A Soldier’s Heart(36)
Pain caused her to gasp in confusion. The intake of air seemed to restore her ability to move. She leapt to her feet, barely containing her anger. “Then we shall have to discover if who we have become can find any common threads to weave a new beginning.”
Pride spun her on her bare feet and kept her back ramrod straight until she made it into her own bedchamber. This time she did close the door behind her. Only then did she give in to the ache tearing her insides to bits and let her shoulders slump forward as tears streamed down her face.
In truth he was no longer the fairy-tale hero of her first flush of romance. Nor was he the man she’d begun to know and love through his letters and the things he’d once cared about.
What was left?
The Courtship
Dawn had given way to dazzling winter sunshine by the time Serena awoke. Copious tears had finally succumbed to the oblivion of slumber. She stretched languorously, then remembered—Blackwood was home. Obviously someone had stopped her maid from waking her with her usual breakfast. Perhaps the duchess had done so in the anticipation Serena might not be alone in her bed.
Memory of the confrontation in the intimacy of her husband’s chamber brought the same anger-laced pain: anger at herself, at Blackwood, at the war, at all that separated them; and pain for the happiness lost. It wasn’t fair! She knew what she wanted, but it seemed impossible—she yearned to go back to those feelings he had inspired in her so long ago. She wanted her husband, heart-whole, charming, and full of ideals, returned to her.
She freely admitted she was no longer as naive and blindly romantic as she’d once been. And with aching regret she acknowledged Blackwood’s view of life was not as glitteringly noble and pure as it had been. But surely there must be something left, some in-between stage where they could come together and recapture all they had lost.
She stared at the closed door that separated them and willed it to open. Suddenly she wanted her father, like a child trusting that a parent could make everything right again. Perhaps if she went back to the beginning, if she recaptured what had been, she could find something to reinspire Blackwood’s regard.
Slipping on her robe, she went to the small cherrywood desk and penned a letter inviting both her father and Buckle to spend the holiday in London. When the letter was waxed and sealed, she rang for her maid. There was no use in putting it off a moment more; she must simply face whatever painful disclosures this day might bring.
Descending the staircase, she held her head high, bolstered by a new frock of jonquil satin with a deep flounce at the hemline and long, tight sleeves ending in a small ruffle over her hands. Chin up, she marched into the dining room and was promptly deflated to find her brave front was to no avail. The only person to witness it was a footman standing at rigid attention by the sideboard laden with silver-covered dishes.
“I had no idea I was so late,” Serena muttered, slipping onto the chair he held for her. “Has everyone else already been served luncheon?”
“The Marquess of Longford and Lord Kendall left this morning for their clubs. Her Grace and Lady Cecily dined early as they had appointments on Bond Street.”
“And Lord Blackwood?” she prompted with what she hoped was a show of calm interest.
“A tray in his room, my lady.” With a deferential nod he turned to prepare her a plate of chops smothered in a mushroom sauce, with a side of buttered peas, followed by a fruit trifle with custard.
Under his eagle eye she felt compelled to do more than move the food about on her plate. As soon as she was able, she escaped to the conservatory. It had become a favorite retreat. Frost pictures decorated the windows, letting light through to pattern the stone floor. She sat in one small pool of sunshine to tend the chrysanthemum plant. It was at the end of its blooming season. She pinched off the dead flowers but left four faded blooms that were not completely gone.
She was concentrating so on the plant, the awareness of being watched came unexpectedly. Swiveling around, she found Blackwood, near the fountain, staring at her.
If he hadn’t been leaning on his cane, he would have looked perfectly normal, his long legs encased in tan unmentionables, his navy jacket fitting a bit loosely over a plain white shirt. Patterns of light dappled him with sunshine as he moved slowly toward her, the cane tapping an uneven rhythm upon the stone floor.
“Good afternoon, Serena.” His smile didn’t quite reach his rich, dark eyes. “What are you tending so diligently?”
“Our chrysanthemum plant. It’s thriving just as you requested it should.” Instinct led her to be quietly frank. “Do you recall sending it here to me before boarding ship for the Peninsula?”