Chapter Twenty-One

Stanley muttered an oath under his breath at the look of shocked understanding that crossed his brothers’ faces. He hadn’t intended to confess to any of this. Blast the House of Lords. He had always been more likely to spill his secrets to Philip and Layton than to any of his other brothers.

“You lost your leg?” Philip asked after the uncomfortable silence had stretched out overly long.

“I hate that expression.” There would be no avoiding an explanation now. He felt too weary to even attempt it. “It sounds as if I misplaced the deuced thing. ‘Now, where did I put my leg? I was so certain it was right here.’” He would have rolled his eyes if he’d been one for such a theatrical expression. “I didn’t lose it. I know exactly where it is.”

“Where is it?” Again, Layton’s tone indicated he was searching for answers to more than just the question he’d asked out loud.

“My men buried it under a tree in Belgium.” He refused to break into tears again. “Pluck turned it into an overblown ceremony. They eulogized the devil out of that stupid leg and wept like it was their mothers they were burying.”

More like every fellow soldier they’d lost and mourned for. Only sixty-five of the 260 men in the Thirteenth who had gone into battle the morning of Waterloo had returned at the end of that single, horrific day of battle. Some were dead, some wounded. Some were simply never found. Stanley knew the men who’d buried his leg hadn’t been weeping over the lifeless hunk of flesh. They were simply crying out as human beings puzzled and pained at the inhumanity of war. Though they all understood the necessity of the fight, the aftermath was difficult to endure.

“It was even given a headstone—not everyone who died at Waterloo was granted that. It was just a rock with a poem scratched onto it.

‘Here lies our dear captain’s leg.

‘It didn’t stand a chance.

‘Turns out his leg was luckiest.

‘The rest of him’s in France.’”

At Philip’s crack of laughter, Stanley felt a smile tug at his mouth. It was a rather witty inscription. None of them had been too keen on the idea of marching to Paris.

“Pluck said they spent an entire night composing the epitaph. As I understand it, they were thoroughly foxed by the time they finished their little poem.”

Philip’s grin tipped lopsidedly. “Oh, I am certain spirits played a vital role in that composition.”

“Where was your leg amputated?” Layton asked. “And don’t say ‘Belgium,’” he quickly added in the instant before Stanley opened his mouth to say precisely that. “I mean, where on your leg?”

“Just below the knee,” Stanley said. The subject was proving less horrific to discuss than he’d anticipated. At least Layton and Philip didn’t look disgusted or disturbed. He had yet to see a look remotely resembling pity.

“You have acquired some kind of prosthesis, then.”

Stanley acknowledged Layton’s statement with a nod of his head.

“How did it happen?”

Stanley looked at Philip, though Layton had asked the question. Philip had grown strangely quiet. He watched Stanley closely but didn’t say a word.

“Cannon shot.” The familiar sounds and smells echoed in Stanley’s memory, but he pushed on. “Took Shadow right out from under me.”

“I wondered what happened to your horse,” Layton said.

“Most of my leg came off right there on the field, stripped down to fractured bone and some scraps of flesh. Only one of the lower leg bones remained entirely intact, though my foot was entirely whole. War is like that. Some things are destroyed completely while others are left untouched.” He could feel his mood slipping once more. Talk of warfare always dragged him back there.

“I think I will commission Pluck to write a poem in honor of my chest,” Philip said quite suddenly.

Layton laughed in obvious surprise. “Your chest?”

“Certainly.” Philip once again wore his remarkably thorough mask of featherheaded carelessness. “The perfection of my chest was quite irrevocably flawed, you know. I have a battle scar.” His pomposity was so overblown, Stanley didn’t for an instant take his assertion seriously.

“You mean that little scratch you got at Kinnley?” Layton drawled.

Stanley very nearly laughed at Philip’s theatrical look of shock. “Scratch? I was shot.”

“Well, hand me a handkerchief before I’m soaked with tears,” Stanley said dryly. “I have been shot hundreds of times.” The actual number was seven, but he was enjoying the air of exaggeration that had descended on their conversation. His spirits were certainly rallying, something he found difficult to do on his own.

“I can see you have absolutely no appreciation for what has become of me.” With that mock-offended declaration, Philip stood and began tugging at his cravat, his jacket having been off since before Stanley’s arrival.

“What are you doing, Flip?” Layton asked.

Philip tossed his cravat onto his chair and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. “I will have my poem if we have to write it here in the House of Lords. Find a pen and paper, Stanley.” Philip worked at the buttons of his shirtsleeves.

“No one needs to see this.” But Layton was laughing. “We want Stanley to fill out, not lose weight because you’ve made him retch.”

Philip had begun untucking. “I believe best would be an appropriate rhyme for chest. Write that down.”

Stanley laughed out loud. “With what? There are no writing implements at hand, and I refuse to hobble around looking for one.”

“Impressed would work as well.”

“How about obsessed?” Layton suggested. “That rhymes.”

“You, my brother, are not a poet.” Philip pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it on top of his abandoned cravat. “Now,” he dramatically indicated the very obvious scar high on the left side of his chest, “does this not inspire a composition?”

“As a matter of fact,” Layton said, “I feel a verse coming on.” He cleared his throat.

“My brother Flip went searching ’round

“For what he could not find.

“For the more he looked and searched and sought,

“The more he lost his mind.” Layton ended with an exaggerated smirk.

“Well done, Layton,” Stanley said.

“Atrocious!” Philip’s entire face twisted in disapproval. “You did not spare a single syllable for the spoiled splendor of my chest. Try again.”

“‘Spoiled splendor?’ That’s taking things a bit far, don’t you think?” Layton shook his head. “It looks like you simply spilled something on yourself and haven’t bothered to clean it up. The scar isn’t even that interesting.”

“I suppose you are in possession of a very ‘interesting’ scar?” Philip’s look of condescension pulled another laugh from Stanley.

“Yes, on my left leg,” Layton said.

“If you take your trousers off, I really will start retching,” Stanley said.

“Lower leg.” Layton propped his left foot on the footstool in front of his chair and began rolling back his pant leg. A thin, zigzagging scar ran nearly six inches down the side of Layton’s calf.

“Oh, please,” Philip said. “That is hardly noticeable.”

“It may be lighter than yours, Philip, but what it lacks in pigment it makes up for in character.”

“And what do you propose we rhyme with leg?” Philip asked with a flamboyant gesture of annoyance.

“Poached egg,” Stanley offered.

All three brothers burst out laughing.

“I had no idea the House of Lords conducted its business half naked.”

Stanley recognized that voice. Based on the looks of barely concealed amusement, so did Philip and Layton.

“Holy Harry,” Philip said under his breath.

“Great, Flip,” Layton muttered back. “Now we’re going to get preached to.”

Stanley glanced toward the door and had to bite his lips against another wave of laughter. Holy Harry was in fine form, his right eyebrow raised to precisely the correct level of clerical disapproval.

“We stand before you,” Philip said with the air of one making a very difficult confession, “guilty of the very great transgression of coveting our brother’s injury-inspired poem. We were attempting to compose poetry of our own in order to relieve the weight of envy upon our souls.”

Harold swept them with the look—the one he’d perfected not long after taking his first steps—the look that had clearly indicated he was destined to be a very devoted servant of the church. “And your penance involves removing various articles of clothing?”

“Of course,” Philip answered in all seriousness. “Inspiration, you see.”

“I am absolutely certain Byron composes his works in varying states of undress.” The mischief in Layton’s eyes very nearly broke Stanley’s rigid hold on his laughter. Holy Harry would certainly not approve of the infamous Lord Byron.

“These are all poems written to your scars?” Harold still hadn’t moved from his perch in the doorway. His gaze shifted to each of them in turn.

“Except Layton’s. His doesn’t really count.”

Harold didn’t acknowledge Philip’s jab at their brother. Stanley seemed to be Harold’s focus at the moment. For perhaps the first time in Harold’s life, Stanley saw a remarkable resemblance between Harold and Layton. He had that same soul-searching look on his face but with such a mixture of vicarly concern that Stanley couldn’t help fidgeting under the scrutiny.

“I have a scar.” Harold stepped farther into the room.

“Please let it be someplace hard to get to.” Philip actually steepled his hands as if directing the wish heavenward.

Layton attempted to cover his laughter with a cough. Stanley held back a smile.

Harold, having joined the rest of them near the fireplace, pushed back his collar a bit and tipped his head so his jaw on the left side was more visible. A line of white ran along it, probably two inches in length.

“What happened?” Philip examined the old scar.

“I was shoved into the stream on the north end of the Park. I cut my jaw on a rock at the bottom.”

“What did you do to provoke your attacker?” Layton asked.

Stanley could think of any number of times Harold had annoyed every one of his brothers enough to warrant a dunking.

“I—” Harold was suddenly terribly red and stammering. He cleared his throat. “I kissed her.”

Philip’s eyes and mouth made three wide Os on his face. Layton’s expression wasn’t any less astonished.

“Whom did you kiss?” Philip’s eyes were glued to Harold.

Their usually somber brother grew even redder.

“If you don’t tell us, we’ll simply speculate,” Layton warned.

“And go about asking everyone until we find the poor female,” Philip added.

Harold tugged a bit at his cravat. In a voice that sounded rather strangled, he said, “Sarah Sarvol.”

“Bridget’s cousin?” Layton looked stuck between baffled surprise and outright amusement. For many years, Layton hadn’t been able to speak of his late wife with anything other than tremendous sadness. He’d healed enough to speak of her family without noticeable pain. “They haven’t visited from America in years.”

“I know,” Harold muttered.

Stanley and his brothers exchanged looks of shock. Harold cleared his throat again, shifting about and eyeing the door.

Philip grinned at Layton. “So when are these Yankee relations of yours returning for another visit?”

“I would wager they will make the journey in another year or so.”

At Layton’s words, Harold paled beneath the blotchiness of his very uncharacteristic blush.

So Harold had had an unsuccessful flirtation, had he? It was unexpected, for sure.

“That is, unless they decide to come sooner, which I have heard from Mr. Sarvol is entirely possible.”

Again Harold’s coloring grew worse.

“Sarah’s brother, Scott, is Sarvol’s heir,” Layton said. “There is talk of him and his sister returning rather permanently so the boy can be taught to run the estate before Sarvol sticks his spoon in the wall.”

Harold spoke so abruptly he very nearly cut off Layton’s words. “I came only to tell you that Mater wishes you to know that dinner is to be served in less than an hour. Marjie said she saw Stanley riding off with an enormous black stick, and I was certain you’d called Parliament into session again.”

“Sorry you weren’t summoned, Harold,” Philip said with a grin. “With you in the clergy now, we weren’t entirely certain which House to place you in, you having great ambitions and all. The archbishops sit with the Lords, as I am sure you are aware.”

“And, as I am sure you are aware, in actuality I am only the curate of this parish.” Harold stood very much on his dignity. “I work harder than any vicar, certainly harder than the one I technically work for now, and though I have heard you explain to people that I am a vicar, you know perfectly well I am not. Not yet. I am too young. So I work, and I wait.”

“Patience is a virtue.” Philip spoke as though he was informing Harold of a great truth.

“As is”—Harold pointedly looked at Philip’s unclothed chest—“modesty.”

“And let us not underestimate the beneficial nature of a quick dip in a cold stream.” Philip wiggled an eyebrow at Harold.

Their very staid brother turned on his heel and left the gatehouse without a backward glance. The exaggerated rigidness of his posture told Stanley Harold wasn’t nearly as composed nor as indignant as he wished to let on. Talk of Miss Sarah Sarvol had thoroughly discomposed him.

“I, for one, am shocked.” Philip pulled on his shirt. “Harold, kissing a female in such a manner.”

“I’m surprised Holy Harry knew how to kiss a female in any manner whatsoever,” Layton said, unrolling his pant leg. “I fully expected him to court some hapless lady by reading sermons to her.”

“Perhaps there is some Jonquil in him after all,” Philip said.

“Because he attempted to woo a young lady?” Why am I smiling so much all of a sudden? Stanley didn’t think his smile had lapsed from the moment Philip pulled off his cravat.

“No, because he mucked it up so badly,” Layton answered.

Philip nodded sagely. “The mark of a true Jonquil is the ability to do anything and everything possible, and a few things slightly impossible, to make a fool of himself in front of the fairer sex. I am certain that is part of the family motto.”

Fortitudo per Fidem. That was the family motto. Strength through Loyalty. The Jonquils were nothing if not loyal—to one another, to causes they believed in, to all that was honorable and right. It was the reason Stanley could never leave the army. It was the reason his family would never truly expect him to.

“We should head back before Mater decides to send us to the nursery without our dinner,” Philip said, having finished dressing.

Stanley pulled himself to his feet and retrieved his walking stick.

Layton stood beside him. “Thank you for telling us what you’ve been enduring,” he said quietly. “We have been imagining some vastly horrific reasons for your unhappiness.”

“It was surprisingly relieving to talk about,” Stanley admitted. “Not that I want to go on a circuit of speaking engagements.”

Philip smiled at him. “You might have to anyway. Mater ought to know.”

“Would you tell her?” Stanley asked, knowing he was being a coward. He did not, however, wish to cry in front of his mother, and he knew the moment she grew teary, he would lose his own composure again.

Philip nodded. “We’ll talk to Mater.” He looked to Layton for confirmation and received it. “Under one condition.”

“What’s that?” Stanley was instantly wary.

“You have to tell Marjie.”