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“Dream?” Stoames asked shortly.
“Yes. Same one. The looters. Before you found me, and stopped them.”
They drank again, staring at the fire.
Stoames sighed. “Let’s talk of something else. Your visit to Miss Sophie—how did you fare? Is she as beautiful as ever?”
Brookes hesitated. He refused to think about Sophie since returning from his disastrous visit to Tansley Cottage. But now, prompted by Stoames’s question, he tried to wrap his mind around her reaction. Among other soldiers, his wooden leg wasn’t even worthy of comment—a sharp contrast to the blank expression of horror in Sophie’s eyes. For the first time it dawned on him that a young and pretty woman might find him unattractive, repulsive even. “She is lovely as ever, but I think she found me sorely altered.”
“Surely she expected some change in you. After all, you went to war.”
“I don’t think many people can comprehend what happened, unless they were there.” Brookes swirled the brandy around in his glass. If he wanted to capture Sophie’s attention again, he needed to prove the changes the war wrought were merely superficial. That meant proving himself as lively and charismatic as he had been before he left for the peninsula—but was he? Pondering this, his thoughts drifted to Harriet, and he surprised himself by adding, “Her sister was looking well.” Not that it mattered, of course. Only Sophie’s opinion of him counted, since she would be his wife some day.
“Miss Harriet?” The edge of Stoames’s voice was sharp as a saber’s edge.
“Yes. She seemed…” He paused for a moment, searching for the elusive words. “She took the changes in stride.”
“Ah, well,” replied Stoames. “I’ve only seen the two lasses on occasion, but from what I recall, Miss Harriet was a steady girl. Quiet like. Not like Miss Sophie at all.”
“No.” Brookes stared into his brandy. “Not like Miss Sophie at all.”
Sophie and Harriet put their plan in action the next day, in the event that the captain called later in the afternoon. After luncheon, Sophie hitched the family’s one faithful nag, Esther, to the gig and drove off to call on Mary in Riber. As the gig beat a squeaky retreat, Harriet took her few remaining books outside, to read until the captain came to call. One had to take advantage of the brief break in the rain for a bit of fresh air.
Harriet’s mouth went dry as she watched Captain Brookes approach. With shaking hands, she picked up a book from the stack at her feet. She forced herself to gaze at the pages, even though the words blurred into a single black line. When it was polite to look up, she saw the captain dismounting with care, and striding toward her.
“Captain Brookes, so happy to see you again.”
“Miss Handley.” He bowed over her extended hand.
“You find me alone this afternoon, Captain. Sophie is in Riber, and my mother is resting.”
“I don’t wish to intrude upon your solitude,” he replied stiffly, waving a hand at her stack of books.
“Oh, no, Captain, join me. It’s a pleasure to have conversation. Mama says I read far too many books.”
“So I see.” He stooped and picked up a volume. “Homer? You read the classics?”
She smiled. “I read anything I can get my hands on. These are a few I managed to salvage from Papa’s library…before we lost it all.”
He looked at her sharply. “I have a library at Brookes Park. Not grand like your father’s, but you are welcome to it.”
Harriet leaped out of her chair. “Can we go right now?”
For the first time since his return, Harriet saw Captain Brookes smile. It changed his whole expression, causing a tingle of awareness to flash through her being. Then she grinned in entreaty. “Please, Captain?”
“Of course. Get your horse and we will ride over together.”
“Oh!” Harriet’s excitement deflated. “Sophie took our horse to Riber. We only have the one.”
“Then we’ll walk.” He offered her the crook of his arm.
Harriet glanced down at his leg, then up at the grey sky. It looked like rain at any moment. She couldn’t ask him to walk that distance, especially in a downpour.
She swallowed her disappointment and shook her head. “I shall claim the horse for tomorrow and ride over when the weather is fine.”
“The weather is never fine. I vow I have never seen such a chilly and wet summer. I have a better idea.” He smiled down again and Harriet’s heart leaped with joy. “We’ll ride together on Talos.”
“Together? How on earth?”
“You can ride pillion. Surely you’ve seen it, if your father had any medieval manuscripts.” Then he added, with a soldier’s air of authority, “It is the most sensible solution.”
Harriet nodded reluctantly. “How do we manage it?”
“I’ll get on first. Then you can put your foot on mine and swing yourself up behind me.”
Harriet swallowed. “All right.” She made a mental apology to her mother and Sophie, who would be horrified if they ever found out. When Captain Brookes was settled, she placed her foot on his in the stirrup and he tossed her up behind the saddle. Riding astride left nothing to the imagination, she realized in embarrassment. Her skirt hitched up much too high.
“Ready?” he called over his shoulder.
“Y-yes,” Harriet stammered. He wheeled Talos around and started back up the hill.
Harriet’s cheeks flamed. She leaned forward a little, against the taught smoothness of his back. Though she was precariously perched on Talos, Harriet was cherished and safe, like Mama’s jewels nestled in their leather boxes at Handley Hall. She closed her eyes, relishing the security that radiated from Brookes’s broad shoulders. Mercifully, he could not see the expression on her face.
A light rain began falling. “Hold on tight. I’m going to speed him up so we can get out of this wretched weather,” Brookes called.
Obediently, Harriet tightened her hold on his waist and squeezed her legs around Talos’s flanks. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest. She must stop any nonsense right away. Any affection she felt was simply because she had never been this close to any man. He was her sister’s intended, after all. Remorse washed over her, and a heaviness settled in the pit of her stomach. Once, when she was a little girl, she had taken one of Sophie’s hair ribbons without asking, and then lost it when she was riding. The mortification she felt long ago was nothing compared to her shame today. A hair ribbon could be replaced. A man such as Brookes—well, he was one of a kind.
Harriet bounced from one shelf to the next, exclaiming in delight. Brookes watched her closely, folding his arms over his chest. This room, so isolated and lonely before her arrival, now burst with vivid life. Harriet had completely ignored the sumptuous tea tray pulled near the fire. Apparently, tea meant little when she was faced with stacks upon stacks of books.
“I have never seen you so animated.” Brookes chuckled.
“You have hardly seen me at all.” She laughed.
As their gazes locked, a need to make her happy suffused him. Her smile intrigued him most—he wanted to see it again. “You can borrow them all, if you want.” A mischievousness threaded through his voice, designed to provoke a response.
“Oh, Captain, thank you!” Unshed tears filled her eyes. “Truly, you have no idea how happy you’ve made me.”
“Think nothing of it. Come have some tea.” He unfolded himself from his deep leather chair and pulled a velvet wingback closer to the fire. “What do you like to read, Miss Handley?”
“Please call me Harriet. Miss Handley sounds ridiculously formal.” She sat gracefully.
“Very well, then, Harriet. What do you like to read?”
“Anything I can,” she replied. “Before Papa lost his library, I had so many to choose from. It was his weakness, you know, collecting books. It led to our downfall, I’m afraid. I gravitate toward the classics. I salvaged the few you saw today. They are my old friends.”
“Homer? What do you like about his works?”
“‘Wherefore I wail alike for thee and for my hapless self at grief at heart, for no longer have I anyone beside in broad Troy that is gentle to me or kind, but all men shudder at me,’” Harriet quoted promptly. “Helen, Paris, the fall of Troy—it’s all so heroic and romantic.”
Brookes gazed deeply into her dark eyes. “Not all wars are heroic or romantic. After all, thousands of innocent people were slaughtered because of Helen’s fickleness and her beauty.”
She colored under his gaze, staring at the floor. “I suppose that’s true,” she said quietly.
He had gone too far, blundering and lecturing like a stern schoolmaster. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“No, I am the one who should apologize.”
“Not at all.” He studied her a bit longer, mesmerized by the pretty flush warming her cheeks. He attempted a lighter tone. “After being in battle, one realizes there is very little romance in war.”
“I’m sure.” She looked up at him, her eyes darkening to a deep, fathomless blue. “Someone should write a realistic novel about war.”
Drowning in those dark eyes, he had to tear himself away. “I doubt anyone would read it.” He cast a rueful grin her way. They sat together in silence, which was broken only by the chime of the mantel clock.
“I should be going. Mama will be wondering where I am.” She stood and brushed off her skirts with a practical air.
“Let me order my carriage,” Brookes replied, and pulled the bell pull. “It’s raining in earnest. Do take a few books home.” She selected a volume of John Donne, he noted. He would read the book when she returned it.
“This should keep me occupied.” She smiled again, and a warm glow flowed through him.
“Come back whenever you wish.” Then, remembering his manners, he added, “Bring your sister, too.”
Her smile faded. She was all business and practicality again. “Of course. Thank you for a lovely afternoon.”
The carriage was ready; in an instant, Harriet was gone. Brookes stood at the window, mulling over his daily obligations. His afternoon was completely wasted. He was late to see his mill manager, and he needed to speak with his steward about this spring’s crops. But it was worth it. He hadn’t enjoyed himself this much in years.
He prided himself on his reputation as a career soldier, not easily flustered by anything, especially a pretty face. Rarely did anyone cause him to change his purpose or his mind. But the trained tactician in him sensed a problem.
What if he had chosen the wrong sister?
Chapter Four
Harriet stabbed her spade savagely into the dirt. She reached into the moist earth and tugged, pulling out a small potato. Shaking the dirt off the vegetable, she tossed it into the basket by her feet. She promised to help Sophie, but she found herself in dangerous territory. If only she could dig out her devotion to Brookes as easily as she dug out roots here in the family garden.
Harriet shifted from kneeling to squatting back on her heels. Falling in love with Brookes simply was not allowed. Ridiculous, too. After all, he was the first young man that she had come into close contact with. That was the reason for the attraction, and nothing more. Her visit to his library, and the warm companionship that had settled between them bespoke nothing more than a friendly acquaintanceship. So just like a spinster perilously near to the shelf, she attached too much significance to her visit. He provided her with the first challenging conversation she shared in ages—that was all.
She needed a plan. If there were some way she could keep her promise to Sophie while keeping the captain at arm’s length, she could protect her own heart. A strictly platonic arrangement, one that would allow her to enjoy Captain Brookes’s companionship, but kept any romantic nonsense at bay. What could she do?
“Hattie? Where are you?” Sophie called from the kitchen window.
“Garden,” Harriet hollered back. Sophie’s blonde head disappeared from between the curtains. She popped around the corner of the cottage, picking her way across the muddy garden rows.
“Oh, good. You’re alone. Where’s Rose?”
“She’s in the village, doing the marketing. Help me, I am digging potatoes. Rose thought we could boil and mash them for our supper.” She handed Sophie her spade, but her sister remained standing.
“Hattie, I am worried about Mama.”
Harriet sighed. She slanted her gaze up at Sophie. “I am worried about her, too. But what in particular is causing your alarm?”
“I don’t think the laudanum is helping. Or rather, it’s helping too well. Mama sleeps all day long, and all night, too. It can’t be good for her. Perhaps she should call on old friends, or go back to Matlock Bath for a day to see home again…”
“Sophie, if Mama were to see someone else living in our home in Matlock Bath, it would kill her. And none of her old friends will see us anymore, not since Papa lost his fortune.” Harriet grabbed the spade away from Sophie’s useless hands and began digging again.
“Still, there must be something we can do.”
“Dr. Wallace did say that a change in her situation might help. But you know none of the family will have her.” Harriet sat back on her heels and tossed another potato into the basket. “I will think of something, Sophie. Don’t fret. I am sure there is a way to help Mama.”
“I know you’ll find a way, Hattie. That’s why I always come to you.” Sophie patted Harriet’s shoulder. “I’ll go look in on Mama.”
Harriet gazed after her sister’s graceful back as Sophie wove her way across the garden. She stripped off her gloves, slapping them against her knee. The damp earth smelled sweet where she had been digging, and it calmed her jangled nerves. Time to think clearly.
She had three problems now: her infatuation with Captain Brookes, her promise to Sophie and her need to help Mama. Surely she could find a way to solve all three at once. Harriet’s mind flashed back to the day they lost their home. Her own copybooks were burning. Flames licked the pages, and every now and then, a single word flared up from the page while the paper was consumed. While the duns combed through Handley Hall, she fed the fire in the great hall with her manuscripts, watching every single one smolder in the hearth. Writing about nonexistent people seemed such an extravagant waste of time, when one’s own world was collapsing.
But what about now? Women could write books and sell them for money, could they not? And she wouldn’t have to leave home to seek work if she became an authoress, would she?
She rose, dusting the dirt from her backside.
She had the solution.
Picking up her skirts, she dashed from the garden. Her solution would only work if she had Brookes’s help.
Brookes’s eyes glazed over as he stared at the ledgers piled in front of him. Henry kept meticulous records, in a tiny and cramped script that left Brookes cross-eyed after hours of reading. He spent the morning studying the mill’s profitability. After examining the ledgers closely, he decided to look at making adjustments to the spinning mules. A few tweaks here and there could save valuable time and labor. He resolved to formulate a plan with the mill manager for increasing the mill’s profits and saving labor. He needed to prove himself as twice the man he had been before the war, as though gaining more wealth from the mill could make up for his lost leg. Maybe it would impress Sophie, anyway.
The door to the library swung open, and his butler, Bunting, entered, his eyebrows raised to his hairline. “Miss Handley to see you, Captain.”
“S-Sophie?” he stammered in bewilderment. Had she come to make amends or offer some explanation of her standoffish behavior? Her rejection stung more than he cared to admit.
“No. Miss Harriet Handley.” Bunting opened the door wider, and motioned Harriet into the room. A look of astonishment was still pasted to his usually blank countenance.
A rush of pleasure suffused Brookes. An afternoon spent in Harriet’s company was preferable to proving himself anew to Sophie. But his happiness faded when he spied her. No wonder Bunting was dumbfounded. She looked positively untidy, with her rumpled gown and none-too-clean apron. He rose from the desk and grabbed her hands. “Whatever’s the matter?”
She dropped his hands as though they were on fire. “I have a proposition for you, Captain.”
The most adorable streak of dirt bisected her cheek. Against his better judgment, he reached up to rub it with his thumb. “Proposition?” he echoed.
“Oh, sorry.” She laughed ruefully, scrubbing her cheek with the corner of her apron. “Yes. Or a business deal. Whatever term you like.”
A tug of his old mischievousness pulled at his insides. He liked the sound of proposition. “Tell me.”
“I want to write with you.”
His hope deflated. Well, after all, what had he expected her to say? That she wanted to court him? He motioned her to the settee, and sat down across from her. “I don’t understand you. What do you mean? Do you want to write a book?”
“Yes. Remember how we spoke about the need for realistic books about the war? Well, I want to write one. And I want your help so I can do it well.”
Her words cast him into unfamiliar territory, so he fell back on his soldier’s training. He peered at her, trying to assess her thoughts. Did she really want to write his memoirs? The thought of sharing what he had suffered made Brookes recoil. His palms began to sweat.
“I’ve always wanted to be an authoress. In fact I wrote a few books before Papa died. But I want to try it again. I want to write something and sell it. For money.”
