Winning the War Hero's Heart. Mary Nichols
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more worried. ‘Miles, when your father hears of this, he will be very angry. Don’t you know better than to go against him? Think of me, if you cannot think of yourself.’
‘Mama, I would, but I could not stand by and let the militia knock those poor people about, could I? There were whole families there, enjoying a day out. They were in mortal danger. The militia were laying about them as if they were enjoying it.’
‘But why did you go there at all?’
‘Curiosity. I wanted to hear the men’s grievances and I wanted to see if Miss Wayland would go. I fear she will write it up to the detriment of the militia and whoever ordered them to prevent the meeting, and then she will be in more trouble.’
‘And that is another thing—what is your interest in Miss Wayland? She is not a lady, is she? She earns a living in a way I cannot approve and upsets your father almost daily. How did you meet her?’
He had always felt able to confide in her, knowing she would not repeat it, so he told her about stopping when he saw the frightened woman and child cowering against a wall. ‘She was so fiery against my father—it was more than just the incident of the hunt—and I wondered what had caused it. I did not know she was the proprietor of the Warburton Record then. I only found that out when I went to her business premises.’
‘Whatever did you go there for?’
‘I wanted to persuade her to retract what she had said about Father because he was going to sue her for defamation of character. But she would not.’
‘Then you must let the law take its course.’
‘Mama, the law is weighted heavily against her, my father will see to that.’ He paused. ‘There seems to have been some kind of feud between him and Miss Wayland’s father and she is determined to maintain it. Do you know what it was about?’
‘No, except Mr Wayland was forever publishing criticism of the Earl and he could not allow that, could he?’
Knowing his father, he sighed. ‘No, I suppose not.’
She turned to look into his face, scanning its clean lines and handsome brow. ‘You have not developed a tendre for Miss Wayland, have you, Miles?’
‘No, of course not,’ he answered swiftly without giving himself time to think.
‘Good, because it would be disastrous.’ She paused and, believing the subject of Miss Wayland closed, changed the subject. ‘Invitations came this morning for the Somerfield ball in July. We are all to go. It is a come out for Verity, who has recently returned from some school or other that turns out young ladies. As if her mother could not do that perfectly well.’
Lord and Lady Somerfield had been friends of the Earl and Countess for many years, mostly because they were the only other titled people in the area considered high enough in the instep with whom they could associate.
‘I haven’t seen Verity Somerfield since I went into the army,’ he said. ‘She would only have been about thirteen then, if that. Long-legged and given to giggling, as I recall.’
‘She has grown into a beautiful young lady with perfect deportment and manners and I have no doubt will attract many suitors, but I think Lord Somerfield is hoping you will make a match of it.’
‘He may hope,’ he said, ‘but I am resolved to stay single.’
‘Why, Miles? Is it because of your disability?’ she queried. ‘That is nonsense. It is hardly noticeable and I am sure if you were to ask the shoemaker he could raise one of your shoes a little. Heels are all the fashion, you know.’
‘Yes, but is it the fashion to have one higher than the other? No, Mama, even if a lady were to disregard that, she would have to see the scars on my thigh.’
‘Not until after you were married.’
‘Yes, that could pose a problem,’ he said, laughing to lighten the atmosphere. ‘To keep such a sight until the wedding night would surely give any bride the vapours. And to show her beforehand would be highly improper.’
She understood the bitterness that went behind what appeared to be a flippant remark and reached out to put her hand over his. ‘It is not as bad as all that, Miles, and if she loves you …’
‘Ah, there’s the rub. Who would have me as I am?’
‘I am sure Verity Somerfield will. According to her mama, she is already well disposed towards you. She remembers you as being kind to her, which is to your credit. And since then, you have come back from Waterloo a hero.’
‘I wish nothing had been made of that. I only did my duty as I saw it. I had no idea that fellow from The Times was taking notes. What they want sending a reporter out to war, I do not know. He only got in the way and the men made fun of him, which, to give him his due, he took in good part.’
‘Nevertheless, it has raised your standing with those at home and with the Somerfields.’
‘Mama, you are biased.’
She smiled. ‘Perhaps. But you are a handsome man and there are other assets in your favour: your title and amiable nature, for instance. I am persuaded all you need to do is turn on your charm and Verity will be yours. It is time you married …’
‘I will not impose myself on any young lady simply to provide the estate with an heir, Mama. It would not be fair to her.’ He realised that one day he ought to marry, if only to produce the requisite heir, but he also realised the woman he chose must be strong and not squeamish, someone who could see further than an ungainly gait and scarred limbs to the man within, someone like Miss Wayland, who had not flinched at the injuries she had seen on the common. Knowing Miss Somerfield’s delicate background, he doubted that she would have reacted in the same way. He cursed the war and the Frenchmen who had fired the cannon that had resulted in shrapnel becoming embedded in his upper thigh. It had been painful at the time and even more so when the surgeon had been working on him, but that was nothing compared to the way it had left him with a shrivelled thigh. His question, ‘Who would have me?’, had been heartfelt.
‘But you will go to the ball?’ his mother asked, forcing him back to the present.
‘To please you, yes, but I shall not make a fool of myself by attempting to dance.’
‘You could practise at home beforehand. I am sure you could manage some of the slower measures.’
‘Perhaps.’ Standing up, he bent to kiss her cheek and promised to be back in time to dine en famille. Then he left her.
He mused on the upcoming ball for a moment or two, then put it from his mind as another idea came to him. What the ex-soldiers and the out-of-work labourers wanted was not hand-outs, but work, something to keep them gainfully employed and the wolf from the door. Farming was in the doldrums and the farmers were not employing labour to stand about idly waiting for the weather to change, but what if the men were encouraged to grow fruit and vegetables? If every man had a strip of land, the sort of thing they had before the enclosures spoilt it all, he could grow not only enough for himself but for the market, too. If they did not have to pay for the land or, initially, the seed and plants, they would have a head start. It would be a kind of co-operative venture with each helping out the other with their own particular skills.
He owned a few acres left to him by his maternal grandfather that he had never cultivated. According to his father it was useless, no more than scrub and fit only for rabbits, but would the men work it? Not if they knew it came from him, he decided. He needed to do it through a third party and James Mottram came to mind. James was a young man of his own age whom he had met when they were both studying at Cambridge University. James had since become a lawyer and was already making his mark in the courts of justice, particularly in defence. He was a partner in a practice in Norwich. He would ask him, but first he would sound out Jack Byers about the project, ask him if he thought the men would agree to the plan and if he had any ideas to add to it. But he would swear him to secrecy.
He