Lily George - Captain of Her Heart

A brief flurry of activity disturbed the green as the members of the brass band sat down. An elderly man with slightly stooped shoulders and a thick mane of gray hair approached the well. Facing the crowd, he smiled serenely. Harriet’s heart warmed, and she grinned back. This kindly old man must be the reverend of St. Mary’s, over at Crich.

“Let us pray,” the reverend began. Bowing her head, Harriet allowed the prayer to wash over her soul like waves caressing the shore. In the year or so since her family moved from Matlock Bath, they had not attended Sunday services. Mama had been too conscious of the family’s status, and unwilling to make the eight mile journey to Crich and back every Sunday. Tansley Village was too small to have its own church, so the Handleys’ spiritual guidance had gone by the wayside.

Harriet drank in the words of the blessing, allowing them to comfort her parched spirit. Even before the family moved, going to church services had offered very little solace. Now, if you were looking for a social affair, you were in luck. If only she could have been like Mama and cared more for her perfect dress than her spiritual well-being, then that church would have been perfect. But no pretty dress ever swayed Harriet, and she searched in vain for a church that promised more than a salon. Listening to the reverend’s gentle voice, Harriet discovered that elusive something more.

The simple little ceremony drew to an end, and Harriet detached herself from her sister’s side. Full of strength, shining with a steadfast and pure purpose, she must tell the reverend how important his words had been, how he cast a light on her shadowy soul. Why, she didn’t feel at all bashful as she glided over to the reverend. He smiled as he saw her approach. “Did you enjoy the ceremony, Miss?”

She beamed up at him, her heart glowing. “I did. Your words fell upon my soul like drops of rain in a desert.”

He patted her hand with a grandfatherly air. “Now, you don’t look familiar, my dear. Have you attended services at St. Mary’s?”

Harriet dropped her gaze, coloring a little. “I haven’t been able to, Reverend. My mother is unwell and the four miles there and four miles back would be too taxing.”

“Don’t fret, don’t fret. You don’t have to be in church to worship, you know. God is everywhere. Now, tell me your name.”

“Harriet Handley.”

“Well, Miss Handley, I am Reverend Kirk. If you should ever wish to join our little congregation, know that you are always welcome at St. Mary’s. But even if you cannot make the journey, you must remember that God is with you, and watching over you.”

Harriet’s heart welled and tears stung her eyes. Such warmth and compassion had expired from her life when Papa died. Her lips trembled, and her voice caught in her throat.

“Now, now, my dear, there’s no need for tears. Remember, as solitary as you may feel, you are never truly alone. Promise me you will remember that.” Reverend Kirk patted her hand gently.

Harriet nodded, her heart still too full for words. Blinking away her tears, she turned from the reverend. The vivid colors and brassy tone of the band pounced on her nerves. She longed to be somewhere quiet, where she could think clearly. No such luck. Sophie grabbed her arm, pulling on Harriet excitedly.

“Why did you leave me like that? To whom were you speaking?”

“Reverend Kirk, you goose. Did you not pay any attention to the ceremony?”

“Very little,” replied Sophie with her customary frankness. “I wondered if my half boots look too hideous with this gown. I think I should have worn my slippers.”

Harriet sighed, linking her arm through Sophie’s. “Your slippers might have been spoiled with the walk. Your half boots are very attractive.”

Sophie looked down at her feet, considering them closely. “I think so, too,” she pronounced.

Rose tapped Sophie’s shoulder. “Come along, you two chickens. Enough chatter. The cream tea starts soon, and we are nowhere near the village hall.”

Brookes watched the sisters enter the bustling village hall through narrowed eyes. Seeing Harriet and Sophie together had stiffened his resolve—he needed to break free of Harriet’s spell. At some point during the tea, he would make that all-important first move. His jaw hardening, he resolved to speak to Sophie alone, for the first time since he returned home.

His vision sharpened. The sisters and their servant were selecting a tea table. One of the ladies assisting with the tea brought them a fresh pot and china cups. He stretched his legs under his own table, wondering how on earth he would find Sophie without an escort. He watched Sophie’s head bobble around aimlessly. Then Harriet and the servant woman stood up. Harriet leaned down to say something to Sophie, who nodded and remained at the table while the two women strolled off. Their absence offered him the perfect time to strike. Brookes stood up, his heart hammering, and found his way through the crush of villagers to her table.

“May I sit for a moment?” His voice had a catch in it. He cleared his throat.

Sophie jumped in her chair. Her face turned as crimson as the cloth spread over her table. “Of course.” Her voice was unnaturally strained and breathless.

“Lovely tea.”

“I haven’t tried it yet.” Sophie began to pour some into her cup, but her hand shook so that she spilled a little on the cloth.

“Allow me,” Brookes said smoothly, whipping out his handkerchief. Sophie reached out to grasp her saucer at the same moment he began patting at the spot on the tablecloth. He knocked against the cup and sent it flying. It landed on the floor with a crash, splintering to a thousand pieces.

“Oh!” cried Sophie. She stooped down to gather the broken pieces. Brookes stooped to help but his leg gave out, lurching him forward. He collided with Sophie, knocking her soundly on the head.

Sophie sat back in her chair with a little huff, rubbing at her skull. “Ouch.”

“My deepest apologies. Did I hurt you badly?”

“I’ll recover,” Sophie snapped.

He cleared his throat again, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. Should he keep charging ahead? Or should he offer to look at her wound? He peered at Sophie closely. The irritated expression on her face decided it for him. Charge ahead, ignore the little incident.

“I shall look forward to seeing you at the ball tonight,” he began, hoping to restore his sense of savoir faire.

“Yes.”

“Will you save a dance for me?” He remembered how, before the war, they would dance together so often that it raised the eyebrows of the matrons of Matlock Bath.

“Can you dance?” Sophie asked, with a mixture of irritation and frank curiosity that shriveled his interest.

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried.” He inhaled deeply, seeking Sophie’s smell of violets and muslin. But the scent of spilled tea permeated everything.

“Well, if you can dance, then I will be happy to reserve one for you, Captain Brookes.” A pat reply, one that he instantly recognized. A sop, and nothing more. He saw her turn away countless other suitors with a similar vague gesture before.

He stood up. A good soldier recognized the right moment for retreat. “Until tonight, then, Miss Handley.”

“Ah, seeing the pair of you again, it was like old times.” Rose clasped her hands over her bosom. “Like the war never happened. Before we had to leave Matlock Bath.”

Harriet glanced over at her sister, carefully sidestepping a rut in the road. It had not looked like old times to her. She had watched the whole scene from across the room, where she and Rose had stopped to help themselves to scones and clotted cream. When she espied the captain making his way to the table, she stayed rooted to the spot, and bid Rose do the same. Watching the awkward tableau reminded her of the amateur dramatics that trouped through Derbyshire. In fact, Harriet could not bear to watch after Captain Brookes collided with Sophie. She turned away, embarrassment and tenderness for the captain overwhelming her, making her knees weak.