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The next morning, or rather a few hours later, James dressed and came downstairs before the sun rose. Miss Breckenridge had said she’d meet him in the inn’s dining room for breakfast, but the young lady had evaded him once, and he’d be a fool if he let her get away from him again. He did not care to spend the entire day searching through coaching houses in Cambridgeshire and Rutland.
Miss Breckenridge hadn’t seemed pleased by his intention to accompany her to London—which, truth be told, wounded his pride. Instead, she’d acted suspicious, as if he would somehow sabotage the journey or even kidnap her and return her to Pinnock Hill.
Both thoughts had occurred to him yesterday—however briefly as his frustration with the situation had compounded with each coaching inn he’d stopped at—but last night, his motives had taken a complete reversal. Christmas with her father meant more to Miss Breckenridge than James could have imagined. Probably more than even the colonel knew. She’d built up her expectation into something that would never possibly be realized, no matter how desperately she wanted it.
Seeing how she’d treasured her Christmas book—how she’d painstakingly documented the holiday for thirteen years—had touched a place deeply buried in his heart. And it hurt. He knew exactly how it was to feel lonely, to miss family, and the thought of the young girl alone, shuffled from relative to relative . . . without even a blasted dog. It was the last straw. He would make certain that she had Christmas with her father. Even though . . . His stomach felt sick as he came again to the point, the reason Christmas as she’d imagined with her father wasn’t possible.
The truth would hurt her, but she’d discover it eventually. And he didn’t want her to confront it alone.
Besides, he was disobeying a direct order. He needed to face the colonel and accept the blame for his actions in person.
Perhaps he would think of something on the way—something to make the truth more bearable to a young lady who ached for her father. If nothing else, James would find a village with another mummers’ play. Or a church choir concert. Or a group of carolers singing house to house and drinking wassail. He’d find something to distract Miss Breckenridge, something she could write about in her book.
As he contemplated, customers filled up the dining room. Many were travelers, some soldiers on their journey home. Others were villagers whom he recognized from the night before.
Matthews joined him at the table.
“Sleep well?” James acknowledged his friend with the same greeting he’d said each morning since leaving France.
Matthews’s mouth pulled to the side.
James stared. The expression was nearly a smirk, and the closest to an actual smile that James had seen on his friend in over a year. If Matthews had jumped on the table and begun juggling hams, James would not have been more surprised.
“Well then,” he said, lifting his brows. “I’m glad to hear it.” He was tempted to ask if a particular red-haired young lady’s company at the play last night had anything to do with his friend waking well rested and cheerful, but he did not want to pry.
A few moments later, Miss Breckenridge and Miss Riley entered the dining room. They waved to an older man sitting at a table on the far side of the room, motioning for him to join them as they sat at the table with James and Matthews.
Miss Breckenridge introduced the older man as Mr. Owens.
Mr. Owens regarded the men through squinty eyes, as if trying to take their measure. But before he could do more than give a suspicious greeting, Mrs. Crenshaw came to the table and inquired after their accommodations. Once she was assured that they’d all spent a comfortable night, she left to fetch breakfast.
“Now that you’ve had a chance to consider, Captain Stewart,” Miss Breckenridge began, “do you still intend to come with us to London?”
“We do indeed.” James nodded. “And it would be expedient, not to mention much more enjoyable, for both of our parties to travel together.”
Mr. Owens frowned. “Isn’t room for two more in th’ carriage.”
“That is true,” Miss Breckenridge said. “Especially with extra luggage.”
“We will all fit easily in my carriage,” James said. “And the driver’s bench has room for two. I’d wager Mr. Matthews wouldn’t be opposed to some company. Or to driving in shifts.”
“I’d like that,” Mr. Owens said, nodding and rubbing his chin. “Could use a few more hours o’ sleep, to tell th’ truth.”
Miss Breckenridge fixed James with a scrutinizing stare. “I’m not certain I care for that proposal, Captain. I do not fully understand your reasoning for wishing to travel with us to London when yesterday you were so against the idea. How am I to trust that you will take us where we wish to go?”
“I will you give you my word, Miss Breckenridge, to deliver you safely to your father in London. Will that do?”
She considered for a moment and looked at his friend. “Have I your word as well, Mr. Matthews?”
Matthews dipped his chin the slightest bit.
Apparently, it was enough to convince the young lady. She nodded. “Very well.”
Mrs. Crenshaw returned and delivered plates of food. She set a tray of leftover gingerbread cakes in the center of the table. They thanked her and began to eat.
“Captain,” Miss Breckenridge said. “I still do not understand why you’ve come in the first place. Why did you follow me from Pinnock Hill? And why do you insist on traveling back to London?”
James chewed a bite of egg before answering. “It is because of my message that you’re here,” he said. “I told the truth when I said the road is dangerous—highwaymen, fallen trees, damaged bridges . . . I feel responsible, as a close friend of your father’s, to ensure your safety.” The answer wasn’t complete, but the reasoning was true enough.
Miss Breckenridge glanced at Miss Riley and Mr. Owens, and seeing approval in their faces, she turned back to James and nodded. “Very well, sir. Your action is unnecessary, but appreciated.”
An hour later, their meal was complete, luggage loaded, and the five companions rode in Captain Stewart’s carriage south on the Great North Road toward London. Miss Breckenridge sat beside Miss Riley, and James was on the bench facing them. Mr. Owens and Matthews rode in the driver’s seat.
Miss Breckenridge yawned, settling back and looking out through the window. Dark circles stood out beneath her eyes—evidence of her lack of sleep the night before.
“You should rest, miss,” Miss Riley said, shifting the blanket they shared more fully onto her mistress’s lap.
“Thank you, Meg.” Miss Breckenridge spoke in a tired voice. She glanced at James. “Perhaps in a little while.” She went back to looking out the window, yawning again.
Her blinks were slow. James guessed she would be asleep any moment. “Miss Riley, tell me about yourself,” he said. “Do you come from Pinnock Hill?”
“I do, Captain.” Her round cheeks lifted when she smiled. “Born an’ raised. My father keeps a farm on the east side o’ town.”
“And have you brothers and sisters?” he asked.
“Oh yes. There are nine o’ us in all. Five girls and four boys. I am the eldest save one brother.”
James smiled. “I come from a large family myself. I, however, am the youngest.”
“A pity you’ll miss Yuletide with your family,” Meg said. “If they’re anything like mine, it’s a grand celebration to be sure. Feasts, games, visitors . . .”
Miss Breckenridge sat up. Her brows pulled together, and she frowned. “I didn’t know you would be missing your family’s Christmas celebration. Why didn’t you tell me, Meg?”
Miss Riley shrugged. “You needed a companion for your journey, miss.”
Miss Breckenridge took the young lady’s hand. “How selfish of me,” she said. “I didn’t even consider it. I was so focused on seeing my father. I am so very sorry.”
“I’m havin’ a lovely time, miss. Never been to London. Farthest away I’ve ever been from Pinnock Hill is to North Milford when my cousin had her baby.” She put her other hand on Miss Breckenridge’s and squeezed. “Don’t worry yourself, miss. I’m happy to be here.”
Miss Breckenridge sat back in the seat, frowning as she watched through the window. She didn’t look convinced by her friend’s words.
After a few hours, the group stopped at a spot where the road was wide and overlooked a valley of rolling hills, taking the opportunity to water the horses, stretch their legs, and eat the picnic lunch that Mrs. Crenshaw had packed.
Matthews and Miss Riley sat on a fallen log, eating and enjoying the view.
Mr. Owens finished his lunch quickly and led the horses to a brook to drink.
Miss Breckenridge walked along the edge of the road. She held her coat tight around her and kept her head down, braced against the cold wind.
James joined her. “Bitter wind, isn’t it?”
She nodded, looking distracted.
“Is everything all right, Miss Breckenridge?” he asked.
“I should send Meg and Mr. Owens home to Pinnock Hill.” She looked down the road toward London. “But I cannot travel alone with two men. And I must go to my father.” She stopped, glancing in both directions. “I can’t stop now, but it was narrow-minded of me to bring her. I didn’t even consider . . .”
James motioned toward the log where Miss Riley ate her lunch with Matthews. The two sat very close together. “I do not think Miss Riley considers the journey a disappointment.”
Miss Breckenridge gave a small smile, her head tipping as she regarded the pair. “Perhaps not. But I should make it up to her all the same. I am so ashamed that it did not occur to me that there are other families who wish to celebrate together aside from just mine.”
James led her back toward the carriage. “Love does that to us, Miss Breckenridge. It makes us behave in ways we never would have otherwise. Love can make the most logical person irrational.”
“But I love Meg as well,” she said.
“I know you do. That is why you are bothered at the thought that she might be unhappy.”
He stopped and turned so that only Miss Breckenridge could see his wink, then looked back toward the others. “Miss Riley,” he said in a louder voice. “I wonder if Matthews might want some company on the driver’s bench for a time. Mr. Owens could use a rest.”
Miss Riley blushed. “Oh, yes. I would be happy to.” She glanced at Matthews. “If you would like.”
Matthews’s cheeks seemed a bit pink as well. He gave a nod.
Miss Breckenridge waited until the pair weren’t looking and gave James a wink in return, her brows lifting and her face lighting in a conspiratorial smile.
When they started off again, Mr. Owens lay across one of the carriage benches, snoring softly.
James sat on the other beside Miss Breckenridge.
“Why doesn’t Mr. Matthews speak?” she asked, motioning with her chin toward the window that separated the driver from the inside of the carriage. “Was he injured?” She looked curious, but there was also compassion in her face.
“He was, but not in the way you might think.” James tapped his forehead. “Matthews’s pain is here.”
“Do you know why?” she asked.
“Aye.” He let out a sigh. “Albuera.” The word hung in the air, the sound of it making his heart beat faster and his palms sweat. He could taste the musket powder in the air, feel the mud slip beneath his boots, hear the screams as the Polish cavalry charged through the hail and rain. James swallowed hard, pushing it all away and focusing on the young lady before him.
“What happened?” she asked in a softer voice.
“Both of Matthews’s brothers were killed,” James said. “His younger brothers. Cut down in a bayonet charge right in front of him.”
“Oh.” She put her hand to her mouth, and her gaze darted toward the window again. “How awful. That poor man.”
“It is a heavy thing. Feeling responsibility for the life of others.” James knew completely how it was to see men who’d trusted him to lead killed in a battle. “He’d promised to keep them safe.”
“He blames himself.” Miss Breckenridge’s voice was tight. “It is as you said, ‘Love can make the most logical person irrational.’”
James nodded. “I believe all of his emotions are trapped inside him—the good and the bad—and he’s holding them tightly, afraid that if he allows any of them free . . .”
“They will all come out,” she finished. “And he couldn’t bear to feel them.” She shook her head. “Such a tragedy. I am very sad for him.”
“He is not the only soldier to return damaged,” James said. “All manage their trauma differently. Some turn to drink, some become wanderers unable to adjust to society, some simply end it all. I don’t believe it is possible to come back from war unchanged in some way.”
“And how do you manage?” Miss Breckenridge turned her knees to the side, facing him as well as she could while sitting beside him on the bench. She studied his face.
James swallowed. “I push the thoughts away when they come. Avoid allowing myself to think of them.”
“Is it effective?”
“It’s become easier over time. Until I sleep,” he admitted. “It is impossible to control the memories then.”
“It must be exhausting,” she said.
He opened his mouth to reply but stopped when Miss Breckenridge slipped her hand into his. The gesture stilled his thoughts. It was such a simple thing, so tender and filled with compassion. She did not claim to understand or offer advice for healing, as others had done, but simply indicated that she cared. His throat grew tight, and his eyes burned.
Miss Breckenridge scooted back around to face forward but did not release her hold on his hand. She leaned her head on his shoulder.
James rubbed his eyes, glad she wasn’t watching as he fought against the emotions. The feel of her leaning against him was more comforting than a thousand reassuring words. After a moment, he laid his head back on the seat. He closed his eyes. And slept.