“Not at all, Bunting. If you don’t think the captain will mind, then this will do nicely.” Harriet began unpacking her parcel onto the blotter of a massive mahogany desk.
“Very good.” Bunting bowed and closed the door behind him so that it almost made no sound at all.
Harriet smoothed the sheets of foolscap with shaking fingers. She breathed deeply, inhaling the masculine scents of leather-bound books and polished wood. The familiarity of the room struck her anew, causing her eyes to mist over. She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes to dry the unwanted tears. Gazing up, she spied a portrait occupying the place of honor over the mantel. The painting showed a pretty young woman with deep gray eyes who held a baby in her arms. A toddler stood proudly beside them, resting his chubby hands on his mother’s arm. Harriet crossed over to the mantel and peered at the picture closely. That sweet tableau must be Brookes’s mother, his older brother, Henry, and the captain as an infant. The cozy domesticity of the painting aroused feelings of panic in Harriet. She bit her lip and looked away.
A clock ticked in the corner. Each swing of its pendulum struck Harriet’s nerves, like an omen or a warning. She had made a mistake in coming back, in proposing the whole ridiculous idea to begin with. Closing her eyes, she pictured her papa. He seemed so close to her in this familiar room. Papa had secrets. Her family had secrets. She did not need to go delving in Captain Brookes’s personal life for the very selfish reason of writing a book. Why invade a good man’s privacy to suit her ambitions? Harriet’s cheeks burned with shame.
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. It was time, long past time, for her to leave.
The door creaked open, announcing Brookes’s arrival. “Good morning, Harriet.” His rich, warm baritone filled the room, startling Harriet. “I apologize for taking so long to meet you.”
She spun around, her pulse pounding.
Harriet looked up at him, her eyes so blue they were almost black. He had seen this expression in her eyes once before, the first day they had met on the hill. At that time, she had been speaking of her faith, but now her eyes were so dark, they reflected something else. Fear, perhaps? He surveyed Harriet as he would a battlefield, raking his gaze over her, trying to gauge strategic points and weaknesses. Her lips trembled nervously, and she bit them in an effort to hold still. This observation gentled him, and his mouth curved into an encouraging smile. “I had to approve our well dressing. The servants finished the decorations this morning.”
“Well dressing? Do you have a hot spring here at Brookes Park?”
“Yes and the servants have it properly kitted out in a mass of flowers. It’s impressive. When we finish here, I would be happy to take you to see it.”
She blinked and nodded, giving him a little half smile. He motioned her to a chair near the hearth. “I’ll ring for some tea.”
“I’m afraid I will take up too much of your time, Captain.”
“Not at all. Next week, when the celebrations are over, we will have more time to talk. Today, we will get started. Where do you want to begin?” He sat down across from her, stretching his good leg out toward the warming blaze.
Her brow furrowed. She reached a hand up, tentatively touching her right temple. “I don’t know.”
“Would it help if I asked Stoames to join us?”
“Yes!” Her quick acceptance caused Brookes to lift an eyebrow. Why would Stoames make that big of an improvement to her manuscript? She colored under his gaze.
Bunting bustled in, balancing a tray with a lavish tea set in one hand. “Bunting, will you find Stoames, and ask him to join us?”
“Of course, Captain.” Bunting placed the tea tray gently on an inlaid table near the fire.
“We’ll have a little refreshment and start the discussion in that manner. Perhaps we both will feel less awkward.” He motioned her toward the table.
She smiled at him, the pinkness in her cheeks ebbing, busying herself with the teapot. He regarded her squarely. “What interests you about the war?”
She poured the tea. If she was still nervous, her hands did not betray her. Not a single drop spilled outside of the fragile china cups. “I want to know the truth about war. Perhaps I feel it is time to write a realistic history, so that those of us who never go to war can know what it is like.”
That sounded a bit daunting, but he nodded anyway. Best not to show any reluctance. “Then where should we begin?”
“What made you decide to become a soldier?” She gingerly sipped at her steaming hot tea.
“Well, you know I was the second son. My elder brother, Henry, inherited the estate. I had to seek my fortune elsewhere.” He took a careful taste.
“Well, yes, I know,” Harriet replied, stirring her tea with a small silver spoon. “But why the army? Why not the navy? Why seek the service at all? You could have been a curate, or sought a career in the church.”
“Army life is most appealing, especially to a young lad full of romantic notions. I love to ride. Riding is my passion, since boyhood, and I wanted to make my living at it. I sought adventure, desired to fight grand battles. And I never had much faith in God, so following the church simply never occurred to me.” He attempted a laugh to soften his words, but it caught in his throat, making an odd, strangling sound.
Her mouth dropped open. “You don’t have faith?”
“I had very little when I embarked on my career. I’ve lost it completely since Waterloo.” Absentmindedly, he stroked his leg, where wood joined ravaged flesh.
“I am very sorry to hear that.” She met his steady gaze. He might well have bared his wooden calf, he was so exposed. No, it was worse even, he had bared his soul to her. And judging by the expression in her eyes, Harriet did not like what she saw. Was it possible that his lack of faith was more unattractive to her than his wooden leg?
He pretended not to understand her look, and set his teacup down with a defiant clink. They needed boundaries. He would talk to Harriet about the war, but never about faith. His mind flashed back to the fields of Waterloo, where men lay dying while their brothers in arms and enemies alike stripped them of their worldly possessions. Never once did they show mercy, not even to their fellow countrymen. His lack of religion was his own affair. In fact, he had earned it. “Where on earth is Stoames?” he barked in irritation.
“Here I am, Captain.” Stoames opened the library door with brusque swiftness. “My apologies for taking so long.”
“Not at all,” Harriet replied smoothly, and poured another cup of tea.
He accepted it with a hearty smile. “Now, what were you discussing?”
“The beginning of my hallowed career.”
Stoames raised his eyebrows at the captain’s biting tone. “Well, I started as the captain’s valet before the war, and then I joined up as his batman. We had some terrific sport in the fields of Belgium.”
“Tell me, Stoames, did you have any trepidation about joining the army?”
“No, no, can’t say I did. To young men, going off to war is a vastly exciting experience. Lots of pretty ladies kissing you goodbye, the pomp of military bands—it stirs your blood, you see. The captain and I were both young and a little wild, and the idea of seeking glory on a battlefield was like something in a story.”
“An epic poem,” Brookes said with a snap, and looked at Harriet from beneath his lowered brows. Did she recall her silly foolishness about Homer and the romance of war?
Harriet blushed anew, and the roses in her cheeks reminded him again of the roses in the courtyard. He remembered kneeling next to his mother in the dirt, handing her pieces of string so she could tie the roses down when the wind blew too hard. His