Captain of Her Heart
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“I’ve seen the way you look at Miss Harriet. You’re besotted. Admit it, man. Your unkindness to her this morning is nothing more than vain attempt to cover it. But I’ve known you for years. And I never saw you look at Miss Sophie the way you looked at Miss Harriet when she served the tea.”
A suffocating tightness seized Brookes’s chest. “You’re mighty blunt about it, anyway.”
“You know me, Captain. I speak as I find.”
Turning his chair away from his batman and closer to the window, Brookes faced the watery sunlight streaming in. The soft, insipid rays did nothing to warm his chilled skin. He took a few deep breaths, ordering himself to remain calm. “I snapped at Miss Harriet because she brought the conversation around to religion, a subject I don’t care to speak of.” He swallowed, measuring his words with precision. “Though I find Miss Harriet’s society pleasant, I am honor bound to propose to Miss Sophie.”
“Balderdash.”
Brookes swiveled back, regarding his batman with a critical squint. “You would have me go back on my word of honor?”
“You know I would never say that. But I believe no engagement existed between you and Miss Sophie.” Stoames tapped his forefinger on the desk for emphasis. “If you don’t have a formal arrangement, and if Miss Sophie finds you too altered, then why stick so stubbornly to her?”
“Our understanding was formal enough for both of us to comprehend. Neither of us sought another in the three years I fought with Wellington.” The blood pounded in his temples. “I cannot, in good conscience, back out of the understanding now.”
“You were at war. When would you have time to find someone else?” Stoames leaned back in his chair with a weary air.
“You and I both know more than one soldier who broke from his sweetheart as soon as they found a nice Belgian chit. But I stayed constant, and so did she. Sophie stayed here and waited for me when others could have taken my place. Even if she finds me repulsive now, I must work to win her over. To break from her now—especially with her family in desperate financial straits—would be most unfair.” He crossed his arms over his chest, daring Stoames to keep needling him.
“Then how will you control your feelings for Miss Harriet?”
“I don’t have feelings for Miss Harriet.” He swallowed the lie neatly. “I am helping her write a book. She wants to support her family, which shows a great deal of pluck. I admire her for it. I don’t think she cares for me anyhow.” He broke off and stared down at his hands for a moment.
Stoames heaved a forceful sigh that seemed to originate in his boots. “Yet you all but threatened me with pistols at ten paces for whispering in her ear.”
Stoames and his intuition. Brookes covered his embarrassment by shrugging nonchalantly. “I know you, you old dog. I merely tried to protect her honor.” Ridiculous excuse. He remembered Harriet pouring out tea with graceful hands, meeting his barbed words with graciousness. He recalled her fine brows, the straight bridge of her nose, and the tender curve of her mouth, her profile as pure as a cameo, a little bit of ivory transformed into vibrant flesh and blood. Her hair was dark and glossy. He imagined how the strands might feel, slipping through his fingers. He shook his head, his mouth twisting into a cynical smile.
Stoames raised a hand in defeat. “Well, then, what are your plans?”
“I’ve found my mother’s jewelry in the safe. I will propose to Miss Sophie after the dance in the village hall.”
“And Miss Harriet?” A challenge, rather than a simple question.
“I’ll keep helping her to write her book. I will endeavor to give her everything she needs to make a success of it.” But if she brought the subject around to God again, he had every right to leave off.
Harriet trudged home, her feet heavy and her mind clouded with self-doubt. Stoames assured her to keep trying, but she couldn’t fathom the bitter look on Captain Brookes’s striking face. His eyes turned from stormy green to almost slate gray when she questioned him about his loss of faith. She knew he had suffered deeply. But for Brookes to endure such tragedy without faith—well, that was enough to break her heart.
Her vain ambition led her down a slippery slope, exposing his weaknesses to her watchful gaze. She had no right to interfere, no right to pry. After all, why should she question his loss of faith? True, she suffered through hardship and deprivation, and the pinch of poverty squeezed her daily. Yet she never lost faith; she relied on it to carry her through her trials and tribulations. Papa nicknamed her “The Eternal Optimist,” and joked that she could find something good in every situation—even the plague. She shivered, tightening her shawl over her chest. Perhaps her hopefulness blinded her to the terrible reality of Brookes’s past.
When she finally arrived at the cottage, Sophie dashed down the stairs, an expression of blank horror in her blue eyes.
“What has happened?” Harriet assumed her usual air of sisterly authority.
“Mama took on so about the Blessing of the Wells and the Ball, I felt I had to call Dr. Wallace. It was dreadful, Harriet. I know that he is expensive, but what could I do?”
Harriet patted Sophie’s arm. “It will be fine, Sophie. But why was she so upset?”
“Mama says she will not take us anywhere, as she does not want others to see our reduced circumstances.”
“Whatever does that matter, in a country village? Come, let’s go and speak with her and the doctor.” Linking arms with her sister, Harriet pulled her up the stairs.
As they entered the room, Dr. Wallace stood beside Mama’s bed, pursing his mouth into a thin line. “I thought a mild dose of laudanum would help this nervous exhaustion. Whatever are we to do with you, my lady?”
Without stopping to think, Harriet tugged at Dr. Wallace’s sleeve. “The laudanum—it’s not too potent, is it, Dr. Wallace? I worry that Mama is taking too much.”
“The laudanum is the only thing that makes life bearable,” Mama snapped, offering her wrist to Dr. Wallace so he could take her pulse.
“A little laudanum never hurt anyone, Miss Handley.” Dr. Wallace smiled and placed his fingers on Mama’s wrist.
Harriet stood her ground. “Well, if Mama isn’t so very ill, then a mild dose of laudanum might help her now. If she takes it, though, she won’t be able to attend the Blessing ceremony. But she would be all right by herself for a few hours, wouldn’t she, while we go? And she might try to attend the ball tonight, Doctor?”
Dr. Wallace cast a searching glance over the patient. He nodded with satisfaction and gently let go of her wrist. “I have prescribed a regimen of rest to cure your mother’s nervous exhaustion.” He hesitated, and then smiled gently at Harriet and Sophie. “Still, perhaps I prescribed strict bed rest in haste. A brief social outing might help, your ladyship.”
Mama sank against the pillows, with the air of a sacrificial victim. Her face was pale, her lips drawn. “Very well. I am outnumbered. We will attend the ball tonight. But I must have rest up until the moment we leave.”
“Hattie, you are so good with Mama. I honestly did not know what to do with her. All I did was mention the events in the village, and she became hysterical. I sent Rose to fetch Dr. Wallace. It was all I could think to do.”
“You handled the situation very well, Sophie. Don’t fret.” They crossed the hall, entering the room they shared. “I apologize for being gone for so long. I feel guilty for not being here to help you.”
“But you were helping me! You were seeing the captain, were you not? How did you fare?”
“Poorly, I am afraid. I made a blunder, and questioned him too closely about his emotions and his faith. The whole affair grew a bit disastrous.” How embarrassing the entire unfortunate morning had been. Save for Stoames’s kind words, she was prepared to forget the whole episode.
“Poor Hattie. I am sure it will be fine. I imagine he is unused to speaking to anyone about his feelings.” Sophie splashed water from the pitcher into the basin, and began washing her hands and face.
Harriet regarded her sister’s back closely. “In truth, I treaded on sacred ground. It made me rather sick.”
Sophie turned to face Harriet, patting her face dry with a threadbare towel. She flicked her eyebrows quizzically. “Whatever for? I shouldn’t worry. He’s promised to share his memories to help you write the book. Surely he knew what that would entail.”
Harriet flopped onto the bed with a sigh. “Sharing memories and sharing facts are very different things,” she murmured into her pillow. Her stomach recoiled and she could talk about her awful morning no more. Looking up, she chose the one topic of conversation designed to distract her sister. “Shall we dress for the Blessing?”
“Oh, yes! What will you wear?” Sophie managed to grow both animated and serious at the same time.
Harriet grinned at her with indulgence. “I haven’t any idea.”
“I’ve made over two old muslin dresses. They look lovely. See?” Sophie pulled them out of the wardrobe, casting an approving glance over her handiwork. “Look, I put new ribbons on the bodices, and embroidered in white—I think whitework is so divine, don’t you?” She gave the dresses an expert shake. “Here, Hattie, you shall wear the one trimmed in blue, and I shall wear the pink.”
She traced one finger over the embroidery, and the delicate threads caught on her rough skin. A trickle of interest suffused her body. A dawning awareness of her looks, and the desire to be pretty assumed a great significance in her consciousness. There was no driving force behind this transformation, was there? Certainly not. She just wanted to look nice, that’s all.
Sophie studied Harriet with a judgmental air. “Hmm. I shall dress your hair, Hattie. I’ve wanted to experiment with braids. My hair is too curly, but yours is so straight it will hold a braid nicely.”
Harriet gazed into the looking glass over the washstand, running a hand over her dark brown locks. Her hair was tucked up into its usual severe chignon. She could never call it attractive. Would anyone else? She rather doubted it. After all, Sophie was the acknowledged beauty of the family.
“Oh Hattie, I have ideas for our ball dress tonight, too,” Sophie prattled on. She gazed into the mirror, fitting her cheek against Harriet’s shoulder. Reaching up, Sophie tucked a wayward curl behind one shoulder. “Do you know, Hattie,” she said breathlessly, an expression of satisfaction lighting up her china-blue eyes, “I rather think I shall fall in love with the captain tonight.”
Harriet’s heart dropped like a stone and she suppressed the sudden flash of jealousy that flooded her being. She closed her eyes, blocking out their reflections in the glass. “Well, I should certainly hope so, Sophie.”
Chapter Seven
Brookes glanced toward the village green, where a mass of blooms obscured the well. The riotous color of the flowers and the sun sparkling on the cornets and flugelhorns made his eyes smart. He blinked to clear his vision. Opening his eyes, his gaze fell on the two Handley sisters, strolling arm in arm, toward the garishly decorated well. The bleating of the horns died out, replaced by a buzzing in his ears. Every sense he possessed trained, with military precision, on the pretty girls clad in white, their heads so close together that their bonnets touched.
Sophie’s little golden curls framed her face. Brookes stared at her, running his assessing gaze over her figure. She looked like a Dresden china doll, he decided flatly. Very pretty, to be sure, but untouchable. Casting Sophie away, he focused on Harriet. Her bonnet irritated him, for it covered her glossy brown hair and cast her fathomless blue eyes in shadow. Drat the bright sun. Harriet would keep her hat on throughout the ceremony and he would miss the chance to see her pure profile in bold relief. He noted that their servant stood beside them, but not his future mother-in-law. Where was Lady Handley? Almost everyone in the clutch of nearby Derbyshire villages was in attendance, he observed, glancing over the crowd gathering on the green.
The crisp rattle of the side drum broke through Brookes’s trance, sending his pulse racing. The deafening drumbeat took him right back to Quatre Bras. Brookes and his men rode in a single column up the road to Waterloo. A drummer for the Twenty-Third Foot lay dying at the crossroads. Neither he nor his men stopped to help the lad. Everyone eagerly pressed forward, ready for their share of the battle. Brookes closed his eyes, seeing the lad’s face. So young, spots still covered his cheeks. His groans sometimes haunted Brookes’s nightmares.
The band launched into “God Save the King,” snapping Brookes back from Quatre Bras onto the village green. He tried to will the bad memories away by forcing himself to stand at attention and sing along with the crowd. His gaze focused on the two Handley girls again. Their backs were to him, giving him no chance to study their expressions. But even without gazing upon her face, he observed Harriet’s serenity. Sophie’s shoulders wriggled, her bonneted head twitched from side to side. Watching her drained what little energy he possessed. In contrast, Harriet stood still, her head charmingly inclined toward the band. He involuntarily relaxed, releasing a knot he hadn’t realized existed between his shoulder blades. Harriet’s mere presence refreshed a man—as restorative as a long drink of water from one of the streams that crossed through Brookes Park.
He gave an impatient shrug of his shoulders, the knot returning. Harriet’s effect on his spirit mattered little, and there was no call to wax poetic about her features, because she was not his intended. He would simply have to get used to a life of constant movement. Restful, peaceful moments would be few and far between once he married Sophie.
The band ended with an earsplitting flourish, and Harriet applauded with the rest of the crowd. She glanced around furtively. Excellent. None of the men in front of her appeared to be Captain Brookes. A pull of awareness gripped her, causing the baby-fine hair on the nape of her neck to stand up. He must be standing behind them. Harriet forced herself to remain motionless. It would never do to turn around and gape. Besides, he must be staring at Sophie. Harriet cast a sidelong glance at her sister. She looked so lovely, the pinkness of her bonnet highlighting the porcelain planes of her face.
A brief flurry of activity disturbed the green as the members of the brass band sat down. An elderly man with slightly stooped shoulders and a thick mane of gray hair approached the well. Facing the crowd, he smiled serenely. Harriet’s heart warmed, and she grinned back. This kindly old man must be the reverend of St. Mary’s, over at Crich.
“Let us pray,” the reverend began. Bowing her head, Harriet allowed the prayer to wash over her soul like waves caressing the shore. In the year or so since her family moved from Matlock Bath, they had not attended Sunday services. Mama had been too conscious of the family’s status, and unwilling to make the eight mile journey to Crich and back every Sunday. Tansley Village was too small to have its own church, so the Handleys’ spiritual guidance had gone by the wayside.
Harriet drank in the words of the blessing, allowing them to comfort her parched spirit. Even before the family moved, going to church services had offered very little solace. Now, if you were looking for a social affair, you were in luck. If only she could have been like Mama and cared more for her perfect dress than her spiritual well-being, then that church would have been perfect. But no pretty dress ever swayed Harriet, and she searched in vain for a church that promised more than a salon. Listening to the reverend’s gentle voice, Harriet discovered that elusive something more.
The simple little ceremony drew to an end, and Harriet detached herself from her sister’s side. Full of strength, shining with a steadfast and pure purpose, she must tell the reverend how important his words had been, how he cast a light on her shadowy soul. Why, she didn’t feel at all bashful as she glided over to the reverend. He smiled as he saw her approach. “Did you enjoy the ceremony, Miss?”
She beamed up at him, her heart glowing. “I did. Your words fell upon my soul like drops of rain in a desert.”
He patted her hand with a grandfatherly air. “Now, you don’t look familiar, my dear. Have you attended services at St. Mary’s?”
Harriet dropped her gaze, coloring a little. “I haven’t been able to, Reverend. My mother is unwell and the four miles there and four miles back would be too taxing.”
“Don’t fret, don’t fret. You don’t have to be in church to worship, you know. God is everywhere. Now, tell me your name.”
“Harriet Handley.”
“Well, Miss Handley, I am Reverend Kirk. If you should ever wish to join our little congregation, know that you are always welcome at St. Mary’s. But even if you cannot make the journey, you must remember that God is with you, and watching over you.”
Harriet’s heart welled and tears stung her eyes. Such warmth and compassion had expired from her life when Papa died. Her lips trembled, and her voice caught in her throat.
“Now, now, my dear, there’s no need for tears. Remember, as solitary as you may feel, you are never truly alone. Promise me you will remember that.” Reverend Kirk patted her hand gently.
Harriet nodded, her heart still too full for words. Blinking away her tears, she turned from the reverend. The vivid colors and brassy tone of the band pounced on her nerves. She longed to be somewhere quiet, where she could think clearly. No such luck. Sophie grabbed her arm, pulling on Harriet excitedly.
“Why did you leave me like that? To whom were you speaking?”
“Reverend Kirk, you goose. Did you not pay any attention to the ceremony?”
“Very little,” replied Sophie with her customary frankness. “I wondered if my half boots look too hideous with this gown. I think I should have worn my slippers.”
Harriet sighed, linking her arm through Sophie’s. “Your slippers might have been spoiled with the walk. Your half boots are very attractive.”
Sophie looked down at her feet, considering them closely. “I think so, too,” she pronounced.
Rose tapped Sophie’s shoulder. “Come along, you two chickens. Enough chatter. The cream tea starts soon, and we are nowhere near the village hall.”
Brookes watched the sisters enter the bustling village hall through narrowed eyes. Seeing Harriet and Sophie together had stiffened his resolve—he needed to break free of Harriet’s spell. At some point during the tea, he would make that all-important first move. His jaw hardening, he resolved to speak to Sophie alone, for the first time since he returned home.
His vision sharpened. The sisters and their servant were selecting a tea table. One of the ladies assisting with the tea brought them a fresh pot and china cups. He stretched his legs under his own table, wondering how on earth he would find Sophie without an escort. He watched Sophie’s head bobble around aimlessly. Then Harriet and the servant woman stood up. Harriet leaned down to say something to Sophie, who nodded and remained at the table while the two women strolled off. Their absence offered him the perfect time to strike. Brookes stood up, his heart hammering, and found his way through the crush of villagers to her table.
“May I sit for a moment?” His voice had a catch in it. He cleared his throat.
Sophie jumped in her chair. Her face turned as crimson as the cloth spread over her table. “Of course.” Her voice was unnaturally strained and breathless.
“Lovely tea.”
“I haven’t tried it yet.” Sophie began to pour some into her cup, but her hand shook so that she spilled a little on the cloth.
“Allow me,” Brookes said smoothly, whipping out his handkerchief. Sophie reached out to grasp her saucer at the same moment he began patting at the spot on the tablecloth. He knocked against the cup and sent it flying. It landed on the floor with a crash, splintering to a thousand pieces.
“Oh!” cried Sophie. She stooped down to gather the broken pieces. Brookes stooped to help but his leg gave out, lurching him forward. He collided with Sophie, knocking her soundly on the head.
Sophie sat back in her chair with a little huff, rubbing at her skull. “Ouch.”
“My deepest apologies. Did I hurt you badly?”
“I’ll recover,” Sophie snapped.
He cleared his throat again, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. Should he keep charging ahead? Or should he offer to look at her wound? He peered at Sophie closely. The irritated expression on her face decided it for him. Charge ahead, ignore the little incident.
“I shall look forward to seeing you at the ball tonight,” he began, hoping to restore his sense of savoir faire.
“Yes.”
“Will you save a dance for me?” He remembered how, before the war, they would dance together so often that it raised the eyebrows of the matrons of Matlock Bath.
“Can you dance?” Sophie asked, with a mixture of irritation and frank curiosity that shriveled his interest.
“I don’t know. I haven’t tried.” He inhaled deeply, seeking Sophie’s smell of violets and muslin. But the scent of spilled tea permeated everything.
“Well, if you can dance, then I will be happy to reserve one for you, Captain Brookes.” A pat reply, one that he instantly recognized. A sop, and nothing more. He saw her turn away countless other suitors with a similar vague gesture before.
He stood up. A good soldier recognized the right moment for retreat. “Until tonight, then, Miss Handley.”
“Ah, seeing the pair of you again, it was like old times.” Rose clasped her hands over her bosom. “Like the war never happened. Before we had to leave Matlock Bath.”
Harriet glanced over at her sister, carefully sidestepping a rut in the road. It had not looked like old times to her. She had watched the whole scene from across the room, where she and Rose had stopped to help themselves to scones and clotted cream. When she espied the captain making his way to the table, she stayed rooted to the spot, and bid Rose do the same. Watching the awkward tableau reminded her of the amateur dramatics that trouped through Derbyshire. In fact, Harriet could not bear to watch after Captain Brookes collided with Sophie. She turned away, embarrassment and tenderness for the captain overwhelming her, making her knees weak.
Sophie’s rosy lips pulled into a thin line. She kicked at a pebble in the road and remained silent.
“That marked the first time you two have been alone together since he returned from the war. If it felt a little strange, perhaps it can be linked to the passage of time.” Harriet took pride in her casual voice, even though her heart pounded in her ears.
“He broke my cup.”
“He did not mean to.”
“He bumped my head.”
“Another accident,” Harriet reminded her, adopting her most authoritative, sisterly tone. Sophie’s pettiness vexed Harriet more than usual. Though she hated to admit it, she was irritated that she cared so much.
“I thought you two made a pretty picture,” Rose broke in.
“I don’t wish to speak of it. When I see him at the ball tonight, I shall endeavor to be more civil.”
Harriet could only hope her sister told the truth, but she noted that Sophie’s dimples had vanished, her lips compressed in a stubborn line.
Harriet cast about for another topic of conversation. “Do you know, Sophie, Reverend Kirk invited us to attend services in Crich. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Sophie shrugged. “You know Mama will never attend. She is too worried about appearances.”
“I may go without her. The way he spoke of St. Mary’s, it sounds like a simple country parish. I doubt very much that everyone there is conscious of status to the degree they are at Matlock Bath.” She smiled hopefully. “I can’t go every Sunday, but I would like to go once every few fortnights.”