Lily George (2 page)

’Twas strange indeed how he could speak to only certain people and stranger still how he could not speak to everyone else. His ability to speak naturally had fled as he lay crouched, playing dead, at La Sainte Haye. Macready was one of the only men to whom he could converse. And even though he could speak to the lieutenant, he did so slowly and haltingly. Macready had long since grown used to his stilted cadences, though, and waited with great patience to listen whenever James chose to speak.

But how to describe Lucy? She was merely offering to help him out of charity and friendship, surely. So it would be folly to describe her in grand terms that would have Macready expecting a romance in the offing. No woman wanted a poor, mute veteran for her own. Certainly not someone who was pretty and clever, like Miss Williams. So it was much better to stick with the facts, as a good soldier should.

“Met a g-girl,” he grumbled. His voice was rusty and unpracticed, even to his own ears. He reached for the teapot and poured a steaming cup. “She will work with the veterans’ group of Cantrill’s. Helping out.” He took a long draught of burning tea to calm his ragged throat and hide his emotions from Macready.

“Not Sophie Handley, surely? I don’t know much about the female in question, but I believe she is destined to be Cantrill’s,” Macready replied, a warning note to his voice.

“No. Miss Williams. She wants t-t-to read to me. T-to help with...this.” He shrugged one shoulder. ’Twas terribly awkward to talk about his strange affliction, even with Macready. After all, the lieutenant had deep gashes all along one arm and up one leg, wounds that were taking forever to heal. Whilst James himself had gotten only a few nicks.

It made a fellow wonder if, deep down inside, he was really a coward after all. Why else would he be so affected by injuries that had been so slight?

“Well, that could be most entertaining, you know. Is she pretty?” Incorrigible Macready, always ready to seek out a lovely new face. Even so, an unreasonable dart of jealousy shot through James. He played down his response so that Macready would leave him in peace.

“P-pretty enough,” he allowed. “Let’s hope she d-doesn’t like G-gothic novels.” But even as he spoke the words, James was prepared to take them back. He’d be willing to listen to the most overwrought of Gothic horrors if it meant spending more time basking in the warm glow of Miss Williams’s company.

Chapter Two

’T
was Thursday, Lucy’s day of rest from her duties in the schoolroom. Never before had she been so grateful for a day away from her charges. Amelia was making her debut in just a few days’ time, and the entire house was in chaos as preparations mounted for her dinner party.

Amelia herself was absent from lessons all week, as Lord Bradbury had pressed Sophie into service, coaching Amelia on all the finer points of etiquette and deportment. Bereft of her sister and generally overlooked in the confusion, Louisa moped about her schoolwork, her large dark eyes filling with tears as she studied her Latin declensions.

And Sophie, working as both seamstress and mistress of proper decorum, was taxed to her limit. Lucy had not spent more than a few moments in Sophie’s company since the past Sunday, and the absence of her only friend and confidante began to pall.

So, once she was dressed and ready to face the day, she marched down to Sophie’s room to say good morning. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach at the thought of meeting with the ensign today. She’d never really read anything aloud before—and certainly not to a young man. It would help immensely to have Sophie nearby. She wouldn’t be quite so nervous with a friend close at hand.

“Ugh. Enter,” a decidedly sleepy voice muttered in response to Lucy’s knock.

Lucy poked her head in as Sophie pulled the coverlet high over her head. “Sophie? You are awake, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Awake but rebellious. I am entirely unwilling to face the day.” Sophie wriggled farther under her covers as Lucy perched on the bed.

“Cheer up, chicken. We’re going to the veterans’ group this morning. You can see your lieutenant again.” And, of course, she could see that interesting young ensign. The heat rose in her cheeks at that thought. Not that he would be hanging on her every word, of course. But it would be quite nice to see him and speak to him again.

“No, I cannot go.” Sophie sat up and threw the coverlet back, revealing her woebegone face. Dark circles ringed her pretty blue eyes, and her pink-and-white complexion had taken on a sallow tone. She gave her tangled curls a shake. “I have too much to do. You’ll have to go without me. And besides, I need time before I see the lieutenant again. I must practice and prepare myself, you see. We are pretending a faux courtship so his visiting mama will leave him in peace.”

Lucy’s heart hitched in her chest, and she barely registered the remainder of Sophie’s words. “Go without you? Faux courtships? This is like a plot in a farce, Sophie! You are the only person I would know there. If you won’t be coming along, whom will I sit by? How shall I get started?” She absolutely despised new situations. The way she had survived—and even thrived—at Cornhill and Lime Street Charity School was by knowing exactly where she had to be and what was expected of her at any given moment. And that only came through routine. If the routine changed—well, she had to start all over again, a most unpleasant practice.

Lucy grasped a long, dark ringlet of hair and began twirling it around her index finger, trying to think of a way to convince her friend to accompany her. “If you intend to go through with some sort of fake courtship, you might want to talk matters over with Cantrill.”

“Oh, dear Lucy, on any other day you know I would be there. I love working with the veterans’ group. And I love—” Sophie broke off, a flush creeping over her dimpled cheeks. Ah, yes. Her feelings for the lieutenant would be obvious to anyone, even a blind and deaf dormouse. She sighed and closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. “But there is simply too much for me to do. And I need more time to compose myself before I see the lieutenant again.”

Lucy sighed. She was being too selfish. Here Sophie was, trying to help both Amelia and Cantrill, and all Lucy could think about was herself. She reached out and patted Sophie’s shoulder. “Poor dear. You are working so hard to make Amelia’s debut a success. Is there anything I can do to help? If you are willing to give up your day off for the cause, then I will gladly sacrifice mine, as well.”

Sophie smiled and shook her head again. “No. Go—go and read to Ensign Rowland. You deserve a day off, and I know that you planned already to meet with the gentleman. And—” Sophie darted a quick, searching glance up at Lucy, a glance that seared through all artifice “—I have a feeling you are rather intrigued by the ensign, is that not so?”

“Don’t be silly.” Lucy rose, putting an end to the interview before Sophie’s questions got too probing. “But I made a promise, and it would be most rude not to keep it. So, I suppose this means I shall see you after the meeting, then?”

“Yes.” Sophie rose. “That blonde blur you’ll see scurrying down the hallway will be me.”

With a chuckle, Lucy descended to the kitchen and out the back door, breathing deeply of the balmy spring breeze to calm her nerves. She hadn’t thought far enough ahead when she made her plans with Ensign Rowland. If only Sophie could come along. Courage was much easier to muster when one had a close friend nearby. When she met with the ensign a few days before, she was able to muster courage—to be breezy and nonchalant in her speech. But then, ’twas a brief meeting. She hadn’t had to read to him that first day. Now she was alone, and her performance was imminent. Did famous opera soubrettes have an attack of nerves before going onstage? Probably not. If performance were a part of your daily round, ’twas quite likely that you’d simply get used to it.

Saint Swithin’s perched majestically on a hill, its proud façade overlooking all of Bath. Why, it was intimidating even to look upon, much less consider what—or whom—awaited her there. By the time she reached the front steps, she was quite winded. She paused a moment at the top of the stone steps, exhaling as slowly as she could, her heart pounding in her chest. Bowing her head a moment, she counted to ten. It would never do to approach Rowland as though she had been running a footrace through the park.

As she drew herself up, shaking her skirts, she caught a glimpse of a handsome, angular face. Gracious, Rowland was here already! He turned toward her, a smile lighting his eyes as he extended his hand in greeting.

“Ensign Rowland,” she gasped and then cleared her throat. She hadn’t meant to meet him so soon. She needed more time to compose herself. But there was nothing to do but brazen through her nerves and her breathlessness.

He nodded, his smile growing as he surveyed her. She paused a moment, awaiting some sort of spoken response, and then shook her head. Of course, he was not going to speak. Botheration. That was the entire point of their meeting, was it not? To help him overcome his affliction?

To cover her confusion and deter his rapt attention from her now hotly glowing cheeks, Lucy took his hand and bobbed a curtsy. The brim of her bonnet would hide the pinkness of her face for a moment. But she hadn’t anticipated on the tingle that shot up her arm at his touch. Goodness, she was making a cake of herself.

And if she went inside the church with him, her embarrassment would be writ clear on her face for everyone to see. Lieutenant Cantrill and Rowland’s other cronies would surely laugh at her and jest to Rowland about it later after the meeting was over. No, if she was going to hide her roiled emotions, it would be much easier to do so from just one man than a dozen.

“Shall we sit out here and enjoy this fine weather?” She indicated a nearby stone bench with what she hoped was a carefree gesture. “After such a wet and cold winter, I vow I am quite in adoration of this spring weather.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the ensign nodding. She allowed him to steer her over to the bench and then sat, gathering her skirts about her with as much grace as she could assume.

“Well, then.” She waited as he took his seat, stretching his booted legs out before him. Then she opened her reticule—her curiously light and flat reticule. Oh, gracious. She had left her book at home.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry; she was such a bundle of nerves. An emotion bubbled up her throat, and for a dreadful instant, she thought she was going to burst into tears. Instead, she chuckled, unable to hold back any longer. At least laughter relieved the unbearable anxiety she felt.

Rowland glanced at her, puzzled, one eyebrow quirked. She turned her reticule inside out, showing him a few coins and bits of lint. “I came all this way, Ensign Rowland, and I never even had the book with me.”

* * *

Lucy Williams had the most enchanting laugh. And when she giggled, as she was doing now, her brown eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed a dusky pink. It was delightful simply to gaze upon her, drinking in her mirth at the absurdity of the situation. He handed her his handkerchief, which she used to dab her eyes—she laughed so hard that tears just touched their corners.

Her laughter slowed, and as her joy began to fade, confusion took its place. He wanted to reassure her—to wipe any trace of discomfiture away. So he withdrew a battered book from his coat pocket and handed it to her.

She took the volume, handling it with a gentle touch to keep from pulling the worn pages apart. “Poetry? Ah, some of the finest. Sir Walter Scott, Dryden...” She continued perusing the pages. “I shall have to be very careful with this, ensign. I can tell just by looking at it that this is a book you have consulted many times.”

He nodded, eyeing her carefully. His throat worked, but no sound came out. He remained silent and watchful.

She traced over a dark splotch on the cover. “In fact, I would wager this book has been to battle.” She kept her eyes lowered, her dark lashes fanning out over her cheeks.

He nodded again. He read those poems often in the field. More than once, Sir Walter Scott had given him the courage to see another battle.

“I bet I can find your favorite.” She grasped the book, settling the spine on her lap. Then, with infinite caution, she let the volume fall open. And just like that, the pages settled, revealing
Marmion.

She began reading in clear, dulcet tones, as though reciting for a schoolroom of young ladies or as an elocutionist in a performance. Her voice, lit from within with warmth and fire, began the introduction to the first canto,

“November’s sky is chill and drear,

November’s leaf is red and sear:

Late, gazing down the steepy linn,

that hems our little garden in...”

The spring breeze ruffled her lavender skirts as she continued to read, stirring her black curls so that they touched her cheek as she read. He gazed at her, saying the words in his mind as she read them aloud. He knew the poem like he knew the hills and fields back home in Essex—it was as familiar to him as breathing. And yet he had never felt the passion and the pathos of Flodden Field until Lucy Williams read the poem aloud.

She paused a few times, darting quick little glances up as she read through the six cantos. Whenever her eyes left the page, he studied his boots as though they were the most fascinating things in the world. She was nervous enough as it was without having a mute soldier ogling her like a green lad.

“To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay

has cheated of thy hour of play,

Light task, and merry holiday!

To all, to each, a fair good-night,

and pleasing dreams, and slumbers light!”

After repeating Scott’s final words, Lucy sighed and closed the book, taking a few deep breaths. “Goodness, Ensign Rowland, I have not read for so long aloud in many a year. Growing up, when I was in school, I often had recitations. But as a governess, I have the luxury of passing on the task of reciting to my charges.” She turned to him, a smile hovering about the corners of her mouth. “Did I perform well enough?”

Again, his throat worked. He strained against his infirmity, longing to offer a flowery compliment. Or at least a thank-you. But no matter how hard he tried, his voice was gone. So he merely nodded, struggling to let his gratitude show in his expression.

She inclined her head as though he’d really spoken. “Thank you, Ensign. I do appreciate the compliment. And the captive audience.” Her smile widened to a grin. “Shall I read another?”

He grasped the book and flipped to another page, with another favorite, and handed it back to Lucy. “Ah,
The
Lady of the Lake
. Excellent choice. I had my eldest charge, Amelia, recite this last year.”

She read again, putting the same fervor and enthusiasm into her performance as she did before, though she must be getting tired. Those were long poems and did not precisely come trippingly off even the smoothest-speaking tongue. And yet, she sat here, under the shade of an elm tree, reading him poems that he fancied. On her day off. When she could have been doing a hundred other interesting things. His heart surged with gratitude, and a bit more of the cotton wool fell away from his view of the world.

Behind them, the doors of the church banged open, and the general hubbub announced that the veterans’ group was dispersing. Lucy paused midverse and closed the book, smiling with what might have been a pang of regret. But if it was real disappointment or feigned for his benefit, he could not be certain. She rose, dusting off her skirts, and returned the poems to Ensign Rowland.

“I suppose I should be going,” she announced. “The house is in uproar. Amelia’s debut is later this week, and everything is in chaos until that fateful night.”

“Ah! I see you found one another.” Lieutenant Cantrill broke away from the crowd and started over, holding his good hand out to Lucy. “When I didn’t see you inside, I was worried that perhaps neither of you could make it.”

Lucy bobbed a curtsy. “Lieutenant, I do apologize for worrying you. The weather was so lovely, and I have been cooped up of late. So Ensign Rowland and I decided to stay outdoors.”

“No, no. That’s fine. All well and good, then?” The lieutenant glanced over at Rowland for confirmation, and he gave a short grunt. It was all he could muster under the circumstances.

“Excellent.” Cantrill turned back to Lucy. “Will I be seeing you at Miss Bradbury’s debut, then? I—uh—that is, I had planned to attend as my mother will be in town—”