Chapter Seven

Sorrel looked precisely as Marjie had described her. She sat on a chair near a tall window in the entryway, pale and still.

“Stanley is coming with us this evening,” Marjie said to her sister. Stanley could hear the edge of worry that colored her tone, though she did an admirable job of sounding casual.

“Pulled himself out of his exile, did he?” Despite the show of wit, Sorrel’s words were noticeably belabored.

Her lack of coloring and the weariness of her posture spoke volumes about the state of her health. There was no evidence of fever in her eyes. He’d learned to look for that in the army. Once illness clouded a soldier’s eyes, it was time for the doctors to intervene.

“You have a new walking stick,” Sorrel said. “A definite improvement.”

“I was told the last one was pathetic.”

She shook her head. “The last one was a concession.”

What did she mean by that? And why did his choice of walking stick matter so much to her? She had been out of patience with him since his return. She hadn’t been that way before he’d left for the Continent.

She closed her eyes and rubbed at her left temple with one hand. The other hand, Stanley noticed, was balled in a fist on her lap.

“Lady Techney, I have heard, has decorated her ballroom to look like an ancient Grecian temple.” Marjie’s words sounded forced. Her hands grasped one another, and her eyes never left her sister. “White pillared columns and hanging vines.” She continued her description as Stanley turned toward the stairs, hearing light footsteps descending.

Philip’s eyes met Stanley’s, a question evident in his expression. “How ill is she?” he whispered as he came to Stanley’s side.

“Not too bad off,” Stanley said, whispering as well. “But she is certainly unwell.” He spotted Pluck standing quietly in the shadows beside the stairwell.

“How long do you think she has before it reaches its height?” Philip asked.

Stanley suffered from the same ailment as Sorrel: recurrent fevers following a very severe injury. The shoulder wound he’d received at Orthez would begin to swell, and his entire right shoulder would grow warm to the touch. Within a few hours, his body would grow lethargic and achy. The fever would begin within a day, reaching its climax after two or three days had passed. “Two days,” Stanley answered. “Perhaps fewer.”

“Lud, I wish there were a way to get out whatever it is that keeps causing these infections,” Philip said. His eyes were on his wife, frustration pulling his mouth in a sharp line.

“But there isn’t,” Stanley said. He understood that well. The universal opinion of his own situation was that a piece of shrapnel was still embedded in his shoulder but too deeply to have been seen when the wound was originally cleaned. Should it someday work its way close to the surface, it could be removed and the fevers might stop.

“Well, time to beard the lion,” Philip said. “This is always something of a delicate undertaking.”

“She does not like being fussed over.” Stanley had seen Sorrel pull up stiff at anything she considered coddling.

“It is more that she does not like feeling broken. Reminders of her delicacy are unwelcome, to say the least.”

Stanley could appreciate that. He watched Philip cross to where Sorrel sat. No one seeing his not-a-care expression would ever guess he was worried.

“Anything else ye be needin’, Cap’n?” Pluck had slid up to him.

“Not at the moment,” Stanley answered. “But be on the ready. I have a feeling we’re about to break camp.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” A well-executed salute signaled his departure.

“Have you finished reconstructing Rome?” Sorrel was saying to Philip.

“My dear, do I look finished?” Philip scoffed. He was without his jacket, though the rest of him was done up to completion.

Sorrel’s mouth tightened, the knuckles of her fist turning white. “Someone sent for you.”

Stanley felt Marjie’s eyes on him, and he flicked his own gaze in her direction. How was it that she could look at him in such a way that every protective instinct he possessed was suddenly at the ready? He motioned her over to him. If Sorrel meant to get spitting mad, Marjie ought to be out of firing range.

“Oh, Stanley,” Marjie said.

Stanley kept his hand on his walking stick, forcing himself to ignore the temptation to pull her into his arms. She was practically engaged to another man.

“I don’t want her to be angry with me.”

“Sending for Philip was my idea,” Stanley reminded her. “I will tell your sister as much if she makes an issue of it.”

“Why would someone send for me?” Philip asked Sorrel. He raised an eyebrow as if to say he knew full well the reason but intended to make her admit that she’d kept something from him.

Sorrel looked away from him, her mouth shut in a straight line.

Philip sighed. He knelt on the floor in front of Sorrel, something no true dandy would ever do. He touched his hand to her forehead. Dropping it back to his side, he asked, “How long has this been coming on, love?”

Sorrel didn’t look back at him. “I have been a little sore this last week or so.” She waved a hand as if dismissing the complaint.

Philip took her hand and held it in front of him. “A week?” He sounded frustrated, a little upset even. “How is it that you have been ill for an entire week and didn’t tell me?”

“I haven’t actually been ill. Only sore.”

Stanley felt Marjie’s hand grasp his arm. His heart rate nearly tripled.

“It always starts with her being sore,” Marjie whispered.

“Philip will look after her,” Stanley whispered back. He laid his hand on hers, where it rested on his arm, savoring what was sure to be a fleeting moment.

“Let’s go home, Sorrel.” Philip lightly touched his wife’s face. “Lampton Park must be horribly quiet with all of us gone.”

“You had not intended to leave Town this early,” Sorrel said.

“True, I did not.”

She shook her head, slipping free of Philip’s touch. “I promised myself I wouldn’t be a burden, that I wouldn’t let my struggles, my worries be—”

Philip pressed his fingers to her mouth, stopping her words. “There are no your worries and my worries any longer. There are only ours. In this moment, our only true worry is whether or not we can pack up this ridiculously large entourage of ours before you are entirely delirious.” Stanley could hear a smile enter his brother’s tone. “Although that could be entertaining.”

Sorrel smiled indulgently but not very broadly.

Philip stood once more, holding his hand out to her. Once she was on her feet, they walked toward the stairs. Her limp was noticeably more pronounced.

Marjie’s hand tightened around Stanley’s arm. He was certain she was struggling not to “fuss,” as Philip had apparently labeled her attention to her sister’s well-being. Marjie would worry until they were back at Lampton Park, where Sorrel could rest and recover.

“Philip.” Stanley stopped him as he passed.

With his head turned toward Stanley and away from Sorrel, Philip’s face transformed from merely attentive to fully concerned, something he apparently did not wish Sorrel to see.

“If you’d like to leave in the morning, I will see to it,” Stanley said.

“Could you truly manage it?” Philip looked hopeful.

“I have helped to orchestrate massive troop movements,” Stanley said. “This will be far simpler.”

“I would appreciate it.”

Stanley nodded. “Have yourselves ready with the most basic necessities. I will see to the rest.”

“Thank you.” Philip grasped Stanley’s upper arm for just a moment before continuing to walk with Sorrel toward the stairs.

Neither Stanley nor Marjie spoke as Philip and Sorrel made their way up. Marjie laid her head against his arm. Stanley closed his eyes and simply felt her there. During the months of their separation, Stanley had easily pictured her. He had vividly remembered the scent of her and the sound of her voice. But he had been utterly unable to fully replicate in his memory the impact of her touch.

He’d tried to imagine it countless times during tedious hours of marching, on the night before Waterloo, through the excruciating pain of amputation and the horrendous weeks that had followed. Nothing had filled the void. Nothing had taken away his pain. It lingered still, gnawing away at him. But in that moment, he felt relief, however small and fleeting.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Marjie shifted and abruptly broke the contact between them.

He wanted to beg her to not step away, to tell her how desperately he needed her close to him. Do not add to her burdens, Father’s voice commanded in his mind. Stanley pushed the emotions away, reminding himself he had a task, an assignment. “Have your abigail pack enough for the journey. The rest will follow later.”

“I hope we are easier to deal with than an entire regiment of soldiers,” Marjie said, smiling at him.

“I think nearly anything would be easier than the army in wartime.” He’d meant his response to sound light, but his mind instantly filled with voices shouting over exploding cannon fire and the chaotic rush of men attempting to maintain rank and fulfill orders in the face of shattering fear. Stanley pushed it all back, reminding himself that a soldier kept marching no matter what.

“I am glad we are returning to the Park,” Marjie said.

Stanley nodded, though he didn’t agree. He had dreaded returning to a place that had always felt peaceful, knowing he brought with him too many regrets and wounds for even that haven to offer an escape.

“I should probably send Lord Devereaux a note explaining why we were not at the ball.” Marjie’s expression had grown thoughtful. “He will wonder why we did not attend.”

A surge of jealousy shot through Stanley. “Do you write to him often?”

“Actually, no. I cannot say that I have ever personally sent him a letter. Philip or Sorrel send him invitations and notes when necessary. They say it wouldn’t be proper for me to write to him because we are unwed and unrelated.”

Stanley nodded. He did have one thing Lord Devereaux did not: twenty-four letters in Marjie’s own hand. Stanley kept them with him always. “Perhaps Philip could send around a note in the morning before we leave.”

Marjie smiled once more. “I’ll ask him. In the meantime, I suppose I ought to start Jane on the packing.”

“A very good idea.” Except doing so would necessitate her leaving his side, something Stanley could not conjure any enthusiasm for.

Marjie touched his arm again. He stiffened his posture and pulled his mind out of the moment, just as he’d learned to do in the aftermath of a battle. Doing so had kept him from breaking down.

She deserves better, he reminded himself. Do not add to her burdens. Still, another part of him shouted, Rush the wall!

“Sleep well, Stanley.” Marjie’s blue eyes looked directly into his.

He nodded. “You as well.”

He stood in place, watching her as she made her way up the stairs. She reminded him of a butterfly flitting around full of energy and life. Forcing her to be his solace and comfort would drain that life from her. War did that; it destroyed everything it touched.

“Ye shoulda kissed her, Cap’n.”

Stanley jerked his head toward the sound of Pluck’s voice.

“A woman don’t look at a man like that unless she’s wantin’ some affection.” Pluck walked to where Stanley stood, the lone occupant of the very empty entryway. “This ain’t exactly my idea of stormin’ the citadel.”

“‘Rushing the wall,’ Pluck. Try to keep the metaphors straight.”

Pluck crossed his arms in front of him. Every hint of soldier had disappeared. Stanley couldn’t begin to count the number of times he’d nearly snapped, “Always a soldier” at Pluck. He never had though. Being a soldier hadn’t yet destroyed Pluck’s joie de vivre. Stanley couldn’t bring himself to be the one to turn the boy into a hardened cynic.

“Aye. So what is it you’re doin’ if ye ain’t rushin’ the wall? Maybe I weren’t in the army long enough to learn the official word for ‘just sittin’ on our bums waitin’ to be blown to bits.’”

“We are breaking camp,” Stanley said. He walked toward the book room, motioning for Pluck to follow him. Even with a limp, Stanley moved with the determination born of more than half a decade of marching across Europe. “I need you to take down a list for me.”

Stanley couldn’t write with his right hand anymore. He’d discovered, however, that telling Pluck something was as good as etching it in stone. Pluck couldn’t write much other than his own name, but he never forgot anything. He’d been utterly wasted in the artillery. The boy ought to have been in reconnaissance. In the end, Pluck had, as Stanley’s batman, been put to good use conveying information between the various commanding officers who had been charged with putting the Continent back together after nearly two decades of war.

Pluck tapped his finger against his head just above his temple. “Ready when ye are, Cap’n.”