Dawn in My Heart (25 page)

As the full circle of his life closed around him, the tears began to flow. He knelt by the cushioned bench, his head in his hands. Only One could help him through this now.

God, You saved me and gave me a new life. I've tried to show Gillian that I'm not the same man. It isn't enough. I don't think she cares one whit who I am now. Is it Your desire that I keep striving for her?

In the quiet that followed his prayer, he sensed the Lord's words from the night he'd been delivered,
You are to love her as I love you. Haven't I forgiven you?

The words stunned him, bringing a sudden quiet to his tormented soul.

What if she doesn't want my forgiveness? She has clearly spurned my love. The only thing she wants is to leave me.

He heard nothing more, but the command resonated in his spirit.
You are to love her as I love you.

It was too much to ask a human being. To love someone who rejected one's love.

I give up, Lord. I can't love her as You command. You must give me that love. I am willing to do whatever You command. You know that. I am willing to die for You, Lord. I want nothing but You, Lord. I would die without Your love. You said that if we love You, we were to obey Your commands. I am willing. But help me, Lord. Give me the grace to love the woman who has betrayed me and scorned my love.

As he prayed, the tears fell anew, but they were no longer tears of despair. The joy he had thought lost, returned, and he was filled with wonder at the joy in the midst of his heartbreak.

He realized he must die to his desires.

Overcome with an overwhelming need to worship God, he began to sing a hymn Althea had taught him.

Sun of my soul, Thou Savior dear/It is not night if Thou be near/ O may no earthborn cloud arise/ To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes…
.

One hymn led to another.

We lift our hearts to Thee, O Daystar from on high…

Some he could only sing snatches of, but the more he sang, the lighter his spirit felt and the higher it arose.

To God—the Father, Son, and Spirit—One in Three, Be glory; as it was, is now, and shall forever be. Amen.

 

By the time Gillian returned from her walk, her cheeks blooming from the fresh spring air, her eyes bright with the hope of love, Tertius was able to greet her with equanimity.

He excused himself shortly thereafter from her and went to work on the estate books.

When they met again over the dinner table, he asked her, “Did you have a nice outing today?”

“What?” she asked him, clearly lost in her own thoughts. How obvious all the signs he had missed before appeared to him now.

“I was looking for you, and it was apparent you had gone out,” he said, watching her closely.

“Oh, just down to the village.” Her cheeks flushed prettily as she looked down at her plate. Was it from guilt? She gave a short laugh. “I think Cook has outdone herself tonight. The lamb is quite savory, don't you find?”

“Hmm?” He looked down at the stewed meat on his plate, which he'd hardly been conscious of tasting. “Yes, I suppose.”

“Please send my compliments to Cook,” she told their new footman with a smile.

They continued eating in silence, Tertius observing her as subtly as possible.

If anyone had been present, they would suppose they supped in the companionableness of a long-married couple.
The same companionableness he'd been fooling himself in the prior weeks signified her growing warmth toward him.

Now, he had no such illusions. Several times he had to fight the bitterness that rose within him and bite down on an acrimonious remark he was tempted to make.

He kept repeating to himself the Lord's words,
My grace is sufficient for thee.

“Do you think there will be war?” she asked.

He narrowed his eyes at her, remembering the contents of the letter. “It certainly appears likely.”

She paled.

“Have you any family in colors?”

“Uh…no.”

“Surely one of your many young admirers?”

“There was no one in particular. I…I'm just thinking of our country. We had so many victory celebrations last summer, and now to fear Napoleon again. It's horrible.”

“Yes,” he agreed, thinking it ironic that his happiness depended on the death of another—a man younger, fitter than he, he thought, remembering his humiliating defeat at swordplay.

“So many young men have died,” continued Gillian.

“Yes, it is unfortunate,” he said. Suddenly the bitterness rose in him in surprising force and all he wanted to do was confront her. He clenched his glass.
Help me, Lord
.

The peace he'd gained this afternoon was gone.

How dared she sit there and look so saddened by the prospect of losing her lover?

He took a sip and swallowed, the liquid sour on his palate.

“As soon as we return to London, we will be better informed of events on the Continent,” he said at last.

At the mention of London, her eyes flew upward, but she didn't say anything.

He could plainly read in those pale green eyes what she wanted to hear—that they would soon return to London. So, he kept silent. Let her stew and worry and fret, as he had to do. Perhaps he would delay his intended trip to London. Physically, he was well enough to return. The thing that kept him here now was the situation down in the mill, as well as estate matters. He needed to gain as much information as possible before going over the changes he wanted to make with his father.

Later that evening, he tried to sit with her as she embroidered. He took up his Bible and attempted to read but found it difficult to concentrate with her so close by. He knew the Lord was trying to speak to him, trying to get him to see, but a part of him didn't want to see. He wanted to nurse his sense of hurt and be justified by it.

He wanted to erase the image of his own filth, which the Lord had washed him clean of, and focus on his wife's guilt. Finally, able to stand it no longer, he rose.

“Good night, Gillian.”

She glanced up in surprise. “You're retiring so early?”

“Yes.” He held up the Bible. “I want—need—to pray and read.”

“Oh, dear, by all means,” she said lightly. “You and Althea both.”

He made no reply.

In his room, Sky searched the Scriptures, refusing to give up until he felt the Lord's peace once again. As he came to the Sermon on the Mount, he felt on the verge of a discovery and couldn't give up until he knew the truth.

Jesus spoke about loving one's enemy. The Lord's standard was impossibly high, and yet He stated clearly that His followers were to love their enemies. Is that what Gillian had become to him? When he came to the words,
Pray for them which despitefully use you,
he felt the Lord knew exactly what he was going through.

His eyes fell to the next verse,
That ye may be the children of your Father
…and he knew he had arrived at the crux of the matter.

As Sky came to the end of the Beatitudes, he understood what the Lord was requiring of those who chose to be His disciples…of those who wished to be His children.

It was what Sky desired above all else.

He was being made to see the cost. Was he willing to lay down his life, even if it cost him his pride, his honor, his self-respect?

At last, he was able to bow his head and give thanks. He understood how important this victory over himself was. He thanked God for the testing, knowing the Lord wanted to use Him for His greater purposes, but knowing first he needed to defeat his flesh in this most important area. He needed to learn to walk in God's love, cost what it might.

Very well, Lord. I will continue to love my wife…with Your love…regardless of her sentiments for me. Fill me with Your love, Lord. Fill me, Lord
.

 

Katie walked behind Lord and Lady Skylar, along with the rest of the household servants on their way home from church.

She slowed her footsteps, hoping Nigel would follow suit.
The two usually managed to walk together in the general crowd of the Hall's servants and discuss the morning's sermon.

“Do you ever miss your family?” she asked him, curious about this man who was so far from his own home.

“I have no family, Miss Katie.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. None at all?”

“Any half-brothers or sisters ended up on other plantations, too far from Lord Skylar's for me to see them. My mother died a few years ago. And my father…well, I have no father.”

“You do now,” she said with a shy smile.

He returned her smile. “Yes, that be true. I do have a Father now.”

Never had she met a man so hungry for God's truth.

Katie stopped and hopped on one foot. When Nigel looked at her, she smiled apologetically. “I have a stone in my shoe.” Then, clutching his arm, she lifted one foot and removed her slipper and shook it out.

When she had replaced it, she didn't let go of his arm immediately but looked up at him as she tested her foot against the cobblestones. “That's better.”

She let his arm go and they resumed their walk. The rest of the company was far ahead of them now.

“What did you think of that verse from this morning's text: ‘there is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female…'?”

“It was interesting. But it doesn't say neither black nor white.”

“No, that is true,” she admitted. “But don't you think the meaning is the same, that God includes people of all colors in His Son?”

“I don't know. I must study de verse. You will show it to me when we return?”

“Let me show it to you right now,” she suggested eagerly. Before he could refuse, she sat down on a stone wall and opened her Bible. Although the church only used prayer books, she was used to carrying her Bible to the Methodist chapel she attended in London.

He sat beside her, and she leaned closer to him as she placed the opened Bible on his lap, her finger pointing to the passage.

He read silently then said aloud, “Galatians three, twenty-eight. I must remember it.”

“I'll write it down for you when we return,” she promised.

“But no matter what it says,” he continued, with a frown that furrowed his smooth brow, “I don't see it in practice here in England, a country that has known de gospel for so many years.”

She slumped in discouragement. After a moment she turned to him and said slowly, “Mightn't we—one by one—make a difference?”

His brown-and-yellow flecked green eyes turned to hers in understanding and again he smiled. “Yes, we might.”

 

Sky stood on a rise of land above the moors. Today, he and Gillian had walked to the farthest point they'd ever been. He viewed the long, swaying green grasses on the downward slopes from where he stood. Beyond the meadows were the fields of heather, transformed now to soft pink and green.

The scene was a pattern of light and shadow from the great billowy clouds above them.

He smiled at a lone sheep grazing in the grass below.

The wind blew through his hair and ruffled the surface of the long grasses in waves.

He looked at Gillian beside him. She had a hand up to her bonnet, its ribbons blowing in the breeze.

“I'm ready to go back to London,” he announced. “Will you come?”

Her eyes turned slowly from the scene to meet his gaze. He read hope and fear.

She licked her lips. “When will we leave?”

“As soon as we can pack and inform the servants.”

She nodded. “Katie and I shall be ready.”

“Doubtless we'll find London in a panic over Bonaparte.”

“I'm not afraid.”

He could find nothing more to say. He had given her what she wanted. It remained to be seen how quickly she took the freedom he was willing to grant her.

L
ondon was deserted when they arrived. Half of society had sailed to Brussels to be in the thick of war. Gillian felt frustrated at being one of the ones left behind and wished she could take the next boat across the Channel.

When they arrived at Lord Caulfield's residence, Sky's father was surprisingly in attendance. Sky had written to him to inform him of their return.

Now, he turned to Gillian with a wide smile lighting his dissipated features and embraced her. “My dear, at last I have the pleasure of greeting my daughter-in-law. London has been bereft without your company.” She smiled stiffly, wondering how much he knew of her “banishment.” Doubtless more than his cheery countenance was letting on.

She dreaded the questions society would be asking of her
mysterious absence and now return. For that reason, she was glad so many were caught up in war fever.

Her mother came by soon after.

“Well, it's about time you returned. Rumors were rife when you left. I did my best to scotch them, but of course you were the talk of the town, everything to your husband beating you to your having run away with the footman.

“Thankfully, Byron's engagement to Annabella Millbanke soon filled the gossip columns. And he's given us enough scandal to keep people's minds filled.”

Gillian turned away from her mother. What would she say if she knew what her daughter was contemplating? It would serve her mother right to be embroiled in gossip anew. Had she ever come to see Gillian in her exile? Had she ever shown the least understanding of why Gillian had behaved the way she had?

Her mother continued talking, unmindful of Gillian's silence. “If you were enceinte, that would quell all the rumors.” She eyed her daughter's waist critically. “You aren't, are you?”

“No, I most certainly am not!” That's all any of them cared about. She could probably carry on as many affairs as she pleased, so long as she gave them all an heir.

“Pity.” Her mother sighed. “We shall have to put the best face on things. I know! A ball to welcome the bridal couple home. That should go a ways to show people you and Lord Skylar are perfectly amicable.”

Gillian tightened her lips, beginning to feel the cords of family and matrimonial obligations strangle her, and she realized the freedom she had had in Yorkshire. How ironic that what she'd considered her prison now seemed a place where
she'd been allowed to be a carefree girl. Lord Skylar had let her do what she pleased. She hadn't been on ceremony with him. Their walks had been impromptu rambles.

He'd never pressed her for anything, but let her be. She compared his behavior to Gerrit's, who'd been demanding when she'd known him, and whom she'd always feared losing. He'd been an Adonis among his fellows, and Gillian knew how easily another woman could have his attention if she didn't satisfy him.

“Well, what do you think of a ball?” her mother asked in annoyance that Gillian wasn't immediately seconding her idea.

“I thought few people were in London,” she replied to her mother, not sure she wanted to be put on display to the London ton.

Her mother waved a hand in disdain. “Oh, just about anyone of consequence has gone off to Belgium. Nevertheless, enough remain for a good attendance. Curiosity alone will draw them.”

Gillian shuddered. Is that what she'd become, a curiosity? What would it be like if she left her husband? Hadn't she better harden herself to gossip?

Tertius spent his days in the House of Lords, or closeted in the office with his father and business manager. The rest of his time seemed to be spent across town at that Methodist mission run by his sister, but a part of her wished she could join him.

What was she saying? Gillian hugged her arms to herself, aghast at the notion. She should be relieved she didn't see much of Skylar. Isn't that what she'd wanted?

If her husband had any idea of her correspondence with
Gerrit, what would he think of her? If he'd almost killed her on their wedding night, what would he think of her faithlessness now?

Before, she'd kept the secret from her long-ago past out of fear. But now…there was no justification for her behavior now. Tertius would look at her, all warmth vanished from his eyes, and despise her. He would wish her to Jericho if he knew the truth.

A fanciful part of her wondered what it would be like to remain with him. How would that be possible when he and she seemed destined to live such separate lives?

Not that he wouldn't include her if he could, she admitted with a bitter smile. Over dinner, he attempted to tell her of his plans to overhaul their many mills. He told her of the work at the mission. It was she who blocked it out, not wanting to be drawn to that world that demanded sacrifices of one's comforts and the way things had always been.

 

The night of the ball, Gillian stood with Skylar in the reception line. Despite the dearth of society, more than a hundred people were in attendance.

Gillian had never been so glad of Tertius's presence by her side as on that evening. She saw the speculation in people's eyes. Some were rude enough to speak their conjectures aloud.

“Lady Skylar! How good to see you back. We wondered what had driven you away from London. Where on earth did you disappear to like a thief in the night!” Artificial laughter followed.

In those moments, Sky would deftly take up the response.

“A lover's spat,” he answered. “You know how the newly married quarrel.” Then he leaned close to her, his hand about
her shoulders. “But we have resolved our differences admirably, wouldn't you say, my dear?”

She'd have to turn on her smile to the malicious gossips and reply with a heartfelt, if false, “yes.” As the evening wore on, Gillian felt more and more treacherous, and finally convinced herself she was not worthy of such a husband.

The night seemed interminable, not less so because of the incessant talk of troop movements. Everyone was conjecturing on how soon Wellington would face Napoleon in battle. In all the years of campaigning, the former emperor had not yet faced his nemesis, the Iron Duke, on the field.

Lord Caulfield was as gallant as his son. At one point in the evening, he whispered to her, “Steady, my girl. You are holding your own brilliantly. Tomorrow this fete will be in all the papers. Only news from Brussels could eclipse it.”

By the time the ball ended, Gillian thoroughly despised herself.

 

Sky got a rare chance to talk to his father privately the morning after the ball. Life had taken on the rhythm of a whirlwind since his arrival.

He sat with his father in the library.

“I still can't get over how fit you look,” Lord Caulfield told him with a shake of his head. “The last time I saw you I thought you were done for, for sure.”

“I believe I was. Only one thing could save me then.”

His father raised an eyebrow in question. “Oh, what was that? I thought I'd got you the finest medical attention.”

“God's mercy.”

His father nodded. “Indeed.”

“I'd like to tell you how He dragged me from the pit of death to the life you see in me now.”

His father eyed him keenly. “I'd certainly like to hear it.”

Tertius leaned forward and began to recount his experiences since before leaving the Indies, and culminating in that night of encountering his Lord and Savior.

“My…my…” his father said at last. “Unbelievable, simply unbelievable.”

“Yet, nevertheless true.”

“Well, all I can say is I'm thankful to have my son and heir alive. Apropos, I'd like to compliment you on your lovely wife. She is positively blooming. No…er…signs yet?” he asked hesitantly.

Tertius merely smiled, not wanting to disappoint his father, who looked so hopeful and had treated Gillian so graciously since her arrival, striving to make her feel welcome and mistress of his house. “You'll be the first we tell,” he promised his father, realizing how empty the promise was.

“She is glad to be back in London, I imagine,” Lord Caulfield said, hiding any chagrin he felt at their lack of news, as he changed the subject. “Pity so many people are away in Brussels.”

“Yes,” agreed Sky, thinking of one particular individual he wished would stay away eternally.

 

A week later the town criers were proclaiming Wellington's victory over Napoleon at Waterloo. The news had just reached Downing Street. Gillian rushed to her window and leaned out in the warm June day, straining to hear the details.

As soon as she could, she fetched Katie, and the two
ventured out into the streets to hear more. Gillian purchased what broadsheets she could find.

Few contained any details of the battle, but were full of news of victory, so she could find nothing of the Coldstream Guards.

Victory on Field of Waterloo! The Iron Duke defeats Boney! His Majesty's Troops Rout the Imperial Army blazed the headlines.

When she arrived home, Sky was already there.

“Hello, Gillian,” he greeted her, rising from a sofa in the drawing room. “Out to celebrate the victory?” he asked mildly.

“I was trying to get some news,” she replied cautiously, removing her bonnet. “Did you hear anything?”

He handed her some newspapers. “I brought you some of the papers. I know Lord Liverpool received word of Wellington's victory yesterday. It was a bloody battle. There will be many casualties,” he said softly. “I believe for that reason celebrations will be muted, compared to last summer, at any rate.”

She took the papers from him with trepidation. What would she read? Had Gerrit survived? Suddenly she wished she could run away from everything and not know anything more. What would she do with what she learned?

She scanned the headlines and read of Wellington's retreat from Quatre Bras and of his position at Waterloo the following day. His troops had taken up their stations there through a rainy night and waited nearly half the day before Napoleon gave the order to attack.

Horrific rounds of artillery shells had bombarded them
before the seventy-thousand-man French infantry advanced against the British and Dutch troops.

Gillian knew lists of the wounded and slain officers wouldn't be published for some days. A mention of the Guards caught her eye: Victory at Waterloo Due to Guards' Brave Defense of the Chateau Hougoumont.

She quickly scanned the article.

Her heart beat fast, knowing Gerrit belonged to a company of light guards. The article made it sound as if it would have been impossible to live through the siege on the chateau. But clearly there had been some survivors to tell the tale of bravery.

She had to wait several more days before the lists of the wounded and fallen were published. Each day she scanned
the page for the heading of Coldstream Guards, then ran her gaze down the list.

The day she spotted his name, her fingers clutched the edges of the paper convulsively, and she looked closer.

Wounded. Captain Gerrit Hawkes, First Company of Light Infantry, Coldstream Guards.

It didn't say how grievous his wounds were. Would he survive? Would he be sent back soon?

She lived in an agony over the next few days, able to find out little. Tertius treated her more gently than usual, which made her fear his coming wrath when he knew the truth of the perfidy of her soul.

For she no longer told herself her actions were justified. Her husband had been all that was noble and good, and Gillian had come to hate what she planned to do.

But it was too late. She felt in a coil that would only come right when she saw Gerrit. She pinned her hopes on seeing his laughing blue eyes again. The two of them would make a fitting pair—both of them wicked and deceitful. She was no longer worthy of being called Lord Skylar's wife. He had been right: she was “used goods.”

When had her desire to punish Tertius evaporated, leaving only a sense of unworthiness to be his wife?

 

The wounded began coming back home while the rest of the troops continued their march toward Paris. One sunny day in early July, the Prince Regent held a review of the troops down the Horse Guards Road.

Tertius took her. They stood at the crowded edge of St. James's Park, watching the glorious parade of uniformed men march or ride past. The band came by first, followed
by the drum corps, a group of black men dressed in Turkish style with turbans and feathers. Next came the men by companies in their scarlet coats and buff trousers and black shakos. She scrutinized the uniforms for the Guards' distinctive blue facing along their red coats. When she finally spotted them, she searched for the Coldstream Guards by the red swan's feather in their hats.

She put her hand to her mouth when she saw him, stifling a gasp at the sight of him. Although he marched proudly at the head of his company, his left arm was caught in a white sling.

How could she get word to him? He must think she was still in Yorkshire.

When the parade was over, Tertius made a way for her through the crowd. They strolled through the park, where the crowds were less.

“I told the coachman to wait for us at the entrance to the park. You don't mind the walk?”

“Not at all.” In truth, she needed the time to compose herself. It was clear Gerrit was well enough to be out and about. It was only a matter of time before she would see him at some rout or assembly. She didn't want to come upon him in a public place as before. She needed to see him face to face and determine if anything he'd written to her was true. Did he still love her?