Slightly Married (2 page)

She inclined her head to him. “You have the advantage of me, I am afraid, sir,” she said. “The servant who came for me had forgotten your name.”

“Colonel Bedwyn at your service, ma'am,” he said.

She recognized the name instantly. She could even supply the rest of it. He was Colonel Lord Aidan Bedwyn and Percy's commanding officer. If she had felt deep mortification before, now she wished a black hole would open beneath her feet and swallow her up.

But it did not take her longer than a moment to realize that embarrassment was the least of her concerns. He was
Percy's commanding officer
. And he was standing in the visitors' parlor at Ringwood in full, formal dress uniform. There was no need to ask why. In that instant she
knew
. Her head turned cold, as if all the blood had gushed downward out of it. Even the air in her nostrils felt icy. Unconsciously she let her hat fall to the floor and with both hands closed the door at her back, sought out the handle, and clung on tightly.

“What can I do for you, Colonel?” She heard her voice now as if it came from a long way off.

He looked hard at her, his face devoid of expression. “I am the bearer of unhappy tidings,” he said. “Is there someone you would wish to summon?”

“Percy?” His name came out as a whisper. She could well imagine this man wielding the cold, heavy steel at his side, a detached part of her mind thought. Killing with it. “But the wars are at an end. Napoléon Bonaparte has been defeated. He has surrendered.”

“Captain Percival Morris fell in action at Toulouse in the south of France on April the tenth,” he said. “He died a hero's death, ma'am. I am deeply regretful of the pain it will cause you.”

Percy.
Her only brother, her only sibling, whom she had worshipped during childhood, adored fiercely through her girlhood, when he had been restless and rebellious and constantly at odds with Papa, and loved unwaveringly during the long years after he had gone away and then used the unexpected legacy left him by their maternal great-uncle to purchase a commission in a cavalry regiment. He had loved her cheerfully, generously, in return. She had received a letter from him—from France—just two weeks ago.

Captain Morris fell in action . . .

“Will you sit down?” The colonel had moved closer, though he did not touch her. He loomed over her, huge and dark and menacing. “You are very pale.
May
I have someone fetched to you, ma'am?”

“He is dead?” He had been dead for almost a month and she had not known. She had not even sensed it. He had been two weeks dead when she read his letter, more than two weeks dead when James brought the news of victory and she had felt such enormous relief. “Did he suffer?” Foolish question.

“I think not, ma'am,” the colonel said. He had not stepped back away from her and she felt suffocated, deprived of air and space. Seated on horseback, sword in hand, he must be truly terrifying. “There is often a merciful shock that keeps dying men from feeling the pain of their wounds. I believe Captain Morris was one of them. He did not look to be in pain and did not speak of it.”

“Speak?”
She looked sharply up at him. “He spoke? To you?”

“His final thoughts and words were of you,” he said, inclining his head. “He begged me to bring you the news myself.”

“It was extremely kind of you to honor such a request,” she said, realizing suddenly how strange it was that Percy's commanding officer should come in person all the way from the south of France to inform her of his death.

“I owe Captain Morris my life,” he explained. “He saved it in an act of extraordinary courage and at the risk of considerable personal danger two years ago at the Battle of Salamanca.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He asked that you not wear black for him,” the colonel told her. “I believe he added that you have had too much of that.”

His eyes swept downward over her gray dress, which she was so looking forward to discarding for something more colorful, more in tune with the season in a week's time. But it no longer mattered.

Her brother was gone. Forever.

She was engulfed in pain, blinded, deafened by it, by the unbearable agony of loss.

“Ma'am?” The colonel took another half-step forward and reached out a hand as if to take her by the arm.

She recoiled. “Anything else?”

“He asked me to protect you,” he said.

“To
protect
me?” Her eyes flew to his face again. It was like granite, she thought. Without warmth, without expression, without sentiment. If there was a person behind the hard military facade, there was no sign of him. Though perhaps that was unfair. He had come close as if to aid her and had reached out a steadying hand. And he
had
come all the way from the south of France to repay a debt to Percy.

“I have taken a room at the Three Feathers Inn in Heybridge,” he said. “I will remain there until tomorrow, ma'am. The next time I call here you will inform me how I may be of service to you. But at the moment you need the assistance of people who are familiar to you. You are in shock.”

He stepped to one side and pulled on the bell rope beside the door.
Was
she in shock? She felt perfectly in command of herself. She even wondered if that bell still worked since she could not recall the last time it had been used. She also realized that if it
did
work and if Agnes
did
answer it, she was going to have to move. She was still standing against the door, her hands clinging to the handle as if for very life. She did not believe she would be able to move if she tried. The universe would shatter into a billion fragments. Perhaps she really was not quite herself.

Percy was dead.

Agnes answered the summons almost immediately. The colonel grasped Eve firmly by the upper arm just in time to move her to one side as the door opened.

“Is there someone you can summon to Miss Morris's assistance?” he asked, though in truth his words sounded far more like a crisp command than a courteous request. “If so, do it immediately.”

Agnes, in true Agnes fashion, merely turned her head and bellowed. “Charlie? Char-
lie,
do you hear me? Set down that chair and run back for Mrs. Pritchard. Tell her to hurry. Miss Morris needs her.
Now!
”

“You must sit before you faint,” the colonel said. “Even your lips are colorless.”

Eve sank obediently onto the closest chair and sat there, very upright, her spine not quite touching the back, her hands clasped tightly, painfully, in her lap. Poor Aunt Mari, she thought—
tell her to hurry.
Then she heard the echo of something the colonel had said a minute or two ago.

. . . you will inform me how I may be of service to you.

“There is nothing you can do for me, Colonel,” she said. “There is little point in subjecting yourself to the discomforts of a country inn. But I do thank you for your offer. And for coming all this way. You are very kind.”

How was it possible, she wondered, watching Agnes pick up her hat from the floor and hold it against her chest, frowning ferociously the while, to mouth mundane courtesies when
Percy was dead
? She felt the sharp pain of her fingernails digging into her palms.

“The amenities of even the humblest of country inns seem like the lap of luxury to a man newly returned from a military campaign, ma'am,” he said. “You need not concern yourself about my comfort.”

She had not offered him refreshments, she thought in the minute or two of silence that followed while Agnes stared at her and Colonel Bedwyn did not. He had taken up his stand before the hearth again, his back to it. She had not even offered him a seat.

Aunt Mari, still wearing her hat, came hobbling into the room before any conversation could resume, her cane tapping out an urgent tattoo on the floor, her eyes wide with dismay, as if she already understood what this was all about. Charlie must have outdone himself in conveying a sense of doom. Eve swayed to her feet.

“Miss Morris has need of you, ma'am,” Colonel Bedwyn said without waiting for any introductions to be made. “I have been the bearer of sad tidings concerning Captain Percival Morris, her brother, I am afraid.”

“Oh, my poor love.” Aunt Mari came straight toward her and gathered her into her arms. Her cane clattered to the floor. Eve rested her forehead on her aunt's bony shoulder for a weary spell, drawing comfort from the human touch of someone familiar, someone who loved her, someone who would make all better if she possibly could. But no one could make this better. No one could bring Percy back. Wretchedness enveloped her like a dark cloud.

When she lifted her head again, her aunt's eyes were filled with tears and her lips were wobbling in an effort to control her emotions. Muffin was standing at her feet, wagging his bit of a tail, looking soulful. Agnes still hovered just inside the room, clutching Eve's hat and looking as if she would gladly fight a dragon or two if someone would only point her in the right direction. Thelma, her eyes wide with dismay, was there too, though there was no sign of the children. Nanny Johnson must have taken them upstairs.

Colonel Lord Aidan Bedwyn had gone.

C
HAPTER II

H
IS BED AT THE
T
HREE
F
EATHERS WAS HARD,
the pillow lumpy, the ale insipid, the food ill-prepared, the service less than prompt, the taproom noisy, and the whole place lacking something in spruceness even though it was passably clean. If he had been anywhere else but England, where his mind almost unconsciously reverted to old standards of quality, Aidan might indeed have considered that he was in the lap of luxury. As it was, he was sorely displeased and wished heartily that he could go straight home to Lindsey Hall in Hampshire, country seat of his elder brother, the Duke of Bewcastle, and be pampered there for the remainder of his leave.

But first he must complete his business with Captain Morris's sister, and he still had no idea how long that would take or what it would involve beyond offering her what comfort he could in another visit or two. She had told him there was nothing he could do for her, but of course by the time she had said that she was deeply in shock.
He
still felt some shock over the change a couple of minutes had wrought in her—one minute a vibrant, flushed, bright-eyed, rather pretty young woman despite the plainness, even shabbiness, of her clothes and the generally disheveled look of someone who had been busy at some outdoor activity, and the next minute a pale, listless ghost of herself. And he was the one who had done it to her. Ah, the power of words, with which he had never been adept.

When he returned to Ringwood Manor on the second morning, on foot rather than on horseback this time since he had discovered the distance from inn to house to be not much farther than a mile, he felt more at leisure to notice his surroundings since he was no longer preoccupied with the most unpleasant part of his mission. Breaking the news of a death must be one of the most wretched tasks anyone could be called upon to undertake. He had done it by letter on numerous occasions, but he had never before been compelled to do it in person.

Ringwood was an attractive place, the manor old and mellow, the park sizable and nicely set out. It looked prosperous enough, though looks might be deceiving. Captain Morris, without any obviously expensive vices, such as drinking or gambling, had been unable to buy promotions as most of his peers did. Ringwood might be mortgaged to its figurative eyebrows. Was
that
the sister's problem?

But would it be hers anyway? To whom did Ringwood now belong? The father was dead. Aidan had discovered that yesterday. Had it been Captain Morris's, then? Was it entailed?

There were people out on the lawn before the house, Aidan could see as he walked up the long driveway, his boots crunching on the gravel. Three of them were women, two standing, one seated on a chair. There were also three children, all sitting on the grass. The seated woman held an open book in her hands. She was either reading to the children or giving a lesson. She must be a governess, he concluded. He had passed her in the entrance hall yesterday as he left, he recalled. The two women standing and observing were Miss Morris and the elderly lady who had come to comfort her yesterday—she was supporting herself on a cane as she had been then. One of the children looked up and pointed in his direction, and both ladies turned to look.

For a moment it seemed that Miss Morris did not recognize him. Today he wore civilian clothes. He stepped off the gravel to make his way diagonally across the grass, and the two ladies came to meet him. Miss Morris, he could see, was as pale as parchment, her eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, but she was composed.

“Colonel?” She smiled wanly. She was tall, willowy, long-limbed, brown-haired, gray-eyed. Today she looked fragile and rather plain. “Good morning. How kind of you to call again. I am not sure I thanked you properly yesterday for your kindness in coming in person to break the news to me. It would have been worse to have had to read it in a letter.”

She spoke with a slight lilt, which made her words sound musical.

“Good morning, ma'am.” Aidan bowed to her. “I am pleased to discover you up and about and taking the air.” She held a shawl about her shoulders with both hands even though it was a warm day.

“May I beg the honor of presenting my great-aunt?” she asked him. “Mrs. Pritchard, Colonel. This is Colonel Lord Aidan Bedwyn, Aunt Mari.”

Ah, so she knew his full identity, did she? He bowed again.

“I am delighted to meet you, Colonel,” the aunt said. “I just wish the reason behind it was not such a sad one.” She spoke with such a thick Welsh accent that he had to concentrate in order to understand her.

“As do I, ma'am,” he said.

“May I offer you refreshments?” Miss Morris asked, gesturing toward the house. “I am afraid I neglected my duty yesterday.”

“I would rather stroll with you out here,” he said.

“I need to go inside to rest my legs, my love,” Mrs. Pritchard said.

Miss Morris nodded and Aidan turned to walk with her across the grass, away from the house and driveway toward a picturesque lily pond with woods beyond it. But they had taken no more than a dozen steps before she stopped and turned at the sound of barking. A brown dog of indeterminate breed, perhaps partly terrier, came streaking from the place where the children sat, barking excitedly as it came and moving with a strange, bobbing gait. It was running mainly on three legs, Aidan saw as it approached, the fourth curled up beneath it. It was a scruffy mutt with tufty hair interspersed with bald patches, one eye, and one and a half ears. It scrambled to a halt when it came up to them and paid homage to Miss Morris by snuffling at her hand and then lifting its head to expose its throat. It panted with ecstasy when she stooped and scratched it beneath its chin.

“Did you almost miss the chance for a walk, Muffin?” she asked. She looked up, half apologetically, at Aidan. “He would not win any prizes at a dog show, would he? But he is very precious nonetheless.”

Aidan made no comment. The dog looked as if it had engaged in a losing battle with a bear. It gazed at him with its single eye and barked. Its token protest at his presence made, it gamboled along beside them as they resumed their walk.

Aidan did not waste time on small talk. It would be insensitive to a grieving woman to engage her in conversation about the weather or any other similarly trivial topic.

“Your brother was quite insistent, ma'am,” he said, “that I promise to protect you. He did not have time to explain, but there was clearly some considerable urgency in his request. You will instruct me if you will on how I may serve you.”

“You have already done so,” she said. “You have fulfilled your obligation, Colonel, and I am deeply grateful. In particular I am happier than you can know to have learned that he did not suffer great pain.”

It would be impertinent to probe further when she spoke so firmly and dismissively. He was, of course, a total stranger to her, as she was to him. But Morris had expended his final burst of energy on extracting a promise from a man he had known would not break it or even evade it if he could.

“Was Ringwood your brother's?” he asked.

“No.” She spoke swiftly but quite unequivocally. “It is mine. My father left it to me. The property is unentailed, you see, and he and Percy had been estranged for a number of years before his death. My father wanted him to stay at Ringwood and learn to be what he called a committed member of the landed gentry. But Percy wanted a military career, and when he inherited some money from our great-uncle, he purchased a commission with it.”

That perhaps explained Morris's apparent poverty. The problem was not, then, what Aidan had feared. It was not to be his task to help her leave her home, to escort her to another and help her settle to a new way of life. That was a relief at least.

“It looks,” he said, wading deeper into impertinence, “like a prosperous property.”

“It is.” She stopped to take a stick from the dog's mouth and throw it for him to chase. She did not enlarge on her answer. “Percy is buried there? At Toulouse?”

“Yes,” he said. “Alongside two other officers. Our regimental chaplain performed the burial rites. It was a formal and dignified and proper ceremony. I was there. The grave is clearly marked and will be tended. I saw to that.”

“Thank you,” she said.

There did not seem to be anything else to say. She did not appear to need anything material from him—or if she did, she was not going to admit it. She had her aunt to lean upon in her time of grief. There was also the young governess with the children—whomever they might belong to. She probably had friends and neighbors galore who would gather around to support her. She had no need of any further comfort from a stranger. He was no good at offering comfort anyway. He had been an officer for more than twelve years, since his eighteenth birthday. All the softer emotions that might at one time have been a part of his nature had long ago dried up from disuse.

But he had made that solemn promise, and it had encompassed those three particularly disturbing words—
no matter what
. Not being able to do anything for her except to bring her the news of her brother's death would always irk him, he knew.

“Do you have any family in England, Colonel?” she asked.

“The Duke of Bewcastle is my brother,” he told her. “I have two other brothers and two sisters as well as other relatives.”

“Do you have any nieces and nephews?” she asked.

He shook his head. “None of us are married.” Freyja had come close—twice, with two brothers. One had let her down by dying, the other by marrying someone else. Freyja, according to Rannulf, who had written a long, witty letter about the latter debacle, had not been amused. That, interpreted, meant that she had been in a spitting fury.

“You must be longing to see them all,” Miss Morris said, “and they to see you. Do you have a long leave?”

“Two months,” he said.

“That is so brief a time,” she said. “You must not waste any more of it on remaining here. I am truly grateful that you have given me two days.”

It was graciously spoken, but it was a dismissal if ever he had heard one. His debt had been repaid very easily, then. Too easily. But there was nothing more he could do.

She turned back in the direction of the house after they had circled the lily pond. All had been said. She was expecting him to leave. Mostly, he supposed, he was glad.
Very
glad. But also uneasy.

If he hurried back to the Three Feathers after escorting her back to the house, there would be time to be well on his way home before dark. He was looking forward to being there, perhaps to seeing some of his family again, though they might well be in London for the Season. Bewcastle himself would undoubtedly be there since Parliament must be in session. But most of all he just wanted to be at home. It was three years since his last leave, and even that had been cut short.

“Good-bye, Colonel.” She stopped when they reached the terrace before the house and held out a slim hand to him. “Have a safe journey home and enjoy your leave. I am sure you have earned every moment of it. Yesterday must not have been easy for you. Take my gratitude with you.”

He took her hand and bowed over it. “Good-bye, ma'am,” he said. “Captain Morris was a great hero. May you take comfort from that fact after the rawness of your grief is over.”

She smiled with bloodless lips and sad eyes. The dog growled halfheartedly as their hands touched. Aidan turned and strode away down the driveway, past the children and their governess. At last he could begin to enjoy his leave.

But perhaps he would always have the niggling feeling that he had not quite fulfilled his vow. Captain Morris had been so very urgent in his request.

Promise me you will protect her. Promise me! No matter what!

He must surely have had
something
in mind.

W
ILLIAM
A
NDREWS,
A
IDAN
'
S BATMAN, HAD BEEN
with him for eight years. Through all the hardships and miseries of numerous campaigns, including the tedious advances and retreats that had made up the Peninsular Wars—rain and mud, snow and cold, sun and heat, flea-infested inns, insalubrious open-air bivouacs—through it all he had never been ill a day. Now, back in temperate England, back in the lap of luxury, so to speak, he had caught a head cold.

When Aidan returned to the Three Feathers and summoned him to pack his bags and make arrangements to have his horse ready for travel within the hour, Andrews appeared with a red beacon of a nose, drooping eyelids, watery eyes, a nasal voice that growled somewhere low in the bass register, dragging footsteps, and a martyr's air.

“What the devil ails you?” Aidan asked him.

“I have a slight cold in by dose, sir,” he explained. He sniffed pathetically, then sneezed and apologized. “What bay I do for you, sir?”

Aidan scowled, swore eloquently, and sent his man off to bed, with strict orders that he was to dose himself with something to sweat the fever out of him and not get out of bed again before morning. Although Andrews looked at him with feeble reproach and opened his mouth to protest, he thought better of arguing and shuffled mournfully off, sneezing and apologizing again before he closed the door behind him.