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Authors: Tessa Dare
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instead.
Fingers laced in that intimate, innocent clasp favored by children and lovers alike, they covered the short distance back to the path.
“Not that way,” she said, when he turned to follow the others. “Let’s continue on to the cottage. We’ve come this far, and I may as well retrieve my stocking. I seem to find myself missing another.”
“As you wish.”
They walked on, their linked hands dangling and swinging between them. And it all felt so easy, so comfortable—as if they were on one of their leisurely strolls that summer four years past.
Of course, they had conversed during those walks. Talked of everything and nothing, in the way courting couples do. When had he lost his ability to make simple conversation? Surely Luke could find it within himself to say something .
“You are remarkable,” he blurted out, because it was the only thought in his head. “The way you responded to Portia’s injury, without fear or hesitation… I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“What, bravery? I didn’t always know I had it in me, either. But I do.” She gave him a pointed look.
“I’d imagine we’ve each discovered new sides of ourselves in the past four years.” All too true. But the discoveries Luke had made, he would never share with her. Shrugging defensively, he deflected her silent question. “You used to bolt at the sight of a spider.”
“Oh, I still hate spiders. But injuries do not frighten me. When a lady spends a year tending invalid soldiers, she sees sights far worse than Portia’s wound.” Luke stopped in his tracks, pulling her to a halt as well. “You spent a year nursing invalid soldiers?” She nodded. “At the Royal Hospital in Chelsea.”
“But…” He struggled to bend his mind around the idea. “But they don’t allow random gentlewomen to nurse invalid soldiers. Do they?”
“Well…” She shrugged and resumed walking. “I never precisely asked permission. You see, over a year ago there was a tragic case. A wounded soldier was found wandering near Ardennes. Evidently he was the sole survivor of his regiment. But he’d sustained a severe blow to the head, and he had no memory of who he was, or his home or family or anything before the battle. The papers printed articles about the
‘Lost Hero of Montmirail’. He was the talk of London, and Portia was desperate to go visit him. She had this vain hope that he might be Yardley—she’d just received notice of his death in France, you see, and wanted to believe there’d been some mistake. And I…” Slowing, she looked up at Luke. “I wanted to be sure he wasn’t you.”
A lump formed in his throat.
“But of course he wasn’t you,” she went on, “nor Yardley. While we were waiting to see him, I found myself talking with another man. A naval officer, wounded in a Danish gunboat attack. He called me in from the corridor, then apologized when he saw my face. He’d mistaken me for his sister.” Cecily sniffed and continued, “Well, I felt terrible for disappointing him, so I stayed with him for an hour or so, just talking. Mostly listening. And then the next day, I came back, and sat with him again. He introduced me to a fellow patient, this one a lieutenant in the cavalry. I don’t recall deciding to make it a habit. Day after day, I just kept returning to the hospital. For the first month or so, I did no more than I had the first day—I would simply sit at a patient’s bedside and listen. Perhaps read aloud, if he liked. But then, sometimes it was impossible not to notice that their wounds needed tending, bandages needed replacing, and so forth. So I did those small things too.” Luke could only stare at her. Yes, it was true. Cecily had changed. Her youthful sweetness and generosity had not disappeared, but added to them now were a woman’s serenity and confidence. One could see it in the tilt of her chin, the efficient grace of her movements. And the way the light glowed through the curling
Fingers laced in that intimate, innocent clasp favored by children and lovers alike, they covered the short distance back to the path.
“Not that way,” she said, when he turned to follow the others. “Let’s continue on to the cottage. We’ve come this far, and I may as well retrieve my stocking. I seem to find myself missing another.”
“As you wish.”
They walked on, their linked hands dangling and swinging between them. And it all felt so easy, so comfortable—as if they were on one of their leisurely strolls that summer four years past.
Of course, they had conversed during those walks. Talked of everything and nothing, in the way courting couples do. When had he lost his ability to make simple conversation? Surely Luke could find it within himself to say something .
“You are remarkable,” he blurted out, because it was the only thought in his head. “The way you responded to Portia’s injury, without fear or hesitation… I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“What, bravery? I didn’t always know I had it in me, either. But I do.” She gave him a pointed look.
“I’d imagine we’ve each discovered new sides of ourselves in the past four years.” All too true. But the discoveries Luke had made, he would never share with her. Shrugging defensively, he deflected her silent question. “You used to bolt at the sight of a spider.”
“Oh, I still hate spiders. But injuries do not frighten me. When a lady spends a year tending invalid soldiers, she sees sights far worse than Portia’s wound.” Luke stopped in his tracks, pulling her to a halt as well. “You spent a year nursing invalid soldiers?” She nodded. “At the Royal Hospital in Chelsea.”
“But…” He struggled to bend his mind around the idea. “But they don’t allow random gentlewomen to nurse invalid soldiers. Do they?”
“Well…” She shrugged and resumed walking. “I never precisely asked permission. You see, over a year ago there was a tragic case. A wounded soldier was found wandering near Ardennes. Evidently he was the sole survivor of his regiment. But he’d sustained a severe blow to the head, and he had no memory of who he was, or his home or family or anything before the battle. The papers printed articles about the
‘Lost Hero of Montmirail’. He was the talk of London, and Portia was desperate to go visit him. She had this vain hope that he might be Yardley—she’d just received notice of his death in France, you see, and wanted to believe there’d been some mistake. And I…” Slowing, she looked up at Luke. “I wanted to be sure he wasn’t you.”
A lump formed in his throat.
“But of course he wasn’t you,” she went on, “nor Yardley. While we were waiting to see him, I found myself talking with another man. A naval officer, wounded in a Danish gunboat attack. He called me in from the corridor, then apologized when he saw my face. He’d mistaken me for his sister.” Cecily sniffed and continued, “Well, I felt terrible for disappointing him, so I stayed with him for an hour or so, just talking. Mostly listening. And then the next day, I came back, and sat with him again. He introduced me to a fellow patient, this one a lieutenant in the cavalry. I don’t recall deciding to make it a habit. Day after day, I just kept returning to the hospital. For the first month or so, I did no more than I had the first day—I would simply sit at a patient’s bedside and listen. Perhaps read aloud, if he liked. But then, sometimes it was impossible not to notice that their wounds needed tending, bandages needed replacing, and so forth. So I did those small things too.” Luke could only stare at her. Yes, it was true. Cecily had changed. Her youthful sweetness and generosity had not disappeared, but added to them now were a woman’s serenity and confidence. One could see it in the tilt of her chin, the efficient grace of her movements. And the way the light glowed through the curling
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