dreadful instant, she thought she was going to burst into tears. Instead, she chuckled, unable to hold back any longer. At least laughter relieved the unbearable anxiety she felt.
Rowland glanced at her, puzzled, one eyebrow quirked. She turned her reticule inside out, showing him a few coins and bits of lint. “I came all this way, Ensign Rowland, and I never even had the book with me.”
* * *
Lucy Williams had the most enchanting laugh. And when she giggled, as she was doing now, her brown eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed a dusky pink. It was delightful simply to gaze upon her, drinking in her mirth at the absurdity of the situation. He handed her his handkerchief, which she used to dab her eyes—she laughed so hard that tears just touched their corners.
Her laughter slowed, and as her joy began to fade, confusion took its place. He wanted to reassure her—to wipe any trace of discomfiture away. So he withdrew a battered book from his coat pocket and handed it to her.
She took the volume, handling it with a gentle touch to keep from pulling the worn pages apart. “Poetry? Ah, some of the finest. Sir Walter Scott, Dryden...” She continued perusing the pages. “I shall have to be very careful with this, ensign. I can tell just by looking at it that this is a book you have consulted many times.”
He nodded, eyeing her carefully. His throat worked, but no sound came out. He remained silent and watchful.
She traced over a dark splotch on the cover. “In fact, I would wager this book has been to battle.” She kept her eyes lowered, her dark lashes fanning out over her cheeks.
He nodded again. He read those poems often in the field. More than once, Sir Walter Scott had given him the courage to see another battle.
“I bet I can find your favorite.” She grasped the book, settling the spine on her lap. Then, with infinite caution, she let the volume fall open. And just like that, the pages settled, revealing Marmion.
She began reading in clear, dulcet tones, as though reciting for a schoolroom of young ladies or as an elocutionist in a performance. Her voice, lit from within with warmth and fire, began the introduction to the first canto,
“November’s sky is chill and drear,
November’s leaf is red and sear:
Late, gazing down the steepy linn,
that hems our little garden in...”
The spring breeze ruffled her lavender skirts as she continued to read, stirring her black curls so that they touched her cheek as she read. He gazed at her, saying the words in his mind as she read them aloud. He knew the poem like he knew the hills and fields back home in Essex—it was as familiar to him as breathing. And yet he had never felt the passion and the pathos of Flodden Field until Lucy Williams read the poem aloud.
She paused a few times, darting quick little glances up as she read through the six cantos. Whenever her eyes left the page, he studied his boots as though they were the most fascinating things in the world. She was nervous enough as it was without having a mute soldier ogling her like a green lad.
“To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay
has cheated of thy hour of play,
Light task, and merry holiday!
To all, to each, a fair good-night,
and pleasing dreams, and slumbers light!”
After repeating Scott’s final words, Lucy sighed and closed the book, taking a few deep breaths. “Goodness, Ensign Rowland, I have not read for so long aloud in many a year. Growing up, when I was in school, I often had recitations. But as a governess, I have the luxury of passing on the task of reciting to my charges.” She turned to him, a smile hovering about the corners of her mouth. “Did I perform well enough?”
Again, his throat worked. He strained against his infirmity, longing to offer a flowery compliment. Or at least a thank-you. But no matter how hard he tried, his voice was gone. So he merely nodded, struggling to let his gratitude show in his expression.
She inclined her head as though he’d really spoken. “Thank you, Ensign. I do appreciate the compliment. And the captive audience.” Her smile widened to a grin. “Shall I read another?”
He grasped the book and flipped to another page, with another favorite, and handed it back to Lucy. “Ah, The Lady of the Lake. Excellent choice. I had my eldest charge, Amelia, recite this last year.”
She read again, putting the same fervor and enthusiasm into her performance as she did before, though she must be getting tired. Those were long poems and did not precisely come trippingly off even the smoothest-speaking tongue. And yet, she sat here, under the shade of an elm tree, reading him poems that he fancied. On her day off. When she could have been doing a hundred other interesting things. His heart surged with gratitude, and a bit more of the cotton wool fell away from his view of the world.
Behind them, the doors of the church banged open, and the general hubbub announced that the veterans’ group was dispersing. Lucy paused midverse and closed the book, smiling with what might have been a pang of regret. But if it was real disappointment or feigned for his benefit, he could not be certain. She rose, dusting off her skirts, and returned the poems to Ensign Rowland.
“I suppose I should be going,” she announced. “The house is in uproar. Amelia’s debut is later this week, and everything is in chaos until that fateful night.”
“Ah! I see you found one another.” Lieutenant Cantrill broke away from the crowd and started over, holding his good hand out to Lucy. “When I didn’t see you inside, I was worried that perhaps neither of you could make it.”
Lucy bobbed a curtsy. “Lieutenant, I do apologize for worrying you. The weather was so lovely, and I have been cooped up of late. So Ensign Rowland and I decided to stay outdoors.”
“No, no. That’s fine. All well and good, then?” The lieutenant glanced over at Rowland for confirmation, and he gave a short grunt. It was all he could muster under the circumstances.
“Excellent.” Cantrill turned back to Lucy. “Will I be seeing you at Miss Bradbury’s debut, then? I—uh—that is, I had planned to attend as my mother will be in town—”
“Yes, Lieutenant.” Lucy nodded briskly. “Sophie told me of your plans, sir. I hope that everything works out well for you.”
James’s head snapped up. Cantrill had plans with Sophie Handley? This could be rather diverting. It would take his mind off his own infirmities at least.
Lucy prattled on in the same no-nonsense tone. “But of course I won’t be present at the party. I must take care of Miss Louisa, and she is none too pleased that she will be missing her sister’s debut.” She turned to James. “Louisa is two years younger than her sister and quite distressed that she cannot attend all the grand functions that her sister will be enjoying. It has been my job, of late, to ensure that Louisa’s feelings are not too sadly trampled.”
James smiled and nodded. Miss Williams really seemed to enjoy her two charges. She spoke of them almost as an indulgent older sister would. It brought to mind his sister Mary and how much they enjoyed each other’s company.
Miss Williams continued. “Of course, Sophie plans to turn Amelia into a diamond of the first water. And being so pretty and graceful herself, I know she will accomplish her goal.” She turned to Cantrill with a playful grin. “Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”
James couldn’t suppress a grin. He turned to Cantrill, one eyebrow raised.
Cantrill reddened. “Yes, yes. Of course.” He turned to Rowland. “Well, then? I suppose we must be off.”
However much he wanted to see the lieutenant squirm about Sophie, James had no intention of going back to his flat with Cantrill—not with such a fine spring day ahead of him, and such pretty company. He offered Lucy his arm. “C-C-C-r-r-r...” he stammered.