“I froze, Lily. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there in that hell on earth and . . . I froze.”
“You were how old?”
“Eighteen, but what does that matter? I—”
“And how long did you freeze for?”
“I don’t know. It seemed like forever.”
“And then what happened?”
He stared at her. She was so calm. “We fought.”
“You gave orders?”
“Yes.”
“The men obeyed them?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And who won?”
“It was just a battle.”
“Did you win?”
“Our side did, yes. But the casualties were horrific.”
She smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “You can’t help that. You did your duty.”
He jerked his head away from her. “You don’t understand. I froze, Lily, and men died because of it! Because of me.”
“Nonsense. I have to agree with Mr. Bryant. It was war that got those men killed. You were an inexperienced eighteen-year-old boy, thrust into a command you weren’t ready for, and so what if you froze for a minute or two—anyone would. And do you honestly think that slight delay would have made any real difference?”
His jaw dropped.
She kissed him softly. “Mrs. Prewitt told me you’ve always expected more of yourself than is humanly possible, and I see now she was right. Think about it, my darling; imagine any other eighteen-year-old boy thrust into the situation you faced. I doubt one in a hundred would collect himself—”
“I froze!”
“—would collect himself after a few minutes and go on to give orders and win a battle.”
“I didn’t win—”
“Your side did. Don’t quibble.”
He stared at her and thought about what she’d said. It sounded so . . . reasonable when she said it. And yet for years he’d flayed himself with guilt, reliving those moments of sheer, frozen panic . . . Blaming himself for his friends’—and other men’s—deaths. The nightmares had gone on for years.
Looking back now, eighteen seemed so young.
“You thought everyone here would blame you, didn’t you? That’s why you never came home.”
He didn’t answer.
“You thought that because you couldn’t forgive yourself, nobody else could. Edward, my love, there is nothing to forgive. You did the best you could, and that’s all that anyone can do.” She let that sink in and added, “Those other boys made their own choices, and it’s arrogance to blame yourself. I expect it’s being the heir. Actually I think you did more than anyone could expect.”
She kissed him again. “And if you didn’t notice, my love, those people we met today, they were glad you survived, as if a part of their sons lives on in you, because of the childhood you shared with them. They love you, Edward, and so do I.”
He sat stunned by the picture she had painted. And the gift she had given him. Forgiveness, hope, love. He began to breathe again.
She picked up the basket. “Now, help me down, and let’s have this picnic. I want to explore the ruins and drink some of that water from the spring—and you’re going to drink some too. Never mind about heirs, it’s supposed to be very healing.”
He jumped down and lifted her and the basket to the ground. Removing the basket from her grasp, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
“Forgive me?” she said. “For making you stay?”
He kissed her again. “There is nothing to forgive.” He took her hand and led her across the green sward to a place on the edge of the ruins where spring water bubbled up beneath a grotto of rough piled-up stones. It was a shrine. Moss and ferns grew in the cracks, and there were offerings of various kinds—fresh flowers, small clay objects, fruit—placed on an ancient slab of stone worn smooth by centuries of water.
He drew her against him. “This place is said to be the heart of Shields, the source of all our prosperity and our very well-being. It was here long before the Romans, was a place of worship for pagans long before the Christians built a church over it and, as you see, has survived long after Henry the Eighth destroyed the abbey. It’s where the estate gets its name. Most people think it’s named after the kind of shield used in war, but it’s really this spring, which is supposed to shield its people from harm.”
“It’s a beautiful story, but I think there has been plenty of harm done to people here over the years.”
“Perhaps, but we eventually bounce back.”
“The spring is lovely, but, Edward, you are the heart of this estate. The people here and your grandfather need you.”
“I know, I see that now. This place may be the heart of Shields, Lily, but you are my heart. The day I found you, running for your life, stinking of excrement—”
“Not excrement!”
“I’m sorry, but it was definitely excrement,” he said firmly. “Don’t interrupt, I’m making a romantic declaration here.”
“Your idea of romantic declarations needs work.”
“Then you will have to teach me.” He gazed down into her eyes, shining and full of love and trust and compassion. How did he ever get so lucky as to find this woman, this beautiful loving, splendid woman? His voice was husky as he said, “I said it before, but I need to say it again. I love you, Lily Rutherford Galbraith, with all my heart and soul.”
“And your body?”
“Definitely my body.”
“Show me,” she said.
And he did.
Chapter Twenty-two
Forgiveness to the injured does belong,
For they ne’er pardon, who have done the wrong.
—JOHN DRYDEN
Lily and Edward spent another week at Shields before returning to London. They left, promising to return in a month when Lord Galbraith would give a grand ball to celebrate his grandson’s marriage and long-awaited return to Shields.
Lily traveled curled up against her husband while he read aloud to her from a book his grandfather had selected for them. It was probably a very interesting book, but Lily’s heart and mind were too full for her to concentrate. She let the deep rumble of his voice flow over her and thought about how her life had changed.
Her potential thimbleful of happiness was now
