Healing the Soldier's Heart. Lily George

later, bearing a tray with steaming hot tea and chocolate biscuits. Louisa was still sprawled across the settee, but she was reading that certain familiar green volume her governess had tried so desperately to conceal.

      Lucy set the tea tray down carefully, busying herself with the cups and saucers. The questions were going to start soon; why, she could feel them bubbling to Louisa’s surface. She must compose herself and think of a way to explain the book without inciting further curiosity. She poured a cup of tea for her charge, adding two spoonfuls of sugar as Louisa loved.

      Louisa sat up, casting the book aside, and accepted the teacup. “Lucy, why did you borrow this book from Papa’s library?”

      Ah, there you go. The questions had begun. “I was using that book for some research, Louisa. That is all.”

      Louisa took a careful sip of scalding tea. “But you are no nurse, Lucy. What do you need to research war wounds for?”

      There was no way to hide the whole truth. “I am helping a veteran of Waterloo. There is a group of veterans who meet at Saint Swithin’s, and I have been charged with the task of helping one of them regain the power of speech.”

      Louisa set her cup aside. “Really, Lucy? Can I help, too?”

      Lucy choked on her tea, spluttering and wheezing into her handkerchief. “H-h-help?” she coughed. “H-how on earth can you help?”

      Louisa sighed. “I don’t know.” She dropped her eyes to her cup, and the corners of her mouth creased. “I could read about cures or something. I feel so useless, Lucy. With Amelia getting to have her debut—it’s like she’s already a lady and grown up, and I am just stuck here....” A single tear traced down her cheek.

      “Oh, Louisa.” Lucy gathered her close. In her innermost heart, Louisa had always been her favorite. “Listen, Louisa. You may help me. In fact, I should love to have your assistance. Perhaps we could scour your papa’s library for more volumes on treating war injuries. He has quite a large collection, you know, and few people seem to ever go in there.”

      “Oh, Papa cares little for the library. It was my mother’s favorite room in the house, but since she died, he hardly ever goes in there.” Louisa hiccupped and pulled away from Lucy. “He won’t mind if we use it, though.”

      Lucy stroked Louisa’s cheek. Her ladyship had passed away just a few years before of a wasting disease. Even the curative Bath waters had offered little relief. No small wonder, then, that his lordship had allowed that particular room to fall slowly into disrepair. She ran her hand over Louisa’s forehead and paused. “You feel warm, my dear. Are you quite well?”

      “I feel miserable,” Louisa admitted. “My head aches, and my throat burns.” She reclined against the settee, closing her eyes. Dark shadows ringed those closed eyes. And her cheeks were a trifle flushed, too.

      “Time for bed, then,” Lucy replied briskly. The headache, the sore throat and the moodiness—signs that Louisa was likely coming down with a head cold. She tugged at Louisa’s hands, pulling her from the settee. “Go to your room and put on your nightgown. I’ll warm some broth and be in to take care of you in just a few moments.”

      Louisa stood, rubbing her forehead with one shaky hand. Then, in one sudden movement, she grasped Lucy by the waist, holding her tightly. “Lucy, you are too good to me. As good to me as my own mama would be if she were but here.”

      Tears stung the back of Lucy’s eyes as she watched her charge leave. Did Lucy really think of her as a mama? Lucy touched her fingertip to the corner of her eye. She would never have children of her own, of course. Marriage was not for her. So Louisa’s love meant the world to Lucy. She was so fortunate to have such good, caring girls to teach. So many of her friends went into service upon leaving the orphanage—and such tales they would tell! Letters sent back to chums still in school detailed the horrors of working for spoiled children, lazy or even libertine parents. From these letters, she gleaned that finding a frog in one’s bed was a matter of course in some governess’s lives. She was so very fortunate. She must never forget that or take it for granted.

      She picked up the book that Louisa had set aside. Of course, there was no way that Louisa could really assist with healing the ensign. Why, if Lucy felt overwhelmed by the task—and she did—then a fourteen-year-old miss could hardly do better. On the other hand, ’twould be nice to have Louisa with her often in the coming weeks. A new project, some interesting outings—these matters would keep the girl occupied, her thoughts further from her sister’s dazzling debut.

      And, of course, Louisa’s presence would help distract Lucy from the ensign, as well. It was no good to think about the man as anything but a pleasant friend—the kind of person one would help when he was in trouble. She had no business entertaining any but friendly thoughts for him. She was a governess, after all. She must stick to her purpose and earn her own way in life.

      She laid the book on her dressing table and then rushed down to the kitchen to see to Louisa’s broth.

      * * *

      James lay in the twilight hush of his room, his hands folded behind his head. The ropes under his feather tick gave a squeak of protest as he shifted his weight, trying to ease his restless body and mind. He wanted to overcome his problems and become a better man, but he had not the faintest idea where to begin. He had no real purpose in Bath. He could join his mother and his sister Mary in the poky cottage they called home in Essex, but they were depending on him to make their lives better or easier. There was nothing he could do to achieve that in Essex, no matter what his mother believed.

      His mother still clung to the idea that the Rowlands were somehow still of the nobility, minor though his family was in the great scheme of things. An air of ruined grace still clung to her—the way that dried roses still retained some scent. And she didn’t want him to work with his hands, didn’t want him to seek employment in any profession that would somehow “disgrace” the Rowland name. In fact, Mother held out hope that he would, in time, marry an heiress who could restore the family’s dwindled fortunes.

      He laughed—a bitter, scraping sound that echoed off the bare walls. Poor Mother. As if any heiress would want him. No woman with a grain of sense would. Would she? He caught his breath a little, as an image of sparkling brown eyes and a clever mouth drifted across his mind before he pushed it away. Lucy Williams would never take him to heart. She was a sweet girl, a thoughtful one, the kind of girl who would help anyone in need. And she happened to take an interest in him because Cantrill asked her to and nothing more.

      ’Twas folly to think anything but friendship would come of knowing her. Although friendship with Lucy could be quite sweet. She was such a nice girl.

      Forcing his mind back to the matter at hand, he decided that he needed to have some occupation. Something to distract his mind from its ceaseless wandering over the fields of La Sainte Haye, back to his family in Essex and over to Lucy Williams. He must have some purpose in life—this endless drifting was insupportable, unbearable even.

      He flung the pillow to the floor. Macready had an occupation—devoting himself to nursing back his wounds until he was hale and hearty. He worked at it every day, taking the waters, getting fresh air and food, learning to return to civilian life. Cantrill worked by helping others, eschewing material comforts so that others worse off than he might thrive and prosper.

      It was time, long past time for James to get on with his life. To become a man and not the scared, shrinking boy who’d returned from the war. When he met with Cantrill on the morrow, he would ask the captain to help him find some kind of occupation. Even if Mother fainted at the thought of her son working with his hands, he must do something.

      He could not idly stand by and remain a lily-livered coward forever.

      That life had to die—as it should have in the rye field at La Sainte Haye.

      Chapter Five

      Thank goodness she had sent for the physician. His mere presence was enough to calm Lucy’s nerves. Her heart slowed to a normal beat