of them seemed to notice Harry sitting quietly in the darkest corner of the pub, the new owner of Hilltop Grange, nursing his ale and pondering what he had to do next.
He took a long drink from his tankard, but even that did not warm him. A few snowflakes drifted past the grimy windows, landing lightly on the cobbled streets of the village outside. A few people hurried past, stepping out of the greenery-bedecked shops, their arms laden with Christmas packages, laughing together in holiday cheer, brushing the snow off their cloaks and hats.
It wasn’t the grey winter sky that made him feel so cold, or the joy in the coming holiday that he saw in others but barely remembered ever having himself. It was a numbness at his very core that had probably always been there, ever since Waterloo, when he realised the true ugliness of life.
No, he thought in sudden, startled remembrance. It hadn’t always been thus. For one moment, long ago, it had lifted, like a tiny spark of sun through those clouds. When he held a hazel-eyed girl in his arms for a dance, and she laughed with him, those eyes shining with her enjoyment of the music and of all the life around them. He knew just for a small instant, with her, the sweetness he was really fighting for.
Miss Rose Parker. That was her name. And she’d looked like a rose, too, with the faint pink in her pale cheeks. Surely she was Mrs Rose Some-Other-Surname now, with a baby in her arms. Whoever he was—well, he was a lucky bloke indeed. Harry just hoped he appreciated what he had.
He touched the black patch over his lost eye, feeling the roughness of the skin around it, the scar that curved its way almost to his jaw. What would Rose Parker think if she saw him now? Would her smiles turn to startled fear, to quickly averted glances just like everyone else? Just like it had with Helen?
Harry gave a humourless little laugh. No, not Helen. She’d left long before the wounds; she’d left when someone with more to offer, with a title even, came around. Not that Harry could blame her, not a bit. Being a soldier’s wife would never have suited Helen, no matter how much she once protested otherwise, how much their families wished otherwise. And now with Hilltop in the state it was...
Harry finished his tankard and pushed back his chair. Speaking of Hilltop, he knew he should be getting back there. He had lingered in the village too long after his visit to the lawyer Mr Wall. Hilltop would never have its roof and windows fixed by sitting around in taverns. The problem was—he wasn’t sure yet how to fix it all. He knew the army, that was all. Now he had to learn how to be a landlord to a crumbled estate.
The barmaid appeared at his side. She looked at him with a twinge of pity in her eyes, but she didn’t turn away.
‘Another pint, then, Captain?’ she said. ‘Or maybe some wine? We just got some bottles, special for the season.’
He gave her a smile. ‘Not today, Nell, but next time. And it’s just Mr now, not Captain.’
He left the tavern, striding past the grumbling old men without a word and out into the world. For an instant, his eye was dazzled by the bright grey glare of the light after the dim tavern. He pulled the brim of his hat lower and raised the collar of his greatcoat against the cold breeze. He was still trying to become accustomed to the way having sight in only one eye distorted the horizon.
The village was not a large one, but it was very busy at that time of day, as shoppers finished their last-minute errands before hurrying home to their warm fires. He knew every shop from when he was a child—the butcher, where Christmas geese and hams now waited in his window, the dressmaker, where his mother had had so many gowns sewn up, the confectioner, from whom he and Charles used to steal lemon drops.
All the doors were wreathed in greenery now, all the window displays decked in bows. The Christmas atmosphere of his home village was so very familiar, but so very alien at the same time. A dream world.
Harry turned towards the livery stable where he had left his horse. On the corner, an old man was selling bouquets of mistletoe and holly tied with red ribbon, and Harry impulsively bought one. He wasn’t sure what he would do with it, but for a moment the red brightened his thoughts.
He passed by the bookshop that had once been owned by old Mr Lorne, but which he had heard now belonged to Emma Bancroft, or Lady Marton as she had become. He paused to examine the display in her bow window, the leather-bound volumes with their gilded lettering gleaming, the boxes of fine stationery. He remembered his mother going there every month for her new stock of novels from London.
The shop door swung open with a jangle of bells, and Emma Marton hurried out, nearly bumping into him. The young girl behind her, who must be her stepdaughter, the young Beatrice Marton, caught her as she stumbled and laughed. Emma looked as if she had not aged at all while he’d been gone, her blond curls still as sunny, her smile still dimpled. Like the village, she seemed to have stayed still while he felt centuries older.
But not everything had stayed the same. Under the folds of her green-velvet cloak, he could see the small bump of a child, one of the growing brood of Bancroft Park.
He remembered how once Barton had seemed as crumbling and lonely as Hilltop, and the Bancroft sisters had raised it back life. It gave him a spark of hope now to think of it.
‘Oh, Harry!’ Emma cried, her gaze flickering over his scarred face and then quickly away. ‘How perfectly wonderful to see you home. We all so feared for your health when—well, when we heard what happened and...well—’ Her words broke off and she blushed under the brim of her feathered bonnet.
He smiled down at her. ‘I left one or two bits behind on the battlefield, but am now in good health, thank you, Emma. As I see are you. You are quite blooming.’
She laughed, turning even pinker. ‘Oh, yes! In a few months, Bea here will be a sister again. You do remember Miss Beatrice Marton, my stepdaughter?’
The girl dropped a shy little curtsy as Harry bowed. She was a pretty thing, with dark hair smooth under her hood and sweet eyes; one day she would surely break hearts. ‘Of course. How do you do, Miss Marton?’
‘I am quite well, thank you, Captain St George.’
‘I couldn’t do without Bea’s help at home and here at the shop,’ Emma said proudly, taking Beatrice’s hand. ‘Especially now that Christmas is so near. I do hope we will see you at Barton.’
‘I’m afraid there is still much to do at Hilltop,’ he answered. Christmas was for family and good cheer, not for staring at wounded soldiers. He did not want to be the ghost at the feast.
‘Oh, but you must,’ Beatrice said warmly. ‘There can surely be nothing merrier than the holiday Aunt Jane has planned. Games and sleigh rides and plum pudding...’
‘Oh, Bea, I’m sure Captain St George knows how he wants to spend his holiday,’ Emma said, squeezing her stepdaughter’s hand. ‘But do know you are always most welcome at our homes, Harry, any time at all.’
‘Thank you, Emma. That does mean much to me.’ He impulsively handed her the bouquet of greenery he had bought. ‘Happy Christmas.’
He turned and walked away, but when he glanced back Emma was watching him with a thoughtful frown. She quickly smiled and waved the bouquet, the red ribbon a banner of brightness against the grey day.
* * *
Unlike the village, Hilltop did not bustle with holiday preparations and cheer. The windows were blank in the gathering twilight as Harry rode up the overgrown lane; no smoke curled from the crumbling chimneys. There were, however, a few more fallen roof slates on the portico and in the tangled flowerbeds.
As Harry swung down from the saddle, he studied the house and for just an instant he remembered what it had been like in his mother’s day, with the flowers blooming and bright against the pale grey walls, curtains elegant in every window. He could imagine a lady like Rose Parker in such a house, but not this one.
Then he blinked and the fantasy of a smiling lady welcoming him home was replaced with reality once more.
He left his horse with