Hot air. Acrid smoke. Suffocating him, burning his eyes and nose. Filling his mouth. The roar of cannons, constant crack of musket rounds, screams and shouts. And the humming beneath it all, like a million angry hornets.
The mud sucked at his boots, dragged at his legs. His thighs burned. He took sight down his rifle, aimed, fired. Before his adversary finished falling he was reaching back into his cartridge box. Then, so quick but never quick enough, like an automaton: tear the paper with his teeth, half-cock, pour gunpowder in the pan, close, spin upright. Gunpowder down the barrel, cartridge follows. Ramrod out, tamp it all down tight. Make ready. Full cock. Present. Tight against shoulder…
Only this time, when he would have fired, a body slammed into him. Spinning, a face in his vision, for the briefest of seconds. One of their own. Fleeing the battle. He hardly had time to understand it before he was in the mud. Not just mud. Water, too, a puddle, churned up into a thick sludge beneath a thousand marching feet. It filled his mouth, a foul refuse he spit out.
On his feet again in an instant. No time to waste. If he delayed he would be trampled or shot. Pull the gun up again, take aim, pull the trigger.
Another of theirs stumbled in the way. Too late to stop. In horror he waited for the telltale spark of the flint.
But no spark, only smoke in his eyes again. From his gun or another’s? He hadn’t shot the boy. Relief. When the smoke cleared, however…
A pale face, hand at his chest, stumbling toward him. He caught the boy as he fell. Blood foamed from his lips.
“Pearl…”
Daniel awoke with a gasp. No battlefield, no death and pain and fear. Well, perhaps fear. He ran a shaking hand over his face, looked up at the ceiling in the dim early-morning light. Rough plaster, nothing he recognized. Confused, he tried to throw off the damp sheets. But they were twined about his legs. There was a horrible moment of panic as he fought against them. Finally free, he lurched to his feet.
Pain tore through his thigh. Gasping, he fell back to the bed. His fingers dug into the twisted flesh, the burn in the muscle dulling to a sharp ache just as the realization of where he was came to him. An inn. On his way to London.
Away from Margery.
No. He shook his head fiercely. He could not go down that path, or he would go mad.
A light knock at the door. And then Wilkins was entering, a freshly brushed jacket slung over his arm. His eyes flared wide when he spied Daniel, and he put the jacket aside, hurrying forward.
“Your Grace, are you well?”
“I’m fine,” Daniel muttered, then immediately regretted his dismissive tone. He and the valet had made such progress lately. And he found, after their sudden bond over the situation with Gregory, over their shared grief over Nathaniel—and after having experienced a closeness with Margery—he had missed having someone to lean on. And he no longer wanted to keep the man at arm’s length.
But no matter his curt words, Wilkins, it seemed, was through being cowed. He dropped to his haunches and brushed Daniel’s hands away, as if they were mere flies. “I’ve done a fair amount of research on wounds of this sort,” he said as he pulled Daniel’s nightshirt up to reveal the puckered wound on his leg. Before Daniel had time to react the valet’s fingers were pressing into it.
Pain, though this time a good kind of pain. Daniel hissed as the man found a particularly tight area.
“I received a recipe for a liniment from the physician back home. Once we get to London I’ll have the housekeeper at the townhouse assist me in mixing it up. In the meantime, we’ll massage and stretch your leg twice daily, and apply ice when we’re able. And no more long stretches of road; we’re to take breaks and often, to make certain you’re able to exercise it to prevent it from stiffening.”
Despite himself Daniel smiled. “Thank you, Wilkins,” he said gruffly.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
The man worked for a time in silence, alternating massaging and stretching the abused muscle. Just when Daniel was about to close his eyes from exhaustion, however, the man spoke up again, this time with the same hesitation that used to highlight their time together.
“You were having a nightmare, Your Grace?”
Daniel paused. And then, “Yes.”
“You haven’t had one for some time.”
Daniel blinked in surprise. “You knew about the nightmares?”
Wilkins gave him an apologetic look that nevertheless conveyed what Daniel should have guessed all along: servants quite often knew much more about a household than those living in it. No doubt the man had been aware of the nightmares from the moment Daniel began having them upon his return.
“Do you know what might have brought them on again?” Wilkins queried.
Something tugged at his memory then, that same sense of recognition and anxiety as that day on the beach with Margery when they’d met with her veteran friends. Though a face flashed in his mind now from that day at Waterloo, that boy who’d pushed past him just before he’d shot Aaron. Before he could make sense of it, however, panic reared, and his mind closed off against it, an instinctual defense.
Wilkins had seen something in his eyes, however, that gave him pause. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Daniel muttered. He let loose a sigh, frowning in frustration. “I met some veterans of the Waterloo conflict on Synne recently. I suppose it brought it all back again.”
“Ah. I’m sorry, Your Grace.”
Daniel nodded his thanks. But his thoughts were already drifting back to that elusive memory that had tried to surface before his defenses had snuffed it out. He frowned. What was it about those men that had affected him so? It was not as if he had not met with veterans before. He had even met with other men who had fought in that devastating battle. And not a one of them had affected him as Aaron’s three friends had. Anxious to know so he might understand, he prodded it carefully. But it wouldn’t budge. Dragging in a deep breath, he tried again. Once more, however, it eluded him. He let out a frustrated burst of air.
Wilkins paused. “What is it, Your Grace?”
Daniel shook his head. “Just a memory. But it isn’t clear. The moment I think I’ve captured it, it slips right through my fingers again.”
“Brought on by these three men?”
“Perhaps.” But at the mention of them the memory surged again. Daniel, determined to hold on to it this time, grasped at it. But once more it vanished, like a puff of smoke.
Like the brief burst from the end of a musket as it fired…
Waterloo…
Suddenly it took form, brilliant and devastating and horrible. And he saw what he couldn’t before: not a faceless boy, but Mr. Newton’s frightened face as he pushed past Daniel, knocking him off his feet, sending him to the muddy ground.
Daniel gasped and reared back. Alarmed, Wilkins reached out to steady him.
“He was there,” Daniel said. “He was the one to push past me, who sent me sprawling.”
Wilkins, confused and more than a touch concerned, stood and clasped his hands in worry. “Perhaps we’d best stay here another night, Your Grace. I worry that you’re exhausting yourself.”
“You don’t understand.” Frustrated, Daniel surged to his feet. He was no doubt undoing whatever good Wilkins had managed to do in working on his leg, but in that moment he didn’t care. Everything was falling into place, rearranging into a new and stark reality. And all he could think of just then was getting back to Synne.
Back to Margery.
No, he told himself brutally. Back to Synne. To confront Newton.
“He was there,” he said, slowly and distinctly, as if making Wilkins understand was paramount in understanding it himself. “One of those men from the beach, Mr. Newton. He was running away from the fight. And Margery’s husband was not deserting. He was running after Newton, his friend.”
If anything, Wilkins appeared more confused. “Margery? You mean Mrs. Kitteridge?”
But Daniel hardly heard him. Faster and faster pieces were clicking into place: Margery needing money, frightened. Her voice, so low and tortured: What would you do if the memory of someone you loved was threatened? And then, Aaron didn’t do anything wrong. He was a good man. A brave man. He would have never—
Ah, God. She thought her husband was a deserter. When all along he had been trying to prevent his friend from deserting.
Which, of course, didn’t lessen Daniel’s own guilt in shooting the man, no matter how accidental. But he couldn’t allow her to think for even a minute more that Aaron had done something wrong.
But why would she think such a thing? Who had made her think it? Newton’s face flashed again. He frowned. No, the man had been Aaron’s friend. What reason could he have for making Margery believe such a heinous thing?
The answer was instantaneous: money. Money would make a person do all manner of horrible things.
Desperate now, he turned back to face Wilkins. “We have to return to Synne.”
* * *
It didn’t take Daniel long to locate Mr. Newton’s residence. For all that Synne was a sprawling island, the town center was not, and the areas where the veterans resided even smaller.
Though the man wasn’t at home, it wasn’t hard to learn just where he spent the majority of his days. And so, just as the sun was beginning to dip beneath the horizon, Daniel found Newton on that very same rock he and Margery had been resting on that fateful day when they’d first seen the man. He didn’t look up as Daniel approached and sat beside him. But Daniel could see he was aware of him all the same in the tight press of his lips and the deepening lines about his eyes.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” the man murmured. “Only I didn’t expect you to take so blasted long figuring it all out.”
“So it’s true then.” Daniel turned to face Newton more fully. “You’re blackmailing Mrs. Kitteridge.”
Newton heaved a heavy sigh, closing his eyes, as if in acute pain. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. But I was desperate. I got in too deep, owed too much.” A rough bark of laughter escaped him. “I began drinking, began gambling, to distract myself from my memories of war. But it proved just as much of a curse, if not more so.”
Daniel shook his head, clenching his hands on his thighs, fury and disgust and pity all warring in his chest. “But Aaron was your friend. And you accused him of deserting.”
Newton dropped his head into his hands. “I was desperate,” he rasped.
But Daniel hardly heard him for the roaring that started up in his ears. “You destroyed Margery’s memories of her husband. It’s all she had left of him, those memories. And now she thinks her husband betrayed his country, that he’s a deserter.” He turned to fully face the man, fighting against the urge to grab him by the shirtfront and shake him until his teeth rattled. “When all along, you were the one deserting. You were the one turning your back on your battalion, on your country.”
A sob escaped Newton, quickly stifled as he bit his lip. “Are you going to tell the authorities?”
“Worried about your own skin?” Daniel snarled. Unable to sit close to Newton a moment longer, he lurched to his feet and looked out over the waves. Down the beach a couple strolled in the cool evening air, and several young girls laughed as they packed up their game of battledore and shuttlecock. But Daniel felt a world away from those happy scenes.
Breathing deep of the briny sea air, he closed his eyes and said, his voice rough, “In regard to your desertion, I was at that battle; I recall the chaos, the fear, the stench and noise. And so, while I despise you for your cowardice, there’s little point in seeking justice now.”
He turned to face Newton. “But your despicable act of tormenting Margery is another matter entirely.”
The man swallowed hard. “It was but a hundred quid,” he said, his voice dropping to a whine that made Daniel clench his back teeth so hard he thought they’d shatter. “She’s related to two bloody dukes, is daughter of a viscount. That sum is a mere drop in a bucket to one such as her.”
Daniel’s control snapped. “You bastard,” he snarled, lurching forward to loom over the man. “You bloody sniveling coward. If you were as close to Aaron as she seems to think you were, you would know that her father cut her off without a cent.”
Newton’s eyes widened in fear, his gaze snagging on Daniel’s cheek. His scar must be standing out in frightening relief. But for once Daniel was glad of it, was glad that it was terrifying to behold.
“B-but surely,” the other man stuttered, “she receives support from the others. They could not have all left her out to dry with no financial help. She practically lives at Seacliff, after all.”
“You obviously know nothing about her. Margery has pride. She would never go running to another for funds. And she would protect Aaron’s memory with her life.”
Once more he recalled the desolation on her face when she’d believed Aaron to have deserted his battalion. She’d held out hope that her husband had been innocent. Until Daniel had gone and made her believe such a heinous thing was true.
How she must be suffering. And he refused to allow her to believe such a thing for even a second longer.
Reaching down, Daniel grabbed Newton’s shirtfront and hauled him to his feet. The man gasped, flinching. If Daniel had looked down to find the man had wet himself, he would not have been surprised.
“What are you going to do to me?” Newton cried.
“I’m going to haul you before Margery, so you might tell her the truth of your deceit yourself. She’ll be your judge and jury.” He bared his teeth in a grin, felt the pull of tight scar tissue as he allowed his features to take on a terrifying cast. And was rewarded as Newton paled and blanched at the sight of it.
“If you’re a praying man,” he bit out, “I’d start praying now.”
* * *
Margery should have expected her grandmother to question her disappearance. She’d given her no real excuse, after all, merely leaving a note stating that she would be gone to Dewbury for the night and would return the following afternoon.
She should have expected it. Yet she had not.
Margery threw open the door to her room and strode inside, not realizing she wasn’t alone until her grandmother spoke.
“Finally back, are you?”
Gasping, Margery placed a hand over her racing heart. She searched the room, spying the older woman seated near the window.
“Gran, what in the world are you doing here?”
“I think,” her grandmother said in a tone that brooked no argument, “that you and I are due for a talk.”
Margery, still emotionally drained from her time in Dewbury—facing her grief over Aaron, the unexpected anger she’d been carrying, reconciling with her father, and realizing that she still loved Daniel no matter what he had done—was in no mood to sit and talk with her grandmother in what she was certain would be a stressful conversation. But she also knew that, if she asked the woman to leave, she would be courting a much bigger problem than just having an unpleasant conversation. Namely, Lady Tesh’s effrontery, which could be frightening, indeed. And so, sighing heavily, she trudged to the chair facing her grandmother and sat.
Gran pursed her lips as she regarded Margery. Freya, seated in her mistress’s lap, eyed her with equal intensity, and Margery felt, inexplicably, as if she were being judged and condemned by the pair of them.
“You went to Dewbury, did you?” her grandmother drawled.
Just keeping herself from rolling her eyes, Margery said in the pleasant, singsong voice she usually adopted with the older woman when she was in a snit, “I did. As you well know, seeing as I left you a note telling you just that.”
Gran’s eyes narrowed, proof that she had heard the little jab. “You did. But what you failed to tell me in your frighteningly succinct letter”—here she raised one eyebrow imperiously—“was why you went to Dewbury. A place, I might add, that you have not been to in some years.”
Frustration reared up, that her grandmother would be angry over such a thing, or even question her on her decision to go back there. She very nearly lost her patience—until she saw the tight press of her grandmother’s lips, the flare of concern quickly suppressed in her sharp brown eyes.
Gran was worried about her.
Affection for this woman, who had helped raise her, who had been there for her through so many horrible instances of her life, who had never wavered in her support of her, filled Margery to the brim. Her frustration gone in an instant, she leaned forward and placed her hand over her grandmother’s gnarled one. “I’m fine. Truly.”
Finally a crack in the ever-present tough veneer. Gran swallowed hard, her chin wobbling ever so slightly. “You’re certain?”
“I am.”
The woman seemed to deflate with relief. “I’m glad of it.” She let out a deep breath. But soon her gaze was back on Margery, the worry returned. “Why did you go? Did you—did you visit your father?”
Once more Margery’s chest swelled. Gran had not wavered in her determination to support Margery and Aaron all those years ago, taking their side against her own son in the process. And yet, though she never complained about it, Margery knew it pained the woman. She might have appeared unfazed by anything, but the woman loved her family fiercely.
“I didn’t mean to,” Margery admitted. “But it seems Mr. Kitteridge knew better than I in what I needed and made certain a meeting took place, whether I wished it or not.” She gave her grandmother a sly look. “He sounds like someone else I know.”
Her grandmother’s eyes opened wide in feigned innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” Margery pursed her lips in humor. But it was short-lived. She smiled sadly at her grandmother. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out with the duke and me as you must have wished.”
She fully expected Gran to deny any intention to match the duke with anyone, much less Margery, who had declared loudly and determinedly since Aaron’s death that she would never marry again. But the woman gave her a sheepish shrug. “You can’t blame me for trying, can you?”
Margery chuckled. “No, I suppose not.”
Suddenly her grandmother looked frighteningly shrewd. “Although, it isn’t too late, is it?”
Margery gaped at her. “But the man has left; he’s gone to London. And I can assure you, he would not have me even if he were here.”
Too late she realized she had revealed too much to her incredibly cunning grandmother. The woman looked positively victorious.
“The stubborn ones are always the most satisfying to pair up,” she declared with glee.
“We are not paired up!” Margery cried. “And we never shall be.”
“But you wish to,” Gran crowed.
“No—”
“Don’t deny it, girl. I see it in your eyes. You think your grandmother is stupid, but I’m not so old I can’t see you’ve formed a tendre for him.”
Margery groaned and dropped her face into her hands. There was nothing more dangerous—or maddening—than her grandmother when she sensed a victory could be close at hand. No matter how untrue it might be. “What does it matter?” she muttered.
“It matters a great deal.” There was a pause. And then, her grandmother’s voice incredibly gentle, “You deserve to live a happy life, child. Don’t let it slip through your fingers if you find yourself lucky enough to have the chance again.”
It was so close to what Mr. Kitteridge had said to her that Margery’s breath caught in her throat.
But even if she were to go against everything she had held on to for four years, determined to honor Aaron’s memory and never take another husband—goodness knew she had already decimated the other half of her promise to herself by falling in love again—could she reconcile herself to loving Daniel and making a life with him knowing what she did about his part in Aaron’s death?
Daniel’s face floated in her mind, and the myriad emotions that had crossed it: tenderly smiling; filled with desire; tight with despair. He was a good man, an honorable man. She knew that deep down in her soul. Fate had been cruel when it had put Aaron in the path of Daniel’s bullet. But it was not Daniel’s fault. Could Fate have brought the two of them together on purpose, a kind of apology for the devastation that one moment had caused? A way for them to find healing, in each other?
Gran, seeming to have seen something telling in her face, lowered Freya to the floor and stood. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts then,” she said. “And, maybe, to pack for a trip to London?”
Her tone, infinitely smug, should have rankled Margery to no end. Instead she found herself smiling as she rose. “Thank you, Gran,” she said, kissing the woman on the cheek.
Gran, her eyes suspiciously moist, patted her cheek before making her way from the room. Leaving Margery alone with her thoughts.
She loved Daniel. So very much. She had already seen that her love for him did not lessen her love for Aaron. Could Daniel love her as deeply as she loved him? And could that love perhaps be just the thing that both of them needed?
She was hurrying to her small bag, still packed from her trip to Dewbury, before she knew what she was about. Excitement strummed through her. She didn’t know if what she was doing was wise. It could be quite possibly the worst thing she had ever considered, hying off to London after Daniel, and beginning her journey just after nightfall, no less. He might turn her away, might proclaim he didn’t care for her in that way. Or it might lead to more heartache than they were currently suffering.
But if there was a chance at happiness for them, wasn’t it worth fighting for? Wasn’t Daniel worth fighting for?
Yes.
She hurried to her armoire, digging through the gowns that hung there. And suddenly she didn’t want to bring her half-mourning gowns with her. She wanted color, hope, joy again. Once more she searched out that chest hidden within the depths, the same one that she had pulled the pink ribbon from. Only this time she didn’t limit her search to the top layer. Instead she removed the fan and dance card and myriad mementos of her life before, and lifted out the tissue-wrapped parcels in its depths.
With shaking hands she unwrapped them. Her breath stalled in her chest as the gauziest greens and palest pinks and softest blues were revealed. The gowns of a girl full of hope.
She set her jaw and shook out the pink muslin. The folds of it lay over her lap, like an old friend. Small white blossoms and twining vines circling the hem, embroidery she had worked into the delicate material with her own hands. She may no longer be that naïve girl. But she was still full of hope, still full of that same stubborn determination. Scrabbling to her feet, she moved to her dressing room. It was time to embrace that side of herself again, to throw caution to the wind and jump into life with both feet.
Some minutes later, with the pink gown hugging her curves a bit tighter than it had before—goodness, she’d have to get some new ones made up—and her bag repacked, Margery turned for the door. But at the last minute she paused. Then, with determined steps, she made her way to her desk. With fingers that shook only slightly, she removed her ring for the last time. No matter what might happen with Daniel, she would never wear it again. Gran and Mr. Kitteridge were right; Aaron would not have wanted this for her. It was time to move on, to live her life.
Placing the ring on the top of the desk, she lifted up Aaron’s portrait and gazed down on his beloved face. “I’ll always love you, my darling,” she whispered, giving it a gentle kiss before placing it back down and turning again for the door.
This time she didn’t stop, hurrying down the stairs and through the front hall. She could very well falter in her determination in the four days it would take to reach London. But damned if this wasn’t the most exciting, frightening thing she’d done in years. Her whole future had been opened up before her, a vast, unmapped horizon. Only God knew what she would find at the end of her journey. It could be more heartache, of course. But wasn’t that the chance one took for the possibility of happiness? No matter what Aaron’s death had brought, she would not have given up her time with him, however short, for anything. And the same was true for a chance at a future with Daniel. She would fight for him, for whatever chance they might have of being together, with everything in her. Stifling a manic giggle as anticipation pounded through her, she reached the front door and threw it open—
And stopped cold.
“Daniel.” She caught her breath. What was he doing here? Hope bloomed in her chest; had he come back for her?
But no, her muddled brain told her, men in love didn’t look at the object of their affections like that, with such grim determination. Nor, she thought, even more confused as she took in the man at his side, did they bring the woman’s late husband’s friend along with them.
“Margery,” Daniel said then, dragging her attention back to him, “may we have a moment of your time?”
Her heart sank. No, it didn’t just sink, it dropped like the heaviest anchor into her stomach. Whatever this was, it was no social call.
Schooling her features into a calm she didn’t feel, she dropped her bag beside the front door and stepped back. “Of course,” she murmured through numb lips. And as they entered and she closed the door behind them, the echoing sound of it held the finality of a death knell.