Grief tightened Mattie’s throat. She looked down at her plate and blinked back tears. I miss you, Toby.
AFTER DINNER, THE ladies retired to the drawing room. Arthur Strickland poured two small measures of port. Edward sat back and braced himself for more questions about Waterloo.
“When did you return to England?” Strickland asked, sipping his port.
“Last month.”
Strickland glanced at Edward’s ear, his hands. “I hadn’t realized you were so seriously injured.”
“I wasn’t,” Edward said, ignoring the broken leg that had kept him immobilized for months. “A friend of mine lost an arm. He contracted fever and almost died. I stayed with him until he was well enough to travel.”
“Gareth Locke,” Strickland said.
Edward nodded, and tasted the port. Too sweet.
“Tobias’s friend.”
“Yes.”
The three of them—Gareth and Toby and himself—had been inseparable since their first day at school. They’d gone through Harrow and Oxford together, had caroused together, soldiered together, almost died together.
And now we are two.
Edward looked down at his port. The color reminded him of blood—and with that thought came another rush of memory: the blood-and-smoke smell of the battlefield, the din of cannons, the soft sobbing of a dying soldier.
Toby hadn’t wept. He’d died instantly. And lain alongside Edward for all of that terrible day . . .
Edward’s stomach clenched. For a moment he thought he was going to bring his dinner back up. He shook his head, breaking the memory.
“I hear Locke inherited a baronetcy from his uncle,” Strickland said.
Edward’s stomach settled back into place. “Yes.”
“Lucky man.”
Edward remembered the expression on Gareth’s face when he’d bid him farewell yesterday. He shook his head again. “I think he’d have preferred to keep his arm.” And his sweetheart. Not even a baronetcy had been enough to reconcile Miss Swinthorp to marriage with a one-armed man. A brief statement had appeared in the newspapers two days after Gareth’s return to London, announcing the termination of their engagement.
Stupid bitch. Edward clenched his right hand. Even after five months, a dull twinge of pain accompanied the movement.
He unclenched his hand and looked down at it, at the stumps of three of his fingers, and felt the familiar sense of disbelief, the familiar pang of loss. Would it ever fade? Or would he always mourn his missing fingers?
At least he’d not had a sweetheart to be repulsed by his injuries.
Strickland grunted, and then struggled to his feet, leaning on the cane. “Please join us in the drawing room.”
Edward stood. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”
Strickland made his way slowly to the door. Edward followed. They traversed the corridor at a snail’s pace. “My niece reads to us in the evenings,” Strickland said, stopping outside a paneled door.
“How delightful,” Edward said, remembering her contralto voice. “Poetry?”
“Sermons,” the old man said, opening the door.
Sermons? Edward almost balked. If you can face Napoleon’s army on a battlefield, you can face an evening of sermons, he told himself, and he squared his shoulders and followed his host into the drawing room.
Like every other room he’d seen in this house, it was a bleak chamber, paneled in dark wood. The furniture was stiff, the fire too small for the grate. All three ladies had shawls draped around their shoulders. He thought he saw Mrs. Dunn shiver as she bent over her embroidery frame.
Edward chose a mahogany armchair. Despite its apparent sturdiness, the chair creaked beneath his weight. He shifted slightly, trying to make himself more comfortable. The chair creaked again, more loudly. He took that as a warning and stilled.
Miss Chapple presided over the teapot. “Tea, Mr. Kane?”
“Please.”
The clink of china was loud as she placed teacups on saucers and poured for himself and her uncle, not because she was clumsy—the movement of her fingers was deft and unhesitating—but because the room was so silent. “Milk?” she asked. “Sugar?”
Edward shook his head. Milk and sugar were things he’d learned to do without on campaign.
He accepted his cup and sipped. The tea was weak and tepid—but it rid the sweet taste of port from his mouth.
Her duties as hostess done, Miss Chapple stood and took a place to one side of the fireplace, where she didn’t block the meager heat. Edward drained his teacup and cast a longing glance at the door. Could he claim tiredness as an escape?
Not when it was barely half past seven.
He sighed, and placed the teacup back in its saucer.
Miss Chapple opened the leather-bound book. She looked at Edward. “I shall be reading from Sermons to Young Women,” she told him. “By the Reverend James Fordyce. Are you familiar with the work, Mr. Kane?”
“Er . . . no.” He sat back in the armchair, making it creak again, and composed his face into an expression of interest.
“Sermon Two,” Miss Chapple said. “On Modesty of Apparel.” She glanced at Mrs. Dunn briefly, as if some silent message passed between them, and then began to read aloud: “Let me recall the attention of my female friends to a subject that concerns them highly . . .”
Edward stopped paying attention. He gazed at the fire and allowed Miss Chapple’s voice to flow over him. She had a surprisingly attractive voice, low and melodic, lulling him towards sleep . . .
He jerked back to full attention. The clock on the mantelpiece had advanced twenty minutes. Miss Chapple still read from the book of sermons: “Is not a constant pursuit of trivial ornament an indubitable proof of a trivial mind?”
Edward glanced swiftly around. Had anyone noticed he’d fallen into a doze?
No.
Lady Marchbank was listening with fierce attention, her lips pursed in approval. Arthur Strickland was watching his niece, nodding as she spoke, agreeing with Fordyce.
“Will she that is always looking into her glass, be much disposed to look into her character?”
Mrs. Dunn, blonde and pretty, was also listening intently, her eyes fixed on Miss Chapple’s face, but . . .
Edward narrowed his eyes. Mrs. Dunn’s lips moved silently, as if she was counting under her breath. He glanced at her hands. Her fingers tapped against her knee as she listened—tiny, almost indiscernible movements.
Was she counting
