chapter Twelve
The young woman’s eyes went even wider as she slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, a pox on it. I mean Lord Bromwich, o’course.”
Gabriel couldn’t resist a grin at her salty language. You could take the girl off of the battlefield . . . “Mary Finley,” he said warmly, coming to his feet to greet her. “Is that really you?”
As she bobbed her head, he marveled at the changes in her. She might still sound like the woman he’d known, but everything else had changed—and for the better. When he’d last seen Mary, she’d been gaunt and sallow skinned, her blue eyes dull and haunted. The woman who stood before him now looked as healthy as a country milkmaid, her cheeks full and rosy, and her eyes twinkled in a way that turned her rather plain features quite lovely.
She flashed him a happy smile. “Hard to believe, in’it?”
It was. Not that he was being uncharitable, but Mary had not lived an easy life as an unofficial camp follower, living, working—and sometimes fighting—alongside the army as they battled their way across the Continent.
She’d been a very young peasant girl who’d followed her beloved to Spain, but he’d fallen at Badajoz. Gabriel didn’t like to think of the things she must have done to survive unprotected. It was only several months later that Gabriel had come to know her, when she’d attached herself to his regiment and had become a regular fixture around their campfire. Eventually, she and one of his lieutenants had grown quite close.
“Whatever are you doing here?” he asked, still trying to reconcile the Mary of his mind with the girl before him.
Her cheeks flushed, and she twisted her apron between her fingers. “You’re not angry with me, are you, m’lord? I know you went out of your way to get me that position at the Silver Swan, and I appreciated it, I did. But I met a nice man there, and then he got on here at the mine and—” She shrugged ruefully.
So that explained how she’d gone from working at the inn in Birmingham where he’d placed her to a pub on the Earl of Stratford’s private estate in Shropshire.
“But I would hate it if you thought me ungrateful,” she finished, her face scrunched with worry.
“Don’t even think it,” he assured her. “I only ever wanted to make certain you had a roof over your head and decent prospects after . . .”
Mary pressed her lips together and nodded, neither of them having to finish the sentence: after Lieutenant Baker had fallen during that fateful mission at Waterloo and left her once again alone.
She breathed in and put a smile back on her face, even if her eyes had saddened with memory. “Well, I got a right fine roof over my head now.” She pointed out of the window at the row of cottages. “That third door is me and my husband’s. And by summer’s end, our baby’s, too,” she said, settling her hands over her middle.
“That’s wonderful, Mary—er, Mrs. . . . ?”
Her smile widened then, revealing a dimple in her cheek he’d never noticed before. “It’s Mary Landings, now, m’lord,” she said proudly.
“Well, my felicitations on both counts, Mrs. Landings.” Gabriel heard the distant tinkling of a bell behind him—the door opening, most likely. It seemed as if the lunch crowd was arriving.
Mary reached out and took both of his hands, her eyes bright with suspicious moisture. “I’m only glad I got to see you again so I could thank you proper. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.” She squeezed his hands to emphasize her point. “And don’t think I’ll ever be forgetting it. You didn’t have to do what you done, not even for the real widows you helped—much less a girl like me. You’re an angel, m’lord—just like your namesake,” she finished, her face flushing red.
Then she reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him on his cheek before dropping his hands and skirting past him to greet the incoming patrons.
Gabriel stood there a long moment, a bemused smile on his face. He’d been called many things in his life, but despite his given name, angel had never been one of them. Michael had always been the one who’d drawn that comparison, with his blond good looks, Byronesque features and charm. Whereas Gabriel had always been considered raw boned and earthy, not to mention brooding—even before the war changed him.
Nor did he think he deserved to be called angelic now. What he’d done for Mary Landings had cost him nothing but some coin, of which he had plenty to spare. Sure, it had taken some time and effort on his part to track her down, but he’d owed her that after sending Baker to his death.
The familiar guilt twinged, but curiously, not as strongly as usual. Seeing Mary happy, healthy and well settled filled him with a deep sense of reward that seemed to push out the guilt—or at least not allow it as much space in his chest. The gratitude that had shone in her eyes had both humbled him and honored him.
He had made a difference in her life. And small though it was, just knowing that made a difference in his. He’d forgotten what that felt like.
“The service is quite friendly here, I see.”
Gabriel started at Penelope’s voice, turning to find her standing a few feet behind him. He blinked and looked again. She was dressed in her customary black, with some sort of small bonnet tied on at a jaunty angle. As always, despite its dour color, her ensemble was quite proper and fashionable. But that wasn’t the reason he’d had to look twice.
No, it was that Penelope looked far from proper in it. Her color was high and her hair decidedly mussed. And she was windblown, judging from all that and the slight chafing on her cheeks. She must have ridden here like the devil. Blond ringlets had pulled away from their pins and now clung to her face much as he imagined they would if a lover were to run his fingers through her locks and let them fall where they may.
It was all too reminiscent of how she’d looked last night in the carriage—save that last night, her lips had been red and swollen from his kisses. His blood heated, even as his eyes dropped to her mouth.
Christ, he certainly felt anything but angelic now.
“Pen,” he said, his voice gruff with sudden arousal. “What a lovely surprise.” He stepped closer, delighted when her flush deepened. Was she, too, remembering their kiss?
But the look she gave him was not one of desire. Instead, curiosity and—could it be jealousy?—narrowed her eyes. “Do you know that barmaid?”
He glanced over to where Mary was laughing with a table of patrons as she served them their ale. Then he returned his gaze to Pen. Oh yes, her eyes had a little more green to them right now, did they? The fact pleased him. Very much. “Yes.”
Pen narrowed her eyes on him expectantly, and he took pity on her.
“From the wars. She was the”—he thought how to put it delicately—“inamorata of one of my lieutenants.”
Understanding lit her face. “I see,” she murmured. And she likely did. It was a little-discussed reality of military life—never mentioned in polite circles, of course. But having worked so closely with soldiers, Penelope had to have heard of the camp followers.
While each company allowed four to six wives to travel with their husbands, the army tended to turn a blind eye to the other women who followed along. Many soldiers picked up companions along the way, sometimes from amongst the local populations, sometimes taking on the lover of a fallen comrade.
The women were expected to earn their keep by cooking, washing and, all too often, nursing the wounded—among other duties.
“She seemed to very much appreciate some service you did her,” Penelope said, not even trying to disguise her interest.
She’d been listening to their conversation? His humor fled. He’d been prepared to tell her how he knew Mary, but nothing more. “I—”
The tavern door slammed open, cracking against the wall as a boisterous group of miners piled in, their laughter loud and jarring. The small room was filling quickly, and soon it would be rather crowded.
Gabriel took Penelope by the shoulders and gently turned her, placing an arm behind her back to usher her toward the door. “Let us walk outside,” he suggested.
Penelope allowed Gabriel to escort her out of the tavern. She’d noticed him startle at the sudden noise, but he’d hidden it well. He’d obviously not gone down into the mine with Geoffrey, either, so she really had nothing to be concerned about.
Except for her own feelings. They were certainly cause for alarm. She cared for Gabriel much more than was wise. She’d acknowledged that fact as she’d demanded Geoffrey’s dog cart be made ready in the stables. What else could explain the reckless disregard for her own safety as she’d raced the two-wheeled conveyance over dangerously hilly countryside, just to make sure Gabriel was well? To be here in case he’d needed her?
It was ridiculous, really.
What was more ridiculous was the burst of jealousy that had torn through her when that barmaid had taken Gabriel’s hands and kissed him so familiarly. He had responded warmly to the woman, as well. There was some sort of deep connection between them, and it left Penelope feeling, well, protective.
She snorted. Who was she kidding? She didn’t feel protective. She felt possessive.
And that was not good, either.
That didn’t stop her from wanting an explanation, though. She slipped her arm through his as he led her down the steps and into a stroll along the green.
“You were saying?” she prodded.
They walked along the green in silence for a few moments, until Penelope began to wonder if he planned to answer her at all.
Then he cleared his throat. “Mary, ah, accompanied my regiment for the better part of two years.”
The maid had been a camp follower?
Penelope glanced up at him and saw that a spot of color dotted his cheek. Was he embarrassed? He shouldn’t be. She’d known the moment his lips had taken hers yesterday that Gabriel was a man of strong appetites. She would hardly expect him not to have taken his ease where he could during his years away from England.
Not that his celibacy or lack thereof was any of her business, of course.
“Mary was a game girl. Always willing to work hard and do her part in camp with a cheerful attitude. During the six months or so before Waterloo, she and one of my lieutenants developed a more exclusive arrangement.”
They tipped their heads to a shopkeeper who was sweeping his entrance.
“I have no way of knowing what Lieutenant Baker’s intentions toward Mary were after the war, nor will I ever. He died at Waterloo.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, wondering where this was leading. He could have stopped his explanation at “camp follower,” but she sensed there was more to the story.
“Did you know that when our armies departed Belgium and France, scores of women and children were left on the bloody battlefields to fend for themselves, without the protection of a man?” he went on.
Penelope felt herself blanch. “Alone?”
“Yes.” Gabriel’s voice had gone gruff with emotion. “And not just widows and camp followers whose men had fallen. The army only took responsibility for officers’ wives and four to six officially sanctioned wives per hundred enlisted men. They were the only women allowed on the transport back to England. The rest of the men’s wives and children were stranded with no provisions and no way home. It is one of the uglier realities of war.”
“How awful,” she whispered, her heart squeezing. She’d felt stranded without Michael. Adrift, without mooring. But even as badly as things had ended, at least she’d been safe in England, with a home and an income and the support of her family. Tears pricked her eyes. Those poor women and children.
And then she just knew. “You found Mary and brought her home with you, didn’t you?”
By this time, they had reached the large rectangular gazebo anchored at the rear of the green. Gabriel assisted her up the two steps and through the middle arch of the entrance. He led her to one of the stone benches in the center and released her arm then, stepping back from her.
“I did. And when we arrived in England, I helped her find stable employment and a place to live. That is all.”
“That is all? Gabriel, that was”—that was more than even their own country had done; it was kind and noble and—“heroic.”
He flinched at the word. What an odd reaction. There were yet more revelations roiling under the surface; she was sure of it.
Then she remembered something else Mary had said, something about real widows.
“You helped more than just Mary, didn’t you?”
He tipped his head dismissively. “Yes.”
After a moment, she realized he meant not to say anything more. Well, she wasn’t going to let him get away with that. Whatever he wasn’t saying had to be an important clue as to why he suffered so. “Why?” she challenged.
A great heaving breath left his lungs as he scrubbed his hands over his face, and she knew she’d been right to push him. He pivoted away from her, walking a few steps to drop onto one of the ornately carved benches nearby. After a moment’s contemplation, he said, “It was the only decent thing I could do, since it was my fault their husbands were dead.”
Penelope caught her breath. “I’m sure that’s not true,” she murmured as she followed him to the bench and sat beside him.
“Oh, it is.” He lifted his head just a little, turning his face to her. His eyebrow was raised with a cocksure tilt, and he huffed. “I suppose this is one of those moments when you will say that I must talk it out for my own good.” His lips turned up in a half smile that was both boyish and wounded, and that tugged at her heart.
She simply lifted an eyebrow in answer.
“I knew you were going to say that,” he grumbled lightly. Gabriel straightened in his seat, leaning back now with his hands clasped over his stomach. He didn’t look at her but fixed his gaze out over the green. “It was late in the afternoon and the battle had been raging for nearly seven hours . . .”
Penelope sat in silence, listening as Gabriel told her a story of messages between Wellington and a Prussian general, of skirmishes that threatened a planned rendezvous point, of a dangerous mission across enemy lines for which he’d handpicked men who had all gone to their deaths. He spoke haltingly, and though she longed to reach over and soothe him, she did not wish to stop the flow of words.
Her heart sped up a bit when he spoke of a week’s memory loss. Something significant lay there also. However, that was not the matter at hand, so she tucked that information away without interrupting him.
“I learned that all of my men were lost while in hospital, and naturally, I immediately thought of their widows. One was sanctioned, so I knew she would at least make it home. But I couldn’t live with the idea of the others being left alone because of a choice I made.”
She thought to argue with him about that, but instead she asked, “How many were stranded?”
“Three, including Mary. One of the women had two children, as well.”
Penelope winced at the thought of how terrified they must have been. Even though they had just lived through a war, the prospect of being alone in a strange land must have been even more frightening.
“So you found them and brought them home, too,” she said softly.
He nodded. “I could never make up for the loss of their husbands, of course, but I got them home safely and helped them find situations. As I was able, I tracked down each of the dead men’s wives here in England, as well . . . seven in all . . . just to make certain they were getting along all right and offering what help I could.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Then Penelope remembered something. “That woman in Vickering Place—the widow of your lieutenant. Was she one of these seven?”
Gabriel looked over at her then. “Yes. When I found Mrs. Boyd, she was in the direst of straits. She’d gone mad in the months after the news of her husband’s death reached her.” He shuddered. “Her sister said it was as if her mind had just broken under the grief and the strain of trying to raise her children alone. Miss Creevey, the sister, had given up her own position in town and was struggling to care for them all herself, but the burden was too much.
“So, I paid for the children to be taken in by a nice family and made sure the sister found a new position. Then I began searching for a sanatorium for Mrs. Boyd. Ironically enough,” he said with a twist of his lips, “that is how I first discovered Vickering Place.” His hollow laugh rang off of the gazebo’s stone ceiling. “Little did I know I’d soon be joining her there.”
Penelope blinked. “You have been paying for an impoverished widow to live in Vickering Place all of this time?” Private sanatoriums were not inexpensive by any stretch of the imagination. She couldn’t think of another person who would go to such lengths for a stranger, and a mad one at that, no matter how much guilt they felt.
“Of course,” he said, as if it had never occurred to him to do otherwise.
“Gabriel . . .” Penelope reached out and placed her hand over his clasped ones. She couldn’t help herself. She’d always known he was a good man, but she’d never realized how incredibly kind and decent he was.
She should have guessed it, though. Something she’d noticed while treating battle fatigue was that the majority of men who suffered from it were sensitive souls. She theorized that one of the reasons it plagued them—and not other men who’d lived through the same trauma—had to do with how deeply they felt the awful things that had happened to them.
Some people seemed better able to shield themselves from those negative fears and painful experiences than others. It was almost as if they could put them in a box and hide them away, even from themselves. Whereas some harbored them.
“You do realize those men’s deaths were not your fault, don’t you?” she asked quietly.
Lines bracketed his mouth, and he exhaled a breath through his nose. “Rationally, yes. I understand war is dangerous. I understand that the mission had to be undertaken. I even understand that it was not I who took their lives, but the enemy. What I don’t understand”—Penelope watched his throat move as he swallowed—“is why I survived when they did not.”
Penelope wondered if Gabriel’s illness might be exacerbated by the guilt he carried. The more she tried to unravel what was causing his battle fatigue, the more twisted the knot became. She would have to be patient as she plucked at it and pray it wasn’t hopelessly tangled. Because the more she came to know him, the more desperately she wanted him to be well. He had so much to offer the world.
She squeezed his hands tightly. “Some things can’t be understood,” she said. “We have no control over them. All we can control is how we live in the aftermath. How we make our lives count for something.”
Gabriel nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking much the same. Seeing Mary so well settled today was good for my soul,” he said. “And learning all that Stratford is doing for our ex-soldiers has intrigued me. I’d like to do something similar, but for their widows and children.”
A curious warmth glowed in Penelope’s chest. “I think that is an excellent notion, Gabriel,” she said approvingly. “I’ve long been appalled by Geoffrey’s stories of the poverty and living conditions amongst ex-soldiers and how little the government has done for them. I can only imagine military widows have fared much worse. They could do with a champion.”
And a whole Gabriel could be a powerful champion indeed. She liked the idea more and more. A man with something to strive for was a man more likely to get well.
“Perhaps,” he allowed, determination glinting in his brown eyes. “But I won’t be able to help anyone if I end up back in Vickering Place.”
She piled her other hand atop where theirs were joined, as if making a pact. “Then we’ll do everything in our power to make certain that doesn’t happen.”