“Think nothing of it. Come have some tea.” He unfolded himself from his deep leather chair and pulled a velvet wingback closer to the fire. “What do you like to read, Miss Handley?”
“Please call me Harriet. Miss Handley sounds ridiculously formal.” She sat gracefully.
“Very well, then, Harriet. What do you like to read?”
“Anything I can,” she replied. “Before Papa lost his library, I had so many to choose from. It was his weakness, you know, collecting books. It led to our downfall, I’m afraid. I gravitate toward the classics. I salvaged the few you saw today. They are my old friends.”
“Homer? What do you like about his works?”
“‘Wherefore I wail alike for thee and for my hapless self at grief at heart, for no longer have I anyone beside in broad Troy that is gentle to me or kind, but all men shudder at me,’” Harriet quoted promptly. “Helen, Paris, the fall of Troy—it’s all so heroic and romantic.”
Brookes gazed deeply into her dark eyes. “Not all wars are heroic or romantic. After all, thousands of innocent people were slaughtered because of Helen’s fickleness and her beauty.”
She colored under his gaze, staring at the floor. “I suppose that’s true,” she said quietly.
He had gone too far, blundering and lecturing like a stern schoolmaster. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“No, I am the one who should apologize.”
“Not at all.” He studied her a bit longer, mesmerized by the pretty flush warming her cheeks. He attempted a lighter tone. “After being in battle, one realizes there is very little romance in war.”
“I’m sure.” She looked up at him, her eyes darkening to a deep, fathomless blue. “Someone should write a realistic novel about war.”
Drowning in those dark eyes, he had to tear himself away. “I doubt anyone would read it.” He cast a rueful grin her way. They sat together in silence, which was broken only by the chime of the mantel clock.
“I should be going. Mama will be wondering where I am.” She stood and brushed off her skirts with a practical air.
“Let me order my carriage,” Brookes replied, and pulled the bell pull. “It’s raining in earnest. Do take a few books home.” She selected a volume of John Donne, he noted. He would read the book when she returned it.
“This should keep me occupied.” She smiled again, and a warm glow flowed through him.
“Come back whenever you wish.” Then, remembering his manners, he added, “Bring your sister, too.”
Her smile faded. She was all business and practicality again. “Of course. Thank you for a lovely afternoon.”
The carriage was ready; in an instant, Harriet was gone. Brookes stood at the window, mulling over his daily obligations. His afternoon was completely wasted. He was late to see his mill manager, and he needed to speak with his steward about this spring’s crops. But it was worth it. He hadn’t enjoyed himself this much in years.
He prided himself on his reputation as a career soldier, not easily flustered by anything, especially a pretty face. Rarely did anyone cause him to change his purpose or his mind. But the trained tactician in him sensed a problem.
What if he had chosen the wrong sister?
Chapter Four
Harriet stabbed her spade savagely into the dirt. She reached into the moist earth and tugged, pulling out a small potato. Shaking the dirt off the vegetable, she tossed it into the basket by her feet. She promised to help Sophie, but she found herself in dangerous territory. If only she could dig out her devotion to Brookes as easily as she dug out roots here in the family garden.
Harriet shifted from kneeling to squatting back on her heels. Falling in love with Brookes simply was not allowed. Ridiculous, too. After all, he was the first young man that she had come into close contact with. That was the reason for the attraction, and nothing more. Her visit to his library, and the warm companionship that had settled between them bespoke nothing more than a friendly acquaintanceship. So just like a spinster perilously near to the shelf, she attached too much significance to her visit. He provided her with the first challenging conversation she shared in ages—that was all.
She needed a plan. If there were some way she could keep her promise to Sophie while keeping the captain at arm’s length, she could protect her own heart. A strictly platonic arrangement, one that would allow her to enjoy Captain Brookes’s companionship, but kept any romantic nonsense at bay. What could she do?
“Hattie? Where are you?” Sophie called from the kitchen window.
“Garden,” Harriet hollered back. Sophie’s blonde head disappeared from between the curtains. She popped around the corner of the cottage, picking her way across the muddy garden rows.
“Oh, good. You’re alone. Where’s Rose?”
“She’s in the village, doing the marketing. Help me, I am digging potatoes. Rose thought we could boil and mash them for our supper.” She handed Sophie her spade, but her sister remained standing.
“Hattie, I am worried about Mama.”
Harriet sighed. She slanted her gaze up at Sophie. “I am worried about her, too. But what in particular is causing your alarm?”
“I don’t think the laudanum is helping. Or rather, it’s helping too well. Mama sleeps all day long, and all night, too. It can’t be good for her. Perhaps she should call on old friends, or go back to Matlock Bath for a day to see home again…”
“Sophie, if Mama were to see someone else living in our home in Matlock Bath, it would kill her. And none of her old friends will see us anymore, not since Papa lost his fortune.” Harriet grabbed the spade away from Sophie’s useless hands and began digging again.
“Still, there must be something we can do.”
“Dr. Wallace did say that a change in her situation might help. But you know none of the family will have her.” Harriet sat back on her heels and tossed another potato into the basket. “I will think of something, Sophie. Don’t fret. I am sure there is a way to help Mama.”
“I know you’ll find a way, Hattie. That’s why I always come to you.” Sophie patted Harriet’s shoulder. “I’ll go look in on Mama.”
Harriet gazed after her sister’s graceful back as Sophie wove her way across the garden. She stripped off her gloves, slapping them against her knee. The damp earth smelled sweet where she had been digging, and it calmed her jangled nerves. Time to think clearly.
She had three problems now: her infatuation with Captain Brookes, her promise to Sophie and her need to help Mama. Surely she could find a way to solve all three at once. Harriet’s mind flashed back to the day they lost their home. Her own copybooks were burning. Flames licked the pages, and every now and then, a single word flared up from the page while the paper was consumed. While the duns combed through Handley Hall, she fed the fire in the great hall with her manuscripts, watching every single one smolder in the hearth. Writing about
