Healing the Soldier's Heart. Lily GeorgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
you if I may.”
He stopped, and several passersby bumped into them. The ensign steered her away from the crowded sidewalk to a small side street where fewer people jostled along. As they reached the corner of a garden, she turned to face him, the warm sunlight touching her face as she spoke.
“Do you want to regain the power to speak, sir?” Her words sounded too harsh, too frank even to her own ears, so she rushed on. “The lieutenant thinks that if I read to you perhaps that can help you overcome your infirmity. But I don’t want to help you unless you wish for me to do so.”
A flush crept over his face, and his bright green gaze remained rooted on the ground. Oh, this was awful. She had hurt his feelings and made him feel ridiculous. And meanwhile, she didn’t feel so wonderful herself.
“I want to read to you, because I enjoy your company,” she continued hastily. “I have very few people with whom I can converse. I have no family and little acquaintance beyond the schoolroom. So reading to you was actually quite a bright spot in my world for me to look forward to this week. But...I shall stop if you don’t like it.”
He shook his head, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “C-c-continue.”
“Do you want me to continue meeting with you, then?” She wasn’t certain what that single word meant. Or did he want her to continue blathering away like an idiot? By the way he was nodding his head, he indicated that he wanted her to keep meeting with him. “Very well, then, sir.” She took a deep breath, unsure if she should go on. But then, if he wanted to recover, he would have to work as well. It was the same sort of agreement she offered the Bradbury sisters in the schoolroom. She would offer what help she could, but her pupils would also have to work hard.
“I will continue to read to you, but we will work together to help you regain your voice.” She looked up at him, willing him to look her straight in the eye. “You spoke to me today. Can you speak to anyone else, sir?”
“M-M-Macready and C-C-Cantrill.” His voice was rough, like sandpaper across her skin. She suppressed a shiver at his tone and continued in her same businesslike manner.
“If they are your brothers in arms and you are able to speak with them, then that indicates something profound, Ensign. I am not sure how we shall go about making matters better for you. I am sure we shall have to try several different methods. But I wanted to be honest with you. I wanted to make sure this is what you want. And if it is, then I shall help you in any way I can.”
The poor man—his eyes were cast down and his hair mussed, a flush still stealing over his face. Well, one could hardly blame him. It would be difficult indeed to admit to needing help for any particular weakness or to have anyone—especially a woman who was practically a stranger—question him on it. She took his arm again and allowed him to steer her back onto the main street from which they had deviated.
They plodded on in silence, a silence that Lucy relished. She was tired, too. And addled a bit. And rattled, if she were to admit the truth. She had just agreed to help the ensign regain the power of speech—the very thing he lost on a Belgian battlefield. It was no small promise and no small task. And what if she failed? She said a silent prayer for help and for hope. She would need a great deal of both in the coming weeks.
His lordship’s fashionable townhome—situated right in the heart of the Crescent—loomed up ahead of them. If his lordship saw her with the ensign, there might be trouble. Servants—even high-placed governesses—were supposed to conform to certain kinds of behavior. And even though her relationship with the ensign was entirely above-board, she wasn’t about to do anything foolish that might cause talk.
“We can stop here. The house is just about a block away, and I don’t want to get into any kind of trouble,” Lucy explained in haste, heat flooding her cheeks. “His lordship wants his female servants to remain unmarried, and so I don’t want to do anything to stir up gossip. Not that it would. Or that it should—” She broke off, feeling like an utter fool.
He patted her shoulder. “V-very well,” he responded. He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips for a brief, chaste kiss. “Th-th-ank you, M-Miss Williams.” He bowed, releasing her hand.
Butterflies chased themselves around her stomach, and she struggled to remain composed. Outwardly composed, that was. “Of course, Ensign.” She bobbed a curtsy. “And thank you for the pleasure of your company. I can assure you, I spend many of my days off traipsing around the booksellers, hoping to scout a new volume. It was a rare treat to have pleasant company with which to share my day off instead of being all alone.” Botheration. Now she sounded like a dried-up old spinster. If only she had as much gift for pretty speeches with Rowland as she did with Cantrill—but then, she didn’t care about Cantrill.
On the other hand, she suspected that she might be caring more about Rowland than she should.
* * *
Rowland stretched out on the settee in his humble flat, his mind spinning. On the way back from walking Lucy home and then for the better part of the afternoon, he had replayed their conversation—well, her conversation with him—in his mind. That she was willing to help him, that she cared enough about a fellow human being to offer assistance—that alone was enough to fill him with gratitude. But he couldn’t stop thinking of Lucy as she read and as she spoke to him.
She had a certain manner of flicking her glance sideways—a sharp look out the corner of her eye that sent his heart racing. There was no coquetry in this gesture. It was not practiced. It was simply part of who she was, but it was enough to send his heart pounding every time she did so. He was much happier concentrating on how this glance made his heart leap than in dwelling on her words from their walk to the Crescent. But, unbidden, they crept back into his mind. Her clear, dulcet tones asking, “Do you want to regain the power to speak, sir?”
No one had asked him that. Everyone assumed he did, but no one asked him in such a direct and forthright manner before. The doctors in Belgium had scratched their heads at his predicament, and after his superficial wounds healed, had sent him on his way. “He’ll speak when he’s ready,” they pronounced.
Back home in Essex, Mother threw her hands up in despair. “You’re just being stubborn,” she wailed. “Your sister Mary can’t find a match—not with her stammer. And you—you were our only hope. Be a man, like your other brothers in arms. Look at Captain Brookes, missing a leg. And now he’s married and running the family farm! Look at Lieutenant Cantrill, supporting himself in Bath. And you, barely wounded, can’t get a position anywhere because you won’t speak? James—our family is in desperate circumstances!” And so it had been until Macready, Rowland’s closest friend in the 69th, had invited him to share his flat in Bath as he recovered from his battle scars.
Among his brethren soldiers, his inability to speak was a given, as much as his green eyes or blond hair. It was a part of him, much as the others now carried more visible scars of the war. And yet none of them had asked him if he wanted to recover, just as they were recovering thanks to the curative waters of Bath. Cantrill had gone so far as to recruit Lucy for the job without asking Rowland if that’s what he wanted.
He brought his booted foot down hard on the floor, the force of the blow smashing a china plate as it fell from the mantel. He gazed at the fragments. They were as jagged as the pieces of his life. His lack of ability to flirt with Lucy, or even chat about mundane topics like the weather, drove him to distraction.
He grasped his head in his hands, willing his temper to stay controlled. No one understood what he wanted. No one had bothered to ask before.
No one, that was, but Lucy. She respected his privacy, acknowledged his right not to get well. And that spoke volumes about her character.
The front door banged open. “Rowland? Are you here?” Macready’s voice, hale and hearty despite his many wounds, echoed throughout the little flat.
Rowland grunted. Macready must be back from taking the waters.
“So, how was the meeting?” Macready limped in, discarding his jacket on a nearby leather