing a commission, and it had proven an idealistic dream. He had, perhaps, helped lessen some of the suffering around him, but the good he’d done was frustratingly limited.

“We at Horse Guards have decided your regiment must be the most literate of any in all of His Majesty’s Army.”

“I do not understand.” How had that change of subject come about so suddenly?

“I have received no fewer than thirty letters from men who served with or under you.” Colonel Falwell appeared entirely serious, but something very like amusement lurked in his eyes. “They are worrying themselves into a decline over there in Paris, wondering what has become of you. ‘Is our captain returning?’ ‘Is our captain well?’ They are full of questions and even a few demands. At least half of them informed me that if you were still unwell, I was not to allow you to return. I am not, under any circumstances, to risk your life, limb, or happiness. If I ignore their instructions, I am positive we would soon have an entire outfit of mounted cavalry rushing Horse Guards with sabres drawn.”

“I have never encouraged insubordination.”

“I am not speaking of insubordination, Captain. I am speaking of loyalty.”

Fortitudo per Fidem. Stanley understood loyalty well. Why else would he willingly return to his own personal purgatory?

“You are a force in this army, much the way ‘Daddy Hill’ is. That is what the soldiers call him, is it not?”

Stanley nodded.

“Your men would, as Stone put it, walk into the enemy’s own drawing room if you required it of them. That amount of trust and dedication is invaluable. I will not prolong this interview any longer than needed. May I speak plainly and to the point?”

More plainly than he had been speaking? That would be something, indeed.

“Lord Hill and I agree—and we have discussed this with Wellington as well—that you would be a tremendous asset in the field. We realize that even restored to health, there are limitations to what you can do. Yours would be an organizational and leadership position without the requisite marching and, heaven forbid, combat role, should the need arise.”

It would. Stanley had been a soldier long enough to know that war would come again—if not on the Continent, then elsewhere in the world.

“We are offering you a promotion, Captain Jonquil. You would be made a major, though you will remain with the Thirteenth.”

Stanley’s lungs froze midbreath. He felt his jaw hang open. To be made a major while in his twenties was not merely unexpected—it was almost unprecedented.

“You could have a very decorated career in the army.” Colonel Falwell leaned forward in his chair, his gaze penetrating and focused.

A decorated career in the army. Before he’d joined, before half a decade of warfare, Stanley might have thought that the most tempting morsel that could have been dangled before him. All he could think of in that moment, however, was that a career in the army meant a lifetime of fighting.

“You are walking well. You can ride. You appear well enough to return.”

Stanley almost wished his conscience had been battered enough by war to allow him the luxury of lying. “I believe I am, sir.”

The colonel’s gaze narrowed. For several drawn-out minutes, neither of them spoke.

“Report to Horse Guards in one week’s time,” Colonel Falwell said. “You will leave directly from London to your regiment in France.”

“Yes, sir.” Stanley stood, recognizing that the interview had reached its conclusion. He saluted and received one in return.

As he stepped from the library, a weight settled into the pit of his stomach. He’d known his course from the beginning. Yet, fully facing it left him hollow and empty once more.

He reached the stairs. Marjie stood at the top, watching him, pale-faced and still. He couldn’t manage an expression that held any degree of reassurance, so he simply nodded.

Marjie didn’t speak a word. She turned slowly where she stood and disappeared down the corridor.