A Soldier's Heart Page 6

  When Cecily entered the room, Serena was at the point of becoming a watering pot; now she was suffused with fresh energy.

  “Cecily, did someone send you up here to lift my spirits?” Hugging her knees, Serena smiled at her new sister. “In truth, you’ve done just that!”

  “Good!” Cecily nodded, a dimple appearing in her cheek, instead of marking her chin as Blackwood’s did. “Mother said it might help if you talked to someone closer to your own age. Mother may not be romantic, but you’ll find her very wise.”

  Truly Serena appreciated the Duchess of Avalon’s gentle wisdom as she introduced her to her new duties. Since Blackwood and she had discussed virtually nothing, she was surprised to learn the west wing of the town house was Blackwood’s, the east Longford’s, when the entire family was in residence. The family seat, Avalon Hall, in Berkshire comprised fifteen hundred acres and two towns. Blackwood’s main seat was Avalon Landing on the Sussex Coast, a large, sprawling place he loved but had spent little time at, so it was in the hands of an estate manager, Mr. Jeremy Stockton.

  Longford, as heir, had two minor estates in his care, for one day Avalon Hall would be his. Along with these facts, the duchess imparted a myriad details concerning the running of such a large establishment as the London house. Although, she confessed with her light, musical laugh, this household was small compared to the other holdings.

  Truly overwhelming for a parson’s daughter, but Serena found the training Buckle had provided stood her in good stead. Her mind was so cluttered with facts and names and lists, the jolting pain of Blackwood’s abrupt departure began to fade ever so slightly. She guessed the duchess was wise enough to keep her busy so she wouldn’t grieve.

  Blackwood had been gone less than a fortnight when they were interrupted in the conservatory by Wilkens, who, with a pained expression in his small eyes, looked down his long, imposing nose at the shorter man beside him.

  “This gentleman has come with a message from Lord Blackwood for Lady Serena. He insisted my lord said he must give it in person.”

  “That he did!” The thin man, dressed in rough country clothes, nodded enthusiastically. “Gave my word, Harry Thurston did, and keepin’ it I am.”

  Rising to her feet, Serena stepped toward where he stood clutching a large clay pot of greenery.

  “Is this for me, sir?” Even as he nodded, she took the pot in her hands. “This is a chrysanthemum plant, is it not?”

  “Aye, my lady. Lord Blackwood, he was passing by, for our cottage is near the sea, and spied my wife tending the garden. A generous man, my lord. Says I’m to bring this planting and this here note.”

  Carefully setting the pot on the wide rim of the central fountain whose shepherdess eternally poured water from a pail onto the stones around her feet, she reached for the small piece of paper he thrust toward her.

  “Sweetheart, I’m reliably informed these red chrysanthemums are symbolic of true love. Think of me as you tend this symbol of my deep, abiding affection. Blackwood.”

  Embarrassment burned her skin, scorching her throat as she realized she’d spoken the intimate words aloud. Stricken, she stared from Mr. Thurston, who continued to nod enthusiastically, to Wilkens, whose stern demeanor suddenly blurred a bit around the edges.

  “Very thoughtful. Thank you, Mr. Thurston.” The duchess’s musical voice bridged the awkward moment. “Wilkens, see that Mr. Thurston has ample food and drink for his journey home.”

  The men retired from the scene while the duchess tactfully admired the plant, giving Serena a moment to recover.

  “Will it bear blossoms? I fear horticulture is not a particular interest of mine.”

  “Yes, Your Grace, in autumn there will be lovely red blooms which will return year after year if attended properly,” she finally managed.

  “Perhaps we should turn it over to the gardener for care.”

  “Oh, no, Your Grace! I shall attend it myself,” Serena put in hurriedly. “Gardening is an interest of mine.”

  As if Serena had said something that pleased her greatly, the duchess gave her a deep, warm smile. “I’m delighted to hear it. I have something else which I hope will interest you.” She lifted a slim volume from a small marble table nearby. “This is Matthew’s favorite book of poetry. Perhaps reading what has given him pleasure will bring you closer to him. But now, I fear, I must attend His Grace—this is our reading hour.”

  Left with Blackwood’s book of poetry and his gift, Serena carefully chose the best spot in the conservatory for the plant. She felt the soil, added more water, and removed two yellow leaves. It was strangely reassuring to have some tangible evidence of Blackwood’s regard, for their time together did seem dreamlike, almost a figment of the romantic nature that had blossomed within her so recently.

  In reality she had new responsibilities and challenges which excited her as nothing had before. Perhaps dear Buckle was right, she was like a kitten curious and eager to explore her new world and discover all its mysteries and delights.

  She clutched the volume of poetry to her breast. If this was his favorite, then it would be hers, too. Blackwood had touched something within her she’d never dreamed existed. Was it quite proper to feel as she had on their wedding night? She blushed now remembering it. Whatever the quality he possessed that made her instinctively trust him had been reinforced by all she’d learned in the last few days about the kind of man he was. With insight that was no longer so rare, she recognized how fortunate she was in that discovery.

  She stayed reading in bed until the candles sputtered. Even when she closed her eyes, the lines of poetry danced across her lids. Her vision of Blackwood as her romantic hero filled her dreams.

  Over the next few weeks the duchess presented her with more books that she said Matthew had enjoyed. As Serena read them, a picture of her husband’s true personality began to take form. It began to give substance to the dreamlike figure he always appeared to her, taking him out of the realm of larger-than-life and into every small detail of her days.

  The Season continued its feverish pursuit around them, but the Avalons refused more invitations than they accepted. Often the four of them, Serena, Cecily, and Their Graces, would spend a quiet evening at home playing whist. Blackwood’s father was not well, his ashen color showing a weakness of the heart the Prince Regent’s physician himself shook his head over.

  With kind thoughtfulness all Blackwood’s family made her feel welcome, all but Longford. His apparent disdain was a constant, albeit slight, mar on her new life.

  There was no disdain on the marquess’s face the night he burst into the library, where she and Cecily sat reading Shakespeare aloud.

  “Where is Father?” he demanded sharply.

  Fear gripped Serena, holding her perfectly still; but Cecily sprang to her feet.

  “Long, what is it?” she asked with a frightened little catch in her voice.

  “Dispatches have arrived about a great victory at Vitoria. Matt is well or we would have heard.”

  “And Kendall?” The wide eyes stared intently at her brother, pleading for reassurance.

  “Well, brat! Now fetch Mother so I might inform her.”

  Picking up the hem of her dress, Cecily nearly flew from the room.

  Serena’s numbing fear evaporated with Longford’s words, and relief wrenched a sob from her lips. Blackwood was safe. There had been no letter since the cherished chrysanthemum plant. Although she knew mail from the Peninsula was slow, and often as not, unreliable, her fear had grown to almost unbearable proportions. The rest of them were so cheerful and optimistic, she’d been afraid to voice her concern. Now tears of relief flowed down her cheeks.

  “Good God, stop your blubbering and grow up! I was hoping Her Grace would put some bronze on you and change you into a woman worthy of my brother.” Longford sneered, even as he proffer
ed a handkerchief.

  She refused it, leaping to her feet, confusion and anger warring within her. “How dare you? Your brother holds me in deep affection just as I am and wishes me never to change!”

  “You’re both babes in the woods!” Leaning one broad shoulder against a convenient prop, he studied her with mocking, hooded eyes. “Matt hasn’t the slightest idea what, if anything, lies behind your pretty face. He only sees what he wants to see. He embodies all of us with the qualities he wishes us to possess. Someday he’ll be forced to accept the world, and us, as we are, warts and all. I suggest it’s in your best interest to become the kind of woman up to the challenge that will present. Quite frankly, I doubt you have it in you.”

  His mocking contempt on the heels of her fear and relief caused her to clasp trembling fingers over her quivering lips. Bolting from the room, she fled past a stunned Cecily and the duchess, instinct leading her to the only tangible symbol of the regard Longford held in such contempt.

  Moonlight bathed the conservatory, where the chrysanthemum flourished under her expert care. She sat beside it, letting her tears of relief flow where none could see. There were so many new emotions bursting inside her, she could hardly contain them. Especially her feelings for Blackwood, which were growing stronger as she slowly began to know him through his family and friends. Even his belongings gave clues to his character. With a jolt of anger she admitted Longford was correct in his assumption she was totally devoid of town bronze, just as she’d been totally unprepared for Blackwood’s whirlwind courtship. But something inside her had risen to both the challenge of her Season and Blackwood’s affection. And that something wouldn’t let her down now.

  She’d learned so much about herself in the months since her wedding. She’d thought she was fairly well educated, for a female, until Her Grace, a renowned bluestocking, took her under her wing. If the forbidden novels had exposed Serena’s latent romantic nature, the books the duchess gave her opened new doors to history and politics, to social reform, and a whole world of ideas. Yet everything the duchess exposed her to had some bearing on Blackwood or the things he loved, especially Avalon Landing.

  Slowly the decision formed to go to the Landing for the summer and autumn instead of to Avalon Hall with the rest of the family. There she could feel even closer to the man she’d known so briefly and wed. Blackwood loved the place; surely he would wish her to care for his holdings as she was the planting he’d sent. Running a gentle finger over the tight buds, she smiled, her decision providing a surge of self-confidence. Dear Buckle might say her kitten was discovering the claws necessary to expand her world. That thought was almost as disturbing as it was comforting.

  When she informed the duke and duchess of her decision, they were most agreeable, insisting only that Longford accompany her for protection, and Cecily for companionship.

  The duchess wore a most satisfied smile. When Serena inquired, Cecily had a ready reply.

  “Mother has been hoping you’d take an interest in Avalon Landing.”

  Surprised, Serena shook her head. “Then why didn’t she suggest it? I value her opinion.”

  “Mother never suggests. She simply leads you until you find the proper path yourself.” The dimple deepened in her cheek. “It can be quite vexing, can’t it? Never knowing quite what she wishes you to do. And Long is just like her! But you’ll get used to it. We all have.” Cecily gave her an impulsive hug. “We’ll have such fun at the Landing, you’ll see!”

  Although delighted with the prospect of seeing her new home, Serena longed to hear from Blackwood. Anxiety for his safety and the outcome of each battle weighed heavily on her, but she dared not share these thoughts with his family, who all appeared so optimistic. Unfortunately, within a week the London house would be closed up. The delays in receiving a letter would be even greater in the country.

  Finally, on the eve of departure, Wilkens presented the long-anticipated letter to her. It was soiled with travel and dog-eared, but it was thick. She fled with the treasure to her bedchamber and locked her door. Excitement threatened to overwhelm her. Slowly she opened the sheets of paper, and as she recognized his handwriting, her throat tightened with often-repressed tears.

  My dearest Serena, by now word of our glorious victory at Vitoria against Joseph Bonaparte has reached you. My men fought bravely and their valor has not gone unrecognized. My Sergeant Major, Higgens, distinguished himself; a veteran of more campaigns than I have years, he is a source of much inspiration to the men and to me. Like Jeffries, he’s a Scot and they often entertain us around the campfire. The men are full of confidence fired by the honor of our quest as we prepare to cross into France. Even the cooks are bursting with good spirit for our iron cooking kettles have been replaced by tin so their task is lighter. I give you the way of the small things which make up my day so you will know how I spend the time of our separation. Just as I know what makes up your days. I can see you reading in the library with Cecily and my mother. Or working on your needlepoint. And at night playing whist with my parents; they enjoy it so. Tell my mother Kendall sends his regards and appreciation for the packet of books she sent for our journey. It is a sight I thought never to see—Kendall reading a volume on philosophy! Give Poppet my love and tell her Kendall sends his regards. Tell my father all goes well and the Marquess thinks it’ll be soon over. And Longford will be receiving a letter from me about the Landing. Also give mother my thanks for procuring Shelley’s Declaration of Rights. By now, sweetheart, you must know she is immensely well read and a proponent of education for all. How she procured a work banned as seditious I can only wonder with awe. One passage has given me much thought: No man has a right to do an evil thing that good might come. The men here try so hard and are good soldiers, but we are far from home. Mostly my thoughts are with my perfect sweet Serena. Care for our plantings as you tend the dream of my return, just as I do. Memory of our brief time together burns bright in my heart and hastens my determination to return to you. Until then I am forever,

  your Blackwood

  She closed her eyes to picture him as she’d first seen him: a heroic figure stepping out of the pages of a novel. Now the fairy-tale hero was becoming a real person to her. The sweetness she’d sensed from the beginning, and the passion she’d learned on her wedding night, but there was so much more for her to discover. With a jolt of pain she yearned for him to return so she could continue the journey of discovery begun their wedding night.

  Unbidden, tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. But they could change nothing, nor could these painful thoughts. For now, letters would have to do. She splashed cool water on her tight, hot face and tidied the cornflower blue ribbon in her hair before presenting herself to the family, generously sharing all of the letter, save the last passages for herself.

  She stayed awake most of the night penning a long, detailed letter of everyday trivialities to Blackwood, along with her admiration for the bravery of his men and himself in their honorable war against Bonaparte’s tyranny. In closing she told him how the chrysanthemum throve under her vigilance. Boldly she signed, “your devoted wife.”

  After sealing the letter, she tossed and turned on her bed for what remained of the night, memories of each of their few meetings making her restless. Near dawn she finally found a cool spot on the pillow for her hot cheek and drifted into light slumber.

  Early in the morning, her eyes red-rimmed from sleeplessness, Serena directed a footman to bring her plant from the conservatory.

  Longford looked up from his breakfast. “Good God, you’re not bringing that thing with you!”

  “Of course she is! It’s so romantic, I can’t bear it! Will it bloom soon, Serena?” Cecily asked eagerly, the morning sun through the ceiling-high windows highlighting her curls into white gold.

  “Yes, in the autumn it will have beautiful red flowers.”

  “I shal
l stay with you until it blooms,” Cecily declared, adjusting her crimson bonnet. “I only wish I had such a symbol of Lord Kendall’s regard. Let’s be off at once; I’m anxious to see the coast.”

  As the carriage rumbled by the last building in the outlying districts, Serena leaned forward to gaze back at London. Chimney smoke hung over it, obscuring the church spires and towers of the city. So much had happened to her there—a whole new world had opened to her. Yet she looked forward to being in the countryside again with clear blue sky overhead and fresh, bracing air. She took her role as Blackwood’s wife seriously and anticipated the responsibilities. She would perform her duty with as much honor as he would expect—for surely a man who fought so bravely for his country would prize honor and duty above all else. Satisfied, she sat back in the coach and asked Cecily to describe Avalon Landing to her.

  The Landing was essentially of Tudor design, but Blackwood’s successive ancestors had added wings and turrets so now it sprawled, seemingly unendingly, on a slight rise in a parklike setting Serena found enchanting. Immediately she perceived a need for her gardening skills.

  Warned of her arrival, the butler, Stevens—a second cousin to Wilkens, she discovered later, which no doubt accounted for their similarity—had assembled the staff. Serena was grateful for Longford’s initial introduction to Stevens, who in turn made her known to everyone from the kitchen tweeny to the head groomsman.

  “Mr. Stockton will see you in the estate office in the west wing at your convenience, my lady,” Stevens informed her in a deep, mournful voice which was slightly disconcerting, since it reminded her so forcibly of Wilkens in London.