INSPIRATIONAL HISTORICAL ROMANCE

The Soldier’s Homecoming

Ensign James Rowland was fortunate to return from Waterloo unscathed—at least in body. But guilt from that terrible battle has left him almost mute and crushed in spirit. Only in the company of sweet, compassionate Lucy Williams, a volunteer at the Veterans’ Group in Bath, does he begin to feel happiness is within reach.

Penniless governesses can’t afford dreams of romance. Lucy Williams is resigned to lifelong spinsterhood—until James enters her life. His mother opposes the match. Lucy herself is sure the chasm between their ranks is too wide. But now that she has helped heal James, he intends to overcome every obstacle between them…and emerge victorious in the battle for her love.

Lucy was alone. That made giving his gift of flowers easier. He caught them up and extended the bouquet toward her. “F-for you.”

“For me?” Her eyes widened. “How lovely they are. Thank you, Ensign.”

“James,” he insisted. “You should c-call me James.”

“Certainly, James. And you must call me Lucy.” She cast her eyes down to the table.

Could he truly win her affection? He needed to have more time with her, to learn the truth of her feelings toward him.

When the clock began chiming the hour, Lucy stood. “Oh, dear. I must get back to the schoolroom.”

“I w-wish you well in all your upcoming s-social d-duties, especially the b-ball,” he responded with a slight bow. “B-but I am sure you w-will even outshine M-Miss B-Bradbury.”

Something like amazement kindled in her eyes. “Do you really think so?” she breathed.

“Yes, I d-do.” Why was she so astonished? Surely she knew how very wonderful she was.

“Well, if that’s true, then you’re the only person in Bath who thinks so.” Her tone was quiet, and as she left the room, she tossed a little smile his way as though she tossed a blossom at his feet.

LILY GEORGE

Growing up in a small town in Texas, Lily George spent her summers devouring the books in her mother’s Christian bookstore. She still counts Grace Livingston Hill, Janette Oake and L. M. Montgomery among her favorite authors. Lily has a BA in history from Southwestern University and uses her training as a historian to research her historical inspirational romance novels. She has published one nonfiction book and produced one documentary, and is in production on a second film; all of these projects reflect her love for old movies and jazz and blues music. Lily lives in the Dallas area with her husband, daughter and menagerie of animals.

Healing the Soldier’s Heart
Lily George

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.

—2 Timothy 1:7 (KJV)

For my family and friends, especially my husband and daughter, who continue to endure my writing so patiently.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

Chapter One

March 1818

Bath, England

Saint Swithin’s Church of England

Lucy Williams rolled her eyes at her friend in playful disgust. Sophie Handley had no idea how to flirt. That much was certain. For all her airs and graces, for all her pretty face and lithe figure, her friend had no real idea how to capture a man’s attention.

Why, they had come to Saint Swithin’s for Sunday services just so Sophie could meet up with a man she liked, and here he was—on the point of departure. And Sophie just fretted at Lucy’s side, murmuring how all was lost. Utterly ridiculous.

It was time to take matters into one’s own hands. Lucy tugged on her reticule, unclasping it from her wrist. Then, as the parishioners began to file out of the church, she pushed through the crowd, keeping Sophie close by. The sea of humanity parted, and she could just glimpse Lieutenant Cantrill, her quarry. A young man stood beside the lieutenant, his angular face a mask of misery. Lucy stopped short. Why was he so sad? Her heart skipped a beat. Surely there was no reason in the world for such a handsome man to be so morose.

Sophie made an impatient tsking sound, jolting Lucy back to her senses. ’Twas time to accomplish her mission. With a smart twist of her wrist, she sent the reticule flying. It landed with a satisfying smack right beside the lieutenant on the wooden floor. He bent at once to retrieve it, his interesting companion bending down to assist. The lieutenant picked up her reticule, his eyebrow quirked, and turned to look for the party responsible for launching such a cunning little missile.

Time to spring into action.

“Oh, sir!” Lucy sang out. “You found my reticule. How very good of you.” She hustled forward, tugging Sophie along behind her. “It was knocked clear of my hand by the bustle of this crowd.” She skidded to a halt before the lieutenant and his companion, giving both the confident smile that had won her a position as governess to Lord Bradbury’s daughters—no mean feat for a penniless orphan. Sophie stood beside her, pale and silent, her large blue eyes as round as saucers as she stared at Lieutenant Cantrill. Lucy jabbed Sophie in the ribs with her elbow, sending Sophie’s curls bouncing.

Sophie winced and, rubbing her side, began the rounds of introductions. But it was clear from the way she stood ever so slightly closer to the lieutenant than propriety allowed that Sophie wanted a chance to be alone with the lieutenant. Very well, then. Lucy had her own task to follow.

It seemed that the young man with the lieutenant was none other than Ensign Rowland—the soldier Sophie had mentioned to her a few days prior. According to Lieutenant Cantrill, Waterloo had left the poor man mute. He had, in fact, barely spoken a few words since his arrival in Bath. The lieutenant believed that listening to someone else read aloud might ease his condition and had asked Sophie to find someone to read to the ensign. Sophie had asked her to assume that duty.

She turned to the tall man who stood beside the lieutenant. His wide green eyes regarded her solemnly, yet a spark flickered in their depths. His sandy blond hair waved over his forehead in a stubborn cowlick. She resisted the urge to reach up and pat it down with a tender gesture.

“So this is Ensign Rowland? How do you do, sir?” Lucy took his hands in hers. They were warm and capable—as strong as a man in service might possess. Now, how could she broach her assignment without making it sound as though she pitied him or felt sorry for him? Perhaps if she made it sound as though he would be doing her a tremendous favor in helping her. Yes, that would work best.

“Ensign, I was wondering if you could assist me with a problem. You see, I must instruct Lord Bradbury’s daughters in the finer points of elocution and pronunciation, and the best way to do so is by reading aloud.” She threaded her arm under his elbow and piloted him toward the door, letting Sophie and her lieutenant have their moment together. “But I am so rusty at reading aloud myself. Would you be my audience? I should so like to have your assistance.”

The spark in his green eyes leaped. He understood what she had said, even if he didn’t speak. He inclined his head ever so slightly, a lock of sandy hair falling over his brow. Again, she resisted the urge to pat it back into place, contenting herself with the feel of his arm underneath her hand.

He allowed her to guide him out of the side entrance of the vestry. He pushed open the rough wooden door, bathing their faces in pale, watery sunshine. Lucy blinked, tugging the brim of her bonnet down lower. Now she had him all to herself and no idea how to entertain him. Fine beads of sweat broke out under her brow. She would have to do all the talking and never pause for an answer. That was the only way to carry the conversation, without matters becoming awkward or embarrassing for the ensign.

Or perhaps the best way was to begin by acknowledging his obvious affliction. That way, one needn’t feel quite so frantic about keeping up the conversational flow.

As they strolled into the courtyard, Lucy pulled away from the ensign’s side. She turned to face him, her heart beginning to pound in her chest like a big bass drum. Why was she so nervous? She had faced scores of unsettling situations from losing her parents to leaving her only home, Cornhill and Lime Street Charity School, to strike out on her own. There was no need to panic just because she was facing a strikingly handsome young man.

“Ensign Rowland,” she began, her words tumbling over each other in a rush, “I should let you know that I am well aware of your affliction. You cannot speak, can you?”

He shrugged, his eyes clouding over. She was losing that spark, that gleam of interest he had shown her just moments before. A frantic feeling seized hold of her, and she hurried on, her face growing heated under his uncertain gaze.

“It doesn’t matter to me, of course. I can talk enough for two people. Indeed, I have it on good authority that I can talk the legs off a chair.”

A strange sound, rather like a rusty chuckle, emanated from the ensign. His lips were quirked downward—with mirth. Good heavens, she made the man laugh. That was a good sign, surely. She pressed on.

“At any rate, do not feel you have to make a conversation with me. I really would like to have the opportunity to read to a captive audience. And if you don’t mind my chattering, then I should love to talk with you frequently.”

He nodded, his features softening.

“Very good then.” She took his arm once more, and he steered her toward the stone steps that led down to the street. She could just pick out Sophie’s voice behind them, but she wasn’t ready to let the ensign go. Not yet. Now that things were resolved between them, she could let herself enjoy the pleasure of some company. Aside from Sophie, she had no one even close to her age in Bath to speak to, and sometimes loneliness threatened to overwhelm her. There were her two young charges to speak to, of course, but it was quite another matter to have a friend. It was nice to chatter on with the ensign; even if there was no possibility he would respond.

“You know, I work for Lord Bradbury. He has two daughters, and I am their governess. Sophie—” she nodded in Sophie’s general direction “—works as their personal seamstress. Before Sophie came to Bath a few months ago, I had no one with whom I could speak freely. But now she is here, and I’ve met you. What a delight to have two young people I can chat with.”

She slanted her gaze up at him. A delightful smile crept over his face, as though he too had discovered a treasure. A warm glow lit Lucy’s heart. He was a gentle soul. That much was certain. And had probably suffered a great deal. It would be a joy to talk with him and to bring that smile back to his face.

From some distance away, a clock began tolling the hour. Botheration. She should be returning to Lord Bradbury’s house soon. She needed to supervise her charges’ luncheon; for if she were not present, the girls were likely to fire dinner rolls at each other like cricket balls.

“I must go.” It was difficult to let him go. But perhaps she could see him again soon. “Will you be at the next veterans’ group meeting? I don’t know when they meet, but I can find out from Sophie.”

He nodded, smiling once more.

“Sophie,” she called up the steps. Sophie broke away from the lieutenant’s side and began her descent. Lucy turned to the ensign. “Ensign Rowland, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. And I look forward to tormenting you with the classics soon. I have a great fancy for Greek epic works, so beware.”

His polite smile grew into a devastating grin, and her heart flip-flopped in her chest once more. She withdrew her hand from his sleeve slowly, savoring the moment. It would be nice to see him again.

Sophie danced up beside them, her eyes bright with merriment. They made their goodbyes, the ensign tipping his hat with a practiced, genteel gesture as he took his leave. Sophie linked her arm with Lucy’s as they began strolling toward the Crescent, the balmy spring breeze rustling their skirts. And while Sophie babbled on about the lieutenant and her harebrained scheme to save him from his meddling mama, Lucy’s mind drifted.

Though she made her usual barbed responses to Sophie’s nonsense, Lucy was far from her friend’s side. Instead, she wandered down the steps once more with the ensign, remembering his somber green eyes and his crooked, heartbreaking grin. The veterans’ meeting, which she hardly knew about before this day, was now the most important event on her horizon.

As they approached his lordship’s home, she looked up at the second-story window that housed the schoolroom. Of course, nothing could really come of her interaction with the ensign other than friendship. She was nothing but a poor governess, and she had to earn her own way in the world. Any girlish dreams of romance had to remain just that—dreams and nothing more. She had no time for love. And she had a duty to her charges.

And, after all, she had been asked to help the ensign not for her beauty or eligibility but because she was a governess. And a governess she would remain for the rest of her days. She dearly hoped that she and the ensign would become good friends. But friends were all they could ever be.

* * *

Ensign James Rowland smiled as he watched Miss Lucy Williams walk off arm in arm with the pretty blonde Miss Handley who had captured Cantrill’s interest. Lucy didn’t mind that he could not speak, which had made him quite comfortable in her company. In fact, he was more at ease with her than he had been with anyone outside his tight circle of fellow soldiers.

It helped, of course, that she was quite attractive herself, but in a more unique way than her blonde friend. She had glossy black hair piled high on her head, wide brown eyes and a fascinating sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Most women, out of coquetry or sense of fashion, would use some type of artificial means to hide or remove those supposed imperfections. But not Lucy. They added spice to her person, like a sprinkle of cinnamon across a particularly tasty dish.

For the first time since his return from Waterloo, he was intrigued by someone else. Everything looked gray and sounded like it was wrapped in cotton wool since that horrible day he lay bleeding and silent in the rye at La Sainte Haye. But in Lucy’s warm brown eyes, he captured a glimpse of life. And that brief spark glowed in his heart as Lieutenant Cantrill joined him on the street below Saint Swithin’s.

“Come, Rowland, let us return home.” Cantrill sighed. “I have much preying upon my mind this afternoon, and I need to think matters over.”

Whatever Cantrill and Miss Handley had spoken of apparently drove the lieutenant to distraction. He spoke hardly a word on the fifteen-minute walk back to Beau Street to the modest flats that several soldiers had called home since their return from the peninsula. Of course, it didn’t matter that the lieutenant didn’t speak. In fact, Rowland couldn’t expect anyone to make conversation with a man who only uttered a word now and again.

He nodded his goodbye to Cantrill, who lived on the ground floor flat, and took the steps two at a time to reach the flat he shared with Lieutenant Sean Macready, a fellow officer of the 2nd Battalion 69th.

As he entered their humble flat, the delectable aroma of beef stew greeted him, causing his mouth to water. The housekeeper must be here. Thank heavens. They shared servants with Lieutenant Cantrill; this kept Mrs. Pierce bustling up and down stairs all day long, though she insisted she did not mind. And her stew, heated and reheated, formed their sustenance for many days, growing richer and mellower with each passing day.

“What ho, man?” Macready beckoned him into the kitchen, where he sat at the rickety oak table, a steaming bowl before him. “Mrs. Pierce just left to take the lieutenant his lunch. Try the bread first with a dab of butter. It’s a poem.”

With a grateful grunt, James grabbed a plain white china bowl from the cupboard and filled it to the brim with stew. Then he hacked off the end of the loaf of bread—so warm that it singed his fingers a bit—and sat across from Macready at the table.

“Good gracious, man. I haven’t seen you eat so heartily since before the war.” Macready leaned forward, eyeing James suspiciously. “What has gotten into you?”

James shrugged, keeping his eyes cast down. Nothing extraordinary had happened, had it? He was just hungry was all.

He split the bread open, patting butter on the inside and then closed it so the middle of the bread would become more moist as the butter melted. His favorite childhood treat, much more coveted than a cookie or a slice of cake.

Macready took another bite of stew. Then, assuming an elaborately casual air, he asked, “How was Sunday service?”

James bit into the crusty loaf, closing his eyes in delight for a moment as he savored it. Then he uttered his customary one-word response, “Fine.”

“Hmm. Are you sure, Rowland? There’s an air about you, as though something extraordinary happened to you. You even look different. There’s more color in your person, as though you are warmer from the inside.” Macready broke off another piece of bread, peering at James as he did so.

Blast Macready and his Irish gift of gab. He would never let up—not until James had told him about his entire morning. True, his meeting with Lucy Williams had given him hope—hope that he could move on from the past. She was the first person he’d met in Bath who wasn’t a veteran of the war. And she was the only person to offer her friendship. The difference between how he felt before church this morning and now, sitting in the cozy kitchen, well, this was the difference that a new friendship could make in a fellow’s life. She made life seem just a little less bleak and unforgiving.

’Twas strange indeed how he could speak to only certain people and stranger still how he could not speak to everyone else. His ability to speak naturally had fled as he lay crouched, playing dead, at La Sainte Haye. Macready was one of the only men to whom he could converse. And even though he could speak to the lieutenant, he did so slowly and haltingly. Macready had long since grown used to his stilted cadences, though, and waited with great patience to listen whenever James chose to speak.

But how to describe Lucy? She was merely offering to help him out of charity and friendship, surely. So it would be folly to describe her in grand terms that would have Macready expecting a romance in the offing. No woman wanted a poor, mute veteran for her own. Certainly not someone who was pretty and clever, like Miss Williams. So it was much better to stick with the facts, as a good soldier should.

“Met a g-girl,” he grumbled. His voice was rusty and unpracticed, even to his own ears. He reached for the teapot and poured a steaming cup. “She will work with the veterans’ group of Cantrill’s. Helping out.” He took a long draught of burning tea to calm his ragged throat and hide his emotions from Macready.

“Not Sophie Handley, surely? I don’t know much about the female in question, but I believe she is destined to be Cantrill’s,” Macready replied, a warning note to his voice.

“No. Miss Williams. She wants t-t-to read to me. T-to help with...this.” He shrugged one shoulder. ’Twas terribly awkward to talk about his strange affliction, even with Macready. After all, the lieutenant had deep gashes all along one arm and up one leg, wounds that were taking forever to heal. Whilst James himself had gotten only a few nicks.

It made a fellow wonder if, deep down inside, he was really a coward after all. Why else would he be so affected by injuries that had been so slight?

“Well, that could be most entertaining, you know. Is she pretty?” Incorrigible Macready, always ready to seek out a lovely new face. Even so, an unreasonable dart of jealousy shot through James. He played down his response so that Macready would leave him in peace.

“P-pretty enough,” he allowed. “Let’s hope she d-doesn’t like G-gothic novels.” But even as he spoke the words, James was prepared to take them back. He’d be willing to listen to the most overwrought of Gothic horrors if it meant spending more time basking in the warm glow of Miss Williams’s company.

Chapter Two

’Twas Thursday, Lucy’s day of rest from her duties in the schoolroom. Never before had she been so grateful for a day away from her charges. Amelia was making her debut in just a few days’ time, and the entire house was in chaos as preparations mounted for her dinner party.

Amelia herself was absent from lessons all week, as Lord Bradbury had pressed Sophie into service, coaching Amelia on all the finer points of etiquette and deportment. Bereft of her sister and generally overlooked in the confusion, Louisa moped about her schoolwork, her large dark eyes filling with tears as she studied her Latin declensions.

And Sophie, working as both seamstress and mistress of proper decorum, was taxed to her limit. Lucy had not spent more than a few moments in Sophie’s company since the past Sunday, and the absence of her only friend and confidante began to pall.

So, once she was dressed and ready to face the day, she marched down to Sophie’s room to say good morning. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach at the thought of meeting with the ensign today. She’d never really read anything aloud before—and certainly not to a young man. It would help immensely to have Sophie nearby. She wouldn’t be quite so nervous with a friend close at hand.

“Ugh. Enter,” a decidedly sleepy voice muttered in response to Lucy’s knock.

Lucy poked her head in as Sophie pulled the coverlet high over her head. “Sophie? You are awake, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Awake but rebellious. I am entirely unwilling to face the day.” Sophie wriggled farther under her covers as Lucy perched on the bed.

“Cheer up, chicken. We’re going to the veterans’ group this morning. You can see your lieutenant again.” And, of course, she could see that interesting young ensign. The heat rose in her cheeks at that thought. Not that he would be hanging on her every word, of course. But it would be quite nice to see him and speak to him again.

“No, I cannot go.” Sophie sat up and threw the coverlet back, revealing her woebegone face. Dark circles ringed her pretty blue eyes, and her pink-and-white complexion had taken on a sallow tone. She gave her tangled curls a shake. “I have too much to do. You’ll have to go without me. And besides, I need time before I see the lieutenant again. I must practice and prepare myself, you see. We are pretending a faux courtship so his visiting mama will leave him in peace.”

Lucy’s heart hitched in her chest, and she barely registered the remainder of Sophie’s words. “Go without you? Faux courtships? This is like a plot in a farce, Sophie! You are the only person I would know there. If you won’t be coming along, whom will I sit by? How shall I get started?” She absolutely despised new situations. The way she had survived—and even thrived—at Cornhill and Lime Street Charity School was by knowing exactly where she had to be and what was expected of her at any given moment. And that only came through routine. If the routine changed—well, she had to start all over again, a most unpleasant practice.

Lucy grasped a long, dark ringlet of hair and began twirling it around her index finger, trying to think of a way to convince her friend to accompany her. “If you intend to go through with some sort of fake courtship, you might want to talk matters over with Cantrill.”

“Oh, dear Lucy, on any other day you know I would be there. I love working with the veterans’ group. And I love—” Sophie broke off, a flush creeping over her dimpled cheeks. Ah, yes. Her feelings for the lieutenant would be obvious to anyone, even a blind and deaf dormouse. She sighed and closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. “But there is simply too much for me to do. And I need more time to compose myself before I see the lieutenant again.”

Lucy sighed. She was being too selfish. Here Sophie was, trying to help both Amelia and Cantrill, and all Lucy could think about was herself. She reached out and patted Sophie’s shoulder. “Poor dear. You are working so hard to make Amelia’s debut a success. Is there anything I can do to help? If you are willing to give up your day off for the cause, then I will gladly sacrifice mine, as well.”

Sophie smiled and shook her head again. “No. Go—go and read to Ensign Rowland. You deserve a day off, and I know that you planned already to meet with the gentleman. And—” Sophie darted a quick, searching glance up at Lucy, a glance that seared through all artifice “—I have a feeling you are rather intrigued by the ensign, is that not so?”

“Don’t be silly.” Lucy rose, putting an end to the interview before Sophie’s questions got too probing. “But I made a promise, and it would be most rude not to keep it. So, I suppose this means I shall see you after the meeting, then?”

“Yes.” Sophie rose. “That blonde blur you’ll see scurrying down the hallway will be me.”

With a chuckle, Lucy descended to the kitchen and out the back door, breathing deeply of the balmy spring breeze to calm her nerves. She hadn’t thought far enough ahead when she made her plans with Ensign Rowland. If only Sophie could come along. Courage was much easier to muster when one had a close friend nearby. When she met with the ensign a few days before, she was able to muster courage—to be breezy and nonchalant in her speech. But then, ’twas a brief meeting. She hadn’t had to read to him that first day. Now she was alone, and her performance was imminent. Did famous opera soubrettes have an attack of nerves before going onstage? Probably not. If performance were a part of your daily round, ’twas quite likely that you’d simply get used to it.

Saint Swithin’s perched majestically on a hill, its proud façade overlooking all of Bath. Why, it was intimidating even to look upon, much less consider what—or whom—awaited her there. By the time she reached the front steps, she was quite winded. She paused a moment at the top of the stone steps, exhaling as slowly as she could, her heart pounding in her chest. Bowing her head a moment, she counted to ten. It would never do to approach Rowland as though she had been running a footrace through the park.

As she drew herself up, shaking her skirts, she caught a glimpse of a handsome, angular face. Gracious, Rowland was here already! He turned toward her, a smile lighting his eyes as he extended his hand in greeting.

“Ensign Rowland,” she gasped and then cleared her throat. She hadn’t meant to meet him so soon. She needed more time to compose herself. But there was nothing to do but brazen through her nerves and her breathlessness.

He nodded, his smile growing as he surveyed her. She paused a moment, awaiting some sort of spoken response, and then shook her head. Of course, he was not going to speak. Botheration. That was the entire point of their meeting, was it not? To help him overcome his affliction?

To cover her confusion and deter his rapt attention from her now hotly glowing cheeks, Lucy took his hand and bobbed a curtsy. The brim of her bonnet would hide the pinkness of her face for a moment. But she hadn’t anticipated on the tingle that shot up her arm at his touch. Goodness, she was making a cake of herself.

And if she went inside the church with him, her embarrassment would be writ clear on her face for everyone to see. Lieutenant Cantrill and Rowland’s other cronies would surely laugh at her and jest to Rowland about it later after the meeting was over. No, if she was going to hide her roiled emotions, it would be much easier to do so from just one man than a dozen.

“Shall we sit out here and enjoy this fine weather?” She indicated a nearby stone bench with what she hoped was a carefree gesture. “After such a wet and cold winter, I vow I am quite in adoration of this spring weather.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the ensign nodding. She allowed him to steer her over to the bench and then sat, gathering her skirts about her with as much grace as she could assume.

“Well, then.” She waited as he took his seat, stretching his booted legs out before him. Then she opened her reticule—her curiously light and flat reticule. Oh, gracious. She had left her book at home.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry; she was such a bundle of nerves. An emotion bubbled up her throat, and for a dreadful instant, she thought she was going to burst into tears. Instead, she chuckled, unable to hold back any longer. At least laughter relieved the unbearable anxiety she felt.

Rowland glanced at her, puzzled, one eyebrow quirked. She turned her reticule inside out, showing him a few coins and bits of lint. “I came all this way, Ensign Rowland, and I never even had the book with me.”

* * *

Lucy Williams had the most enchanting laugh. And when she giggled, as she was doing now, her brown eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed a dusky pink. It was delightful simply to gaze upon her, drinking in her mirth at the absurdity of the situation. He handed her his handkerchief, which she used to dab her eyes—she laughed so hard that tears just touched their corners.

Her laughter slowed, and as her joy began to fade, confusion took its place. He wanted to reassure her—to wipe any trace of discomfiture away. So he withdrew a battered book from his coat pocket and handed it to her.

She took the volume, handling it with a gentle touch to keep from pulling the worn pages apart. “Poetry? Ah, some of the finest. Sir Walter Scott, Dryden...” She continued perusing the pages. “I shall have to be very careful with this, ensign. I can tell just by looking at it that this is a book you have consulted many times.”

He nodded, eyeing her carefully. His throat worked, but no sound came out. He remained silent and watchful.

She traced over a dark splotch on the cover. “In fact, I would wager this book has been to battle.” She kept her eyes lowered, her dark lashes fanning out over her cheeks.

He nodded again. He read those poems often in the field. More than once, Sir Walter Scott had given him the courage to see another battle.

“I bet I can find your favorite.” She grasped the book, settling the spine on her lap. Then, with infinite caution, she let the volume fall open. And just like that, the pages settled, revealing Marmion.

She began reading in clear, dulcet tones, as though reciting for a schoolroom of young ladies or as an elocutionist in a performance. Her voice, lit from within with warmth and fire, began the introduction to the first canto,

“November’s sky is chill and drear,

November’s leaf is red and sear:

Late, gazing down the steepy linn,

that hems our little garden in...”

The spring breeze ruffled her lavender skirts as she continued to read, stirring her black curls so that they touched her cheek as she read. He gazed at her, saying the words in his mind as she read them aloud. He knew the poem like he knew the hills and fields back home in Essex—it was as familiar to him as breathing. And yet he had never felt the passion and the pathos of Flodden Field until Lucy Williams read the poem aloud.

She paused a few times, darting quick little glances up as she read through the six cantos. Whenever her eyes left the page, he studied his boots as though they were the most fascinating things in the world. She was nervous enough as it was without having a mute soldier ogling her like a green lad.

“To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay

has cheated of thy hour of play,

Light task, and merry holiday!

To all, to each, a fair good-night,

and pleasing dreams, and slumbers light!”

After repeating Scott’s final words, Lucy sighed and closed the book, taking a few deep breaths. “Goodness, Ensign Rowland, I have not read for so long aloud in many a year. Growing up, when I was in school, I often had recitations. But as a governess, I have the luxury of passing on the task of reciting to my charges.” She turned to him, a smile hovering about the corners of her mouth. “Did I perform well enough?”

Again, his throat worked. He strained against his infirmity, longing to offer a flowery compliment. Or at least a thank-you. But no matter how hard he tried, his voice was gone. So he merely nodded, struggling to let his gratitude show in his expression.

She inclined her head as though he’d really spoken. “Thank you, Ensign. I do appreciate the compliment. And the captive audience.” Her smile widened to a grin. “Shall I read another?”

He grasped the book and flipped to another page, with another favorite, and handed it back to Lucy. “Ah, The Lady of the Lake. Excellent choice. I had my eldest charge, Amelia, recite this last year.”

She read again, putting the same fervor and enthusiasm into her performance as she did before, though she must be getting tired. Those were long poems and did not precisely come trippingly off even the smoothest-speaking tongue. And yet, she sat here, under the shade of an elm tree, reading him poems that he fancied. On her day off. When she could have been doing a hundred other interesting things. His heart surged with gratitude, and a bit more of the cotton wool fell away from his view of the world.

Behind them, the doors of the church banged open, and the general hubbub announced that the veterans’ group was dispersing. Lucy paused midverse and closed the book, smiling with what might have been a pang of regret. But if it was real disappointment or feigned for his benefit, he could not be certain. She rose, dusting off her skirts, and returned the poems to Ensign Rowland.

“I suppose I should be going,” she announced. “The house is in uproar. Amelia’s debut is later this week, and everything is in chaos until that fateful night.”

“Ah! I see you found one another.” Lieutenant Cantrill broke away from the crowd and started over, holding his good hand out to Lucy. “When I didn’t see you inside, I was worried that perhaps neither of you could make it.”

Lucy bobbed a curtsy. “Lieutenant, I do apologize for worrying you. The weather was so lovely, and I have been cooped up of late. So Ensign Rowland and I decided to stay outdoors.”

“No, no. That’s fine. All well and good, then?” The lieutenant glanced over at Rowland for confirmation, and he gave a short grunt. It was all he could muster under the circumstances.

“Excellent.” Cantrill turned back to Lucy. “Will I be seeing you at Miss Bradbury’s debut, then? I—uh—that is, I had planned to attend as my mother will be in town—”

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Lucy nodded briskly. “Sophie told me of your plans, sir. I hope that everything works out well for you.”

James’s head snapped up. Cantrill had plans with Sophie Handley? This could be rather diverting. It would take his mind off his own infirmities at least.

Lucy prattled on in the same no-nonsense tone. “But of course I won’t be present at the party. I must take care of Miss Louisa, and she is none too pleased that she will be missing her sister’s debut.” She turned to James. “Louisa is two years younger than her sister and quite distressed that she cannot attend all the grand functions that her sister will be enjoying. It has been my job, of late, to ensure that Louisa’s feelings are not too sadly trampled.”

James smiled and nodded. Miss Williams really seemed to enjoy her two charges. She spoke of them almost as an indulgent older sister would. It brought to mind his sister Mary and how much they enjoyed each other’s company.

Miss Williams continued. “Of course, Sophie plans to turn Amelia into a diamond of the first water. And being so pretty and graceful herself, I know she will accomplish her goal.” She turned to Cantrill with a playful grin. “Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”

James couldn’t suppress a grin. He turned to Cantrill, one eyebrow raised.

Cantrill reddened. “Yes, yes. Of course.” He turned to Rowland. “Well, then? I suppose we must be off.”

However much he wanted to see the lieutenant squirm about Sophie, James had no intention of going back to his flat with Cantrill—not with such a fine spring day ahead of him, and such pretty company. He offered Lucy his arm. “C-C-C-r-r-r...” he stammered. He cleared his throat. “C-C-Crescent?” It was all he could say, but hopefully Miss Williams would catch his meaning. She was rather astute after all.

She did. Tucking her arm through his elbow, she cast him a dazzling smile. “Yes, thank you, Ensign. I shall be delighted if you would see me to his lordship’s door in the Crescent.”

Chapter Three

James Rowland had spoken. A single word, of course, and stammered to be sure, but he had spoken. ’Twas an excellent sign. Whether this development was due to her reading or some other mysterious aspect, she could not fathom. But it was progress. That much was certain.

She cast a sidelong glance at Rowland as they strolled back to the Crescent. If he was surprised or elated by his utterance, he kept his counsel. His face had settled into its usual angular lines, and he remained silent. Did he know that her entire purpose in reading to him was to help him overcome his infirmity? Did he know that Lieutenant Cantrill and Sophie had put her up to it? Oh, she was entirely willing to help, but their brief session together made her feel awkward. As though she had helped a child to win a race by holding back as she ran. It was a confusing emotion, because she hadn’t held anything back from him—other than the truth. It was time to tell him.

She paused, tugging on his sleeve. “Ensign, I would speak to you if I may.”

He stopped, and several passersby bumped into them. The ensign steered her away from the crowded sidewalk to a small side street where fewer people jostled along. As they reached the corner of a garden, she turned to face him, the warm sunlight touching her face as she spoke.

“Do you want to regain the power to speak, sir?” Her words sounded too harsh, too frank even to her own ears, so she rushed on. “The lieutenant thinks that if I read to you perhaps that can help you overcome your infirmity. But I don’t want to help you unless you wish for me to do so.”

A flush crept over his face, and his bright green gaze remained rooted on the ground. Oh, this was awful. She had hurt his feelings and made him feel ridiculous. And meanwhile, she didn’t feel so wonderful herself.

“I want to read to you, because I enjoy your company,” she continued hastily. “I have very few people with whom I can converse. I have no family and little acquaintance beyond the schoolroom. So reading to you was actually quite a bright spot in my world for me to look forward to this week. But...I shall stop if you don’t like it.”

He shook his head, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “C-c-continue.”

“Do you want me to continue meeting with you, then?” She wasn’t certain what that single word meant. Or did he want her to continue blathering away like an idiot? By the way he was nodding his head, he indicated that he wanted her to keep meeting with him. “Very well, then, sir.” She took a deep breath, unsure if she should go on. But then, if he wanted to recover, he would have to work as well. It was the same sort of agreement she offered the Bradbury sisters in the schoolroom. She would offer what help she could, but her pupils would also have to work hard.

“I will continue to read to you, but we will work together to help you regain your voice.” She looked up at him, willing him to look her straight in the eye. “You spoke to me today. Can you speak to anyone else, sir?”

“M-M-Macready and C-C-Cantrill.” His voice was rough, like sandpaper across her skin. She suppressed a shiver at his tone and continued in her same businesslike manner.

“If they are your brothers in arms and you are able to speak with them, then that indicates something profound, Ensign. I am not sure how we shall go about making matters better for you. I am sure we shall have to try several different methods. But I wanted to be honest with you. I wanted to make sure this is what you want. And if it is, then I shall help you in any way I can.”

The poor man—his eyes were cast down and his hair mussed, a flush still stealing over his face. Well, one could hardly blame him. It would be difficult indeed to admit to needing help for any particular weakness or to have anyone—especially a woman who was practically a stranger—question him on it. She took his arm again and allowed him to steer her back onto the main street from which they had deviated.

They plodded on in silence, a silence that Lucy relished. She was tired, too. And addled a bit. And rattled, if she were to admit the truth. She had just agreed to help the ensign regain the power of speech—the very thing he lost on a Belgian battlefield. It was no small promise and no small task. And what if she failed? She said a silent prayer for help and for hope. She would need a great deal of both in the coming weeks.

His lordship’s fashionable townhome—situated right in the heart of the Crescent—loomed up ahead of them. If his lordship saw her with the ensign, there might be trouble. Servants—even high-placed governesses—were supposed to conform to certain kinds of behavior. And even though her relationship with the ensign was entirely above-board, she wasn’t about to do anything foolish that might cause talk.

“We can stop here. The house is just about a block away, and I don’t want to get into any kind of trouble,” Lucy explained in haste, heat flooding her cheeks. “His lordship wants his female servants to remain unmarried, and so I don’t want to do anything to stir up gossip. Not that it would. Or that it should—” She broke off, feeling like an utter fool.

He patted her shoulder. “V-very well,” he responded. He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips for a brief, chaste kiss. “Th-th-ank you, M-Miss Williams.” He bowed, releasing her hand.

Butterflies chased themselves around her stomach, and she struggled to remain composed. Outwardly composed, that was. “Of course, Ensign.” She bobbed a curtsy. “And thank you for the pleasure of your company. I can assure you, I spend many of my days off traipsing around the booksellers, hoping to scout a new volume. It was a rare treat to have pleasant company with which to share my day off instead of being all alone.” Botheration. Now she sounded like a dried-up old spinster. If only she had as much gift for pretty speeches with Rowland as she did with Cantrill—but then, she didn’t care about Cantrill.

On the other hand, she suspected that she might be caring more about Rowland than she should.

* * *

Rowland stretched out on the settee in his humble flat, his mind spinning. On the way back from walking Lucy home and then for the better part of the afternoon, he had replayed their conversation—well, her conversation with him—in his mind. That she was willing to help him, that she cared enough about a fellow human being to offer assistance—that alone was enough to fill him with gratitude. But he couldn’t stop thinking of Lucy as she read and as she spoke to him.

She had a certain manner of flicking her glance sideways—a sharp look out the corner of her eye that sent his heart racing. There was no coquetry in this gesture. It was not practiced. It was simply part of who she was, but it was enough to send his heart pounding every time she did so. He was much happier concentrating on how this glance made his heart leap than in dwelling on her words from their walk to the Crescent. But, unbidden, they crept back into his mind. Her clear, dulcet tones asking, “Do you want to regain the power to speak, sir?”

No one had asked him that. Everyone assumed he did, but no one asked him in such a direct and forthright manner before. The doctors in Belgium had scratched their heads at his predicament, and after his superficial wounds healed, had sent him on his way. “He’ll speak when he’s ready,” they pronounced.

Back home in Essex, Mother threw her hands up in despair. “You’re just being stubborn,” she wailed. “Your sister Mary can’t find a match—not with her stammer. And you—you were our only hope. Be a man, like your other brothers in arms. Look at Captain Brookes, missing a leg. And now he’s married and running the family farm! Look at Lieutenant Cantrill, supporting himself in Bath. And you, barely wounded, can’t get a position anywhere because you won’t speak? James—our family is in desperate circumstances!” And so it had been until Macready, Rowland’s closest friend in the 69th, had invited him to share his flat in Bath as he recovered from his battle scars.

Among his brethren soldiers, his inability to speak was a given, as much as his green eyes or blond hair. It was a part of him, much as the others now carried more visible scars of the war. And yet none of them had asked him if he wanted to recover, just as they were recovering thanks to the curative waters of Bath. Cantrill had gone so far as to recruit Lucy for the job without asking Rowland if that’s what he wanted.

He brought his booted foot down hard on the floor, the force of the blow smashing a china plate as it fell from the mantel. He gazed at the fragments. They were as jagged as the pieces of his life. His lack of ability to flirt with Lucy, or even chat about mundane topics like the weather, drove him to distraction.

He grasped his head in his hands, willing his temper to stay controlled. No one understood what he wanted. No one had bothered to ask before.

No one, that was, but Lucy. She respected his privacy, acknowledged his right not to get well. And that spoke volumes about her character.

The front door banged open. “Rowland? Are you here?” Macready’s voice, hale and hearty despite his many wounds, echoed throughout the little flat.

Rowland grunted. Macready must be back from taking the waters.

“So, how was the meeting?” Macready limped in, discarding his jacket on a nearby leather chair. “You look like you are having a bit of a study. If your forehead had any more lines, you could compose music upon it.”

“Funny,” Rowland replied, keeping his tone sarcastic. He didn’t want to share everything about Lucy yet. Certainly not her beauty or her sparkling character. Macready, with his Black Irish looks and his gift with words, might find her beguiling. He could charm her in ways that Rowland lacked—until he regained his power of speech.

“I met Cantrill in the Pump Room. He mentioned that a certain Miss Williams read to you today and that you squired her back to her employer’s home in the Crescent,” Macready yammered on. He sank into a worn velvet chair, eyeing Rowland closely. Too closely. “He even said you spoke to the lady.”

“Nothing much.” He kept his face turned toward the wall. If Macready saw how deeply he was flushing, he’d never hear the end of it.

“But think of it, man! You haven’t spoken a word to anyone besides myself and Cantrill since La Sainte Haye. This is an amazing accomplishment. You are on the road to recovery. I think this Miss Williams is excellent medicine, you know.”

“She’s not.” She was much more than a pretty face or a pleasing diversion. Macready made it sound as though she had worked her feminine wiles on him and gotten her way. What transpired was much more profound and deeply shaking than that. But trying to say that aloud—why, it would sound beyond ridiculous. So he merely settled for shrugging his shoulders.

“You know, I think you’ve been much too hard on yourself, Rowland. Think of it. Most of us were far too young to be in the military. I was twenty. How old were you? Eighteen? We were green as grass and broke formation. That’s how the Frenchies were able to get the best of us.” Macready paused, rubbing his battered arm. “Hiding in the rye as we did, well, that was simple survival. We had almost no chance against the cavalry.”

Well, they had hidden. That much was true. But while Macready lay delirious from dreadful wounds, Rowland had been awake and fully alert when he played dead. Like a coward. He had feigned death to the point that the peasants who came to collect them after battle thought he had died. And he didn’t cry out for help but remained mute even as his body was loaded onto a cart bound for Brussels.

The shame of his deception burned strong, deeper perhaps than any physical wound he could have sustained at Waterloo. And there was nothing he could do to right the wrong. His inability to speak seemed as though no more than justice. There was, after all, nothing he could say to defend or excuse the cowardice he had shown. And if he regained the power of speech, would he ever find a way to express his disgust with himself? His profound disappointment at how little he had done to save his fellow men?

The silence between them stretched out, punctuated by the ticking clock on the mantel. At length, Macready cleared his throat. “That’s why I asked you to come to Bath, you know. You needed to recuperate as much as I did. And Cantrill, he’s looking out for your welfare, too. I think that this Miss Williams shall probably play a significant role in your healing.”

Macready knew everything. He knew about Mrs. Rowland’s tears and recriminations. He knew about the doctor in Essex who had told James Rowland that fear had tied his tongue. He knew about the shame and the anger and the horror of the battlefield. And yet, Macready sought only to offer help. Never once had he blamed James for his injuries. But he should.

James struggled painfully with his voice for a few moments. It seemed he couldn’t force the words over his tongue. “I—I—I...” He trailed off, and inhaling deeply, he began again. “I—I am s-sorry.”

“Whatever for, old man? We were all of us terrified. We did what we could under the circumstances.” Macready rubbed his hands together briskly. “How about some tea? I could do with a bit, myself. Not to sound flippant, but that Bath water tastes like rotten eggs. And, uh—” Macready nodded his head at the heap of broken china on the floor “—I’ll bring a whiskbroom so you can tidy up.”

Macready heaved himself up from the chair and made his way to the small kitchen. The rattle and clank of the kettle and dishes signaled that he was readying the tea and had no more wish to converse about the past than James.

James rubbed a weary hand over his brow. Of course he didn’t want to think about it. No one wanted to examine the unpleasant or foolish side of himself. But all the same, James had a driving curiosity to know the truth. What kind of fellow was he after all? There was a saying that the battlefield brought out what was genuine in a man. If so, then he had failed the test miserably. Sure, he was young. But then, they all were. What made a man suffer nobly, like Macready? And what made a man hide and cower with fear as he had? Where was the defect in his character? Would that he could root it out and tear it away, like attacking weeds in an overgrown garden.

He wasn’t sure he deserved the friendship of his fellow veterans, like Macready. That’s what made attending those veterans’ group meetings so difficult. Those men had sustained real injuries while defending home and country. Many men had given their lives, leaving wives and children behind. He couldn’t even look the widows in the eye, so riddled with shame was he. Their husbands had paid the ultimate sacrifice while he lay silent in the rye at La Sainte Haye.

If he wasn’t sure he deserved the friendship of those brave men, then he felt doubly undeserving of Miss Williams’s attention. She seemed to care about others quite a bit, judging from her conversation with Cantrill. Every mention of her charges or Sophie brought a merry twinkle to her eyes. She would never sit back and allow others to suffer in her place. Someone like her would recoil in horror at his cowardice. Not that he had a chance with her anyway, poor and mute as he was. It was just that, in general, a friendship with someone like her could be nice. It took the rough edges off of life.

How could he come to deserve friendship again? Perhaps he could begin by confronting his shame and his cowardice first. These twin emotions had robbed him for two years now, leaving him bereft of speech. Only by ridding himself of them could he regain what he lost.

It was going to be a difficult journey. But, like the soldier he should have been, he could take it battle by battle. He would regain his power to speak. He would find a way to support his mother and sister. And in doing so, he would become a man. Not, perhaps, the man he should have been had he not been such a quitter on the field of battle. But, perhaps, the man he was meant to be.

He sighed.

Would he ever become the kind of man who might, one day, deserve a pretty girl like Lucy Williams sitting by his side?

He certainly had his work cut out for him.

Chapter Four

Lucy perused the bookshelves before her, tapping her fingers across the spines of the leather-bound volumes. Lord Bradbury possessed an excellent library that he used but infrequently. Surely he wouldn’t mind if she looked among them for something that could help her to cure the ensign.

She moved along the row of books pertaining to natural history, drifting toward the middle of the room until she spied the medical texts. Botheration, the titles of some were in Latin. Oh, it was all jolly well to teach Latin and to importune his lordship’s daughters with the proper declensions of each noun but to read it oneself? Highly taxing to the nerves, and hard on the eyes. She shifted her gaze higher, looking for any treatise that might be of help.

Ah, there was something. A Treatise Upon the Treatment of Invalids, the Infirm and Those Wounded in the Course of Battle. A handsome volume, too, bound in heavy green leather. She fetched a step stool from the corner and stood upon it, straining to reach the text. She was still too short. What a nuisance it was to be so small in stature. Leaning forward on her slippers, Lucy grasped the dusty bookshelf in one hand, and flailed about for the book with the other. She caught hold of the spine just as the shelf wobbled, shifting her weight forward. In one ungainly movement, she leaped to the floor, book in hand.

Lucy straightened and darted a glance about the room. Good thing no servants had passed by—or worse, his lordship himself. Such an ungraceful display would no doubt be quite amusing to anyone who witnessed it. She wouldn’t have fallen if the shelf hadn’t wobbled at that precise moment. Really, his lordship should take better care of the library. The shelves alone could stand some straightening, a good deal of cleaning and perhaps some shoring up with hammer and nails. In fact, it was rather odd that the rest of the home was in immaculate condition, but the library—which was often a gentleman’s pride and joy—should go so heartily neglected by the household staff.

She dusted the volume with her handkerchief, tucked it under her arm and then quit the library for the comfort of her room. The girls were both busy with their dancing lessons and would be occupied for another half hour or so. Perhaps she could at least begin delving into the ensign’s problem before they returned.

Opening the door to her room, she was flooded anew with the peace and the beauty of it. Never before had she been given a room to call her own. The little low white bed in the corner, the settee by the fireplace and even a vanity table with a looking glass were all solely hers to enjoy. She paused for a moment, drinking it all in. How very different and how very wonderful her life was now that she was earning her own way. She must never forget or take for granted all that she was given in return for teaching Louisa and Amelia. For a penniless orphan, she’d done quite well for herself. Really, one could expect no more of life than this—a good position in a nice home. And some day, perhaps, she’d save enough to open her own little school. It wasn’t much of a dream, but it was all she could permit herself, given the circumstances of her childhood.

She wedged herself into the corner of the settee with her favorite pillow at the small of her back and tucked her feet beneath her. She was now comfortable and ready for a good read. But the book was a difficult slog. So many dreadful wounds could be sustained in battle. She’d really had no idea of what the soldiers had endured.

It was no small wonder, then, that the ensign was speechless since the war. Had he been witness to but a few of these injuries it would be enough to scar him for life. And he must have been so very young during the war. A boy, really, just judging by how youthful he still looked, despite his war service. She flipped through the pages, but the wounds the author discussed were all physical in nature. There was nothing about the distress that could take over one’s mind in the aftermath of a battle.

She closed the book and gently laid it to one side. She cupped her chin in her palms and concentrated on the ensign himself. After all, he could speak. It wasn’t as though he were completely bereft of speech. So there could be nothing wrong with him, physically speaking. He could communicate with other soldiers and had spoken to her. So what could be helpful to him? What could help him regain the faculties of speech completely?

Louisa and Amelia burst into her room, chattering at high volume. Snapped back from her reverie, Lucy rose, sending the volume under her settee with a swift kick. Explaining just why she had such a treatise in her room to two curious young ladies was a greater task than she was equal to at the moment. Better to hide it than to explain it.

“Oh, Lucy, such fun,” Amelia panted, fanning herself with her hand. “The dancing master said I am a natural, so graceful. I cannot wait for my first Assembly Rooms ball, when I shall dance until dawn.”

“Not if Papa says anything about it. He’s already said you must be home after the supper is served.” Louisa’s face clouded. “And besides, he liked my dancing, too,” she grumbled, flinging herself on the settee.

“That may well be, but you shall have to wait two more years before you can flaunt your skills,” Amelia retorted, spinning around on one foot. “I shall only wait a few short days.”

Lucy gave an inward sigh. Trouble was brewing yet again. Time to split the girls up for a while. Though Amelia’s upcoming debut was rather exciting, her manner of crowing about her good fortune to her younger sister was wearing to everyone’s nerves—particularly Lucy’s, as she often had to act as peacemaker between the pair. “Amelia, my dear, you should go to Sophie’s room at once and be fitted for some new dresses. Louisa, you may stay here with me. We shan’t go back to the schoolroom today. You two are far too overwrought to concentrate on any more lessons.”

Amelia giggled and executed an extraordinarily deep curtsy to Lucy and Louisa, then flounced out of the room. Louisa sat glumly, plucking at the needlepoint pillow she had drawn into her lap.

Lucy took her small hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. Louisa and she were very close—closer than her and Amelia though she strove to hide it. She loved them both—but felt more kinship with Louisa. She was smaller than her sister, more hesitant and quieter. She had little of Amelia’s verve but was sweet and dear to Lucy—as dear to her as family. “I know how difficult it must be for you now, Louisa. But you must know that your turn will soon come. And then you’ll be dancing in a ballroom, wearing a fine frock just as your sister shall in a few weeks’ time.”

Louisa sniffed, turning her face downward. “I know it seems silly of me. But I can’t help it. And when Amelia starts crowing about her new gowns and her parties, well, I just want to throw things against a nearby wall.”

Lucy could not suppress a smile. “Louisa, dear, you must have patience and faith.”

Louisa sighed and pulled her hands away from Lucy’s grasp. Her brow remained deeply furrowed.

Oh, bother. None of this was helping. Lucy searched Louisa’s anguished expression. Though it did seem silly, a pang tugged at her heart as she remembered just how quickly Louisa’s debut would come. Though the time would feel like an eternity to the young lady, they must cherish the few years they had left together. She must find a way to distract her charge, to entertain her, as Amelia enjoyed her first glittering season in Bath.

“Well, then. Why don’t we suspend our regular schoolroom lessons?” Lucy asked, eyeing Louisa carefully. “It will be difficult to move forward anyway, with Amelia going for fittings and the like. Perhaps you and I could have more outings together. Bath is alive with history. We should enjoy it.”

Louisa glanced up, hope dawning on her woebegone face. “Could we, Lucy?”

Lucy shrugged. “I don’t see why not, as long as your father approves.”

“Oh, Lucy!” Louisa wrapped her arms around Lucy’s neck, giving her a fierce hug. “You are so kind. And what fun that will be—just we two. Can I ask Papa today when he returns from his club?”

“I think it would be better if I asked his lordship. But it wouldn’t hurt if you showed him you approve of the plan.” Lucy grinned. Good. Things were turning out better than she had hoped. She hated to see Louisa sulking. “Would you like to take tea in your room?”

“No,” Louisa replied with a definite shake of her head. “I like your room better.”

“Silly gel.” Lucy ruffled Louisa’s curls with an affectionate gesture. “I’ll go downstairs and make some tea and bring it up. The others are busy with Amelia’s party. You don’t mind, do you? Do you want to help me?”

“I’d rather stay here.” Louisa stretched out. “My head is beginning to ache.”

“Ah, then you need food and drink,” Lucy admonished. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She returned to her room just quarter of an hour later, bearing a tray with steaming hot tea and chocolate biscuits. Louisa was still sprawled across the settee, but she was reading that certain familiar green volume her governess had tried so desperately to conceal.

Lucy set the tea tray down carefully, busying herself with the cups and saucers. The questions were going to start soon; why, she could feel them bubbling to Louisa’s surface. She must compose herself and think of a way to explain the book without inciting further curiosity. She poured a cup of tea for her charge, adding two spoonfuls of sugar as Louisa loved.

Louisa sat up, casting the book aside, and accepted the teacup. “Lucy, why did you borrow this book from Papa’s library?”

Ah, there you go. The questions had begun. “I was using that book for some research, Louisa. That is all.”

Louisa took a careful sip of scalding tea. “But you are no nurse, Lucy. What do you need to research war wounds for?”

There was no way to hide the whole truth. “I am helping a veteran of Waterloo. There is a group of veterans who meet at Saint Swithin’s, and I have been charged with the task of helping one of them regain the power of speech.”

Louisa set her cup aside. “Really, Lucy? Can I help, too?”

Lucy choked on her tea, spluttering and wheezing into her handkerchief. “H-h-help?” she coughed. “H-how on earth can you help?”

Louisa sighed. “I don’t know.” She dropped her eyes to her cup, and the corners of her mouth creased. “I could read about cures or something. I feel so useless, Lucy. With Amelia getting to have her debut—it’s like she’s already a lady and grown up, and I am just stuck here....” A single tear traced down her cheek.

“Oh, Louisa.” Lucy gathered her close. In her innermost heart, Louisa had always been her favorite. “Listen, Louisa. You may help me. In fact, I should love to have your assistance. Perhaps we could scour your papa’s library for more volumes on treating war injuries. He has quite a large collection, you know, and few people seem to ever go in there.”

“Oh, Papa cares little for the library. It was my mother’s favorite room in the house, but since she died, he hardly ever goes in there.” Louisa hiccupped and pulled away from Lucy. “He won’t mind if we use it, though.”

Lucy stroked Louisa’s cheek. Her ladyship had passed away just a few years before of a wasting disease. Even the curative Bath waters had offered little relief. No small wonder, then, that his lordship had allowed that particular room to fall slowly into disrepair. She ran her hand over Louisa’s forehead and paused. “You feel warm, my dear. Are you quite well?”

“I feel miserable,” Louisa admitted. “My head aches, and my throat burns.” She reclined against the settee, closing her eyes. Dark shadows ringed those closed eyes. And her cheeks were a trifle flushed, too.

“Time for bed, then,” Lucy replied briskly. The headache, the sore throat and the moodiness—signs that Louisa was likely coming down with a head cold. She tugged at Louisa’s hands, pulling her from the settee. “Go to your room and put on your nightgown. I’ll warm some broth and be in to take care of you in just a few moments.”

Louisa stood, rubbing her forehead with one shaky hand. Then, in one sudden movement, she grasped Lucy by the waist, holding her tightly. “Lucy, you are too good to me. As good to me as my own mama would be if she were but here.”

Tears stung the back of Lucy’s eyes as she watched her charge leave. Did Lucy really think of her as a mama? Lucy touched her fingertip to the corner of her eye. She would never have children of her own, of course. Marriage was not for her. So Louisa’s love meant the world to Lucy. She was so fortunate to have such good, caring girls to teach. So many of her friends went into service upon leaving the orphanage—and such tales they would tell! Letters sent back to chums still in school detailed the horrors of working for spoiled children, lazy or even libertine parents. From these letters, she gleaned that finding a frog in one’s bed was a matter of course in some governess’s lives. She was so very fortunate. She must never forget that or take it for granted.

She picked up the book that Louisa had set aside. Of course, there was no way that Louisa could really assist with healing the ensign. Why, if Lucy felt overwhelmed by the task—and she did—then a fourteen-year-old miss could hardly do better. On the other hand, ’twould be nice to have Louisa with her often in the coming weeks. A new project, some interesting outings—these matters would keep the girl occupied, her thoughts further from her sister’s dazzling debut.

And, of course, Louisa’s presence would help distract Lucy from the ensign, as well. It was no good to think about the man as anything but a pleasant friend—the kind of person one would help when he was in trouble. She had no business entertaining any but friendly thoughts for him. She was a governess, after all. She must stick to her purpose and earn her own way in life.

She laid the book on her dressing table and then rushed down to the kitchen to see to Louisa’s broth.

* * *

James lay in the twilight hush of his room, his hands folded behind his head. The ropes under his feather tick gave a squeak of protest as he shifted his weight, trying to ease his restless body and mind. He wanted to overcome his problems and become a better man, but he had not the faintest idea where to begin. He had no real purpose in Bath. He could join his mother and his sister Mary in the poky cottage they called home in Essex, but they were depending on him to make their lives better or easier. There was nothing he could do to achieve that in Essex, no matter what his mother believed.

His mother still clung to the idea that the Rowlands were somehow still of the nobility, minor though his family was in the great scheme of things. An air of ruined grace still clung to her—the way that dried roses still retained some scent. And she didn’t want him to work with his hands, didn’t want him to seek employment in any profession that would somehow “disgrace” the Rowland name. In fact, Mother held out hope that he would, in time, marry an heiress who could restore the family’s dwindled fortunes.

He laughed—a bitter, scraping sound that echoed off the bare walls. Poor Mother. As if any heiress would want him. No woman with a grain of sense would. Would she? He caught his breath a little, as an image of sparkling brown eyes and a clever mouth drifted across his mind before he pushed it away. Lucy Williams would never take him to heart. She was a sweet girl, a thoughtful one, the kind of girl who would help anyone in need. And she happened to take an interest in him because Cantrill asked her to and nothing more.

’Twas folly to think anything but friendship would come of knowing her. Although friendship with Lucy could be quite sweet. She was such a nice girl.

Forcing his mind back to the matter at hand, he decided that he needed to have some occupation. Something to distract his mind from its ceaseless wandering over the fields of La Sainte Haye, back to his family in Essex and over to Lucy Williams. He must have some purpose in life—this endless drifting was insupportable, unbearable even.

He flung the pillow to the floor. Macready had an occupation—devoting himself to nursing back his wounds until he was hale and hearty. He worked at it every day, taking the waters, getting fresh air and food, learning to return to civilian life. Cantrill worked by helping others, eschewing material comforts so that others worse off than he might thrive and prosper.

It was time, long past time for James to get on with his life. To become a man and not the scared, shrinking boy who’d returned from the war. When he met with Cantrill on the morrow, he would ask the captain to help him find some kind of occupation. Even if Mother fainted at the thought of her son working with his hands, he must do something.

He could not idly stand by and remain a lily-livered coward forever.

That life had to die—as it should have in the rye field at La Sainte Haye.

Chapter Five

Thank goodness she had sent for the physician. His mere presence was enough to calm Lucy’s nerves. Her heart slowed to a normal beat as he took Louisa’s pulse, his brow furrowed with concentration. Dr. Phillips was the best doctor in Bath, and his word on any illness could be considered the best diagnosis one could hope for. When Louisa awoke this morning with flushed cheeks and a damp brow, it was time enough to send for the good doctor. And in this, Lord Bradbury assured her, he was in complete accord.

His lordship’s connections could be most reassuring. And the care he always showed for his two daughters was heartening. She took a deep breath and said a silent prayer for Louisa’s health.

Dr. Phillips placed Louisa’s wrist gently back onto the counterpane and turned to Lucy. “I really think it’s only a cold, Miss Williams. Keep giving her the chicken broth, and add some weak tea. Perhaps a few crusts of toast when she begins to improve. She should be quite well within a matter of days.”

“Matter of days?” Louisa lamented hoarsely, turning her head on her pillow. “But I shall miss Amelia’s debut.”

“Well, we shan’t be going in any event, sick or well,” Lucy reminded her crisply. Dr. Phillips’s advice was so welcome that she snapped back from her worry without even missing a beat. “After all, you aren’t old enough to attend such an event. But thank goodness you aren’t seriously ill. You must learn to count your blessings, Louisa.” She used her best governess tone of voice, for it covered how very shaken she’d been. She was so certain Louisa was on the brink of a dreadful illness.

Louisa grumbled and turned away from them both, burying her head in her pillow. Ah, she was already beginning to improve, then. Wanting to have her own way. When Louisa grew passive, that’s when you knew she was sick.

“Well, Dr. Phillips, I do appreciate your coming on such short notice.” Lucy helped him collect his things from the little birch wood bench at the foot of Louisa’s bed. “With so many guests expected so soon, I wanted to make sure we weren’t dealing with a gravely sick little girl.”

“Not at all. I am always glad to come and see to our Louisa.” Dr. Phillips straightened and shot Louisa a merry look from under his brows. “Mind you, listen to what Miss Williams says. I’ll be back to check on you in a matter of days.” He wagged a warning finger at her and turned to go.

Louisa sat up, casting her pillow onto the floor. “Dr. Phillips, I wanted to ask you a question. If a man is in battle and later has trouble speaking, could you cure him?”

Dr. Phillips turned from the doorway and looked over at Louisa, his brows beetled in confusion.

Lucy gasped. “Louisa—surely the doctor has no time—” Oh, the doctor would think them most assuredly too forward. And if James ever knew they’d spoken of him...oh, dear. He was such a proud man. He would not like it in the least.

“Nonsense. It would be an interesting case for him, wouldn’t it, Dr. Phillips?” Louisa replied in her most wheedling tone.

Dr. Phillips cocked his head to one side, as though considering the matter. “A soldier? Not one of your beaus, I should think, Miss Louisa?” His expression was both kindly and skeptical. “How do you know of such a young man?”

“Oh, he’s not my beau. He’s Lucy’s beau.” Louisa beamed up at the doctor, ignoring Lucy’s pained gasp.

“He’s not—” Lucy began. Oh, this was dreadful. A governess with a beau was as good as sacked in Lord Bradbury’s home. She shot a look that was half pleading, half threatening in Louisa’s direction. Her charge merely widened her already large brown eyes and gave a small, noncommittal shrug at her governess’s distress.

Dr. Phillips turned to Lucy, overriding her small protest and ignoring their obvious—if silent—disagreement. “Well, Miss Williams, what do you know of his injury? Was his throat injured, or did he sustain any kind of head wound?”

Lucy sighed. She’d deal with Louisa’s brazen behavior later. As for now—well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Dr. Phillips’s opinion could actually be quite helpful, given how highly regarded he was in Bath. And as his fee was so expensive, neither she nor James could consult him on their own. “No. As far as I know, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be able to speak. He can, in fact, speak to some people. His brothers in arms, for example. He’s spoken to me a bit—small phrases, you understand, and with a noted stammer.”

“Hmm.” The doctor drummed his fingers on his worn leather bag. “I imagine, then, that his injury has less to do with the physical and more to do with the mental distress he underwent in battle.” He straightened and fetched his bag from a nearby mahogany chair. “I’d have to see him, though, to make any kind of informed diagnosis.”

“Well, could you?” Louisa flicked her long braid over one shoulder. “When you come back to see me later this week. Lucy could bring him here.”

“Absolutely not,” Lucy broke in, her mouth agape. “Forgive us, Dr. Phillips. We’ve intruded too long on your good nature.” She gestured toward the bedroom door, fixing Louisa with her best governess-in-charge look.

“Well, why not?” Louisa wailed, her tone belying how very feverish and miserable she must be feeling. “After all, I am sure Dr. Phillips can help more than all those dreadful books in Papa’s library.”

Dr. Phillips held up one hand, silencing them both. “Miss Louisa, I understand your desire to help. But you must realize that the young man may be offended or hurt if Miss Williams dragged him here—to his lordship’s home—for me to poke and prod at him. But—” he turned to Lucy, a kind expression lighting his eyes “—you can let the young man know that I would be happy to see him. He’s part of the veterans’ group, is he not?”

Lucy nodded. The feeling that she had somehow betrayed Rowland welled in her throat, making speech impossible.

“Well, then, I would be delighted to see him at no charge. I do quite a bit of work for the veterans’ group, as Lieutenant Cantrill will attest. You may tell him I said so, or you might find it easier to have the lieutenant reassure him. I don’t want the lad to think I am seeing him out of charity. Rather, it’s my way of thanking those lads for all they’ve done for our country.” He nodded at them both and wagged a warning finger at Louisa. “Now, listen to what Miss Williams says. I expect to see you hale and hearty when I return later.”

Lucy walked with him to the bedroom door and ushered him out. Then she turned to Louisa, who sat, sniffling, her eyes red, her pallor dull.

“Don’t be mad, Lucy,” Louisa pleaded. “I want to help, and Dr. Phillips will be of assistance—I hope.” She plucked uncertainly at the coverlet, her flushed cheeks and sweaty brow betraying her illness.

Lucy sighed, sinking onto the foot of the bed. She could never stay mad at Louisa long, especially when she obviously felt so poorly. “I’m not angry with you, Louisa. And you’re right—Dr. Phillips can help a good deal more than any old Latin text we’ll find in your father’s library. But—the ensign is very proud. He might not like that we’ve spoken about him to Dr. Phillips without his consent. I shall have to handle this matter very carefully if I am not to offend him.”

Louisa gave a mighty sneeze, wiping her reddened nose on her embroidered handkerchief. “Oh, I’m sure you can find a way, Lucy. You’re so clever.”

Clever? Hardly. She gave a rueful inward chuckle. The only way she had managed her life thus far was to move into unfamiliar situations with wariness and crouch there until she became entirely comfortable. But this—this was different than trying to do well at the orphanage, or seeking a position as a governess. This meant meddling in another man’s life.

There was no guarantee that Ensign James Rowland would like or appreciate her interference, however good her intentions might be. He might be ashamed of her for discussing his impediment without his permission. Or he might be offended that Dr. Phillips was offering his services free of charge. The doctor’s offer might smack of charity to the ensign. And as a proud man, he might not be willing to accept it.

Or he could be angry on both counts.

She twirled a lock of her dark hair, staring out the window. Only one thing was certain. She must proceed with infinite caution.

* * *

“What ho, Rowland, it’s good to see you,” Cantrill said in a hearty tone of voice as he opened the door to his flat. “Come in, come in. My place is in a bit of uproar, pardon the mess. Mrs. Pierce is tidying up for my mother’s impending visit.”

Rowland stepped over the threshold, his hat in hand. Indeed, Cantrill’s flat—normally as neat and spare as a soldier would have it—was a welter of dusters, brooms, and carpet-beaters. Rowland shrugged and allowed Cantrill to lead him, zigzagging through the mess to the relative peace of the little parlor.

“What can I bring you? Tea? We’ll have to make it ourselves—Mrs. Pierce is far too busy at the moment to bother with refreshments, I’m afraid.” Cantrill motioned Rowland to a small chair near the hearth.

“Nothing...for me.” James cleared his throat and took a deep breath. He could speak to the lieutenant, it was true—but that didn’t mean his speech was free-flowing and unfettered. He must get to the heart of the matter. There was always the lurking fear that speech would elude him entirely if he took too long to come to the point.

Cantrill sat across from James, his normally pleasant face reflecting, perhaps, some of the confusion and exhaustion that his mother’s impending visit was causing in his flat. Funny, mothers could cause such mixed emotions. After all, James loved his mother and wanted to support her. But what if she were on her way to Bath right now to see him? He shuddered at the mere thought. No. He had definite sympathy for Cantrill today.

“I’ve come...about a job.” James cleared his throat again. “I must have—some occupation.”

Cantrill sat back in his chair and rubbed his hand across his brow. “Are you quite sure you’re ready for work, old fellow?”

The old anger and self-hatred began welling under the surface, causing James to swallow convulsively. “I’m not injured,” he muttered after an eternity.

“No, no of course not. But many of the other veterans, you know, are having a difficult time making this transition to civilian life. Some of them have elected to refrain from work for several months until they feel equal to the task of going to work every day.” Cantrill furrowed his brow, gazing over at him with a piercing gaze. “No need to rush things, you know.”

“I—I—I’m not.” James breathed deeply, calming the anger as it began bubbling over. Cantrill wasn’t meaning to condescend, after all. “Long p-p-past due. N-n-need to be useful for s-something.”

A flicker crossed Cantrill’s expression, as though he finally understood how very positive James was about seeking a position. “Very well,” he responded in a genial tone of voice. “What can you do?”

He paused. Not very much, he must admit. He’d been educated in the little country village with Mother bewailing their lost chances at Eton. But he liked the village and liked learning and had no desire to run off to boarding school with a lot of tony chaps who’d look at him as a charity case. And then he’d lied about his age and gone to war. He had very little to show for his life. But still, one had to say something.

“I—I—I don’t know, really,” he finally responded, his voice sounding sheepish even to his own ears. “S-something that doesn’t require s-speech, I imagine.”

Cantrill gave a rueful chuckle. “I should think some occupation with your hands would work well. Would you have any objection to working with a carpenter? There’s a fine one here in Bath, Henry Felton, who does quite a bit of cabinetry and the like. He was apprenticed during John Wood the Younger’s days and knows more about woodworking than anyone in the country, I wager.”

Working with his hands? Mother would perish at the thought, but the idea was strangely appealing. He’d only ever whittled a few things as a hobby, but the idea of building fine, strong furniture and cabinets—well, that gave a fellow something to do. And it would never matter whether he could utter a single syllable.

“I-I-Is F-Felton hiring?” A glimmer of hope welled in his chest.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, he came by the veterans’ group meeting about a fortnight ago, seeking to apprentice someone in his new shop. Felton had an assistant, but the fellow married and moved to Brighton. So he’s in need of someone to help—and quickly, too.” Cantrill glanced at the little mantel clock. “I’d step ’round there today, if I were you. Tell him you are one of the veterans. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to have you.”

“I—I—I’ll go n-now.” James rose, knocking his chair backward a few feet in his haste. “Apologies, L-L-Lieutenant.”

“Not at all. It matches the higgledy-piggledy nature of my entire flat.” Cantrill held out his hand with a grin. “Felton’s shop is located on Bennett, near the Assembly Rooms. Best of luck to you, Rowland. Though I am sure you won’t need it.”

James thanked the lieutenant and saw himself out of the flat. ’Twas midmorning, and the weather was fine enough for a walk. In a mere quarter of an hour, he would change his life.

As he strolled up Broad Street, his nervousness grew. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to speak at all once he arrived. What then? Would he just stammer like an idiot?

He could turn back now. Head back to his comfortable life in the humble flat on Beau Street. He’d been such a failure that no one expected anything of him, besides Mother—and even her hopes were vague and rapidly dying. Cantrill had all but turned him away from seeking employment at first. That’s how very little everyone thought of him.

He paused, grasping the cool iron of a nearby fence rail until his knuckles whitened. He’d been a coward before. He’d never be one again. Even if he couldn’t utter a word to Felton, he’d find some way to communicate. Hand gestures. Writing on foolscap. Scratching words in the dirt. Anything to finally overcome this impediment and get on with his life.

He released the fence post, his palm smarting from the pressure. Good. Pain, strangely, kept him calm. It gave him something to focus upon. As he drew closer to George Street, the sight of the walled-off garden on one side street brought Miss Williams sharply back to mind. It was here that she had asked him if he wanted to be well. It was here that she had offered to help him.

What would Miss Williams think of this plan? Would she approve? She, who earned her bread through her own work, surely would. He wanted her approval. Why? ’Twas hard to say. She was just, well, the kind of girl who any man would want to be friends with. She seemed to have such a tremendous sense of spirit. If he got the position, then he’d have good news for her the next time they met—news that would bring a light to those lovely, velvety brown eyes of hers.

He hastened his steps, fear melting away as he imagined her quick, slanted gaze, the freckles dusting the tip of her nose. It would be nice to have something good to tell her. To show her that he was becoming more of a man.

And there was Bennett Street. The Assembly Rooms loomed ahead, gracious and aloof. And there, with a handsome wooden sign bolted sturdily to a pole, was Felton’s shop.

He poked his head in the door, breathing deeply of the fresh, exhilarating scent of newly shaved wood. He stepped inside, his boots scratching against the sawdust that littered the floor. The shop was strangely hushed, as though not a living soul were present. James scanned the room with a nervous eye. What if they were all gone? He needed to speak with Felton now. He needed to go through with the matter now that he’d finally screwed his courage to the sticking-place.

He scuffed his boots across the floor. The sound echoed through the building. He strained his ears to hear any scrap of sound. And then he caught the faintest tsk-tsk-tsk of metal scraping against wood and strode toward the sound.

A tall, graying man was bent over a workbench, using a chisel of sorts to carve an intricate scroll onto a piece of fine, unblemished mahogany. Without thinking, James let out a cheerful whistle of appreciation. Startled, the man dropped his chisel and turned an affronted gaze toward Rowland.

“Well then, who might you be?” He challenged, a glint of either mirth or annoyance in his faded blue eyes.

’Twas now or never. “Rowland. I—I—I’m a veteran. Cantrill sent me here to see about a position.”

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