Lily George - Captain of Her Heart

Harriet stood her ground. “Well, if Mama isn’t so very ill, then a mild dose of laudanum might help her now. If she takes it, though, she won’t be able to attend the Blessing ceremony. But she would be all right by herself for a few hours, wouldn’t she, while we go? And she might try to attend the ball tonight, Doctor?”

Dr. Wallace cast a searching glance over the patient. He nodded with satisfaction and gently let go of her wrist. “I have prescribed a regimen of rest to cure your mother’s nervous exhaustion.” He hesitated, and then smiled gently at Harriet and Sophie. “Still, perhaps I prescribed strict bed rest in haste. A brief social outing might help, your ladyship.”

Mama sank against the pillows, with the air of a sacrificial victim. Her face was pale, her lips drawn. “Very well. I am outnumbered. We will attend the ball tonight. But I must have rest up until the moment we leave.”

“Hattie, you are so good with Mama. I honestly did not know what to do with her. All I did was mention the events in the village, and she became hysterical. I sent Rose to fetch Dr. Wallace. It was all I could think to do.”

“You handled the situation very well, Sophie. Don’t fret.” They crossed the hall, entering the room they shared. “I apologize for being gone for so long. I feel guilty for not being here to help you.”

“But you were helping me! You were seeing the captain, were you not? How did you fare?”

“Poorly, I am afraid. I made a blunder, and questioned him too closely about his emotions and his faith. The whole affair grew a bit disastrous.” How embarrassing the entire unfortunate morning had been. Save for Stoames’s kind words, she was prepared to forget the whole episode.

“Poor Hattie. I am sure it will be fine. I imagine he is unused to speaking to anyone about his feelings.” Sophie splashed water from the pitcher into the basin, and began washing her hands and face.

Harriet regarded her sister’s back closely. “In truth, I treaded on sacred ground. It made me rather sick.”

Sophie turned to face Harriet, patting her face dry with a threadbare towel. She flicked her eyebrows quizzically. “Whatever for? I shouldn’t worry. He’s promised to share his memories to help you write the book. Surely he knew what that would entail.”

Harriet flopped onto the bed with a sigh. “Sharing memories and sharing facts are very different things,” she murmured into her pillow. Her stomach recoiled and she could talk about her awful morning no more. Looking up, she chose the one topic of conversation designed to distract her sister. “Shall we dress for the Blessing?”

“Oh, yes! What will you wear?” Sophie managed to grow both animated and serious at the same time.

Harriet grinned at her with indulgence. “I haven’t any idea.”

“I’ve made over two old muslin dresses. They look lovely. See?” Sophie pulled them out of the wardrobe, casting an approving glance over her handiwork. “Look, I put new ribbons on the bodices, and embroidered in white—I think whitework is so divine, don’t you?” She gave the dresses an expert shake. “Here, Hattie, you shall wear the one trimmed in blue, and I shall wear the pink.”

She traced one finger over the embroidery, and the delicate threads caught on her rough skin. A trickle of interest suffused her body. A dawning awareness of her looks, and the desire to be pretty assumed a great significance in her consciousness. There was no driving force behind this transformation, was there? Certainly not. She just wanted to look nice, that’s all.

Sophie studied Harriet with a judgmental air. “Hmm. I shall dress your hair, Hattie. I’ve wanted to experiment with braids. My hair is too curly, but yours is so straight it will hold a braid nicely.”

Harriet gazed into the looking glass over the washstand, running a hand over her dark brown locks. Her hair was tucked up into its usual severe chignon. She could never call it attractive. Would anyone else? She rather doubted it. After all, Sophie was the acknowledged beauty of the family.

“Oh Hattie, I have ideas for our ball dress tonight, too,” Sophie prattled on. She gazed into the mirror, fitting her cheek against Harriet’s shoulder. Reaching up, Sophie tucked a wayward curl behind one shoulder. “Do you know, Hattie,” she said breathlessly, an expression of satisfaction lighting up her china-blue eyes, “I rather think I shall fall in love with the captain tonight.”

Harriet’s heart dropped like a stone and she suppressed the sudden flash of jealousy that flooded her being. She closed her eyes, blocking out their reflections in the glass. “Well, I should certainly hope so, Sophie.”

Chapter Seven

Brookes glanced toward the village green, where a mass of blooms obscured the well. The riotous color of the flowers and the sun sparkling on the cornets and flugelhorns made his eyes smart. He blinked to clear his vision. Opening his eyes, his gaze fell on the two Handley sisters, strolling arm in arm, toward the garishly decorated well. The bleating of the horns died out, replaced by a buzzing in his ears. Every sense he possessed trained, with military precision, on the pretty girls clad in white, their heads so close together that their bonnets touched.

Sophie’s little golden curls framed her face. Brookes stared at her, running his assessing gaze over her figure. She looked like a Dresden china doll, he decided flatly. Very pretty, to be sure, but untouchable. Casting Sophie away, he focused on Harriet. Her bonnet irritated him, for it covered her glossy brown hair and cast her fathomless blue eyes in shadow. Drat the bright sun. Harriet would keep her hat on throughout the ceremony and he would miss the chance to see her pure profile in bold relief. He noted that their servant stood beside them, but not his future mother-in-law. Where was Lady Handley? Almost everyone in the clutch of nearby Derbyshire villages was in attendance, he observed, glancing over the crowd gathering on the green.

The crisp rattle of the side drum broke through Brookes’s trance, sending his pulse racing. The deafening drumbeat took him right back to Quatre Bras. Brookes and his men rode in a single column up the road to Waterloo. A drummer for the Twenty-Third Foot lay dying at the crossroads. Neither he nor his men stopped to help the lad. Everyone eagerly pressed forward, ready for their share of the battle. Brookes closed his eyes, seeing the lad’s face. So young, spots still covered his cheeks. His groans sometimes haunted Brookes’s nightmares.

The band launched into “God Save the King,” snapping Brookes back from Quatre Bras onto the village green. He tried to will the bad memories away by forcing himself to stand at attention and sing along with the crowd. His gaze focused on the two Handley girls again. Their backs were to him, giving him no chance to study their expressions. But even without gazing upon her face, he observed Harriet’s serenity. Sophie’s shoulders wriggled, her bonneted head twitched from side to side. Watching her drained what little energy he possessed. In contrast, Harriet stood still, her head charmingly inclined toward the band. He involuntarily relaxed, releasing a knot he hadn’t realized existed between his shoulder blades. Harriet’s mere presence refreshed a man—as restorative as a long drink of water from one of the streams that crossed through Brookes Park.

He gave an impatient shrug of his shoulders, the knot returning. Harriet’s effect on his spirit mattered little, and there was no call to wax poetic about her features, because she was not his intended. He would simply have to get used to a life of constant movement. Restful, peaceful moments would be few and far between once he married Sophie.

The band ended with an earsplitting flourish, and Harriet applauded with the rest of the crowd. She glanced around furtively. Excellent. None of the men in front of her appeared to be Captain Brookes. A pull of awareness gripped her, causing the baby-fine hair on the nape of her neck to stand up. He must be standing behind them. Harriet forced herself to remain motionless. It would never do to turn around and gape. Besides, he must be staring at Sophie. Harriet cast a sidelong glance at her sister. She looked so lovely, the pinkness of her bonnet highlighting the porcelain planes of her face.