Healing the Soldier's Heart

She stepped into his workroom, her honest, forthright gazing boring into him. “I understand congratulations are in order, Ensign,” she began in that quiet, musical voice of hers. “I went to the veterans’ group for our meeting, and Cantrill said you wouldn’t be going to the meetings for quite some time.”

The meetings. He hadn’t forgotten so much as he had been wrapped up in his new prospects. He’d wanted to tell Miss Williams about his new position many times, but why would she care? Even if he had sent ’round a note, it would seem awfully forward of him. After all, he was nothing to her except a charity case. No need to make himself ridiculous.

“M-m-my apologies,” he began. His throat worked, but nothing else would come out. Any explanation was choked off, and he stood there, staring at her like a fool. Yet again his stammer was robbing him of any dignity.

“No apologies necessary.” She turned away from him and began fidgeting with a block of wood he had hewn earlier in the morning, rocking it back and forth on his worktable. “Lieutenant Cantrill said that I could continue our lessons if you wish, but of course, I don’t see how you would have the time. Being busy with your new position here and all.”

He watched her graceful fingers. Of course, she was busy, too. One of her pupils was making her debut soon—or had already. So likely Miss Williams was stretched thin. Perhaps this was her way of politely letting him know. He understood. James nodded, but her face remained stubbornly turned away from his and she did not see his expression.

“I am happy you got this job, you know.” Her voice was quieter now; he had to strain to hear it. “It shows how determined you are to improve.” She gave the block of wood a final pat and turned his way. “I also wanted to tell you that I spoke to Dr. Phillips about you. He works with the veterans’ group, you know. He said if you wanted his opinion on your condition he would be happy to speak with you.”

Rowland’s blood turned a shade cooler, and a buzzing sound caught his ears. Miss Williams had spoken about his condition to someone else? This wasn’t right. He thought—he thought—well, no matter what he thought, it wasn’t quite fair. “W-w-what?”

She looked up sharply, as though the word shocked her. Or perhaps she was reacting to his tone. “I spoke to Dr. Phillips last week,” she repeated. “Louisa was ill with a bad cold, and while he was there, I asked him what he thought could be done with your speaking problem.”

He looked down at his hands as they gripped the side of the worktable. His knuckles were growing white. Anger and despair poured through him like molten lead. He really was nothing more to Lucy Williams than a charity project. And she, whom he had trusted—she, who had asked if he really wanted to be well—had discussed his problem with someone else. The fact that she spoke to a physician as if his condition was an ailment to be cured was ludicrous anyway. There was nothing wrong with him except his own cowardice. He knew it, and the fact that she spoke about him as though he were a particularly interesting specimen with some tony doctor served to double his humiliation.

“N-n-nothing c-c-can be d-d-done,” he managed, his face growing hotter as he tripped over the words. His stammer was growing worse, hang it all. “T-tis my own cowardice. N-nothing more. D-do not speak of it again, Miss Williams. T-t-to anyone.”

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