Lily George (6 page)

What would Miss Williams think of this plan? Would she approve? She, who earned her bread through her own work, surely would. He wanted her approval. Why? ’Twas hard to say. She was just, well, the kind of girl who any man would want to be friends with. She seemed to have such a tremendous sense of spirit. If he got the position, then he’d have good news for her the next time they met—news that would bring a light to those lovely, velvety brown eyes of hers.

He hastened his steps, fear melting away as he imagined her quick, slanted gaze, the freckles dusting the tip of her nose. It would be nice to have something good to tell her. To show her that he was becoming more of a man.

And there was Bennett Street. The Assembly Rooms loomed ahead, gracious and aloof. And there, with a handsome wooden sign bolted sturdily to a pole, was Felton’s shop.

He poked his head in the door, breathing deeply of the fresh, exhilarating scent of newly shaved wood. He stepped inside, his boots scratching against the sawdust that littered the floor. The shop was strangely hushed, as though not a living soul were present. James scanned the room with a nervous eye. What if they were all gone? He needed to speak with Felton now. He needed to go through with the matter now that he’d finally screwed his courage to the sticking-place.

He scuffed his boots across the floor. The sound echoed through the building. He strained his ears to hear any scrap of sound. And then he caught the faintest tsk-tsk-tsk of metal scraping against wood and strode toward the sound.

A tall, graying man was bent over a workbench, using a chisel of sorts to carve an intricate scroll onto a piece of fine, unblemished mahogany. Without thinking, James let out a cheerful whistle of appreciation. Startled, the man dropped his chisel and turned an affronted gaze toward Rowland.

“Well then, who might you be?” He challenged, a glint of either mirth or annoyance in his faded blue eyes.

’Twas now or never. “Rowland. I—I—I’m a veteran. Cantrill sent me here to see about a position.”

Chapter Six

’T
was Thursday, so the veterans would surely be gathering at Saint Swithin’s for their weekly meeting. Lucy hastened her steps. She must find the ensign alone, before the large crowd of men began clustering into the vestibule of the chapel. If she were to have any hope of convincing him to see Dr. Phillips, she would have to make her argument to him when they were alone. His pride would make it impossible for her to convince him around his brothers in arms, even though they—if they had any sense at all—would agree with her.

The bells tolled the hour as she trotted up the interminable steps. She flicked a glance around the courtyard, seeking out the willow tree they’d sat under when she read to him before. He was not waiting. Oh, well. The weather wasn’t especially fine today. ’Twas humid with only the occasional fitful breeze. Perhaps Rowland was inside, waiting with Cantrill.

She paused at the top of the steps, panting. Goodness, she was always arriving to meet Rowland with a flushed face and bated breath. He must think her a very curious sort of person, always rushing about. Funny, she wasn’t like this with anyone else. She was always cautious and deliberate in her dealings with her charges and the household staff. What was it about Ensign Rowland that made her scurry about, like a mouse after a delicious morsel of cheese?

She wrenched open the door and was confronted with a roiling mass of humanity—men, some wounded and some whole, talked in small groups, while women, old and young alike, stood slightly apart. Children darted in and out of the pews, playing hide-and-seek. But nowhere in this throng did she spy the man she sought. She stood on tiptoe, straining her gaze past a cluster of men who were talking in measured tones amongst themselves. But nowhere was a lanky young man—easily a foot taller than these others. Not that she noticed his great height. Well, not especially.

“Looking for someone?” A pleasant voice rumbled behind her. Lucy started and turned around, heat rushing to her cheeks at being caught gawping. How embarrassing.

“Lieutenant Cantrill.” She bobbed a quick curtsy. “I was...looking for the ensign. Our reading lesson, you know.” She wasn’t ready to admit to Cantrill that she was trying to help cure Rowland. Or that there might be anything more to their meetings than what he’d asked—which was just companionship for the ensign. Nothing more.

“I’m afraid he won’t be here, not for the foreseeable future.” The lieutenant gave her a rueful grin. “He got a position here in Bath with Henry Felton, the carpenter. So this new job in woodworking is occupying most of Rowland’s time.”

For a moment, her tongue was tied. Rowland had an occupation? That was excellent news of course. But—did that mean he didn’t want her to read to him anymore? Her heart dropped like a stone in her chest. “Is he ever coming back to the veterans’ group?”

“Well, I gather he must make a good impression his first few weeks of working. And that must mean sticking to the schedule Felton gives him. In time, perhaps, he can join our meetings again if Felton can spare him on Thursday mornings.” Cantrill checked his pocket watch. “I should start the meeting soon, Miss Williams. It’s getting rather late in the morning.”

“Yes, of course.” Lucy gave a quick nod. She shouldn’t detain him. There really was nothing more to say. Rowland had a new position, so he was doing quite well. And Cantrill didn’t seem to think she needed to continue working with Rowland—or if he did, he didn’t say so. But, even so, she couldn’t hold her tongue. “Do you think the ensign will continue to need me to read to him? To help with his speech problems?”

Cantrill hesitated a moment, a kindly light kindling in his brown eyes. “I think that friendship is still important to Rowland, job or no job,” he responded in a heartfelt tone. “But since his time is rather occupied at the moment, perhaps you should talk to him about the matter yourself. As I said, he’s at Felton’s shop, near the Assembly Rooms.” He bowed. “I must start the meeting, Miss Williams, but thank you again for helping young Rowland.”

Lucy nodded, and Cantrill worked his way through the throng of veterans and families who filed after him, filling up row upon row of pews. Thus left alone in the aisle, Lucy must present quite an odd picture to the assembled group. Neither wife nor sister, she had no reason to be included in this mass of people seeking comfort and aid. Her face heated to the roots of her hairline. She hated being conspicuous.

She quit the vestibule, her slippered feet making nary a sound as she creaked open the door and stepped outside. A feeling of loss, almost of homesickness, washed over her. Rowland would not seek her out, at least for the foreseeable future. What could she do? And, well, it hurt a bit that he hadn’t sent ’round a message. Anything to let her know that he wouldn’t be at the meetings anymore. Or even just a note to share his triumphant news. For it was quite extraordinary that he had landed a job. Why, within just a week or so, he had come so far. She was proud of him. Too bad she could not convey this feeling of pride to him in some way.

She scuffed at a pebble with her toe and started down the steps. Now she had an entire day off and nothing to do. Sophie was off doing something and would be coming to the veterans’ group later in the morning. Her charges had happily planned a day out with their papa, now that Amelia’s debut had gone successfully and Louisa was quite well. No one had any need of her today. And that made one feel quite lonely and insignificant. As though she didn’t really matter in this world.

At the bottom of the steps, she paused. She could run by Felton’s shop and just congratulate the ensign. After all, it would be the friendly thing to do. And, while she was in that part of town, she could stop by the bookseller and find a few new books for the schoolroom. That would be a pleasant diversion, and though the weather was rather peevish, it would be a shame to head back straight to Lord Bradbury’s on her day off.

As she strolled toward the Assembly Rooms, she racked her brain for a way to approach the ensign. She’d have to tamp down her injured feelings, that was for sure. If she showed him how very hurt she was that he didn’t tell her of his good fortune, he might think her quite silly. Or suspect that she had some reason for caring about him beyond the constraints of friendship. Which of course wasn’t true. In fact, she wasn’t even sure why she felt so hurt. It was none of her affair, after all.

She hastened her steps, as though by quickening her pace, she could run away from her thoughts. ’Twas worth a try. How wonderful it would be to run and run and run until her heart beat wildly against her breast and be far, far away from her troubling thoughts.

She was a governess, after all. She had no family. She had to make her own way in the world. She had no time whatsoever for any silliness about caring about a young man. In even thinking about it, she was making herself ridiculous.

By the time she reached Felton’s shop, she was out of breath. Again. It was her lot in life to always arrive breathless before any meeting with the ensign. She would never present a picture of composure to him. Never.

She tried the door latch, her hand shaking a bit. Inside, the shop smelled pleasantly of sawdust and lemon oil. Her slippers scrunched across the floor, but as she peered around, she could discern no one. Perhaps Rowland wasn’t here after all.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Holding her head up high, as though she were quite used to mucking around carpentry shops, she wound along behind a large table. An older man, with graying hair and spectacles, glanced up sharply, as though astonished by her presence.

“May I help you, Miss?” His voice was pleasant enough.

“Yes. Are you Mr. Felton?” She gave him a nervous smile. Somehow, it was easier to say his name than the one of the man she truly sought.

“I am.” He rose, dusting his hands on his rough work apron. “Are you in need of some carpentry work, Miss?”

“No, sir.” She coughed. The sawdust was choking her. Surely ’twas that and not the embarrassment of having to utter the real purpose for her call. “I’ve come to speak to Ensign Rowland. I understand he’s working with you.”

A sudden grin broke across his face, like the sun peeking through storm clouds. “He is. Just follow me.” He beckoned her over his shoulder.

A torrent of words poured out of her as she followed him toward the back of the workshop. “I work with the veterans’ group, you see. And Lieutenant Cantrill told me I might find him here. So I came to see him about—” She broke off, colliding with Felton as he paused in a doorway.

“You’ve got a visitor,” Felton announced. “You may take a bit of a respite, if you like, Rowland. You’ve been working hard all morning.” Turning, Felton gave Lucy a rather cheeky wink. “Miss.” Then he wound his way back through the shop, leaving Lucy standing on the threshold like some ridiculous and lovelorn statue.

* * *

Rowland’s heart pounded in his chest. She was here. Lucy was here. What was she doing here? How did she know he was working for Felton? She stood, still and silent, with dust motes and bits of sawdust falling around her like snow. He stood, schooling his expression to remain pleasant and neutral. He had no right to show his wonderment at her presence.

She stepped into his workroom, her honest, forthright gazing boring into him. “I understand congratulations are in order, Ensign,” she began in that quiet, musical voice of hers. “I went to the veterans’ group for our meeting, and Cantrill said you wouldn’t be going to the meetings for quite some time.”

The meetings. He hadn’t forgotten so much as he had been wrapped up in his new prospects. He’d wanted to tell Miss Williams about his new position many times, but why would she care? Even if he had sent ’round a note, it would seem awfully forward of him. After all, he was nothing to her except a charity case. No need to make himself ridiculous.

“M-m-my apologies,” he began. His throat worked, but nothing else would come out. Any explanation was choked off, and he stood there, staring at her like a fool. Yet again his stammer was robbing him of any dignity.

“No apologies necessary.” She turned away from him and began fidgeting with a block of wood he had hewn earlier in the morning, rocking it back and forth on his worktable. “Lieutenant Cantrill said that I could continue our lessons if you wish, but of course, I don’t see how you would have the time. Being busy with your new position here and all.”

He watched her graceful fingers. Of course, she was busy, too. One of her pupils was making her debut soon—or had already. So likely Miss Williams was stretched thin. Perhaps this was her way of politely letting him know. He understood. James nodded, but her face remained stubbornly turned away from his and she did not see his expression.

“I am happy you got this job, you know.” Her voice was quieter now; he had to strain to hear it. “It shows how determined you are to improve.” She gave the block of wood a final pat and turned his way. “I also wanted to tell you that I spoke to Dr. Phillips about you. He works with the veterans’ group, you know. He said if you wanted his opinion on your condition he would be happy to speak with you.”

Rowland’s blood turned a shade cooler, and a buzzing sound caught his ears. Miss Williams had spoken about his condition to someone else? This wasn’t right. He thought—he thought—well, no matter what he thought, it wasn’t quite fair. “W-w-what?”

She looked up sharply, as though the word shocked her. Or perhaps she was reacting to his tone. “I spoke to Dr. Phillips last week,” she repeated. “Louisa was ill with a bad cold, and while he was there, I asked him what he thought could be done with your speaking problem.”

He looked down at his hands as they gripped the side of the worktable. His knuckles were growing white. Anger and despair poured through him like molten lead. He really was nothing more to Lucy Williams than a charity project. And she, whom he had trusted—she, who had asked if he really wanted to be well—had discussed his problem with someone else. The fact that she spoke to a physician as if his condition was an ailment to be cured was ludicrous anyway. There was nothing wrong with him except his own cowardice. He knew it, and the fact that she spoke about him as though he were a particularly interesting specimen with some tony doctor served to double his humiliation.

“N-n-nothing c-c-can be d-d-done,” he managed, his face growing hotter as he tripped over the words. His stammer was growing worse, hang it all. “T-tis my own cowardice. N-nothing more. D-do not speak of it again, Miss Williams. T-t-to anyone.”

Her velvety brown eyes grew wider and her face paled until the freckles stood out in bold relief across the bridge of her nose. “I beg your pardon, Ensign Rowland?”

“I c-c-can’t speak because I was a coward on the b-b-battlefield,” he spat, clenching the workbench until a splinter stabbed his palm. Oddly, it caused no pain. “N-no physician c-can help me. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“I see,” she murmured. But something in her expression gave him pause. What was she thinking? Was she pitying him, even now? He didn’t want her pity. He wanted her to like him. Not, of course, that she would fall madly in love with him, but it would be nice to be anything to her besides a mere curiosity.

“D-don’t.” He gave a long, shuddering sigh. He didn’t want her concern.

“Don’t what?” She gazed at him with those same fathomless eyes that had haunted him for days after he first met her.

Don’t pity me. Don’t coddle me. Don’t think of me as less than a man.
But the words would not come.

It was time to put an end to this interview. He was dangerously close to losing what little grip he had on his infamous temper. ’Twould do neither of them any good if he began throwing tools against the wall in a fit of rage.

“D-don’t ever speak of my condition with anyone else again.” Rowland released his grip on the table and regarded her as evenly as he could. “T-tis my affair and no one else’s.”

“I see.” Lucy drew herself up to her full height, but even with perfect posture, she still was so small. His heart lurched. He’d been a bully and a buffoon, and here she was—the only person who cared enough about him to seek to ease his affliction. When would his temper cease to get the better of him?