Worcestershire, December 1812
Lieutenant Jonathan Lewis stopped by the fingerpost at the edge of the trees, the breath of his hired horse making white clouds in the frigid air. Although snow blanketed the landscape, drifting against hedges and plastering over the lettering on the sign, he knew his way. He was almost home—if Upper Westley could still be called that—and weary to his core.
The road to his left led to the village, not half a mile away. It was only mid-afternoon, but the tiny flakes of snow drifting down turned anything more than a few hundred yards distant into grey shadows, fading into the gloom.
Upper Westley was his destination today, but he hesitated. To his right, the dark gap between the trees marked the entrance to a narrow path through the woods, as familiar as the road. It was the short cut to Oakdene House that he’d used in his youth. Oakdene had been a refuge at times—a home where the man of the house had never been in his cups, and spoke only kind words to his family. Then, the wood had been a magical land in which he and Fred Rymer had fought imaginary dragons and rescued maidens from towers. One maiden, to be precise. Meg, Fred’s freckle-faced younger sister, had acted the helpless damsel only under protest, climbing unaided in and out of the oak trees that were their castle turrets.
Jon shifted in his saddle, the creak of leather drowned by the sound of the horse snorting and pawing the ground. Meg was no longer a playmate—not to him, at least. That first leave, after he and Fred had been eighteen months in the army, had changed everything. Fred had been happy to tell tales of derring-do in the taproom of the village inn, but Jon had revelled in the peace and calm of Oakdene, and Meg’s company. Meg had matured into an attractive young woman—very attractive indeed. Or perhaps he’d only just noticed that her hair wasn’t merely brown, but the rich colour of chestnuts, and that she had a smile that went straight to his heart. His feelings then had gone far beyond friendship. He’d said nothing, for an impecunious soldier about to go back to war was no fit husband for any woman.
The mare tossed her head and took a couple of steps forward. He patted her neck and brought his mind back to his destination. Oakdene was less than a mile away through the trees, but the branches were too low for a man on horseback. It was at least a couple of miles by the lane that looped around the edge of the woods, and then it would be the same distance back before he could head down the road to the village inn and a room for the night.
Waiting another day would make no difference, surely? He should turn here and let the poor animal get into a warm stable; she’d worked hard today, carrying him all the way from Cheltenham, the snow deepening as they got further north. He needed rest himself, too—preferably a hot bath and a meal, then several days’ sleep.
But he’d come here before visiting his mother because he’d promised Fred to take care of Meg and Mrs Rymer. It was over two months since he’d made that vow, kneeling beside his friend in the medical tent. And then repeated it to himself the next day as the chaplain read the funeral service over the hastily dug mass grave. Two months—but he could not have got here any sooner.
Squinting up at the sky, there were only swirling flakes against the grey. Tiny flakes at the moment, but who was to say what would happen overnight? The roads might be impassable in the morning. But the feeling was more than that. He wanted to call at Oakdene tonight, to see Meg, no matter how exhausted or travel-stained he was. Being with Meg would help him forget the first, and she wouldn’t care about the second, nor would her mother.
He urged the mare on—she would get a warm stable, but not just yet.
* * *
Meg gripped the arms of her chair, resisting the impulse to pace the room. The cracking of the fire and the steady click of Mama’s knitting needles only served to amplify her frustration. Everything appeared so peaceful—even the snow outside was only tiny, drifting flakes, floating gently downwards in the gathering dusk. Snow, isolating the house.
Isolating her—although that wasn’t the snow, not really. Despite Mama’s presence, and the others downstairs, she had never felt so alone. Papa was gone, Fred was gone, and even Pamela and Sarah—girlhood friends from the village—had married and moved away. There was Jon—a true friend, and more—but she’d heard nothing from him since that one, brief letter from Burgos. Shouldn’t he be back by now, if he was still alive?
No. Be sensible, Meg! Letters would return to England much faster than men, particularly men who might not be released by their commanding officers merely for the asking. But newspaper reports told of the British army being harried by the French all the way to the Portuguese border, and of this retreat being as harsh as the one to Coruña four years ago. Fred and Jon had survived that, and much else since. She had to believe Jon had survived this, too.
Someone knocked at the door, and Meg jumped up to open it, hoping she was not about to have another confrontation with Cousin Rupert. But it was only the cook, bearing a tray with tea and biscuits.
“I’ve brought you some tea, Miss Meg.”
“Thank you, Mrs Baines.” Meg stood back to allow her into the room. “I would have come down for it.”
“It’s no trouble, Miss. I was wondering if you’re going to eat dinner downstairs today?” She set the teapot on the little table by the window. “Mr Rupert said he hoped you would.”
“That would be nice, dear,” Mama said, before Meg could answer.
“No, Mama,” Meg said firmly, then turned back to Mrs Baines. “We’ll eat up here. I don’t want to make extra work for you, so I’ll come down to fetch it.”
Mrs Baines shrugged. “It’s no trouble, like I said. It seems a shame, though, Mr Rupert eating alone every day. So helpful as he’s been, ever since…” She pressed her lips together and finished setting out the cups and plates.
Meg sat at the table as the door closed behind the cook and rubbed a hand across her forehead. Worrying over this was bringing on a headache. Since Fred had died, this was her house, not Rupert’s.
Rupert appeared to be so reasonable; that was part of the problem. His motives had only become plain—to her, if to no-one else—three weeks ago, and by then everyone around had come to the conclusion that he was a caring young man. After all, he’d put his own affairs to one side to help his widowed aunt and his cousin.
“Don’t fret so, dear.” Mama put her knitting to one side and came to sit by Meg, pouring tea for them both. “It will be all right soon, you’ll see. He’ll help you. He’s a good man.”
“Then why are we sitting up here instead—?” Meg stopped talking as Mama’s face crumpled and tears glistened in her eyes.
“It’s my fault, isn’t it? Ever since my accident—”
“Never think that.” Meg reached across the table and took her mother’s hands. Mama had fallen down the stairs only a few days before they’d heard of Fred’s death. The bang to her head had made her more easily upset, as well as affecting her memory. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. I’m only worried about what Rupert will do.”
Mama pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “I’ve said before, dear—it will be all right when he comes home.”
“Fred won’t be coming back.” Meg gripped her mother’s hands again. The words had come out more harshly than she’d intended. Her brother was dead, and no amount of wishing could change that. Sometimes Mama understood, but mostly she seemed to live in a world of her own, where everything would turn out right.
But Mama smiled. “Light another lamp, will you? It’s time to shut out the night.”
Meg sighed, and took a spill from the jar on the mantelpiece as Mama reached to close the curtains. She’d just lit one end in the fire when Mama spoke.
“There, I said he’d come.”
Now Mama was seeing things! “Who has come?”
“Look, dear. I told you.”
Meg cursed inwardly as she felt heat on her fingers, and threw the spill into the fire. She put her face close to the glass, rubbing to clear the mist from the cold panes. This window gave a view to one side of the house, and she made out the dark shape of a rider in the lane.
“It could be anyone.” There were other houses further along the narrow road. “He will probably ride past.”
Mama shook her head as she straightened and pulled the curtains together. “It was a soldier. I saw the shape of his shako. He said he’d look after us, and here he is. He wrote after he was killed, don’t you remember?”
For a moment, Meg feared that Mama was talking of a ghost, but her sometimes addled wits had never taken her in that direction before. Not liking to display her forgetfulness about names, Mama had taken to never using names at all.
If she wasn’t talking about Fred, who did she mean? Jon? He had promised to return as soon as he could. A tiny glimmer of hope started in Meg’s chest as she peered out of the window again, but the rider had gone on.
Taking another spill, she lit the extra lamp with a hand that shook a little, and listened for the clop of hooves on the drive. A futile endeavour—the snow would muffle any such sound.
She opened the door and stepped onto the landing. From here she’d be able to hear what was said at the door—if Mama had been right. The feeling that someone might have come to help her—that Jon might be here—made her feel dizzy with relief.
As Jon approached the turning, Oakdene House became visible as a darker shadow in the gloom, a yellow glow showing from one of the upstairs windows. Then a hedge blocked his view until he reached the low stone gateposts that flanked the entrance to the drive. The snow was smooth here, unmarked by wheels or hooves. If it hadn’t been for that glimpse of light, he might have thought the place deserted.
It felt wrong to ride this way alone, without Fred beside him. The last time had been almost exactly a year ago, both of them with a fortnight to spend in England while the battalion was in cantonments behind the Portuguese border. They’d arrived to find that Mr Rymer had died suddenly only the month before. A letter informing Fred of the fact had been awaiting them when they returned to the Peninsula.
The strength with which Meg had dealt with her father’s illness and death while her mother grieved had drawn him towards her even more. But that had not been the time to declare himself, even if she had returned his regard. Instead, he’d kept in the background during those two short weeks, running errands when asked, removing himself from the family’s grief when there was nothing for him to do. He’d grieved himself—Mr Rymer had been a better father to him than his own.
Now here he was again, in depressingly similar circumstances.
A glimmer of light showed through a gap between the curtains in the parlour as Jon dismounted and looped the reins over the mare’s neck. He plied the knocker and stood back, waiting impatiently until he heard footsteps in the passageway.
The Rymers’ manservant opened the door, wearing an apron over homespun breeches and waistcoat. He regarded Jon with round eyes, before a smile spread across his lined face.
“Mr Jon!”
He stood back, opening the door further, and Jon stepped over the threshold. “Farlow—good to see you. Is Miss Rymer at home?”
Before Farlow could answer, another voice spoke. “Miss Rymer is not receiving guests.” A man came out of the parlour, clad in a well-fitting blue tailcoat over grey waistcoat and pale trousers. Jon was trying to place him when a sudden scuffle at the top of the stairs drew his attention. He thought he saw a swirl of a black skirt through the bannisters, but no-one came down.
“My cousin is indisposed,” the newcomer said. “Farlow, you may return to your duties.”
Cousin? Jon racked his brain as the manservant grimaced behind the newcomer’s back and vanished through the kitchen door.
Rupert… Rupert Taylor; that was it. A connection on Mrs Rymer’s side of the family.
“Mr Taylor.” Jon nodded briefly.
“And you are…?” Taylor ran his eyes down Jon’s greatcoat to his boots, both dripping into a spreading puddle on the floor. His eyes narrowed. “Lewis, isn’t it? The drunken farmer’s son? Margaret won’t want to see you. Her brother would still be with us if you hadn’t encouraged him to join the army.”
What?
Taylor came closer, too close. Jon took a step back, into the flakes of snow beginning to drift in through the open door.
“Besides, she has other things to think about now, rather than reliving the past. A new future to look forward to.” He smiled. “We are betrothed. On Tuesday, Miss Rymer will become Mrs Taylor.”
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