Chapter Two
HOW LONG HAD he been like this?
Gavin felt as if he were immersed in a deep pond. Often he sank to the still, dark bottom, knowing nothing and caring even less. But at intervals he would float closer to the surface, near enough to hear and feel—or was he only dreaming? All the while, that flimsy barrier between sleep and consciousness remained strangely impenetrable. Certain sensations could pass through it to reach him, but for him to break through required greater effort than he could muster.
Among his few connections with the waking world, were those voices—one softly pleading, the other fiercely challenging. They seemed to wage a tug-of-war over him. At times he longed to flee them both in search of peace, though he sensed they would follow and continue to plague him until one or the other prevailed.
Besides, he had heard a third voice—that of his fallen comrade. It reminded him of urgent unfinished business.
That reminder gave Gavin the strength to pry open his eyes and look around him. He found he was not lying in a pool of warm water after all, but tucked up in his own bedchamber back at Edgecombe. It must be very late at night for the room was wrapped in deep shadows with only the fitful flicker of a single candle to relieve the darkness.
How had he come to Edgecombe? Gavin plundered his memory for the answer to that question. The last thing he recalled with any clarity was the cavalry charge at Waterloo.
In the stillness of the darkened room, he fancied he could hear echoes from the battlefield—the rolling thunder of horses’ hooves punctuated by the crash of artillery, the crack of rifle fire and the cries of wounded soldiers. The whiff of gunpowder, sweating horses and blood seemed only a breath away.
While those sensations hovered, just out of reach, the tumultuous emotions of that day seized hold of his heart once again. First came the grim satisfaction of being on the move and able to strike a blow at last after frustrating hours of waiting. Then he relived the fierce rush of triumph as their charge turned the tide of battle, bringing hope to the beleaguered infantry. Beneath both of those churned a sickening sense of futility that his men should be fighting and dying once again, scarcely a year after their last hard-won “victory.”
A spasm of alarm caught him by the throat when he realized some of the hussars had ridden too far and risked being cut off from retreat. Among those were his commander, General Beresford, and his dearest friend, Anthony Molesworth.
A faint sound and a flicker of movement from nearby wrenched Gavin away from the battlefield and thrust him back into the shadowed tranquility of his bedchamber. His gaze flew toward a slender figure slouched in an armchair beside his bed.
It took him a moment to recognize Hannah Fletcher. Even then, part of him had trouble believing it could be her. Amid his hazy memories of recent days, he had one vivid recollection of Miss Fletcher’s face. Her fierce blue glare had accused him of all manner of shortcomings that he could not deny.
Was that why she had chosen to sit a vigil by his bedside—so she could be on hand the moment he woke to take him to task for all his failings? She need not have put herself to the trouble. His own conscience was capable of reproaching him with greater severity than even his son’s formidable governess.
Not that she looked very formidable at the moment, Gavin had to admit. Seeing her features softened and relaxed in sleep, he judged them a good deal more attractive than he ever had before. Strands of honey-colored hair had fallen loose from the severe braided knot in which she usually wore it, gently framing her face. She looked far younger than her years and rather vulnerable. Her pallor and the dark smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes heightened that impression and roused Gavin’s protective instincts in spite of him.
He wondered how long Miss Fletcher had been sitting by his bedside. Ever since he’d reached Edgecombe? And how long ago had that been? Days? Weeks?
Could one of the voices that had pierced his darkness and ordered him to live have belonged to his son’s brisk, disapproving governess? That would not have surprised him. But what about the other voice—the gentle, coaxing one? Could that have belonged to his wife? A returning memory struck Gavin a stinging blow and warned him it could not have been Clarissa he’d heard.
He tried to stifle a groan, but it escaped his lips before he could clamp them shut.
Faint though it was, the sound brought Miss Fletcher bolt upright in her chair, her eyes wide with alarm and her features tensed in a look of urgent concern.
Could that worried expression be on his account? Gavin wondered. Surely not. In all his life, no one had ever looked so anxious about his well-being.
“Sorry I woke you.” It cost him considerable effort to produce that softly rasped apology.
To his astonishment, he was rewarded by a complete transformation of Miss Fletcher’s face. The corners of her mouth flew upward in a smile of almost blinding radiance, while her eyes glittered like the dew on bluebell petals at the break of dawn.
“You’re awake!” She surged up from the chair to clasp his hand with a degree of fervor Gavin would never have expected from her. “You’re alive!”
Her first exclamation of relief muted to a sigh of prayerful thanksgiving. “What a mercy.”
Gavin scarcely knew what to make of the lady’s reaction. If Miss Fletcher cared in the least whether he lived or died, he had assumed she would favor the latter. He never imagined a simple thing like his return to consciousness would provoke such a joyful outburst from her. Yet the tone of her voice, husky with unaccustomed emotion, betrayed the fact that she was the woman who had hovered nearby, tending him and pleading with him to live.
The clasp of her hands around his was a strangely familiar sensation and a surprisingly welcome one. The gesture made no demands on him, nor did it judge him. It only seemed to celebrate his continued existence.
But no sooner had he begun to savor the feeling than Miss Fletcher abruptly let go. “I beg your pardon, sir! I did not mean to take such a liberty. I was only half-awake and not in full possession of my wits.”
What was she making such a fuss about? Gavin wondered. He was not offended by her unexpected gesture. On the contrary, it seemed to infuse him with fresh life.
“I was so pleased to see you awake at last,” Miss Fletcher rattled on, more flustered than he had ever seen her. “I forgot my place. I assure you nothing of the sort will happen again.”
Her place? The woman had never seemed concerned about that before. From what he could recall, she had been almost as much mistress of Edgecombe as his wife. The thought of Clarissa raised questions that demanded answers while he was still sufficiently awake to ask. “How long… have I been… like this?”
“Three days, sir.” Miss Fletcher stepped away from the bed as she spoke, her gaze avoiding his. Her face, so pale just a moment ago, suddenly looked flushed. “Or was it four? Ever since you collapsed at her ladyship’s… funeral.”
The instant that final word left her lips, she grimaced, as if wishing she could take it back.
So he had arrived in time for Clarissa’s funeral. A brief flicker of satisfaction was quenched by a surge of guilt that he had not been in time to prevent his wife’s death.
Gavin turned his mind from that troubling thought to one that promised welcome diversion. “The battle… was it a victory?”
He must find out before the darkness overcame him again. Perhaps Bonaparte had been killed on the field and he could rest a little easier.
Miss Fletcher nodded. “Waterloo was a great victory for the Alliance. Word arrived yesterday, and the church bells rang for so long I am surprised they did not wake you. The French army is in retreat with the Duke of Wellington and Prince Blücher chasing them to Paris. I hope it will put an end to this wretched war once and for all!”
Relieved as Gavin was by news of the victory, Miss Fletcher’s final pronouncement sent a qualm of misgiving rippling through him. Waterloo was a good beginning, but there could be many more lives lost before peace was secured. As the French army retreated, Bonaparte would be able to consolidate his forces while the Alliance would need to stretch theirs thin in order to secure the country through which they advanced toward Paris.
Lasting peace would never be possible while Bonaparte remained at liberty. Gavin knew he had a vow to keep. And he must keep it, no matter the cost.
It was all very well that the army had been victorious, Hannah reflected. But why must the earl inquire about military matters before asking about his children?
Hard as she tried, she could not quench a spark of her old antagonism toward him. She told herself not to be so foolish. His lordship was awake at last, with wit and energy enough to speak. Was that not what she had prayed for during these past anxious days and nights? Surely his thoughts would turn to his children soon enough.
A strenuous examination of her conscience forced Hannah to admit she was partly vexed that the earl had opened his eyes just when she’d closed hers. She had only meant to rest them for a moment, but fatigue had gotten the better of her.
Now she berated herself for the lapse. What had been the point of sitting up with her patient night after night if she could not remain alert to keep watch over him and respond if he needed her? Worse yet, his lordship had caught her in the failure of her duty. She had compounded her disgrace by seizing hold of his hand and crying out her relief at finding him awake. What must he think of her for behaving in such a forward manner?
In response to her report of the battle, Lord Hawkehurst nodded. “Lasting peace is my wish, too, Miss Fletcher. And of many others, I am certain.”
His words came as a relief to Hannah. When the earl had returned to Edgecombe the previous year, he’d seemed distracted and restless, as if he could not fully embrace a life of peace. Perhaps his latest taste of warfare had made him ready to settle down to family life at last.
The earl seemed to rally his strength to continue. “I fear any hope of lasting peace will be in vain as long as Bonaparte remains free to plot his next conquest. The man must be stopped!”
His right hand clenched into a fist, which he pounded on the bed with some force. The instant he did, his features twisted in a grimace of pain.
Hannah chided herself for getting him started on a subject that provoked such strong feelings. The earl needed to stay quiet to give his wound a chance to heal. “I am certain he will be, sir. The Duke of Wellington will see to it.”
Hoping her assurance would calm his lordship, she sought to divert his mind to less troubling subjects. “Now that you are awake, you must be hungry and thirsty. Dr. Hodge recommended beef tea to help you regain your strength. Let me heat some for you.”
For the next little while, Hannah busied herself pouring a quantity of broth into a long-handled copper saucepan then warming it over the glowing coals in the hearth. She hoped by the time it was ready, Lord Hawkehurst would have grown calmer.
Perhaps his outburst had tired the earl, for he lay still and silent while she prepared his beef tea. Was he beginning to wonder what she was doing here? The Edgecombe servants, and even the doctor, might not question her decision to the earl. But now that he was aware of her presence, Lord Hawkehurst might have a very different opinion on the subject.
After several minutes, Hannah tested the beef tea with her finger to make certain it was warm enough to be appetizing but not so hot that it might burn his lordship’s mouth. Then she decanted it into a spouted cup, which she bore back to his bed.
As she brought it toward him, the earl scowled. “I am not an infant, Miss Fletcher. Now that I am conscious, I am perfectly capable of feeding myself.”
Hannah bit back a sharp retort. It had been a good deal easier to feel caring and protective toward Lord Hawkehurst while he lay unconscious. Now he turned his dark gaze on her and spoke in a gruff parade-ground tone, as if he expected his every order to be obeyed without question. On top of her exhaustion and grief, his imperious manner stirred up turbulent feelings that she was hard-pressed to subdue.
“As you wish,” she replied through gritted teeth. “If you believe you are equal to the effort.”
She drew back and watched his lordship struggle to sit up. From the way he moved, she could tell he was weaker than he’d realized, and perhaps light-headed as well.
“Don’t just stand there.” He seemed vexed at being forced to ask for help. “A little assistance, if you please.”
“Of course, sir.” His request brought Hannah a flicker of satisfaction, but she took care to conceal it. Instead, she set the cup on a nearby table then slipped her arm beneath his for support.
Several times during the past days, she had lifted the earl’s head to give him a drink and thought nothing of it. Now that he was aware of the contact between them, she found herself intensely conscious of it as well. With an awkward effort, she adjusted his pillows then helped him lean back against them.
When she offered him the spouted invalid cup, his lip curled. “I would prefer to eat with a spoon from a proper bowl.”
Keeping her mouth firmly shut, Hannah poured the broth into a bowl and fetched his lordship a spoon. Then she stood back and watched him try to feed himself. As he raised the spoon to his lips, his hand trembled. Some of the beef tea spilled onto the breast of his nightshirt.
He muttered something under his breath. A curse, perhaps?
“Would you like my help, sir?” she inquired.
“I can manage.”
He persisted, though Hannah wondered whether he was getting more of the broth on his nightshirt than into his stomach. Exasperated as she was with his stubborn independence, she could not help but admire it, just a little.
She did not want to admire anything about the Earl of Hawkehurst, Hannah reminded herself. She had cared for him well, perhaps even tenderly, while his survival was in doubt. She’d done her best to forget the veiled hostility that had existed between them and all the complaints her poor mistress had voiced about him. Seeing him awake, gruff and obstinate as ever, she could no longer forget.
“Now that you have inquired about the military situation, perhaps you would care to know how your children are faring.” She sank back down onto the chair beside his lordship’s bed, her spine stiff as a poker.
“My children.” The earl’s voice lingered over that word as if it referred to something strange and possibly frightening. “Your letter arrived just as my regiment was summoned from Nivelle. We were obliged to ride through the night to Waterloo. I did not have an opportunity to read it until just before the battle. By then it was too late to…”
His voice trailed off, and for the next few moments he concentrated on spooning the beef tea into his mouth as if his life depended on it.
Did he expect some response from her? Hannah sat stubbornly mute. Clearly she’d been wrong to assume Lord Hawkehurst had deliberately ignored her summons to his wife’s deathbed. Still she could not bring herself to say anything to soothe his conscience. It was up to God to forgive him, not her.
Finally his lordship broke the brittle silence that had descended between them. “I tucked your letter into my sabretache before the charge. It must still be there.”
Must he bring everything back to military subjects? Hannah pressed her lips tightly together to keep from saying something she might regret. No matter what her opinion of the earl, she must try not to increase the antagonism between them. Otherwise he might decide to engage a more congenial governess for his children.
“My wife was delivered of twins.” The spoon in his hand trembled again. Had he overtaxed his strength already? “A boy and a girl, I believe you wrote.”
“That is correct, sir. Her ladyship asked to have them christened Alice and Arthur. In honor of her late mother and His Grace the Duke of Wellington.” A lump rose in Hannah’s throat as she recalled the vicar performing the sacrament at the bedside of the children’s dying mother.
When she managed to get her voice under control, she added, “Her ladyship requested I stand as their godmother.”
Though she was able to keep her voice from quavering, Hannah could not prevent a note of defiance from creeping into her tone. Being a godparent conferred certain obligations and rights regarding the child’s upbringing, especially if one or both parents were deceased. It was an honor usually bestowed on a relative or close friend of the family. Among the nobility, it was customary to ask someone of higher rank. Certainly not a mere governess.
“Did she?” There could be no mistaking the earl’s disapproval as he scowled down at his beef tea. “I suppose there was no one more suitable at hand. How have the little ones been faring? Are they well?”
Hannah gave a stiff nod. “As well as can be expected under the circumstances, sir. I placed them with wet nurses. They seem to be thriving.”
“Very good. And Lord Edgecombe?”
“Your son is well enough in body but very much affected by the loss of his dear mother, as you may imagine.”
The earl would have to imagine his young son’s feelings for Hannah was under no illusion that he shared them. From the moment he’d regained consciousness, Lord Hawkehurst had shown far more interest in whether Napoleon Bonaparte still lived than the fact that his wife had died.
“Indeed.” His lordship’s voice sounded suddenly weary. His hand sank onto the bedcovers, the spoon lightly grasped between his fingers. “I have had enough of this beef tea. Kindly take it away.”
Hannah doubted he had managed to feed himself half as much as he might have eaten with her help.
“Is there anything else I can fetch or do for you, sir?” she asked as she retrieved the bowl and spoon. “A clean nightshirt, perhaps?”
The instant she asked the question, Hannah wished she could take it back. She had not been able to resist the urge to remind Lord Hawkehurst that his stubbornness was responsible for the state of that damp, stained garment. As a consequence, she had left herself open to a most awkward possibility. If his lordship agreed to her suggestion, she would either have to go wake the footman or assist the earl herself.
“That will not be necessary,” he replied, to her vast relief. “It can wait until morning. Then I will want a footman to help me wash and shave as well.”
“I will make the arrangements, sir.” Hannah returned to the bed to help him lie down again, but he warned her away with a stern look.
With obvious effort, he inched down in the bed until he lay nearly flat again. By the time he was settled, his eyelids were beginning to droop.
When Hannah resumed her seat beside his bed, the earl shot an exasperated glance in her direction. “I have no intention of dying, Miss Fletcher, so there is no need for you to watch over me. Go to your own bed and get a proper sleep. You look as if you could use it.”
No sooner had he finished speaking than his eyes fell shut.
“I will, sir.” Hannah replied, though she did not stir from the chair. “If you insist.”
As she expected, no such insistence came. Lord Hawkehurst’s fierce features gradually relaxed and his breath soon came in slow, deep waves.
An answering sigh escaped Hannah’s lips. In part it expressed her relief and gratitude that the earl seemed likely to live. But it also contained a note of frustration. Now that he was conscious, she feared her master’s stubborn independence might prove the greatest obstacle to his recovery.
Gavin could not remember closing his eyes. But when he opened them again the room was bathed in muted red-gold light. This waking did not disorient him as the last one had. He recalled his late-night conversation with his son’s governess and his pitiful effort to feed himself.
“Good morning, sir.” Hannah Fletcher’s greeting made him start, provoking a sharp twinge in his wounded side.
Had she deliberately tried to startle him in retaliation for catching her napping last night?
“What are you still doing here, Miss Fletcher?” he demanded. “I thought I ordered you to bed.”
“You did mention it, sir.” She tried to smother a yawn but failed. “I asked if you insisted, but you did not.”
Gavin scowled. As colonel of a regiment, he was accustomed to being readily obeyed. “I am not in the habit of giving orders I do not insist upon. I expect you know that. Why did you choose to ignore me?”
“As I said, sir—”
He did not need to hear her excuse again. “From now on, you may take my insistence for granted. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, sir.” Her answer sounded meek enough, but a mutinous tilt of her chin suggested otherwise.
If he was not careful, Miss Hannah Fletcher might soon be running his household and him along with it, just the way she had with his wife. An unexpected pang of sympathy for Clarissa stung his heart. Poor creature, overborne by two strong-willed people with very different ideas.
“Good.” Gavin wished he could stand. It was difficult to exert the proper authority while he lay flat on his back and had to look up at Miss Fletcher. Not to mention that the woman had recently seen him at his most helpless. It rankled his pride and inflamed his temper.
As this point in a conversation with him, any of his junior officers would have had the good sense to hold their tongues and make themselves scarce at the earliest opportunity. It seemed his son’s governess had less discretion… or perhaps more courage.
“I can assure your lordship it was never my intention to disregard your orders,” she insisted. “When you went to sleep so quickly, I was afraid you might have fallen unconscious again. I felt it would be unwise to leave you alone in case you took a turn for the worse.”
So she had disobeyed him for his own good? It made Gavin feel rather a fool for speaking sharply to her. So did the vague memory of having been tenderly cared for while he was incapacitated.
“What do you mean fallen unconscious again?” He did not recall any waking before last night.
“The night before last. Or was it two?” Clearly exhaustion had muddled Miss Fletcher’s memory. Gavin had seen the effect often during the grueling Peninsular campaign. “You began speaking quite clearly, as if you were awake. But you did not appear to know where you were. You addressed someone named… Molsely? Molesby?”
“Molesworth.” The name burst from Gavin’s lips before he could contain it.
“That’s right.” Miss Fetcher rubbed her eyes. It made Gavin weary just to look at her. “You kept telling him not to go. You said the two of you must put a stop to Bonaparte.”
Her words revived a wrenching memory. If she had struck him hard on his injured side, Gavin doubted it could have hurt worse. But it was worth the pain to be reminded of his vow and his mission. Valuable time had already been lost while he’d lain here useless.
“If I might ask, sir,” she continued, “who is Mr. Molesworth?”
“You may not ask!” Gavin snapped. “And he is… was Major Molesworth.”
Before the impertinent creature had the audacity to quiz him further, he seized command of the situation. “Enough of this, Miss Fletcher. I am in full possession of my faculties now and I want you to summon a footman to help me make myself presentable.”
He wished his aide-de-camp had been able to accompany him back from Waterloo. Then he would never have been placed in the awkward position of being tended to by Miss Fletcher. But the lad had sustained wounds of his own, so Gavin had insisted he stay behind to recover.
In case the governess should be in any doubt about whether he meant to be obeyed, he added, “I insist upon it.”
“Yes, sir.” Hannah Fletcher shot to her feet, her spine stiff and straight as a ramrod. Gavin half expected her to snap a mocking salute. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“As a matter of fact, there will. I want breakfast ordered. Not gruel or broth or jelly, but a substantial meal that will put some strength back in me—eggs and bread and meat.”
Miss Fletcher’s lips, which had looked so soft and innocent while she slept, now tightened in a frown of disapproval. “Are you certain that will be wise, sir?”
“It is not for you to question the wisdom of my instructions, Miss Fletcher, only to carry them out at once. I also want the newspapers fetched so I can find out how the situation in Europe stands.”
She did not agree with that, either. Though she managed to hold her tongue, Miss Fletcher’s countenance expressed her opinion most eloquently.
“Very well, sir.” She started for the door.
“One more thing,” he called after her.
She came to an abrupt halt.
“And what might that be, your lordship?” she inquired through clenched teeth.
“After you have carried out my other instructions, get to bed and do not stir from it for at least eight hours. Or better yet, ten. I reckon you look worse for this whole ordeal than I do.”
She stalked away without another word—at least none he was meant to hear.
But as she withdrew from the room, Gavin thought he overheard her mutter, “That’s because you have not looked in a mirror lately.”
For reasons he could not fathom, her insult made him break into a foolish grin.