Читать книгу Captain of Her Heart - Lily George - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Harriet stabbed her spade savagely into the dirt. She reached into the moist earth and tugged, pulling out a small potato. Shaking the dirt off the vegetable, she tossed it into the basket by her feet. She promised to help Sophie, but she found herself in dangerous territory. If only she could dig out her devotion to Brookes as easily as she dug out roots here in the family garden.

Harriet shifted from kneeling to squatting back on her heels. Falling in love with Brookes simply was not allowed. Ridiculous, too. After all, he was the first young man that she had come into close contact with. That was the reason for the attraction, and nothing more. Her visit to his library, and the warm companionship that had settled between them bespoke nothing more than a friendly acquaintanceship. So just like a spinster perilously near to the shelf, she attached too much significance to her visit. He provided her with the first challenging conversation she shared in ages—that was all.

She needed a plan. If there were some way she could keep her promise to Sophie while keeping the captain at arm’s length, she could protect her own heart. A strictly platonic arrangement, one that would allow her to enjoy Captain Brookes’s companionship, but kept any romantic nonsense at bay. What could she do?

“Hattie? Where are you?” Sophie called from the kitchen window.

“Garden,” Harriet hollered back. Sophie’s blonde head disappeared from between the curtains. She popped around the corner of the cottage, picking her way across the muddy garden rows.

“Oh, good. You’re alone. Where’s Rose?”

“She’s in the village, doing the marketing. Help me, I am digging potatoes. Rose thought we could boil and mash them for our supper.” She handed Sophie her spade, but her sister remained standing.

“Hattie, I am worried about Mama.”

Harriet sighed. She slanted her gaze up at Sophie. “I am worried about her, too. But what in particular is causing your alarm?”

“I don’t think the laudanum is helping. Or rather, it’s helping too well. Mama sleeps all day long, and all night, too. It can’t be good for her. Perhaps she should call on old friends, or go back to Matlock Bath for a day to see home again…”

“Sophie, if Mama were to see someone else living in our home in Matlock Bath, it would kill her. And none of her old friends will see us anymore, not since Papa lost his fortune.” Harriet grabbed the spade away from Sophie’s useless hands and began digging again.

“Still, there must be something we can do.”

“Dr. Wallace did say that a change in her situation might help. But you know none of the family will have her.” Harriet sat back on her heels and tossed another potato into the basket. “I will think of something, Sophie. Don’t fret. I am sure there is a way to help Mama.”

“I know you’ll find a way, Hattie. That’s why I always come to you.” Sophie patted Harriet’s shoulder. “I’ll go look in on Mama.”

Harriet gazed after her sister’s graceful back as Sophie wove her way across the garden. She stripped off her gloves, slapping them against her knee. The damp earth smelled sweet where she had been digging, and it calmed her jangled nerves. Time to think clearly.

She had three problems now: her infatuation with Captain Brookes, her promise to Sophie and her need to help Mama. Surely she could find a way to solve all three at once. Harriet’s mind flashed back to the day they lost their home. Her own copybooks were burning. Flames licked the pages, and every now and then, a single word flared up from the page while the paper was consumed. While the duns combed through Handley Hall, she fed the fire in the great hall with her manuscripts, watching every single one smolder in the hearth. Writing about nonexistent people seemed such an extravagant waste of time, when one’s own world was collapsing.

But what about now? Women could write books and sell them for money, could they not? And she wouldn’t have to leave home to seek work if she became an authoress, would she?

She rose, dusting the dirt from her backside.

She had the solution.

Picking up her skirts, she dashed from the garden. Her solution would only work if she had Brookes’s help.

Brookes’s eyes glazed over as he stared at the ledgers piled in front of him. Henry kept meticulous records, in a tiny and cramped script that left Brookes cross-eyed after hours of reading. He spent the morning studying the mill’s profitability. After examining the ledgers closely, he decided to look at making adjustments to the spinning mules. A few tweaks here and there could save valuable time and labor. He resolved to formulate a plan with the mill manager for increasing the mill’s profits and saving labor. He needed to prove himself as twice the man he had been before the war, as though gaining more wealth from the mill could make up for his lost leg. Maybe it would impress Sophie, anyway.

The door to the library swung open, and his butler, Bunting, entered, his eyebrows raised to his hairline. “Miss Handley to see you, Captain.”

“S-Sophie?” he stammered in bewilderment. Had she come to make amends or offer some explanation of her standoffish behavior? Her rejection stung more than he cared to admit.

“No. Miss Harriet Handley.” Bunting opened the door wider, and motioned Harriet into the room. A look of astonishment was still pasted to his usually blank countenance.

A rush of pleasure suffused Brookes. An afternoon spent in Harriet’s company was preferable to proving himself anew to Sophie. But his happiness faded when he spied her. No wonder Bunting was dumbfounded. She looked positively untidy, with her rumpled gown and none-too-clean apron. He rose from the desk and grabbed her hands. “Whatever’s the matter?”

She dropped his hands as though they were on fire. “I have a proposition for you, Captain.”

The most adorable streak of dirt bisected her cheek. Against his better judgment, he reached up to rub it with his thumb. “Proposition?” he echoed.

“Oh, sorry.” She laughed ruefully, scrubbing her cheek with the corner of her apron. “Yes. Or a business deal. Whatever term you like.”

A tug of his old mischievousness pulled at his insides. He liked the sound of proposition. “Tell me.”

“I want to write with you.”

His hope deflated. Well, after all, what had he expected her to say? That she wanted to court him? He motioned her to the settee, and sat down across from her. “I don’t understand you. What do you mean? Do you want to write a book?”

“Yes. Remember how we spoke about the need for realistic books about the war? Well, I want to write one. And I want your help so I can do it well.”

Her words cast him into unfamiliar territory, so he fell back on his soldier’s training. He peered at her, trying to assess her thoughts. Did she really want to write his memoirs? The thought of sharing what he had suffered made Brookes recoil. His palms began to sweat.

“I’ve always wanted to be an authoress. In fact I wrote a few books before Papa died. But I want to try it again. I want to write something and sell it. For money.”

He quirked the corner of his lip in amusement at her unnecessary afterthought. Then he directed his attention back to her scheme. He shook his head, attempting to clear his thoughts. “Why write anything new? Why not try to publish what you already have?”

She looked away, blushing. “I don’t have it anymore.”

“Why do you need me?” His words held an edge. While he liked the idea that Harriet might need him, was she merely using him for her own gain?

“I thought we could be a team. An equal partnership. I will write, and you supply the facts.”

In the army, he had been carefully schooled never to show weakness. He did not forget that training now.

“I can see how I can help you. And it’s not that I don’t want to assist you. But if you’ll forgive me—how does this help me? Aren’t most partnerships mutually beneficial?”

“Um…” She bit her lip, looking at a complete loss. “It might help you to talk about the war.”

That was the last thing he wanted to do. He shook his head. “I may not want to.”

“You’d only have to talk about what you want, or verify facts, I promise. And—” she stared at him beseechingly “—if we worked at Tansley Cottage, you could see Sophie more often.”

Brookes turned away. Could he really talk about the war? His ghastly experiences might shock this slip of a girl. He wanted to help her, but his memories of the war still bled like open wounds. He had no desire to take off his bandages and show the gashes to Harriet.

A compromise was in order. He sighed and turned back, staring deeply into her pale face. “My answer is yes, on two conditions.”

“Name them.”

“First, you speak with Stoames, as well. He served as my batman and he is a walking military encyclopedia. He knows a great deal more about the war than I do. Any details beyond what Stoames can supply, I will endeavor to help.”

“Agreed.”

“Second, we work here at Brookes Park. I get very busy and may need to beg off at a moment’s notice. There’s more room to work here, too.” It was safer, too. He liked the security of his own four walls, his own familiar territory.

She nodded, but a shadow of uncertainty crossed her face. “All right.”

What had he done? Brookes swallowed nervously. He needed to get away from her, and get back onto sure footing. “I’ll fetch Stoames, and we will explain the plan to him.”

“I would love to.” She dazzled him with the brightness of her smile.

He loved that smile. Remembering her weakness, he added, “Feel free to choose a book or two while I am gone.”

The blood pounded in Harriet’s temples. Pressing her hands together, she forced herself to stop trembling.

Now she might see him often, to keep her vow to Sophie, but the arrangement was strictly business. And she would write a book, and possibly save her little family in the process. Harriet gulped several lungfuls of air. Her composure returned, and her hands ceased shaking. She gazed down at her lap, startled to see she still wore her dirty gardening apron.

She looked a perfect sight. No wonder he seemed so shocked by her proposal. Sophie would never visit anyone looking less than flawless. Even in poverty, Sophie still managed an elegance that Harriet could never attain. But then, she sought his advice on a business matter and did not make a social call. He was Sophie’s intended and not her young man. So who cared what she looked like?

Harriet shut off her thoughts with a snap. She gazed around the library, taking in the floor to ceiling shelves crammed with volumes bound in red and brown Moroccan leather. Brookes’s offer of a new book tempted her, but she was too indebted to him already. She’d stayed awake until the wee small hours of the morning reading the volume of John Donne she borrowed the day before. She wanted to reread the book, savoring Donne’s words again before returning it. Still, it would do no harm to look over the vast selection, and make a mental note of which books to borrow next time. She rose from the settee and studied the shelf in front of her, arms clasped behind her back.

Footsteps echoed in the hall, and the library door swung open. A man strode into the room, followed by Brookes. He looked about a decade older than the captain, his features roughened by long exposure to the weather and hard living. But his brown eyes held a kindly twinkle that put Harriet at ease.

“Miss Handley, allow me to present Matthew Stoames, my batman. I believe you met him once or twice before the war.”

“Mr. Stoames, it’s been so long I hardly remember the occasion. How do you do?” Harriet bobbed a little curtsy.

“Very well, Miss. Though you may call me Stoames. Everyone else does. Don’t know what I would do if someone kept calling me Mister.” He swept a courtly bow in her direction.

“Miss Handley is writing a book about the war and requires our assistance. I told her that you were the best military authority she could hope for.” Brookes leaned against his desk, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I’ll be happy to help the young lady whenever she wishes.” Stoames nodded at Harriet.

Harriet flashed a grateful smile in return. “I really must be going, but I would like to start work this week. Is that all right?” The sooner the better. After all, if she finished quickly, she might provide Mama with a comfortable living in the space of a year or so.

“Yes, but if we work on Friday, we’ll have to finish quickly. The village is having the Blessing of the Wells.”

Harriet had completely forgotten the village fete. “Will we have time to work, then?”

“Of course. Come over later in the morning, and we will be done in time for the well blessing and afternoon tea.” Brookes cast a glance over his shoulder at the window. “The clouds are gathering again. I am sure it will rain soon. Let me call my carriage for you.”

Another kindness she might never repay. “No, I am happy to walk. The cottage is only a quarter of an hour from here, and I love the exercise. Until Friday, then, gentlemen.” Her voice squeaked a little, betraying her nerves. She quit the library with a speed usually reserved for one being chased by yapping hounds.

She didn’t cease her sprint until she reached the crest of the hill that looked over home.

I did it. It’s over. He said yes!