Healing the Soldier's Heart. Lily George

had to remain just that—dreams and nothing more. She had no time for love. And she had a duty to her charges.

      And, after all, she had been asked to help the ensign not for her beauty or eligibility but because she was a governess. And a governess she would remain for the rest of her days. She dearly hoped that she and the ensign would become good friends. But friends were all they could ever be.

      * * *

      Ensign James Rowland smiled as he watched Miss Lucy Williams walk off arm in arm with the pretty blonde Miss Handley who had captured Cantrill’s interest. Lucy didn’t mind that he could not speak, which had made him quite comfortable in her company. In fact, he was more at ease with her than he had been with anyone outside his tight circle of fellow soldiers.

      It helped, of course, that she was quite attractive herself, but in a more unique way than her blonde friend. She had glossy black hair piled high on her head, wide brown eyes and a fascinating sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Most women, out of coquetry or sense of fashion, would use some type of artificial means to hide or remove those supposed imperfections. But not Lucy. They added spice to her person, like a sprinkle of cinnamon across a particularly tasty dish.

      For the first time since his return from Waterloo, he was intrigued by someone else. Everything looked gray and sounded like it was wrapped in cotton wool since that horrible day he lay bleeding and silent in the rye at La Sainte Haye. But in Lucy’s warm brown eyes, he captured a glimpse of life. And that brief spark glowed in his heart as Lieutenant Cantrill joined him on the street below Saint Swithin’s.

      “Come, Rowland, let us return home.” Cantrill sighed. “I have much preying upon my mind this afternoon, and I need to think matters over.”

      Whatever Cantrill and Miss Handley had spoken of apparently drove the lieutenant to distraction. He spoke hardly a word on the fifteen-minute walk back to Beau Street to the modest flats that several soldiers had called home since their return from the peninsula. Of course, it didn’t matter that the lieutenant didn’t speak. In fact, Rowland couldn’t expect anyone to make conversation with a man who only uttered a word now and again.

      He nodded his goodbye to Cantrill, who lived on the ground floor flat, and took the steps two at a time to reach the flat he shared with Lieutenant Sean Macready, a fellow officer of the 2nd Battalion 69th.

      As he entered their humble flat, the delectable aroma of beef stew greeted him, causing his mouth to water. The housekeeper must be here. Thank heavens. They shared servants with Lieutenant Cantrill; this kept Mrs. Pierce bustling up and down stairs all day long, though she insisted she did not mind. And her stew, heated and reheated, formed their sustenance for many days, growing richer and mellower with each passing day.

      “What ho, man?” Macready beckoned him into the kitchen, where he sat at the rickety oak table, a steaming bowl before him. “Mrs. Pierce just left to take the lieutenant his lunch. Try the bread first with a dab of butter. It’s a poem.”

      With a grateful grunt, James grabbed a plain white china bowl from the cupboard and filled it to the brim with stew. Then he hacked off the end of the loaf of bread—so warm that it singed his fingers a bit—and sat across from Macready at the table.

      “Good gracious, man. I haven’t seen you eat so heartily since before the war.” Macready leaned forward, eyeing James suspiciously. “What has gotten into you?”

      James shrugged, keeping his eyes cast down. Nothing extraordinary had happened, had it? He was just hungry was all.

      He split the bread open, patting butter on the inside and then closed it so the middle of the bread would become more moist as the butter melted. His favorite childhood treat, much more coveted than a cookie or a slice of cake.

      Macready took another bite of stew. Then, assuming an elaborately casual air, he asked, “How was Sunday service?”

      James bit into the crusty loaf, closing his eyes in delight for a moment as he savored it. Then he uttered his customary one-word response, “Fine.”

      “Hmm. Are you sure, Rowland? There’s an air about you, as though something extraordinary happened to you. You even look different. There’s more color in your person, as though you are warmer from the inside.” Macready broke off another piece of bread, peering at James as he did so.

      Blast Macready and his Irish gift of gab. He would never let up—not until James had told him about his entire morning. True, his meeting with Lucy Williams had given him hope—hope that he could move on from the past. She was the first person he’d met in Bath who wasn’t a veteran of the war. And she was the only person to offer her friendship. The difference between how he felt before church this morning and now, sitting in the cozy kitchen, well, this was the difference that a new friendship could make in a fellow’s life. She made life seem just a little less bleak and unforgiving.

      ’Twas strange indeed how he could speak to only certain people and stranger still how he could not speak to everyone else. His ability to speak naturally had fled as he lay crouched, playing dead, at La Sainte Haye. Macready was one of the only men to whom he could converse. And even though he could speak to the lieutenant, he did so slowly and haltingly. Macready had long since grown used to his stilted cadences, though, and waited with great patience to listen whenever James chose to speak.

      But how to describe Lucy? She was merely offering to help him out of charity and friendship, surely. So it would be folly to describe her in grand terms that would have Macready expecting a romance in the offing. No woman wanted a poor, mute veteran for her own. Certainly not someone who was pretty and clever, like Miss Williams. So it was much better to stick with the facts, as a good soldier should.

      “Met a g-girl,” he grumbled. His voice was rusty and unpracticed, even to his own ears. He reached for the teapot and poured a steaming cup. “She will work with the veterans’ group of Cantrill’s. Helping out.” He took a long draught of burning tea to calm his ragged throat and hide his emotions from Macready.

      “Not Sophie Handley, surely? I don’t know much about the female in question, but I believe she is destined to be Cantrill’s,” Macready replied, a warning note to his voice.

      “No. Miss Williams. She wants t-t-to read to me. T-to help with...this.” He shrugged one shoulder. ’Twas terribly awkward to talk about his strange affliction, even with Macready. After all, the lieutenant had deep gashes all along one arm and up one leg, wounds that were taking forever to heal. Whilst James himself had gotten only a few nicks.

      It made a fellow wonder if, deep down inside, he was really a coward after all. Why else would he be so affected by injuries that had been so slight?

      “Well, that could be most entertaining, you know. Is she pretty?” Incorrigible Macready, always ready to seek out a lovely new face. Even so, an unreasonable dart of jealousy shot through James. He played down his response so that Macready would leave him in peace.

      “P-pretty enough,” he allowed. “Let’s hope she d-doesn’t like G-gothic novels.” But even as he spoke the words, James was prepared to take them back. He’d be willing to listen to the most overwrought of Gothic horrors if it meant spending more time basking in the warm glow of Miss Williams’s company.

      Chapter Two

      ’Twas Thursday, Lucy’s day of rest from her duties in the schoolroom. Never before had she been so grateful for a day away from her charges. Amelia was making her debut in just a few days’ time, and the entire house was in chaos as preparations mounted for her dinner party.

      Amelia herself was absent from lessons all week, as Lord Bradbury had pressed Sophie into service, coaching Amelia on all the finer points of etiquette and deportment. Bereft of her sister and generally overlooked in the confusion, Louisa moped about her schoolwork, her large dark eyes filling with tears as she studied her Latin declensions.

      And Sophie, working as both seamstress and mistress of proper decorum, was taxed to her limit. Lucy had not spent more than a few moments in Sophie’s company since the past Sunday, and the absence