Chapter Twenty-Seven

Marjie refused to cry. She’d known for weeks that Stanley would eventually be leaving. She understood why he had to and would not make doing so harder for him.

She watched two footmen load trunks onto the waiting carriage. Pluck was outside as well, in full uniform, climbing in and out of the carriage. He had been uncharacteristically somber ever since Colonel Falwell’s visit.

“You are worried about him,” Marjie had said the evening before. There had been no need to say to whom she referred; Pluck knew.

“’Course I am. Going back to all that is gonna kill him. Maybe not in the six-feet-underground way, but it’ll kill him. Daddy Hill sent him back here ’cause he was a breath away from bein’ dead inside.”

Marjie had pushed back the panic that had automatically come at those words. The tension in the house had been thick as mud for days, and she’d struggled to prevent herself from adding to it by giving vent to her fears. Stanley kept his distance from them all, very much the way he had when he’d first returned to England.

“I ain’t gonna let our cap’n be alone while his soul’s gettin’ chewed up and spit out again.”

“But?” Marjie had sensed there was more.

Pluck had pushed a breath through his teeth. “I don’t wanna go back. I joined the army ’cause I wouldn’t be just another London street maggot or a worthless rumbibber like my da. There was some great guns in the army.” Pluck had smiled a little. “We liked sayin’ that in the artillery, we were all great guns.”

Marjie had allowed a smile as well.

“But I like it here.” Pluck made a vague gesture, obviously indicating Lampton Park. “I like that it’s quiet. And there’s good people here. Here, I ain’t just another piece of useless trash like I was growin’ up, and I ain’t stuck loadin’ guns, waitin’ to be another name on a list o’ dead soldiers.”

“Could you sell out?”

“I could, but I ain’t gonna.” He’d shot a defiant look at her. “I go where he goes.”

Marjie watched Pluck helping with the preparations for their journey, and her heart hurt for him. Were they all doomed to be unhappy?

Unhappiness certainly seemed Stanley’s fate. Returning to his regiment would, as Pluck had said, destroy him. Remaining in England would as well. He would torture himself over what would, to him, amount to dishonorable behavior.

Marjie heard Philip before he ever came into view. A man who sauntered about with a dozen fobs on his watch chain did not move quietly.

“Are they about ready?” he asked, obviously referring to those preparing the carriage.

Marjie nodded.

Philip too had been heavier of spirit. He was accompanying Stanley to Town. He had business that needed attending to that he would prefer to complete before Sorrel’s condition reached the point where he didn’t dare leave her. For once, she had not insisted that she could take care of herself. They all understood that complications were unavoidable and that a happy outcome was far from guaranteed.

“Stanley will be down in a moment.” Philip had apparently noticed her gaze wandering to the staircase.

“I want only to say good-bye.”

Philip nodded. “I know. Only, try to make this easier on him. Stanley is struggling right now, and he needs us to be supportive.”

“I will.” She was determined to.

Philip stepped outside. Marjie could hear him speak to the coachman but could not understand the words. Her gaze returned to the staircase.

Do not make this harder on him, she silently reminded herself. A brief, friendly farewell. A smile. Encouraging. Supportive. She repeated the list several times, reminding herself of the role she must play.

She nearly lost her resolve when she saw Stanley coming down the stairs. To the casual observer, he would have appeared a typical army officer about to rejoin his regiment. His expression, though, was all but blank. Though he did not lean heavily on his stick nor seem to be struggling with his balance, he moved slowly, with an obvious reluctance in his step.

“Do not make this harder on him.” She clasped her hands in front of her to prevent herself from touching him as he approached.

“Are you the footman this morning?” His false lightness pierced her.

She could not manage to respond but tightened her clasp. They stood in heavy silence. Stanley’s gaze moved about the room, lingering a moment on an ormolu plaque of the Jonquil family crest that hung just above the door. Finally, he turned and looked at Marjie but quickly shifted his focus to the carriage just beyond the tall window they stood beside.

“I understand Layton and Marion are taking you to Town for the Season.”

“Yes. In March.” She dreaded it. More balls at which she would be forced to dance with gentlemen she cared nothing for, more evenings spent wondering where Stanley was and if he was well, more loneliness.

Stanley nodded. “I am—” He stopped abruptly. Stanley stood stiff and perfectly upright. She knew the stance; he had become a soldier once more.

She pulled her hands behind her back. Every inch of her longed to simply hold him, to try to find her Stanley beneath the empty expression and rigid posture.

Stanley spoke again. “I want you to—No. I need you to be happy, Marjie. I need to know that you are going on with your life.”

Going on with her life? Did Stanley not realize that he was too integral a part of her life for it to simply go on without him? Do not make this harder for him. She didn’t speak, didn’t move.

“Will you write to me still and tell me how you are?” He finally looked at her. The bleakness in his eyes drained Marjie of every lingering hope she had. Until that moment, until she saw the pain he couldn’t completely hide, she had held on to the possibility that he would find some joy in his career and in the life that stretched out ahead of him.

“Of course I will.” She would write him epistle-length letters filled with completely fabricated reassurances of her happiness if it would bring him some measure of comfort. Knowing as she did that her letters had given him strength to survive, she would never cease writing to him.

Pluck poked his head inside. “Time to go, Cap’n.” He left as quickly as he’d come.

Stanley stood still, watching Marjie. She didn’t move either.

Don’t make this harder, she kept telling herself, even as every instinct in her strained to hold him there.

“I have to go.” He still did not move.

Marjie nodded. “Please be careful, Stanley.” She had no idea how she managed the words without crying.

“I will. And I’ll write to you, though the letters won’t be long.” He raised his gloved right hand, grimacing as he did.

“I will be happy to receive anything you send me.” She sounded far more impersonal than she’d intended, but she knew if she allowed herself even a hint of emotion, she would completely break down.

“I have no idea when I will see you again, but—” Stanley’s gaze slid away again. “I just wanted to say that—that I—”

Please tell me you love me. She needed to hear it but didn’t ask. She would ease his way even if doing so required a stilted and disconnected farewell.

A footman came up the front steps to the door and opened it wide.

“I have to go now.” Stanley’s voice was quiet, empty.

“Good-bye, Stanley.”

His eyes met hers. Marjie waited, silently pleading for some words of affection, but he didn’t speak again. He simply nodded and left.

***

Dinner was a solemn affair, and not for Marjie only. Sorrel felt too ill to join them. Mariposa and Jason were the only Jonquils who had not yet departed following The Gathering several days earlier. Marion was near enough to her confinement that Layton remained at Farland Meadows. Only Harold, who had joined them for dinner, spoke. He quoted and expounded upon the thirty-first Psalm until Marjie was ready to strangle him.

Mariposa saved her the trouble. “We had a rooster once that was very much like Señor Harold,” she said to no one in particular. “He made a great deal of noise and spoke very much, though almost no one heeded him.” She lifted a forkful of fish but paused before putting it in her mouth. “He was delicious.”

Jason sputtered but managed to hold back a laugh. Marjie genuinely smiled for the first time in days.

Harold raised an obviously disapproving eyebrow and continued eating in blessed silence.

Marjie liked Harold, for the most part. He had a good heart, as all the brothers did, but he also had the unfortunate tendency to become prosy. At that moment, the family needed compassion more than sermonizing.

Mater, who had not spoken a word all day, quite suddenly broke her silence. “I cannot bear this.” A thread of determination ran through her words. “I have been a horrid, unfeeling mother.”

“Mater?” Jason’s confusion echoed Marjie’s and, based on the looks on the others’ faces, everyone else’s as well. “How can you say such a thing?”

“I tried to not be emotional or to appear upset. I tried to ease his way. Stanley was unhappy enough. I tried to be impersonal as Philip suggested so as not to add to Stanley’s struggles. But I am his mother, by the stars. There should be nothing impersonal about that.” She set her fork down with an audible clink.

Mariposa nodded with her characteristic conviction. “Philip is a man.” She waved a hand, dismissing and condemning all in one gesture. “These men, they do not understand anything.”

Again, Harold’s eyebrow lifted. Jason grinned.

“‘Act like your heart is made of stone,’ Philip says to you. ‘Señor Stanley will be happier if his family treats him like a rag they will not miss at all.’ I told Philip that he was, of all the men in the world, the most stupid. I threw my arms around Stanley and wept because my heart was weeping. You English, you are too afraid of emotions. You fight against your feelings.” Mariposa shook her head and shrugged. “Of all things, a person ought to feel. Without feelings, what are we? We are nothing more than moving paintings.”

Like a rag they will not miss at all. Marjie had stood stoically as she’d made her farewells, saying nothing personal or tender, simply stating that she would read his letters. Stanley must wonder if she cared for him at all.

“I have to see him once more.” Mater looked from Jason to Harold and back again. “Please, boys. One of you must accompany me to London. I would be but a day behind him and could arrive, God willing, before he departs for the Continent.”

“Of course you must go,” Mariposa said. “This is not a question.”

“I cannot leave Sorrel, but she is not well enough to travel.” Mater’s brow furrowed at the complication. “And Marion is near her time. Layton will worry.”

“Mariposa and I will stay here,” Jason said. Marjie had thought, from the moment they were introduced, that Jason had the voice of a barrister—logical, calm, and very persuasive. “We will send to Havenworth for Clara. Being a mother already, she will know what is to be done should either of our sisters-in-law have need while you are away.”

Mater turned to Harold, the expectation in her eyes unmistakable.

“I can be ready to depart in the morning, if that is what you wish,” he said.

Mater nodded, the lines of her face easing with relief. Instantly, Marjie began formulating a plan. She simply had to find a way to be included in the journey.

The family removed to the sitting room after their meal. Though there likely was a more elegant way of making her request, Marjie had not the patience to formulate one. She sat beside Mater, took a breath for courage, and pressed forward. “I wish to ask a favor,” she said.

Mater met her eyes with a gaze deeply kind and maternal. “You wish to join me on my journey to London, I’d wager.”

She wanted to explain, to lay bare the reasons her own farewell to Stanley had been insufficient. She wanted to reassure Mater that she would not be a burden during the journey. Her words, however, caught in her throat. All she could do was nod and blink back the mingled relief and sadness and worry that sat so heavily upon her mind.

“I will ask Harold to arrive early,” Mater said. “We will waste not a moment.”

Marjie rose once more. “I will go begin my preparations, then we need not be delayed.” She left quickly, pushed onward by the hope that she would see her beloved one more time and could tell all that was in her heart. He needed to know that he was loved, and she needed him to understand how precious he was to her.

Upon reaching her bedchamber, she made a discovery that distracted her from her purpose: a single white rose on her dressing table and a folded, sealed missive beside it.

Her name was printed in blocky handwriting across the front. He had written to her, just as he had promised. Even before he had promised. The letter had to have been composed before their very brief, all-too-formal leave-taking.

She opened it, desperate for this small connection to him.

My dearest Marjie,

She lowered herself onto her bed, hearing that tender greeting echo in her mind in his voice.

Writing with my left hand is a slow process. I have begun this letter a full week before Colonel Falwell is scheduled to arrive in the hope that it will be completed before I leave for France.

I have just now retired for the night after spending the afternoon amongst my fellow soldiers. Did I thank you for that? I’d like to think I did, but am certain I did not do so enough. You have given me something to cling to as I contemplate returning to that life I disliked in so many ways. I had, until this day, forgotten how truly good were the men I served among.

But still, Marjie noted, he did not say how good he himself was, nor that he had done some good for his men. She was grateful to have helped but felt something of a failure in spite of that small triumph.

Colonel Falwell has just come and gone, and I find myself preparing to depart. Are you upset with me? I wonder. Perhaps you are disappointed. I hope in time you will understand why I must return.

She did understand, and she applauded his integrity. If only her circumstances had permitted her to lay claim to that loyalty herself. But life had placed them both in an untenable situation. They could not be together but could not bear to be apart.

My bedchamber is once again packed and emptied of much that identifies it as having belonged to me. A soldier is, by nature, a nomad, a wanderer without a home. I should have liked to have had one though. I would, if I were able, choose a home with a vast stretch of land in some quiet and peaceful place. I find myself picturing a great many sheep.

A moment’s laugh bubbled in her heart. She knew him well enough to recognize the remark as a humorous one. She hoped that meant his spirits were not entirely low.

I shall picture you in a home just like that, joyous and content. In doing so, I will worry for you less and will be at peace, knowing you are happy.

Take care, my dearest Marjie. Do not allow your sister to torment you with her defensiveness. Give Mater a hug from her “sweet Stanley.” And whatever else you may do, write to me.

With all my love,

I remain your affectionate and devoted

Stanley

Marjie pressed the letter to her heart and closed her eyes. How perfectly she could picture the pastoral scene he had described. She could see him there as peaceful as he’d imagined she would be in such a setting. He deserved that more than she did. In returning to a life he disliked so much, one that burdened him so strenuously, he was not likely to find the peace he sought. She would content herself with knowing he had that dream of an imaginary sanctuary among the hills to which he might escape.

She would see him soon. She refused to believe they would be too late. All she asked was one more embrace, a kiss of farewell, and the chance to tell him she loved him. If she could have that, she could, somehow, someday, find a way of making her own peace with the too-often cruel hand of fate.