chapter Eleven
The cold marble railing of the central balustrade slid smoothly beneath her palm as Penelope rushed down the steps of the grand staircase the following morning. Her slippers swished in her haste, echoing and reechoing off of the stone walls and floor.
She’d overslept—or rather, underslept, if one were to put a fine point on it. But it hadn’t been nightmares that had kept her awake. No, her fitful dreams had been of another sort entirely.
She never should have kissed Gabriel. And not just for the reasons she’d given him last night. No, it was because now that she’d opened that door, the flickering of desire she’d felt for him had swept through and kindled into an inferno. She might not call it raging at this point, but she’d never felt this intensity of longing in her life, not even with Michael. And that terrified her.
That’s what she got for following her instincts. Why hadn’t she just slapped Gabriel instead?
She checked the breakfast room, but wasn’t surprised to find it empty, given how high the sun had already been in the sky when she’d glanced out of her window this morning. Liliana and her husband, Geoffrey, were early risers.
Penelope wanted to be an early riser, but too many years as a society darling had trained her body to city hours. Even if she hadn’t been tossing and turning with frustrated desire last night, she’d have had a difficult time rising with the sun.
Gabriel, however, had not. The maid who was tidying his room had said he’d gone below shortly after dawn. She chewed at her lower lip as she made for the library. What an awful person she was, leaving Gabriel to his own devices in a strange place. She only hoped he was getting on well with her cousins.
A quick search of the library, drawing room and even the music room turned up nothing. Where was Gabriel? And everyone else, for that matter?
She was searching for a servant to ask when she heard her cousin’s muffled voice floating down the hallway. She followed the sound.
Penelope turned the corner to find Liliana and another woman exiting the back staircase that led to the nursery. Liliana was gesturing with her hands while she spoke, and the other woman nodded politely every so often as they came her way.
Penelope stopped and waited.
When Liliana noticed her, she broke into a smile and waved her over. “Pen,” she said warmly. “Meet Miss Eden. Miss Eden, my cousin, Lady Manton.”
The young woman bobbed a curtsy.
“Miss Eden is interviewing to be our new nurse once the babe arrives,” Liliana explained.
“Ah,” Penelope said with a smile. “Well, Miss Eden, I do hope you are the energetic sort. My niece can be quite a handful, and I imagine any sibling of hers will be nothing less.”
“Yes, m’lady. Shouldn’t be a problem,” the young woman said.
“Well, don’t let me interrupt,” Penelope said to Liliana. “If you could just tell me where to find—”
“We’re actually almost finished. Give me one moment?”
Penelope nodded and followed the two women toward the exit. As they walked, she couldn’t help listening in on the conversation. Liliana was talking over her daughter’s routines, and the nurse was giving suggestions. But the more Penelope listened, she realized that for some reason she did not like Miss Eden.
She couldn’t explain it. The nurse was well dressed, clean and polite. She answered Liliana’s questions with a quiet confidence. Indeed, she’d not said or done anything to give Penelope such a queer feeling. And yet there it was.
“Thank you for coming, Miss Eden,” Liliana was saying as she left the woman with the housekeeper, who would presumably show her out. “I shall be in touch.”
Liliana turned to Penelope. “Let us go to the parlor and sit for a moment. I cannot be on my feet these days as much as I am accustomed to,” she said with a wry smile, curving her hands beneath her very rounded belly.
“Actually, I’m looking for Gabriel. Do you know where he’s gone?” Penelope asked they turned back down the hallway toward the parlor.
“He rode out with Geoffrey this morning, to inspect the property.”
“Ah.” She allowed herself to relax for the first time since she’d awoken to find Gabriel gone. “I am glad. I was hoping the two of them might get on well, what with them both being old cavalrymen.”
“Yes, I assumed that was part of the reason you brought him here,” Liliana returned as they entered the Red Parlor, so named for the bright red damask-covered walls, broken only by white columns and trim that was heavily picked with gilt.
“I’ve watched you treat enough men to have gleaned some of your tactics,” she went on as she lowered herself onto the settee. “I know you try to help them reconnect with others within their sphere, be it friends, family or other soldiers. I have also noticed you prescribe an exercise regimen first off. When I shared that information with Geoffrey, he was only too happy to help on both fronts. Since I am unable to accompany him on our morning rides these days”—she rubbed her palm in circles atop her burgeoning stomach—“I believe he’s looking forward to the company.”
Penelope, who’d taken a seat in the armchair angled catty-corner, reached over and squeezed her cousin’s hand with gratitude. How fortunate she was to have Liliana and Geoffrey in her life. Who else’s doorstep could she have shown up on—with a man she’d kidnapped from a lunatic sanatorium, no less—and know they would both be welcomed?
“Tactics?” Penelope said teasingly. “Fronts? You are beginning to sound like your husband, you know.” Before inheriting the earldom, Geoffrey had been a decorated officer and had come home from the wars a hero. It was also whispered about town that he planned political skirmishes as carefully as he’d once planned battles.
Liliana’s face lit with a soft smile. “I suppose I am. It must come from being in each other’s company so often.”
Penelope smiled as well, but her heart knew a moment of envy. Liliana had married a scant month before Penelope had wed herself. And yet nearly three years later, her cousin was so very obviously happy in love, whereas she was a widow and so desperately alone.
It was more than just that Liliana’s husband was alive and hers was not, however. Penelope understood that all too well. Liliana had chosen a man who completed her—who needed what she had to give and was capable of giving what she needed in return. Whereas she had unknowingly bound herself to a man who needed much more than she could ever have given him. She and Michael had been doomed to fail from the start. Perhaps if she hadn’t been so foolish, focused only on marrying well and living the life of a society wife, she’d have seen the signs before it was too late.
Penelope blinked away a sudden stinging in her eyes. There was nothing to be had from dwelling on what she could not change. The only thing she could promise herself was that she was not that foolish girl any longer. She would choose better next time.
And there would be a next time. As inconvenient and ill timed as this attraction to Gabriel was, it showed her one thing: The part of her that longed for male companionship no longer lay dormant. Perhaps it was time to reenter society, to put her slippered toe back in the water. Perhaps find another husband.
She watched her cousin, who was busy tucking a pillow behind her to make herself more comfortable in the late months of her confinement, and another long-buried desire came back to her with a fierceness. She wanted children of her own.
Which reminded her of Miss Eden.
“Were you simply interviewing Miss Eden, or have you already offered her employment?”
Liliana gave her an odd look but said, “I’ve as much as offered. It’s been a bit difficult to fill the position. Charlotte is not old enough for a proper governess, and yet she is entirely too precocious for our current nursemaid to handle. I need someone who can manage both the new baby and an uncommonly curious two-year-old, and Miss Eden seems up to the task. Why?”
Penelope hesitated. She didn’t wish to cost a person their post, and yet something just didn’t sit well with her regarding the nurse. “I don’t have a good feeling about her. It’s nothing I can explain. She just made me uncomfortable.”
Liliana frowned. “She comes with excellent letters of reference.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Penelope demurred. She used to live by her instincts, but since she’d made so many mistakes with Michael, she questioned her feelings as much or more than she listened to them.
But Liliana looked very thoughtful. “No, you’ve always had good instincts, Pen. You see things in people that I never could. You read them well. It’s a gift I’ve long envied you. If you’re worried, then I am. I will have Geoffrey dig deeper into Miss Eden’s references before I make a final decision.”
Penelope was torn between several thoughts at once. First, she was humbled that her cousin had unwavering faith in her. Second, she was astounded that Liliana had ever envied her anything. Penelope’s uncle Charles had been a chemist, and Liliana had always been her father’s daughter, eschewing the frivolous life Penelope had embraced. If anything, Penelope always envied Liliana her unique intelligence and steady character.
And third, “How can you think I have such great instincts when I married a maniac?”
Liliana tilted her head and eyed Penelope much as she likely did one of the specimens in her laboratory. “I know you think you should have seen signs of Michael’s illness, but I disagree.”
Penelope shook her head. “If I hadn’t been so impulsive, if I’d have approached life more staidly, more logically, like you do, maybe—”
Liliana actually laughed. “Don’t say that. You are perfect just the way you are. Do you think I would be who I am if you hadn’t been in my life? When your mother tried so very hard to change me after my father died, you always accepted me for who I was and what I wanted for my life. You encouraged and loved me when I thought no one else did, seeing only the person I was inside.
“And look at all of the good you’ve done at the hospital. I’ve spent the past two years treating people’s bodies. You’ve spent them treating people’s souls. You take knowledge and apply it organically, changing and molding different theories into what a person needs most. I could never do what you’ve done. You’ve made a difference in those men’s lives and the lives of the people who love them. That’s worth more to the world than logic.”
Penelope stared at Liliana, unable to breathe. Did her cousin really see her that way?
“I must say, however, absconding from the sanatorium with Lord Bromwich was a rather extreme thing to do,” Liliana went on. “Were you acting on instinct when you decided on that course of action?”
Penelope knew Liliana well enough to know there was no judgment in her questions, only curiosity. “Yes, because I know in my heart he wouldn’t recover there.”
“Many people don’t recover, Pen. It’s a sad fact of life.”
She frowned. “True, but I know Gabriel can.”
“Hmmm,” Liliana murmured. “That doesn’t sound like a very logical reason for doing such a thing. Yet I can see you feel strongly that Lord Bromwich has a chance.”
“I’ve never been so sure about something,” she admitted, “yet so afraid of being wrong.”
Liliana reached across and took her hand. “And that’s what I meant before. A logical person like myself would never have done what you have. Lord Bromwich is getting this chance because you are who you are. You follow your instincts, even when you are afraid.”
Penelope had to blink back tears.
“Now,” Liliana said, blinking suspiciously herself, “tell me why you are so certain.”
She took in a deep breath. “Well, aside from his episodes, every other difficulty I have observed or that Gabriel and I have discussed fits easily within the diagnosis of battle fatigue.”
Even his panic in the carriage yesterday, which she was attributing to an abnormal fear of enclosed spaces rather than madness, was typical.
Just thinking of that reminded her of how she’d arrested that panic—and every second of the toe-curling kisses that had followed. Penelope flushed warm and hoped Liliana didn’t notice how pink her cheeks must have turned.
“Can severe battle fatigue bring out mania?” Liliana asked.
Penelope nodded. “Yes, and of course I’m considering that. But I’d expect to see signs of instability outside of his episodes, which I’m not. I also can’t ignore his blood connection to Michael, but again, there were warnings before Michael would go into one of his fits.” She sighed, frustrated. “Gabriel’s episodes are nothing like that. It’s the strangest thing, Lily. It’s almost as if I’m dealing with two different illnesses altogether.”
But that couldn’t be right, could it? If anyone would know, it would be Liliana, which was one of the reasons she had been so anxious to bring Gabriel here.
She leaned toward her cousin. “Is there anything you can think of that might explain the incongruities?”
“You are the expert in cases of madness. I’m afraid I can speak only to the physiological, but I’ll be happy to try. Could you describe all you witnessed?”
She told Liliana how she’d first encountered Gabriel at Vickering Place, detailing all that she’d observed of his behavior while caught up in his episode. She left out the part about him landing atop her and how he’d recognized her and begged for her help. That seemed too personal to share, even with Liliana. She told herself Gabriel would be mortified if she spoke of it, but she suspected she simply wanted to keep that moment for herself.
Liliana listened intently, but now a frown tangled her brow. “Could you go back to the episode now and repeat just the physical symptoms?”
“Of course,” Penelope replied, recognizing that look on Liliana’s face. Something had caught her cousin’s attention and she was puzzling over it, which was precisely what Penelope had hoped. She pictured Gabriel as he’d been that day in her mind’s eye, wanting to give Liliana every possible detail she could. “He was overheated and scratching at his skin—”
“How did you know he was overheated?” Liliana interrupted. “Were his clothes soaked through?”
“Um . . . no. He’d, um, stripped off all of his clothing.” Penelope’s face flushed with the memory of Gabriel’s nakedness.
Liliana’s violet eyes widened. “All?”
Penelope nodded quickly. Now that she was not caught up in the shock of the moment, her mind recalled the hard lines of his body with more vividness than she’d noticed at the time. Every exquisite, explicit detail.
“Yes,” she replied, trying to hurry past that revelation before Liliana commented on her blush. “And he was scratching at his skin as if the clothing had irritated him.”
“Hmmm,” Liliana repeated, watching her a little too closely. But thankfully, she didn’t pry. “You said he was not perspiring, though?”
“No. His skin was hot to the touch, but dry. He also seemed desperately parched, but no matter how much water we gave him, it was never enough to quench his thirst.” It had been awful, listening to him beg for more to drink. She’d felt so helpless.
“Oh, and his pupils were enlarged,” she went on, “so much that his eyes were like black marbles in his face. They were extremely sensitive to the light, too, even hours later.”
Liliana was nodding and tapping her index finger against her lower lip. “Have you seen any of these same symptoms since, even to a lesser degree? Either individually or in combination?”
Penelope blew out a frustrated breath. “No.”
“Let’s say I knew nothing about Lord Bromwich’s mental state and was presented with an otherwise perfectly healthy patient . . .” Liliana settled further against the back of the settee, still tap-tap-tapping her finger, thinking while Penelope waited anxiously for her cousin’s opinion. “If that were the case, I would say that what you have described sounds very much to me like the body’s rejection of something. Perhaps something Lord Bromwich may have come into contact with or ingested.”
Penelope’s breath caught with shock. “What?”
“You said yourself that your instincts are telling you to look elsewhere. If his mania doesn’t stem from madness, the next logical place to look is the physiological.”
Gooseflesh pimpled her forearms even as Penelope told herself not to get her hopes up. Still, she scooted forward in her seat, leaning toward her cousin with an anticipation she couldn’t seem to quash. “Is it possible? Truly?”
“Certainly. The human body is a complex and mysterious thing, much like the mind. I believe we could study either one of them for centuries and never fully understand all there is to know.”
Good Lord. If Gabriel’s episodes of mania were not madness but something else altogether—
There would be no reason to put a stop to his kisses, some horridly wicked part of her mind whispered.
There will be no more kisses, she fired back. To herself. Lord, perhaps she was the mad one. “But what could cause such a reaction?”
Liliana’s face scrunched up into a wince. “Well, that I can’t answer. I don’t actually know of any one substance that would cause the combination of symptoms you mentioned.”
Penelope deflated a bit, her shoulders slumping as she eased back in her seat.
“The fact that his pupils were dilated brings to mind a reaction to medication. An opiate like laudanum would affect the eyes. However, an opium eater would have pupils like pinpricks, not marbles. I know of no medicine offhand that causes the reverse.”
Drat.
“The severely dry mouth can be attributed to a multitude of things, so we can’t really discover anything from that alone.” Her finger was tapping her upper lip again. “You said Lord Bromwich was scratching at his skin. Did you see any eruptions? Like hives or boils, perhaps?”
“No,” Penelope said, slipping further back into the armchair. “His itch seemed to come from the inside.”
“Odd,” Liliana answered. “I would expect a reaction to a food to have at least some external manifestation. But that doesn’t mean we are not onto something.” Now she pulled her lower lip between her teeth and worried it a moment, lost in thought.
Penelope tried to fight her growing disappointment. “Even if we can explain away the other symptoms, can one even ingest something that causes him to see things that aren’t there?”
“Now, that I can answer with a definite ‘yes.’ Ingesting ergot can create delusions in its sufferers, for example. Even mania. As well as the extreme heat and thirst you described.”
And just like that, hope flooded the discouragement out of her heart. “That is the fungus that grows in rye, is it not? If Gabriel ate bread made with diseased grain—”
“He would have been retching, as well as convulsing, most likely. As would everyone else who might have shared his meal. No, I doubt Lord Bromwich suffers from ergotism,” Liliana said. “Especially not if, as you’ve said, these episodes have recurred with some regularity. I’m simply stating that there are natural substances that can cause mania in an otherwise sane person. I just do not know of any that fit with the other symptoms you mentioned.”
And Penelope didn’t know any person who knew as much about chemistry and medicinal herbs as Liliana. If she didn’t have an idea of what it could be . . . “Well, so much for that,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as dejected as she felt.
Liliana laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t know everything, Pen. But I’d be happy to do some research.” She patted her middle. “It isn’t as if I can be out wading in the bogs collecting specimens right now.” Her lips twisted. “I cannot even work in my laboratory these days. You wouldn’t believe how much glassware I’ve knocked to the floor and shattered with this stomach of mine. It is sad. And expensive!”
The cousins had a laugh over that, and then Liliana placed her hands low on her hips and pressed her shoulders back into the settee, stretching. “Ah.” She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment as she settled back into the cushions.
That moment stretched into two. Then three. Just when Penelope thought perhaps Liliana had nodded off, she said, “Sometimes the mistakes we make in life change us for the better. We learn and grow. You need to start trusting yourself again, Pen.”
Penelope swallowed against a suspiciously aching throat. Then she cleared it. “Yes, well, I’ll leave you to your nap. Did Geoffrey say when he and Gabriel were expected to return?” If they wouldn’t be back for a bit yet, maybe she’d pop up to the nursery and visit her darling niece.
“Mmmm,” Liliana murmured, already drifting off. “I expect they will be out most of the afternoon. Geoffrey said something about needing to inspect the new shaft at the mine.”
The mine? How would Gabriel be able to do that? He’d barely made the carriage ride yesterday. Being in the dark underground would be impossible. Just attempting it might be enough to throw him into a panic. Surely he wouldn’t even try.
And yet she’d worked with soldiers enough to know how men were with other men, loath to reveal any weakness.
The nursery would have to wait.
* * *
The thunder of hooves beat the turf as Gabriel pounded along, staying slightly behind Stratford and his mount as they charged up a shallow hill. The brisk late-morning air whipped his cheeks, its clean crispness filling Gabriel’s lungs—and lifting his spirits.
Galloping into the eastern horizon, the sun bright in his eyes and the harsh exhalations of man and beast loud in his ears, he felt nothing but pure exhilaration.
So how could Penelope’s suggestion possibly hold water? She’d said that things that reminded him of the war might throw him into episodes of battle fatigue. But if anything would bring to mind his wartime service as a cavalryman in the 10th Prince of Wales Own Hussars, it would be galloping at high speeds over an open field. And yet he felt stronger than he had in months.
Granted, the sights, sounds and smells of the battlefield were far from those of the pastoral scenery of rural Shropshire. But one would think his mind would still make whatever mysterious association Penelope had been trying to explain to him.
Stratford slowed his horse as they crested the summit of the hill, and Gabriel followed suit, reining in beside him.
“Not bad horsemanship, Bromwich,” the earl called, leaning forward to pat his charger’s neck. When Stratford straightened, he looked over and grinned. “For a Hussar.”
Gabriel snorted, but a corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. He found he liked Geoffrey Wentworth. The men hadn’t had much occasion to socialize in the past. They’d known of each other, of course. But Stratford had been a few years ahead of him in school. There hadn’t been much opportunity for fraternization during the wars, either. While they’d both been light cavalry, Stratford had been 12th Light Dragoon.
“Take heart, man,” the earl went on, with a laugh. “At least you lot got to sport those fancy collars and dashing mustaches.”
Gabriel gave Stratford a good-natured scowl at that. He’d hated those uniforms, with all of the elaborate braiding and colorful layers. They had been Prinny’s idea, of course.
No, the man is King George IV now, Gabriel reminded himself. Much had changed in the weeks he’d been locked away at Vickering Place—not the least of which was the death of the mad king.
Well, anyway, that damned uniform had not been very practical in the midst of battle. Nor had those cursed mustaches. They’d itched. Not to mention they’d trapped dust around one’s mouth, making everything taste perpetually of dirt.
“I believe you labor under a grievous misassumption, Stratford,” Gabriel retorted dryly. “We Hussars didn’t ride behind you because you were faster, but because someone had to be there to save your arses.”
Stratford gave a shout of laughter before turning his horse along the ridgeline.
They rode companionably for a while, each man enjoying the freedom in his own way. Gabriel hadn’t known what to expect when Stratford had invited him out to ride this morning. He’d half expected to be grilled thoroughly about his madness. Hell, that’s what he would have done to a suspected lunatic staying in the same house as his wife and family. He’d want to know if the man posed a danger.
But Stratford had been welcoming and gracious, treating him with nothing but quiet respect.
“You know,” Stratford said as they ambled along, very near the cliff edge overlooking a wide valley, “I’d heard that you and your men were the ones who met Blücher and the Prussian army. If you hadn’t directed them to us . . . if they hadn’t drawn off Napoleon’s reserves when they did . . .” The earl’s eyes narrowed into the distance. “Well, let’s just say even the peasants would be speaking French by now.”
Gabriel pressed his lips together into some semblance of a smile. Well, it was supposed to be a smile, but more likely it had been a grimace. As always when someone mentioned Waterloo, a queer feeling rose up in his stomach. People told him he’d been a hero that day, but he didn’t remember that. All he remembered was that he was the only man in his hand-chosen company who’d come home from that fateful charge alive.
He usually gave a perfunctory nod and then changed the subject when it came up. But Penelope had said that his illness might be helped by facing whatever traumas he’d experienced during the war. He could hardly face this one if he had no memory of it. Perhaps talking with a man who had been on the battlefield that day would help him recall something that might help. “You heard correctly, but I have no memory of any of it.”
Stratford turned a startled gaze on him.
“The last thing I can recall is the damned cannonade.” The French had lined up on the ridge above La Haye Sante and fired directly into Wellington’s center and left flanks. The awful booming and the acrid stench of powder and smoke and burned flesh came back to him like a sense memory.
Beside him, Stratford was nodding, remembering the same moment, though probably from his own place on the battlefield. “Yes. It was the worst barrage I’d ever faced in my dozen years of soldiering,” he said solemnly.
Gabriel understood all too well what Stratford meant. He’d been scared witless, but those quiet words were as close as a soldier would ever come to saying as much. “Well, we knew we were in danger of the French cutting us off from the expected reinforcement of the Prussian army. One of my men was tasked with ferrying messages between Blücher and Wellington. The Prussians had been coming up a little behind but parallel to our own forces. But with the French forcing Wellington back, it became clear that the planned rendezvous point would no longer work.”
His chest tightened as he remembered the precise moment that realization had hit home. “I knew we’d have to reach the Prussians and get them turned in the right direction. I chose a few of my best men to ride through the French lines.”
“Good God, man,” Stratford breathed. “That was a suicide mission.”
“Yes.” Guilt burned in Gabriel’s gut. “If I could have been assured that I would have made it to Blücher alive myself, I would have gone alone. But you remember how it was.”
Stratford nodded grimly.
“I did my best to select men without families, men without children at least, as most had wives or sweethearts.” Or were supporting camp followers. “But some of the family men insisted on coming along.”
“Brave souls.”
“Indeed. Fourteen of us shed our coats and hats, so as to be less recognizable as British soldiers, and set off in pairs by different routes. And then . . .”
“Then?”
Gabriel’s hand fisted tightly over the reins. “Then nothing. That is the last that I remember. I woke up in hospital a week later. I am told that I did reach Blücher—I know this only because the man mentioned my name to Wellington himself afterward. I am also told that I was in on the charge, but as I said, I have no memory of any of it.”
“What of the others?” Stratford asked.
“Lost. To a man.”
Stratford winced. “I am sorry,” he said, genuine regret in his voice. Gabriel nodded. Stratford likely did understand, to a point. As a leader of men, he’d have lost many himself. But Gabriel also knew Stratford’s Waterloo experience had been far different from his. The earl was famously known for rescuing several men that day, even taking a bayonet that was meant for another—one that had laid him up in a Belgian hospital for months.
Whereas he had led his men to slaughter.
“Were you taken to Brussels, then?”
Gabriel nodded. “Apparently, I was found three or four days after the battle ended. I never knew where.” He could only imagine what horror that must have been. The battlefield had been littered with the decomposing bodies of men and beasts—all made worse by the mud and humidity. “It is likely a blessing I cannot recall anything of that.”
“Yes. But once you woke, could no one fill in the gaps for you? What about the person who found you alive?”
“No one knows who found me. I simply arrived at a church near Waterloo in an ambulance cart with a few lucky others, clinging to life. I was transferred on to a hospital in Brussels after they were unable to wake me. Since I’d removed my jacket and hat—and the insignia that would have identified me as a British officer—no one even knew who I was until I was able to tell them. Everything that happened between when I set off on my mission and when I awoke is lost to me.”
The men rode side by side, each lost in their own reflection for a time.
Finally, Stratford broke the silence. “I didn’t wake properly for weeks. Fever, you see. I was quite delirious for some time. But when I did awaken, I remembered all,” he said, his voice low. “Every terrifying, excruciating moment.” He turned his gaze to Gabriel, and Gabriel recognized the haunted look in the earl’s eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know which is better.”
Gabriel nodded, and Stratford turned his face back toward the horizon.
Strangely, Gabriel felt lighter after that morose conversation. Perhaps Pen was right. Talking to someone who had experienced some of what he had did make him feel better. Stronger somehow.
Several thoughts struck him with that realization. When he’d first met Penelope, he remembered wondering if she had understood him so well because her cousin’s husband had suffered from the same things he did. It would make sense. After all, Stratford had been campaigning for twelve years, nearly four years longer than Gabriel had. And he’d suffered a grievous injury and painful recovery—if that wasn’t traumatic, Gabriel didn’t know what was.
Perhaps that was one of the reasons Stratford had funded the hospital for ex-soldiers that he and his wife ran, and where Penelope worked—because he knew firsthand what men back from the wars struggled with. If the earl had suffered from battle fatigue and made it through, maybe there was hope for him.
He should just ask the man. And yet the very idea made his tongue taste of dust, much like those damned mustaches once had. Men didn’t talk about such things, particularly not with other men.
Still, Penelope seemed to think the talking was helpful.
He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, but may I ask you a rather personal question?”
Stratford turned his face to him. “Of course.”
“I assume—” The damned lump in his throat remained, so he cleared it again. “I assume, what with the hospital and all, you are familiar with battle fatigue.”
The earl dipped his head in a nod.
Gabriel held his gaze, but it took effort. Damn. It was harder to ask the bloody question than it had been to take on the French infantry. “Did you ever suffer from it?”
A kind sympathy clouded Stratford’s eyes. “No. At least not in the way Penelope has described it to me. My war wounds were strictly physical.”
Gabriel looked away from him, his cheeks heating with embarrassment. And anger. What the hell was wrong with him, then? What flaw in his character did he harbor that made him susceptible to this weakness and not Stratford? God damn it.
“Well, mostly physical,” Stratford amended after a moment’s thought. “I will admit that I returned to England a changed man. Things that had once seemed so important were now foolish to me. I had difficulty picking up the reins of my old life. It no longer seemed to fit me.”
Gabriel grunted his agreement. Yes—to all of that. But Stratford hadn’t gone mad because of it.
“The people in my life no longer fit, either. Had I not met Liliana . . . Well, she’s truly the one who healed me. I don’t mean physically, though she did help there. She is brilliant that way. But more important, she healed my soul. I wouldn’t be the man I am today without her,” he said quietly.
Gabriel looked over at him. Men didn’t talk of these things, either. Stratford gave him a half shrug and a wry smile before turning back to the path ahead.
Stratford hadn’t had to make himself vulnerable to him, and Gabriel suspected he’d done so to make him feel at less of a disadvantage. He liked the earl all the more for it.
Only short minutes later, they reached the edge of a wide valley. “Ah, here we are.” Stratford tapped his heel and led his horse onto the narrow path that descended into the small village below.
Gabriel followed behind, coming beside Stratford again when they reached the bottom.
“I thought we were visiting your mining operation,” Gabriel said, his eyes scanning what looked to be the beginnings of an estate village instead. A tidy row of houses seemed to have sprung up from the ground only very recently, their architecture uniform and attractive, mimicking the Palladian styling of Somerton Park’s manor home. The homes had grand mullioned windows that opened onto one side of a small village green, and each of the front doors was painted a muted green that contrasted pleasingly with the red brick.
There was also a larger building that looked a bit older and more temporary in nature, as well as a squat building boasting a sign that declared it a small tavern. A line of what looked to be shops skirted the other side of the green, with a large stone gazebo completing the square at the far end.
“We are,” Stratford said, pointing several yards into the distance, where indeed Gabriel could see a stone façade built unobtrusively into the hill on the far side of the valley. “That’s the entrance to shaft one.”
A squat arch lay in the center of the wall, the black entrance to the tunnel covered with metal bars. Somewhere deep within that hill, miners worked to drag wagons of lead ore back to the surface. Gabriel’s throat tightened just thinking about it.
“Two is over there.” Stratford pointed to another hill farther on, with a similar entrance cut into it. “And we plan to sink three next year. I’d hoped to have it in operation this year, but splitting my time and funds between this and the soldiers’ hospital has slowed things down a bit.”
“And this village?” Gabriel asked, intrigued.
“Is where the men who work here live. I opened my land to mining only so that I could employ ex-soldiers, you see. They’ve come from all over England to settle here, and we put the profits into building housing and such first, and then once we’re solvent, we hope to fund more employment projects.”
Gabriel raised his eyebrows, looking around at the small village with renewed interest. He’d known that Stratford had fought tirelessly in Parliament the past years to better the plight of the hundreds of thousands of soldiers who’d returned to England without prospects. His admiration for the man grew when he realized that Stratford had put his own personal fortune where his mouth was, as well.
“Most of the men live in the barracks there, as they have no families,” he said, pointing to the more temporary barnlike building Gabriel had noticed. “However, as they marry, we are working on building homes suited for wives and children. Already there are several wives, a few infants and even the occasional toddler. I imagine we’ll have a right village before we know it.”
Stratford exhaled with what seemed to be satisfaction as he surveyed what he had created. Gabriel felt a stab of envy. The earl was doing something of meaning with his life and with his resources. He had purpose.
The restlessness that had gnawed at Gabriel these past years bit viciously now, the pain of it—of the utter uselessness he’d been reduced to—streaked through his chest.
Stratford brought his mount to a stop near the barracks and dismounted, tying his horse off. Gabriel slipped off of his own mount, securing the chestnut next to Stratford’s.
The earl pulled a timepiece from his breeches pocket by its fob and checked it. “My foreman should be meeting us here any moment.” He glanced toward the mine entrance, squinting. “And right on time.”
Slipping the watch back into its pocket, he nodded to a stocky man who emerged from the entrance of shaft one. The foreman looked to be no older than they and carried himself with the swift, confident stride of a military man.
The two shook hand like old friends. “Tom,” Stratford greeted.
“Major,” the man returned with a smile, confirming Gabriel’s impression.
Stratford made the introductions, and then the foreman asked, “Are you ready to inspect the new section of tunnel?”
“Indeed,” Stratford answered, and followed the foreman toward the gaping black hole in the earth. He glanced over his shoulder. “Coming, Bromwich?”
Like hell. “I prefer to remain aboveground, if it’s all the same,” he said as nonchalantly as he could around his tightening throat.
“Suit yourself,” Stratford said amiably. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour. Feel free to look around. Pop into the tavern, if you like.”
Gabriel gave a nod of assent. He turned away, unable even to watch the black hole swallow the two men.
He didn’t go straight to the tavern, though the need for a drink was strong after all he’d revealed to Stratford earlier. Instead he wandered around the small village, marveling at what the earl had created here. He walked the line of shops first. Some were empty, waiting for the village to grow to fit them. However, a baker was hard at work, as was a smithy and a combination draper/tailor. As Gabriel walked along, the shopkeepers gave him curious but friendly nods.
On the other side of the green were the cottages. Gabriel stopped at one on the far end and peered inside through a window. It looked to be empty. He decided to try the door and found it unlocked. “Anyone here?” he called into the cottage before opening the door fully.
When no one answered, he walked in. Feeble though the winter sunlight was, it cast enough light through the windows for him to appreciate the fine aspects of the cottage. Though not overly large, the design made good use of the space. It was far nicer than any of the tenant cottages on his own estate in Birminghamshire.
Gabriel imagined the men who lived and worked here counted themselves lucky, and not just because of the fine accommodations. The plight of too many ex-soldiers was perilous indeed, and Stratford had saved them from an uncertain future. It seemed the earl was a hero on and off the battlefield, whereas he was struggling to manage even his own life—his very sanity. What good was he to anyone?
After a half hour or so, he found his way to the pub. The pleasant earthy scents of wood smoke, roasting meats and ale greeted him as he pushed into the tavern. Like everything else in the village, the taproom was clean and new with bright, airy windows. It was also empty, save for one barmaid who was wiping down tables. She didn’t even glance up when she heard the bell, only said, “You lot are early today. Well, you know the drill. Sit anywhere you like. Luncheon will be ready soon.”
Gabriel chose a chair near one of the large windows and stared out over the green, still thinking of the power of purpose in one’s life. Stratford had it in spades, and it seemed to bring him great satisfaction. Penelope had spoken of it, as well. About how her work had given her life meaning after Michael’s suicide. Had given her a reason to go on.
The gnawing in his chest had settled into a dull ache, but now it flared up again. He had been ambitious once. A leader of men. But his illness had stripped him, laid him bare, and he despaired of ever being that man again. After all, who in their right mind would ever follow a madman?
Who even had need of one?
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the barmaid said. He turned away from the window to face her. “What can I get for y—”
The girl’s eyes widened with recognition, much the same as his must have.
“Major Devereaux?” she said wonderingly. “Is it really you?”