Healing the Soldier's Heart. Lily George
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Sophie’s room to say good morning. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach at the thought of meeting with the ensign today. She’d never really read anything aloud before—and certainly not to a young man. It would help immensely to have Sophie nearby. She wouldn’t be quite so nervous with a friend close at hand.
“Ugh. Enter,” a decidedly sleepy voice muttered in response to Lucy’s knock.
Lucy poked her head in as Sophie pulled the coverlet high over her head. “Sophie? You are awake, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Awake but rebellious. I am entirely unwilling to face the day.” Sophie wriggled farther under her covers as Lucy perched on the bed.
“Cheer up, chicken. We’re going to the veterans’ group this morning. You can see your lieutenant again.” And, of course, she could see that interesting young ensign. The heat rose in her cheeks at that thought. Not that he would be hanging on her every word, of course. But it would be quite nice to see him and speak to him again.
“No, I cannot go.” Sophie sat up and threw the coverlet back, revealing her woebegone face. Dark circles ringed her pretty blue eyes, and her pink-and-white complexion had taken on a sallow tone. She gave her tangled curls a shake. “I have too much to do. You’ll have to go without me. And besides, I need time before I see the lieutenant again. I must practice and prepare myself, you see. We are pretending a faux courtship so his visiting mama will leave him in peace.”
Lucy’s heart hitched in her chest, and she barely registered the remainder of Sophie’s words. “Go without you? Faux courtships? This is like a plot in a farce, Sophie! You are the only person I would know there. If you won’t be coming along, whom will I sit by? How shall I get started?” She absolutely despised new situations. The way she had survived—and even thrived—at Cornhill and Lime Street Charity School was by knowing exactly where she had to be and what was expected of her at any given moment. And that only came through routine. If the routine changed—well, she had to start all over again, a most unpleasant practice.
Lucy grasped a long, dark ringlet of hair and began twirling it around her index finger, trying to think of a way to convince her friend to accompany her. “If you intend to go through with some sort of fake courtship, you might want to talk matters over with Cantrill.”
“Oh, dear Lucy, on any other day you know I would be there. I love working with the veterans’ group. And I love—” Sophie broke off, a flush creeping over her dimpled cheeks. Ah, yes. Her feelings for the lieutenant would be obvious to anyone, even a blind and deaf dormouse. She sighed and closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. “But there is simply too much for me to do. And I need more time to compose myself before I see the lieutenant again.”
Lucy sighed. She was being too selfish. Here Sophie was, trying to help both Amelia and Cantrill, and all Lucy could think about was herself. She reached out and patted Sophie’s shoulder. “Poor dear. You are working so hard to make Amelia’s debut a success. Is there anything I can do to help? If you are willing to give up your day off for the cause, then I will gladly sacrifice mine, as well.”
Sophie smiled and shook her head again. “No. Go—go and read to Ensign Rowland. You deserve a day off, and I know that you planned already to meet with the gentleman. And—” Sophie darted a quick, searching glance up at Lucy, a glance that seared through all artifice “—I have a feeling you are rather intrigued by the ensign, is that not so?”
“Don’t be silly.” Lucy rose, putting an end to the interview before Sophie’s questions got too probing. “But I made a promise, and it would be most rude not to keep it. So, I suppose this means I shall see you after the meeting, then?”
“Yes.” Sophie rose. “That blonde blur you’ll see scurrying down the hallway will be me.”
With a chuckle, Lucy descended to the kitchen and out the back door, breathing deeply of the balmy spring breeze to calm her nerves. She hadn’t thought far enough ahead when she made her plans with Ensign Rowland. If only Sophie could come along. Courage was much easier to muster when one had a close friend nearby. When she met with the ensign a few days before, she was able to muster courage—to be breezy and nonchalant in her speech. But then, ’twas a brief meeting. She hadn’t had to read to him that first day. Now she was alone, and her performance was imminent. Did famous opera soubrettes have an attack of nerves before going onstage? Probably not. If performance were a part of your daily round, ’twas quite likely that you’d simply get used to it.
Saint Swithin’s perched majestically on a hill, its proud façade overlooking all of Bath. Why, it was intimidating even to look upon, much less consider what—or whom—awaited her there. By the time she reached the front steps, she was quite winded. She paused a moment at the top of the stone steps, exhaling as slowly as she could, her heart pounding in her chest. Bowing her head a moment, she counted to ten. It would never do to approach Rowland as though she had been running a footrace through the park.
As she drew herself up, shaking her skirts, she caught a glimpse of a handsome, angular face. Gracious, Rowland was here already! He turned toward her, a smile lighting his eyes as he extended his hand in greeting.
“Ensign Rowland,” she gasped and then cleared her throat. She hadn’t meant to meet him so soon. She needed more time to compose herself. But there was nothing to do but brazen through her nerves and her breathlessness.
He nodded, his smile growing as he surveyed her. She paused a moment, awaiting some sort of spoken response, and then shook her head. Of course, he was not going to speak. Botheration. That was the entire point of their meeting, was it not? To help him overcome his affliction?
To cover her confusion and deter his rapt attention from her now hotly glowing cheeks, Lucy took his hand and bobbed a curtsy. The brim of her bonnet would hide the pinkness of her face for a moment. But she hadn’t anticipated on the tingle that shot up her arm at his touch. Goodness, she was making a cake of herself.
And if she went inside the church with him, her embarrassment would be writ clear on her face for everyone to see. Lieutenant Cantrill and Rowland’s other cronies would surely laugh at her and jest to Rowland about it later after the meeting was over. No, if she was going to hide her roiled emotions, it would be much easier to do so from just one man than a dozen.
“Shall we sit out here and enjoy this fine weather?” She indicated a nearby stone bench with what she hoped was a carefree gesture. “After such a wet and cold winter, I vow I am quite in adoration of this spring weather.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the ensign nodding. She allowed him to steer her over to the bench and then sat, gathering her skirts about her with as much grace as she could assume.
“Well, then.” She waited as he took his seat, stretching his booted legs out before him. Then she opened her reticule—her curiously light and flat reticule. Oh, gracious. She had left her book at home.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry; she was such a bundle of nerves. An emotion bubbled up her throat, and for a dreadful instant, she thought she was going to burst into tears. Instead, she chuckled, unable to hold back any longer. At least laughter relieved the unbearable anxiety she felt.
Rowland glanced at her, puzzled, one eyebrow quirked. She turned her reticule inside out, showing him a few coins and bits of lint. “I came all this way, Ensign Rowland, and I never even had the book with me.”
* * *
Lucy Williams had the most enchanting laugh. And when she giggled, as she was doing now, her brown eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed a dusky pink. It was delightful simply to gaze upon her, drinking in her mirth at the absurdity of the situation. He handed her his handkerchief, which she used to dab her eyes—she laughed so hard that tears just touched their corners.
Her laughter slowed, and as her joy began to fade, confusion took its place. He wanted to reassure her—to wipe any trace of discomfiture away. So he withdrew a battered book from his coat pocket and handed it to her.
She took the volume, handling it with a gentle touch to keep from pulling the worn pages apart.