him the perfect time to strike. Brookes stood up, his heart hammering, and found his way through the crush of villagers to her table.
“May I sit for a moment?” His voice had a catch in it. He cleared his throat.
Sophie jumped in her chair. Her face turned as crimson as the cloth spread over her table. “Of course.” Her voice was unnaturally strained and breathless.
“Lovely tea.”
“I haven’t tried it yet.” Sophie began to pour some into her cup, but her hand shook so that she spilled a little on the cloth.
“Allow me,” Brookes said smoothly, whipping out his handkerchief. Sophie reached out to grasp her saucer at the same moment he began patting at the spot on the tablecloth. He knocked against the cup and sent it flying. It landed on the floor with a crash, splintering to a thousand pieces.
“Oh!” cried Sophie. She stooped down to gather the broken pieces. Brookes stooped to help but his leg gave out, lurching him forward. He collided with Sophie, knocking her soundly on the head.
Sophie sat back in her chair with a little huff, rubbing at her skull. “Ouch.”
“My deepest apologies. Did I hurt you badly?”
“I’ll recover,” Sophie snapped.
He cleared his throat again, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. Should he keep charging ahead? Or should he offer to look at her wound? He peered at Sophie closely. The irritated expression on her face decided it for him. Charge ahead, ignore the little incident.
“I shall look forward to seeing you at the ball tonight,” he began, hoping to restore his sense of savoir faire.
“Yes.”
“Will you save a dance for me?” He remembered how, before the war, they would dance together so often that it raised the eyebrows of the matrons of Matlock Bath.
“Can you dance?” Sophie asked, with a mixture of irritation and frank curiosity that shriveled his interest.
“I don’t know. I haven’t tried.” He inhaled deeply, seeking Sophie’s smell of violets and muslin. But the scent of spilled tea permeated everything.
“Well, if you can dance, then I will be happy to reserve one for you, Captain Brookes.” A pat reply, one that he instantly recognized. A sop, and nothing more. He saw her turn away countless other suitors with a similar vague gesture before.
He stood up. A good soldier recognized the right moment for retreat. “Until tonight, then, Miss Handley.”
“Ah, seeing the pair of you again, it was like old times.” Rose clasped her hands over her bosom. “Like the war never happened. Before we had to leave Matlock Bath.”
Harriet glanced over at her sister, carefully sidestepping a rut in the road. It had not looked like old times to her. She had watched the whole scene from across the room, where she and Rose had stopped to help themselves to scones and clotted cream. When she espied the captain making his way to the table, she stayed rooted to the spot, and bid Rose do the same. Watching the awkward tableau reminded her of the amateur dramatics that trouped through Derbyshire. In fact, Harriet could not bear to watch after Captain Brookes collided with Sophie. She turned away, embarrassment and tenderness for the captain overwhelming her, making her knees weak.
Sophie’s rosy lips pulled into a thin line. She kicked at a pebble in the road and remained silent.
“That marked the first time you two have been alone together since he returned from the war. If it felt a little strange, perhaps it can be linked to the passage of time.” Harriet took pride in her casual voice, even though her heart pounded in her ears.
“He broke my cup.”
“He did not mean to.”
“He bumped my head.”
“Another accident,” Harriet reminded her, adopting her most authoritative, sisterly tone. Sophie’s pettiness vexed Harriet more than usual. Though she hated to admit it, she was irritated that she cared so much.
“I thought you two made a pretty picture,” Rose broke in.
“I don’t wish to speak of it. When I see him at the ball tonight, I shall endeavor to be more civil.”
Harriet could only hope her sister told the truth, but she noted that Sophie’s dimples had vanished, her lips compressed in a stubborn line.
Harriet cast about for another topic of conversation. “Do you know, Sophie, Reverend Kirk invited us to attend services in Crich. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Sophie shrugged. “You know Mama will never attend. She is too worried about appearances.”
“I may go without her. The way he spoke of St. Mary’s, it sounds like a simple country parish. I doubt very much that everyone there is conscious of status to the degree they are at Matlock Bath.” She smiled hopefully. “I can’t go every Sunday, but I would like to go once every few fortnights.”
“Very well, if you go I will go with you.” Sophie sounded tired, the weight of the world resting on her young shoulders.
Harriet gave her sister’s arm an impulsive squeeze. A light breeze tickled her face, sending the ribbons on her dress fluttering.
“I’ll come, too, dearie. I’ve missed Sunday services.” Rose looked down at Harriet, her eyes shining with motherly affection.
“Thank you, Rose.” Harriet’s mood lifted, suffusing her with a sense of buoyancy. “I cannot wait for the ball tonight.”
The ball simply couldn’t come quickly enough, though it was just a few hours away. If only this lightness of spirit would last until then. For the first time in ages, she felt like dancing. Not, of course, that the captain would ask her to dance. Heat rose in Harriet’s cheeks, scorching her like a flame. He would dance with Sophie, naturally. That was the right and proper thing to do; in fact, the simple act of them dancing together would take Sophie closer to matrimony and the family closer to stability.
So why did she feel a wriggle of discomfort at the pit of her stomach? It wasn’t jealousy. Surely that feeling was just…nerves.
Chapter Eight
The cold, sharp edge of a razor blade scraped across Brookes’s chin. He willed himself to stay still and completely in the present, not allowing the feeling of steel on flesh to carry him back to the terrible night at Waterloo. Stoames squinted at him with a critical air, running the blade slightly over to the left. Wiping the blade on a towel, he paused. “You’ll have to pull your lips down, Captain, so as I can get the bit under your nose.”
Brookes pulled a face, twisting his lips down to lengthen the spot between his nose and mouth. Giving his skin a final swift swipe, Stoames stepped back. “Hot towel, Captain.”
Brookes pressed the steaming cloth to his face, inhaling the clean scent of shaving soap and fresh linen. He dabbed at the bits of lather that still clung to his face, and rubbed the linen hard against his skin for good measure. “Shaving is
