Healing the Soldier's Heart. Lily George

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СКАЧАТЬ Now she was alone, and her performance was imminent. Did famous opera soubrettes have an attack of nerves before going onstage? Probably not. If performance were a part of your daily round, ’twas quite likely that you’d simply get used to it.

      Saint Swithin’s perched majestically on a hill, its proud façade overlooking all of Bath. Why, it was intimidating even to look upon, much less consider what—or whom—awaited her there. By the time she reached the front steps, she was quite winded. She paused a moment at the top of the stone steps, exhaling as slowly as she could, her heart pounding in her chest. Bowing her head a moment, she counted to ten. It would never do to approach Rowland as though she had been running a footrace through the park.

      As she drew herself up, shaking her skirts, she caught a glimpse of a handsome, angular face. Gracious, Rowland was here already! He turned toward her, a smile lighting his eyes as he extended his hand in greeting.

      “Ensign Rowland,” she gasped and then cleared her throat. She hadn’t meant to meet him so soon. She needed more time to compose herself. But there was nothing to do but brazen through her nerves and her breathlessness.

      He nodded, his smile growing as he surveyed her. She paused a moment, awaiting some sort of spoken response, and then shook her head. Of course, he was not going to speak. Botheration. That was the entire point of their meeting, was it not? To help him overcome his affliction?

      To cover her confusion and deter his rapt attention from her now hotly glowing cheeks, Lucy took his hand and bobbed a curtsy. The brim of her bonnet would hide the pinkness of her face for a moment. But she hadn’t anticipated on the tingle that shot up her arm at his touch. Goodness, she was making a cake of herself.

      And if she went inside the church with him, her embarrassment would be writ clear on her face for everyone to see. Lieutenant Cantrill and Rowland’s other cronies would surely laugh at her and jest to Rowland about it later after the meeting was over. No, if she was going to hide her roiled emotions, it would be much easier to do so from just one man than a dozen.

      “Shall we sit out here and enjoy this fine weather?” She indicated a nearby stone bench with what she hoped was a carefree gesture. “After such a wet and cold winter, I vow I am quite in adoration of this spring weather.”

      Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the ensign nodding. She allowed him to steer her over to the bench and then sat, gathering her skirts about her with as much grace as she could assume.

      “Well, then.” She waited as he took his seat, stretching his booted legs out before him. Then she opened her reticule—her curiously light and flat reticule. Oh, gracious. She had left her book at home.

      She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry; she was such a bundle of nerves. An emotion bubbled up her throat, and for a dreadful instant, she thought she was going to burst into tears. Instead, she chuckled, unable to hold back any longer. At least laughter relieved the unbearable anxiety she felt.

      Rowland glanced at her, puzzled, one eyebrow quirked. She turned her reticule inside out, showing him a few coins and bits of lint. “I came all this way, Ensign Rowland, and I never even had the book with me.”

      * * *

      Lucy Williams had the most enchanting laugh. And when she giggled, as she was doing now, her brown eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed a dusky pink. It was delightful simply to gaze upon her, drinking in her mirth at the absurdity of the situation. He handed her his handkerchief, which she used to dab her eyes—she laughed so hard that tears just touched their corners.

      Her laughter slowed, and as her joy began to fade, confusion took its place. He wanted to reassure her—to wipe any trace of discomfiture away. So he withdrew a battered book from his coat pocket and handed it to her.

      She took the volume, handling it with a gentle touch to keep from pulling the worn pages apart. “Poetry? Ah, some of the finest. Sir Walter Scott, Dryden...” She continued perusing the pages. “I shall have to be very careful with this, ensign. I can tell just by looking at it that this is a book you have consulted many times.”

      He nodded, eyeing her carefully. His throat worked, but no sound came out. He remained silent and watchful.

      She traced over a dark splotch on the cover. “In fact, I would wager this book has been to battle.” She kept her eyes lowered, her dark lashes fanning out over her cheeks.

      He nodded again. He read those poems often in the field. More than once, Sir Walter Scott had given him the courage to see another battle.

      “I bet I can find your favorite.” She grasped the book, settling the spine on her lap. Then, with infinite caution, she let the volume fall open. And just like that, the pages settled, revealing Marmion.

      She began reading in clear, dulcet tones, as though reciting for a schoolroom of young ladies or as an elocutionist in a performance. Her voice, lit from within with warmth and fire, began the introduction to the first canto,

      “November’s sky is chill and drear,

      November’s leaf is red and sear:

      Late, gazing down the steepy linn,

      that hems our little garden in...”

      The spring breeze ruffled her lavender skirts as she continued to read, stirring her black curls so that they touched her cheek as she read. He gazed at her, saying the words in his mind as she read them aloud. He knew the poem like he knew the hills and fields back home in Essex—it was as familiar to him as breathing. And yet he had never felt the passion and the pathos of Flodden Field until Lucy Williams read the poem aloud.

      She paused a few times, darting quick little glances up as she read through the six cantos. Whenever her eyes left the page, he studied his boots as though they were the most fascinating things in the world. She was nervous enough as it was without having a mute soldier ogling her like a green lad.

      “To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay

      has cheated of thy hour of play,

      Light task, and merry holiday!

      To all, to each, a fair good-night,

      and pleasing dreams, and slumbers light!”

      After repeating Scott’s final words, Lucy sighed and closed the book, taking a few deep breaths. “Goodness, Ensign Rowland, I have not read for so long aloud in many a year. Growing up, when I was in school, I often had recitations. But as a governess, I have the luxury of passing on the task of reciting to my charges.” She turned to him, a smile hovering about the corners of her mouth. “Did I perform well enough?”

      Again, his throat worked. He strained against his infirmity, longing to offer a flowery compliment. Or at least a thank-you. But no matter how hard he tried, his voice was gone. So he merely nodded, struggling to let his gratitude show in his expression.

      She inclined her head as though he’d really spoken. “Thank you, Ensign. I do appreciate the compliment. And the captive audience.” Her smile widened to a grin. “Shall I read another?”

      He grasped the book and flipped to another page, with another favorite, and handed it back to Lucy. “Ah, The Lady of the Lake. Excellent choice. I had my eldest charge, Amelia, recite this last year.”

      She read СКАЧАТЬ