On a Midnight Clear Page 8

  Hours later, Cecil awoke in the bed he’d usurped from her the day before. By the time he’d returned to the cottage following their argument, Sarah had retired. But now, something felt wrong, or off.

  He listened, yet nothing out of the ordinary met his ears. With the instinct he’d honed over too many years of being on battlefields, he rolled out of bed and then tugged on a pair of breeches as well as a loose shirt. On silent feet, he went across the tiny hall and pushed open the door to the second bedroom. Simon slept peacefully in the bed, but Sarah wasn’t there.

  Drat the woman. Where had she gone?

  With foreboding riding his spine, Cecil padded downstairs despite the darkness. He knew the layout of the cottage like the back of his hand, but when he didn’t find her in the common room, guilt surged into his chest. Would she have fled in the face of his anger? Surely not without taking Simon with her.

  She wasn’t in the parlor either, and then the sound came again—the barely-there tinkling of glass against glass. His bare feet made no noise as he moved to the stillroom, stood in the doorway, and watched as she worked at a scarred and scratched wooden table. The light of a single candle spilled a pool of golden light over her and the tinctures she mixed.

  “Sarah.”

  The whisper was overly loud in the silence, and she started, her eyes round, her body tensed and poised to flee. Her lips formed a perfect “O”. Would that he had leave to kiss away her concerns, set her fears to rest. “Cecil.”

  He held up a hand. “Please stay. I...” Heat crept up the back of his neck, for he’d behaved like a cad. She wasn’t one of his men on the battlefield and he shouldn’t have treated her so badly. “I wish to apologize. What I said was done out of anger.”

  “No.” She shook her head, and the long brown braid of her hair flipped over her shoulder, picking up blonde strands in the dim light. A strong urge to run his fingertips along that braid took hold. Was her hair as soft as he remembered? “You had every right and were justified in venting your spleen, as it were.”

  Guilt squeezed through his chest with greater force than before. That she would have given up her stance left him cold. “Just the same, I shouldn’t have shouted or accused you.”

  She huffed out a breath. “I shouldn’t have lied or delayed writing.” When she met his gaze, too many emotions clouded her eyes and the darkness swallowed up those he couldn’t read. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re back from the war. I’m also glad you will never need to return to the military.”

  “Oh?” His mind reeled. What did that mean?

  She corked a slim, short brown bottle. “You deserve your own life away from the horrors of war, the rigors of battle. A life you’ll enjoy.”

  A bitter bark of laughter escaped him. “I don’t know that I’ll ever be fully free, for the memories are, at times, more exacting than anything I faced.” But her admission whisked a bit of the anger and guilt away. In their place came... hope. He hadn’t had that for years.

  “Are they horrible, those memories?” The soft-spoken question drew him further into the room until the table separated them.

  “At times.” He forced a swallow into his tight throat. If it hadn’t been for the memory of her, he would never have made it through. “I am unable to enjoy a full night’s sleep most times. Everything I do is tainted with the smell of blood, the sound of the dying.”

  For long moments, she held his gaze. There were questions in her eyes, but she asked none of them. “I have a calming herbal tea blend you can try in the evenings to relax your mind and hopefully usher in sleep. If you’d like.”

  The small concession took him by surprise. Was this an olive branch of sorts? “I would appreciate that.” A feeling of responsibility grew. He wanted to care for her and the boy since he’d been partially responsible for their current straits. And she did need help. Not knowing how to voice his thoughts or even feelings, he cleared his throat. “I, uh, thought I’d fix a few things around the cottage in preparation for winter.” A wry grin curved his lips. “That is, if you don’t mind. I’ve found I dislike being idle.”

  “I can only imagine what you’ve faced these last several months,” she murmured and corked another bottle. “Please, go ahead and do what you’d like. I should have been more mindful of the repairs needed.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Perhaps he could extend an olive branch of his own. Doing what he could about the place would be his Christmas gift to her, and his way of helping to raise the boy. “I should have been here.”

  “But others had need of you more,” she added in a whisper. “I couldn’t be selfish.”

  “Perhaps.”

  In the candlelight, golden flecks within her brown depths surfaced. Concern lined her face, and for the first time he saw her as a woman doing her best with what she had. She fiddled with the lace-trimmed sleeves of her night rail where they fell at her wrists.

  “Does this mean you’ll let Simon and I stay on?” The tremor in the question lanced through his chest with all the accuracy of a bayonet blade.

  “At least through Christmas Day,” he rushed to assure her. “We shall talk of it again at that time. Perhaps an introductory period will flesh out more of what we need to know of each other.” What, exactly, did he want from her now that they were essentially strangers?

  She nodded but said nothing.

  Loathe to leave her company for whatever reason, Cecil stuck out a hand. “Let us shake on it to seal the promise.”

  “Good idea.” Slowly, and without breaking eye contact, Sarah slipped her hand into his. As they shook, tiny tendrils of charged energy danced up his arm from the point of contact. “Thank you for this additional kindness.”

  He released her hand as if she’d burned him. “It is not a kindness, Sarah. It is what any man of honor would do for the lives placed in his care.”

  A blush bloomed in her cheeks. “Is that what you consider Simon and me? In your care?”

  “Better late than never, wouldn’t you say? I won’t leave you in the lurch again.” The emotions welling in his chest were foreign and puzzling at best. “We should go to bed.” When her eyes widened, the double meaning of his words sank in and collided with what he already grappled with. For fear of exposing a vulnerable side to her, he cleared his throat and stepped backward until he gained the stillroom doorway. “I meant sleep. We should go to bed to sleep. Separately.” He rubbed a hand over along his jaw. “Goodnight, Sarah.”

  “Goodnight, Cecil.” Her kissable lips curved in an amused smile. “I shall see you at breakfast.”

  That may be so, but he would undoubtedly pass another fitful night, only this time for a whole different reason than usual.

  Chapter Eight

  December 17, 1814

  Two days passed since Sarah had made a tentative peace with Cecil, but having the Major underfoot hadn’t grown less awkward. However, they had fallen into a routine of sorts, and that helped lessen the tension tremendously.

  She made a simple breakfast, which she fed to the Major and Simon. Afterward, while the boy toiled over his alphabet and practiced handwriting, Cecil puttered about the cottage—fixing, repairing, patching. He cursed frequently, but she chose to ignore the habit, for he wished to be left alone. That was made abundantly clear when she’d checked on him the first time and received a grunt and a glare for her efforts.

  Once that portion of the day finished, Cecil came in for luncheon, which wasn’t more than a hearty soup or a thick slice of ham steak on some bread with cheese. He never complained about the fare and for that she was grateful. At times, he would return outside to chop more firewood, or else he would walk in the woods and over the countryside.

  Occasionally, Simon accompanied him, and Sarah didn’t tell him nay. It was good for the two of them to spend time together, though each time they went out, her heart squeezed. Would there come a point when Cecil would challenge her for custody of their child?

  I cannot bear that.

&n
bsp; She shoved the thought from her mind. Since the boy wasn’t at home, she did what she always did and worked in her stillroom. A few customers dropped by, knocking on her door to either pick up items requested, or they wished for her to assess their ailments. Mostly, they were possessed of roving eyes, for they kept glancing about, perhaps in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the boarder and handyman they’d no doubt heard about.

  When that distraction had been fully exhausted, Sarah had no other choice except to settle into the common room and fill the hours with mending. Simon was particularly hard on his clothes; the Major slightly less so. She’d only consented to sew on a few buttons or mend a couple of tears in his shirts because he was rather fumble-fingers at the task, and she couldn’t watch him stick his thumb with the needle any longer.

  But there was something all too homey and domestic about holding his shirts in her hands and smelling the faint scent of him each time she moved the fabric. And that set her mind to wandering.

  The Major had made no inroads into being genteel since their unspoken truce had been called, even if he was polite. When they met in the hallway or saw each other in the same room, she didn’t flee and they would exchange smiles, but as of yet, the two of them hadn’t sat down for a real conversation, nor did they talk on banal subjects. They merely... existed around each other while Simon filled the cottage with his child’s chatter. Cecil didn’t seem to mind the boy and his hundreds of questions, so again, she said nothing.

  Beyond that, the Major and she never spoke of that long-ago night even though she thought of little else each time she saw him or caught a hint of his shaving soap or heard his laughter. And on very rare occasions, when the fire snapped and Simon made them all laugh and the rain fell outside, her gaze would meet his and they would share a secret smile that made her wonder all over again if he, too, thought of that night. Those times, she told herself not to fall for the domestic scene they undoubtedly made. Nothing would last between them, and even if it might, too many things remained unsettled.

  As per usual, as soon as Cecil and Simon came home from wherever they’d tramped, the Major collapsed into the worn leather chair with his cane resting against the side, his stocking-covered feet propped on the ottoman. When Simon settled onto one of the furs in front of the fire, he kept his worshipful gaze on the Major while he played a few battered tin soldiers that had long ago lost most of their paint.

  “Getting colder out there,” Cecil said in a conversational tone as he took a piece of wood—a stick, really, not more than two inches around and six inches high—in hand and with a knife, resumed whittling, which he’d done each evening he’d been in residence. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it might snow soon.”

  Though the hobby left wood shavings all over the floor and chair, Sarah didn’t mind, for the boy was spellbound with everything Cecil did, and every once in a while, she would catch a slight smile on the Major’s lips. They two needed each other and this time.

  Perhaps she did too.

  “Do you truly think so?” Simon asked with wonder in his expression.

  “I do.” Cecil nodded. “Never stop believing in the impossible, Simon.”

  “I won’t, sir.” He lined up his toy soldiers and then made a growling noise in his throat when one tumbled down. In that, he sounded suspiciously like his father.

  If anything could unlock Cecil’s reticence or diffuse his anger, the companionship of a child might. The knowledge tugged at her heart. For the moment, she would remain silent and let fate guide their days, for she was curious as well.

  They lapsed into comfortable silence that was broken only by the crackle of the fire and the rhythmic beat of Cecil’s knife slicing through the wood. A shape was beginning to take hold, and to her it looked like a bear.

  Eventually, the urge to hear his voice took hold. Sarah shifted in her spot on the low sofa, crossing her ankles. “I appreciate the work you’re doing on the cottage, Major Stapleton.” When he cast her a slightly annoyed glance, she cleared her throat. “Cecil,” she quickly amended. “You have no idea how much peace it gives me knowing the structure won’t soon tumble down around our ears.”

  “It’s what a man should do.”

  “I’m going to be a man just like the Major,” Simon piped up while he simulated fighting between two of his soldiers.

  “You’d do well to be better than I am,” Cecil said quietly without looking at either of them. “I might do for an example but strive for more.”

  The boy never missed a beat. “There is no one better than you, Major. You’re a hero, I just know it.”

  A strangled sort of sound left Cecil’s throat. “I’m not sure about that, but thank you for the steadfast support. England needs more people like you.”

  The boy nodded, oblivious to the agony and grief that had entered Cecil’s face. “Mama, the Major is going to teach me how to fix things next time he goes out.” He beamed. “I cannot wait to start, and if I’m good at it, he’ll buy me my own hammer.”

  “That’s kind of him.” Sarah’s heart squeezed. She bounced her gaze between the two of them. There was no hiding the fact they resembled each other and that they were quite content in each other’s company. I should have sent those letters. I see that now. “Remember not to bother him with your questions.”

  Simon rolled his eyes. “The Major answers every one of them, Mama. Not like you.”

  When she would have admonished him, she caught the slight curve of Cecil’s lips in a grin, and it distracted her. “The boy is no bother.” He blew shavings from his carving and nodded, apparently pleased with his work. “In fact, I intend to walk into the village tomorrow. I would like to take Simon with me, teach him about the various shopkeepers and what they do.”

  Oh, God. A tremor of unease went down her spine. How would he explain his presence in the village or the fact that her son accompanied him on such an errand? Yet, she could hardly tell him nay, for he was the boy’s father, and he’d already missed so much time with him.

  She swallowed in an effort to send moisture into her suddenly dry throat as Simon and Cecil stared at her with expectant expressions. “You can if you’d like, but I will caution you that you’ll need to field questions. Some of the villagers are a nosy lot.” Perhaps it wasn’t her place to fabricate yet another string of lies to cover this most recent development. She’d let him figure out the next part of their story.

  “If such a thing is asked, I’ll tell them I’m a former solider down on his luck, doing odd jobs on your property. In return, you’re letting me bunk in the shed and provide me with two meals a day.”

  “Fine, but don’t catch Simon up in your lies.” Though the truth was more outrageous.

  He looked at her with his head slightly tilted and a frown tugging down the corners of his mouth. “Come with us, Sarah. I’ll wager you could use an outing.”

  “Yes, Mama, do come,” Simon urged. He bounced in place. “It will be jolly fun.”

  How could the arrival of one man—a stranger to both of them at that—bring so much change to their household and so much joy to the child? It was both refreshing and disturbing, especially when Cecil glanced at her in that way he had that set butterflies to dancing in her belly. But they both awaited an answer. “I shall think on it.”

  Simon snorted. He heaved a sigh so great that it shook the shock of brown curls that fell over his forehead. “That means no,” he told Cecil in a horrible stage whisper. “It always means no.”

  “I see.” The Major rested a speculative gaze on the boy for long moments before transferring his attention to her. “Is there a carriage or other vehicle on the property?”

  “No, but there is a small outbuilding not far from the cottage. I haven’t been out there since I moved here, so I couldn’t tell you what it contains.” Why did he wish to know?

  “Ah, I remember it. My father did make use of a carriage, but no doubt he took it to London with him when he relocated.” He nodded. “I’ll poke about tomor
row and determine if anything is salvageable. Perhaps there is wood or tools I can use.”

  Simon’s mouth formed a perfect “O” and, knowing the boy, fifty more questions bubbled through his mind. “Did you used to live here, Major Stapleton?”

  Another frisson of alarm rocketed down Sarah’s spine. She threw a quick glance to Cecil, who shrugged. What would it hurt, really, to tell Simon pieces of the truth? There was every possibility that when Cecil introduced himself to the village at large that some of the older folks would recognize his name anyway. Where would that leave her, and would the more astute of the people start to figure things out and unravel her carefully crafted tale? She shook with unease. Her life had suddenly plunged into the dark unknown, and it wasn’t pleasant.

  “I did, once upon a time.” Cecil held up a hand when Simon opened his mouth. “That is a story for another night, for right now, you need to get to bed.” He raised an eyebrow and Simon closed his mouth with an audible snap.

  “Just a few more minutes?” A whine had set up in the boy’s voice that was most unattractive and set Sarah’s teeth on edge.

  “Of course, you can stay up, but that would mean I’ll have no time to teach you how to wield a hammer on the morrow.” Cecil shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him, but Simon shot to his feet.

  “I’ll go to bed now. I promise.” He gathered his toys and then ran to her location and kissed her cheek. “Will you tuck me in, Mama?”

  “Don’t I always?” She marveled that her son followed Cecil’s quiet order without question or complaint. Perhaps he did need a male influence.

  “Goodnight, Major Stapleton,” he called as he scampered toward the spiral staircase.

  “Pleasant dreams, Simon. We start bright and early in the morning,” he reminded, but the boy had made quick work of climbing the stairs.

  “You have quite the knack with children,” she said to Cecil once they were alone.