November 13th, 1808
Whiteoaks, Wiltshire
Tish met him in the stableyard, austere and angular in a navy blue riding habit. They mounted, and trotted from the yard. Tom tried to tease her into smiling. “This may be the most exciting morning of my life. Trysting with an heiress! Is it to be a special license, Tish, or do you want the banns to be read?”
Tish’s mouth tucked in at the corners. “Tom, do be serious.”
Not until you smile properly. “But I feel it’s only fair to tell you that my heart belongs to another!”
“I want to talk about Lucas.”
The levity drained from him. “What about him?”
“How is he? Truly?”
Tom had a flash of memory: Lucas crying so hard it seemed that he would turn himself inside out.
He looked away, swallowed, found enough of his voice to say, “Let’s canter.”
By the time they were up on the downs, he had control of his vocal cords. He halted at a viewpoint and stared down at Whiteoaks. How much should I tell her?
He glanced at Tish, silent alongside him. “Have you seen much of Lucas this past year?”
Tish shook her head. “He’s been dealing with his godfather’s estate. He only came back to town last month. He seemed . . . I thought he seemed happier. He wasn’t wearing blacks.”
“When did you see him last?”
“The beginning of October. I asked him to dine with me on his birthday, but he’d already accepted an invitation elsewhere.”
“Had he?” Tom grimaced, and looked away. “He didn’t go. I arrived in London the evening of his birthday, went round to his rooms, found him sitting in the dark with the fire gone out, so drunk he couldn’t even stand up.” He paused—and then decided to tell her it all. “He’d been crying.”
Tish stared at him, aghast. “But he seemed almost his old self!”
“He’s not,” Tom said flatly. “He puts on a good act, but he has days where I don’t think he’d even get out of bed—let alone shave or dress—if not for that man of his.”
Tish said nothing; she just stared at him, her mouth half-open, as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t find any words.
“You know how wounded animals hide themselves away? That’s what he did after Julia died—and I understand he needed to be alone afterwards—you don’t have to tell me how close they were—but he needs to crawl out of his cave and learn how to be happy without her.”
“I thought he had.”
“No.” Tom shook his head. “I asked for an extended leave of absence. Wellesley gave me until the end of the year.”
“For Lucas?’
“Of course, for Lucas!”
“Can I help?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know that I can help.” He was giving Lucas everything he had, giving him his body, his heart, his soul—but he didn’t know whether it was enough—or whether Lucas truly wanted it. “I don’t know that coming here was a good idea. This place is full of Julia.” He shook his head again. “Come on, let’s ride.”
When they were back in the long avenue again, the bare oak branches meeting overhead in a complicated pattern, Tish asked, “How are you enjoying soldiering?”
Tom shrugged. “Oh, I like it well enough.”
Tish looked at him with those astute eyes of hers. “You’d rather sell out and be an artist?”
He gave an uncomfortable laugh. “You know me too well.”
“Could you sell out?”
“Only if I marry an heiress.” Tom leered at her cheerfully. “What do you say, Tish? Want to marry a youngest son with not a penny to his name?”
“Your heart belongs to someone else,” Tish reminded him.
He lost his smile. “So it does.”
The horses’ hooves clomped somberly on the dead leaves. Tish took a deep breath. “Tom? If you had twenty thousand pounds, would you sell out?”
“Yes.” Hell, he’d sell out if he had two thousand pounds. “But I don’t.” He turned the subject “There’s to be a ball this week. Did Almeria tell you?”
“Tom . . . I can give you twenty thousand pounds.”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous. Let me give you twenty thousand. Then you can sell out!”
For half a second he let himself imagine it: He could stay in England. His life would be pencils and charcoal and paint, line and form, light and shade, color—and Lucas. Lucas morning, afternoon, and night. And then he said, firmly, “Thank you, but no.”
“Why not?”
Because I have some pride. Tom reached over and caught her hand and kissed her gloved knuckles. “Tish, I love you dearly, but I won’t take your money.”
“But—”
“No.” He released her hand. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Tish. Soldiering suits me well enough. I’m better off than a lot of younger sons!” And then he thought of Daniel. “And heirs, for that matter. I’m a thousand times better off than m’ brother, saddled with Father’s debts. Or Henry Wright. Poor devils.”
“Yes, but if I give you—”
“Lord, Tish, you’re like a terrier at a rabbit hole! I don’t want your money.”
Tish gave an exasperated sigh.
They reached the end of the avenue. The gleaming marble frontage of Whiteoaks came into sight and Tom thought—not for the first time—that the nabob might have had a head for business, but he hadn’t had an eye for architecture. Lord, what a monstrosity of a home he’d built, all sharp, unforgiving angles and perfect, unflinching symmetry, everything so white and glittering that it made one’s eyes wince.
“Tom . . . will you tell me about the Battle of Vimeiro?”
“Vimeiro?” Tom turned his head and stared at her. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
Tom shrugged. “The battle was straightforward. We outnumbered the French. Not many casualties.”
“Did you fight?”
“Me? I carried orders, mostly.”
“Carried orders?”
“The general can’t be in more than one place, so his aides-de-camp relay his orders. Vimeiro was pretty busy—we were down a couple of officers—one drunk, the other missing—I went back and forth a score of times. Quite wore out my horse!”
They dismounted in the stableyard—and on their heels came another horse, ridden by a liveried servant. The man didn’t dismount, but leaned low and passed something to one of the grooms.
“Lieutenant Matlock, sir?” the groom said. “A message for you.”
“For me?” Tom took the letter and broke open the seal. His eyes skipped down to the signature at the bottom. Reid.
Memory of Vimeiro came flooding back. The things he’d not told Tish: the dead scouts, Major Reid.
Tom shook his head, banishing the memory, and read the message swiftly. “Tell him yes,” he told the mounted servant. “Two o’clock.”
“Yes, what?” Tish asked.
“Major Reid’s in Marlborough. He’s coming to visit this afternoon.” He shoved the letter into his pocket. “Hurry up, Tish. We’ll be late for church!”