in a single column up the road to Waterloo. A drummer for the Twenty-Third Foot lay dying at the crossroads. Neither he nor his men stopped to help the lad. Everyone eagerly pressed forward, ready for their share of the battle. Brookes closed his eyes, seeing the lad’s face. So young, spots still covered his cheeks. His groans sometimes haunted Brookes’s nightmares.
The band launched into “God Save the King,” snapping Brookes back from Quatre Bras onto the village green. He tried to will the bad memories away by forcing himself to stand at attention and sing along with the crowd. His gaze focused on the two Handley girls again. Their backs were to him, giving him no chance to study their expressions. But even without gazing upon her face, he observed Harriet’s serenity. Sophie’s shoulders wriggled, her bonneted head twitched from side to side. Watching her drained what little energy he possessed. In contrast, Harriet stood still, her head charmingly inclined toward the band. He involuntarily relaxed, releasing a knot he hadn’t realized existed between his shoulder blades. Harriet’s mere presence refreshed a man—as restorative as a long drink of water from one of the streams that crossed through Brookes Park.
He gave an impatient shrug of his shoulders, the knot returning. Harriet’s effect on his spirit mattered little, and there was no call to wax poetic about her features, because she was not his intended. He would simply have to get used to a life of constant movement. Restful, peaceful moments would be few and far between once he married Sophie.
The band ended with an earsplitting flourish, and Harriet applauded with the rest of the crowd. She glanced around furtively. Excellent. None of the men in front of her appeared to be Captain Brookes. A pull of awareness gripped her, causing the baby-fine hair on the nape of her neck to stand up. He must be standing behind them. Harriet forced herself to remain motionless. It would never do to turn around and gape. Besides, he must be staring at Sophie. Harriet cast a sidelong glance at her sister. She looked so lovely, the pinkness of her bonnet highlighting the porcelain planes of her face.
A brief flurry of activity disturbed the green as the members of the brass band sat down. An elderly man with slightly stooped shoulders and a thick mane of gray hair approached the well. Facing the crowd, he smiled serenely. Harriet’s heart warmed, and she grinned back. This kindly old man must be the reverend of St. Mary’s, over at Crich.
“Let us pray,” the reverend began. Bowing her head, Harriet allowed the prayer to wash over her soul like waves caressing the shore. In the year or so since her family moved from Matlock Bath, they had not attended Sunday services. Mama had been too conscious of the family’s status, and unwilling to make the eight mile journey to Crich and back every Sunday. Tansley Village was too small to have its own church, so the Handleys’ spiritual guidance had gone by the wayside.
Harriet drank in the words of the blessing, allowing them to comfort her parched spirit. Even before the family moved, going to church services had offered very little solace. Now, if you were looking for a social affair, you were in luck. If only she could have been like Mama and cared more for her perfect dress than her spiritual well-being, then that church would have been perfect. But no pretty dress ever swayed Harriet, and she searched in vain for a church that promised more than a salon. Listening to the reverend’s gentle voice, Harriet discovered that elusive something more.
The simple little ceremony drew to an end, and Harriet detached herself from her sister’s side. Full of strength, shining with a steadfast and pure purpose, she must tell the reverend how important his words had been, how he cast a light on her shadowy soul. Why, she didn’t feel at all bashful as she glided over to the reverend. He smiled as he saw her approach. “Did you enjoy the ceremony, Miss?”
She beamed up at him, her heart glowing. “I did. Your words fell upon my soul like drops of rain in a desert.”
He patted her hand with a grandfatherly air. “Now, you don’t look familiar, my dear. Have you attended services at St. Mary’s?”
Harriet dropped her gaze, coloring a little. “I haven’t been able to, Reverend. My mother is unwell and the four miles there and four miles back would be too taxing.”
“Don’t fret, don’t fret. You don’t have to be in church to worship, you know. God is everywhere. Now, tell me your name.”
“Harriet Handley.”
“Well, Miss Handley, I am Reverend Kirk. If you should ever wish to join our little congregation, know that you are always welcome at St. Mary’s. But even if you cannot make the journey, you must remember that God is with you, and watching over you.”
Harriet’s heart welled and tears stung her eyes. Such warmth and compassion had expired from her life when Papa died. Her lips trembled, and her voice caught in her throat.
“Now, now, my dear, there’s no need for tears. Remember, as solitary as you may feel, you are never truly alone. Promise me you will remember that.” Reverend Kirk patted her hand gently.
Harriet nodded, her heart still too full for words. Blinking away her tears, she turned from the reverend. The vivid colors and brassy tone of the band pounced on her nerves. She longed to be somewhere quiet, where she could think clearly. No such luck. Sophie grabbed her arm, pulling on Harriet excitedly.
“Why did you leave me like that? To whom were you speaking?”
“Reverend Kirk, you goose. Did you not pay any attention to the ceremony?”
“Very little,” replied Sophie with her customary frankness. “I wondered if my half boots look too hideous with this gown. I think I should have worn my slippers.”
Harriet sighed, linking her arm through Sophie’s. “Your slippers might have been spoiled with the walk. Your half boots are very attractive.”
Sophie looked down at her feet, considering them closely. “I think so, too,” she pronounced.
Rose tapped Sophie’s shoulder. “Come along, you two chickens. Enough chatter. The cream tea starts soon, and we are nowhere near the village hall.”
Brookes watched the sisters enter the bustling village hall through narrowed eyes. Seeing Harriet and Sophie together had stiffened his resolve—he needed to break free of Harriet’s spell. At some point during the tea, he would make that all-important first move. His jaw hardening, he resolved to speak to Sophie alone, for the first time since he returned home.
His vision sharpened. The sisters and their servant were selecting a tea table. One of the ladies assisting with the tea brought them a fresh pot and china cups. He stretched his legs under his own table, wondering how on earth he would find Sophie without an escort. He watched Sophie’s head bobble around aimlessly. Then Harriet and the servant woman stood up. Harriet leaned down to say something to Sophie, who nodded and remained at the table while the two women strolled off. Their absence offered him the perfect time to strike. Brookes stood up, his heart hammering, and found his way through the crush of villagers to her table.
“May I sit for a moment?” His voice had a catch in it. He cleared his throat.
Sophie jumped in her chair. Her face turned as crimson as the cloth spread over her table. “Of course.” Her voice was unnaturally strained and breathless.
“Lovely tea.”
“I haven’t tried it yet.” Sophie began to pour some into her cup, but her hand shook so that she spilled a little on the cloth.
“Allow me,” Brookes said smoothly, whipping out his handkerchief. Sophie reached out to grasp her saucer at the same moment he began patting at the spot on the tablecloth. He knocked against the cup and sent it flying. It landed on the floor with a crash, splintering to a thousand pieces.
“Oh!” cried Sophie. She stooped down to gather the broken pieces. Brookes stooped to help but his leg gave out, lurching him forward. He collided with Sophie, knocking her soundly on the head.
Sophie sat back in her chair with a little huff, rubbing at her skull. “Ouch.”
“My deepest apologies. Did I hurt you badly?”