Lily George - Captain of Her Heart

Mama turned on her side, away from Harriet. A brief knock on the door announced Rose’s arrival with the tea tray.

“Here you go, my lady.”

“I don’t want it. Take it away.” Mama buried her face in a lumpy pillow.

Harriet sighed. Usually the smelling salts or the chamomile tea did the trick, but this hysteria wouldn’t back down. There was one last resort. She shrank from using it, because it cost so much, but there was nothing else that could be done. “Rose, if you please, go fetch Dr. Wallace. He can be here quickly if he’s not out on another call.”

“That’s a good idea, dearie.” Rose patted Harriet’s shoulder and ran downstairs.

The floorboards squeaked in protest as Harriet paced the length of Mama’s bedroom, seeking the solution to their problems. Mama’s sobs had eased until she fell asleep, and that suited Harriet just fine. As she slept, Harriet racked her brain for a way out of their situation. They had to have money. Some other means of security than her sister’s possible marriage. All of their possessions were gone. What was left? Harriet’s head began to pound. There had to be a way they could survive. Harriet caught a glimpse of her reflection in the cracked mirror over Mama’s vanity. Her face, drawn and pale, contrasted sharply with her eyes, which had darkened to an inky blue. Distracted, she tried to tuck a few of her dark brown locks back into their pins. She looked as disastrous as the situation she now faced.

A commotion sounded in the front entry. Relief washed over Harriet as she recognized a gruff, masculine voice that must belong to Dr. Wallace. She hurried down the stairs to meet him.

He strode into the tiny vestibule, dumping his black leather bag on the rickety bench at the foot of the stairs. Harriet steadied the bench and glanced at his wrinkled but kindly visage. “Oh, Doctor, thank you for coming. We don’t know what to do with my mother—she took ill and finally cried herself to sleep.”

He didn’t spare her a glance, or any common courtesies. “Well, I’ll have to awaken her to do a proper examination. What caused this outburst of hysteria?” he grumbled as he dug through his case, bringing forth a small vial.

“She received a letter that made her most upset.” Hopefully that was enough explanation to satisfy him. She refrained from revealing the entire sordid tale.

With a curt nod, he hurried up the stairs.

Rose embraced Harriet, holding her as tenderly as a mother. “Come into the kitchen, dearie. We’ll have a nice cup of tea.” Drinking in Rose’s steadfast strength, Harriet leaned on her, allowing the old servant to lead her away.

After an agonizing half hour, Dr. Wallace entered the kitchen, wiping his hands on his handkerchief. Harriet leaped from her chair. “Is…is she all right?”

He leaned against the doorframe and gave her a curt nod. “Sit down, Miss Handley. You look a bit peaked yourself.”

Harriet complied, but grasped her teacup, hoping the movement would steady her hands.

The doctor peered at her from under his grizzled eyebrows. “I’ll come straight to the point. Your mother is suffering from a bout of nervous hysteria.” A deep frown creased the corners of his mouth. “Rest is the best thing for her at the moment. I’ve given her laudanum and I want you to administer more whenever the hysteria returns.”

“Yes, Dr. Wallace. Is there anything else I can do?”

“If there could be a change in your mother’s situation, it would be best. Something more like the style of living she knew. Are there any relatives who would take her in?” He folded his handkerchief and stuffed it back into his pocket.

“None that speak to us, sir.”

The doctor was already turning to leave. “Too bad. It’s her best chance. Work on that, my girl. And keep giving her the laudanum.” He wagged a warning finger at her.

Harriet swallowed. She must improve Mama’s situation. The Handleys wouldn’t lift a hand to help, so ’twas up to her to make things right. Squaring her shoulders, she pronounced, “I shall persevere, Dr. Wallace.”

Rose pushed Harriet out the door. “Go for a breath of fresh air, dearie. The doctor was right—you do look peaked. Ramble over to the millpond and back, there’s a good girl.”

She breathed deeply of the damp afternoon grasses, which smelled sweet as they dried in the pale afternoon sun. She meandered up the hill toward the pond, a large, flat oval that glinted in the sunshine. The moor grass tugged at her skirts, catching her hem, slowing her progress. Gazing out over the scrubby trees, Harriet paused for a moment, bowing her head in prayer.

Dear Father, please show me the way. I don’t know what to do. Help me find the answers.

As a woman, her options were limited, but still, there had to be a way she could prevail. At one time, she thought she would become an authoress, but that idea died along with her father. He encouraged her writing, but Mama called it a dreadful waste of time. Could some sort of position be the answer to her prayers?

The bright jingle of a bridle pierced her reverie as a horse and rider approached. Harriet glanced over at the pair, as they crossed the field by the millpond, the black horse stamping easily through the tall grass. She frowned, her mind fixated upon her troubles. She was in no mood for politesse.

But wait—that man was familiar. He wore an army uniform with the same careless assurance that a dandy might wear an outrageous cravat. Her pulse skittered. Something was not right about his leg, though. His muscles didn’t flex with the movements of his mount, yet his hands grasped the reins easily, as though he were born to the saddle.

She smoothed her hands over her wrinkled attire. Why hadn’t she put on something more attractive than her lavender gown? Too many washdays had left the once-pretty dress worn and limp with age. She was perfectly attired for housekeeping, not for social graces.

The soldier reined in the horse and gazed down at her, a brief smile touching his lips. A faint scar zigzagged across his chin. She was gawping at his handsome yet rugged visage. Where were her manners? She shut her mouth with a snap.

Dismounting with care, he limped toward her, extending one gloved hand. “Miss Handley?”

“Sir?” Harriet bobbed a quick curtsy as she clasped his hand. Who was he?

“Don’t you remember me? I am Captain Brookes.”

“Oh!” Harriet gasped. Where was the dashing young lad who swept Sophie off her feet? Standing before her was a square-jawed man with a somber expression in his gray-green eyes. He had little in common with the wild youth she remembered. She picked up the pieces of her shattered composure. “I am so happy to see you home safe, Captain. My family will want to see you again. Have you been home long?”

“I settled in Tansley yesterday. I am home to set up house in Brookes Park and to clear up my brother’s business affairs, but I haven’t yet had time to make social calls.”

“We were very sorry to hear of his passing, Captain.” She dropped her gaze, staring in fascination at the burrs clinging to her skirt.

“Thank you.” He offered his arm, and she allowed him to guide her back down the hill toward the cottage. He tucked the reins into his other hand, leading his black mount along beside them. Harriet slowed her steps to match his pace. Was he always this tall? Her head didn’t even reach his shoulder. And his shoulders—were they always so broad? Being in the army made a boy into a man.

His touch burned through her sleeve. She needed a distraction, anything to curb her reactions to his presence and his touch. She cleared her throat. “I’m sure you saw a lot of Belgium, sir, what did you think of the country?”

“Not too much, I confess. Most of it was spent on horseback or slogging through the rain and mud. I spent some time at a home in Brussels.”