Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

A few days after the visit to the exhibition, Chivenor opened the door to Jo as she returned from a walk. "Mr Stretton wishes to see you in the library," he said, as Jo removed her gloves, bonnet, and pelisse and handed them to Martha.

"You wanted to see me, Papa?" Jo came to a halt a few steps into the library as her father and another man stood. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't realise you had a guest."

The stranger was of a height with her father, his chestnut hair cut short, and what could be laughter lines beside his brown eyes. He was too young to be one of her father's contemporaries—he looked close to Lieutenant Moorven's age. A walking stick rested against the arm of his chair.

"Miss Stretton." He bowed, an uncertain smile on his face. "I am pleased to meet you at last."

At last? Then as Papa started to speak, she suddenly knew what he was about to say.

"Jo, this is Captain Delafield come to thank you for your correspondence and help."

She stared, completely taken aback. Even after making allowance for Alfred's unaccountable dislike of him, her mental image had been wildly inaccurate. For one thing, he looked so much younger than she had been expecting.

His expression changed from uncertain to quizzical as she gazed at him, and his smile faded as she still said nothing. Then she realised that the two men remained standing, so she hurriedly sat down.

"Jo, do speak." Papa was clearly amused.

"I'm sorry, Captain," she managed to say. "I… was I frowning?" She still felt off balance. What a silly question to ask a stranger! But not really a stranger.

"Positively scowling!"

"Papa!" she protested indignantly, but that helped to remove some of her constraint. "I'm sorry, Captain, I am not normally so bird-witted."

"I take it that I am not what you were expecting, Miss Stretton?"

The captain's wry smile reminded her of the self-deprecating humour often evident in his letters, and her feeling of awkwardness began to fade. She felt her lips curve in response.

Rob had a few moments to take in Miss Stretton's appearance while her attention had been focused on her father. Moorven had been right—she was pretty and, to his mind, just the right height. Wisps of her black hair had escaped from their pins and curled attractively around her face.

He was glad now that Moorven had seen her first and given him some idea what to expect—otherwise he might be feeling as dazed as she appeared to be. He watched in some trepidation as she took in his appearance, hoping that, although she was obviously surprised, he might be an improvement in some way on what she had been anticipating. Then she gave a smile that animated her face and changed her from pretty to beautiful.

"No, Captain, you are not what I was expecting. But it is not easy to form an accurate impression from a few words written over a year ago."

It was probably best not to wonder how Bengrove had described him. Nor should it matter, he told himself firmly. He had come here for a purpose. "As your father said, I called to convey my thanks for all the books and papers you sent. They did a great deal to help the time pass productively."

"Can you now design steam engines?" A twitch to her lips betrayed her amusement.

That made him laugh. "No, but I do stand some chance of understanding should an engineer try to explain one to me. And I certainly have a good deal more mathematical knowledge than I did a year ago."

"Will it be useful?"

"That remains to be seen," he said more soberly. "I suspect the army will have little more use for me, so it depends on what occupation I take up."

"Knowledge is seldom wasted," Mr Stretton put in.

"Indeed. It helps to keep the mind occupied, if nothing else." He shifted in his seat and picked up a package from the table beside his chair. "Miss Stretton, I hope you will accept this gift as a token of my thanks." He handed it to her, and Miss Stretton looked at her father for permission.

"Open it, Jo."

"I have to admit to asking Madame Daniau's advice," Rob said, watching uncertainly as she undid the narrow ribbon and unfolded the silver paper. She gazed at the fine lace of the shawl, her fingers stroking the fabric. "It's Chantilly lace, of a sort," he explained. "Possibly somewhat unpatriotic, as Napoleon encouraged its manufacture."

"It's lovely, thank you," she said softly, holding it up to admire it.

"A fine piece, Captain," Mr Stretton added.

Rob let out a soft breath of relief—he had not been entirely sure if a shawl, as an item of clothing, was a proper gift. She smiled down at it, still stroking it, then turned the full force of her smile on him. Rob swallowed hard and managed a smile in return. "I'm pleased you like it. "

She did like it, very much. Not only the gift itself, but that he had thought about what to give her. "Thanks were not necessary, Captain, not after what you did for Mama, and your letters helped me through the time when we thought she would not recover."

He nodded, his face becoming serious again. His glance flicked briefly towards her father, but he said nothing, and one hand reached for his stick.

No, surely he was not about to leave?

"It must have been frustrating, being confined in Verdun?" Papa asked.

Thank you, Papa!

The captain moved his hand back to the arm of his chair. "It was. But I would have felt that way wherever I was—my leg would have kept me from my regiment even had I not been taken captive."

"How did your injury happen?" Papa asked. "But don't answer if you'd rather not."

"An encounter with a horse coming fast the other way. I don't recall much after it hit me, but I suspect the horse came out best."

Jo had to smile at that; it sounded so much like his letters. "A runaway horse?" she asked, not understanding the circumstances.

"No, French cavalry." He looked uncertainly at Papa, who just waved a hand in a ‘carry on' gesture. "We were retreating towards Portugal after failing to take Burgos. We... That is, my company was patrolling to one side of the main column and some dragoons found us." He shrugged. "I was lucky, I suppose, that the French took the few… took us back for medical attention rather than just leaving us there to… rather than leaving us there."

"Rather than leaving you there to die?" Jo asked.

"Well, yes." He seemed surprised at her bluntness, then smiled. "You are unusually direct for a woman, Miss Stretton."

Alfred had called her unusual yesterday, but from Captain Delafield it sounded like a compliment. "What is the point of beating about the bush? I am very glad they did take you back. But you are not fully fit yet?" She felt a blush rising to her cheeks. "I'm sorry—that is a rather personal… I mean, it is not… "

"I'm probably as healed as I'm likely to be." He shrugged. "The army has given me leave for a couple of months, then I'm to be inspected again to see if I am fit for purpose." The words could have sounded bitter, but did not.

"You don't mind?"

"I do, but minding will not change things. At least it happened in contact with the enemy. With our former enemies," he corrected himself. "Too many died on that retreat from the cold or from disease."

"What are your plans now, Captain?" Papa asked.

"I'm staying with Moorven until I have to report to Horse Guards again. He passed on your invitation to dinner, sir. Did you get my note of acceptance?"

Dinner?

"I did indeed. I am pleased you are back in Town in time for it. I look forward to conversing with the three of you tomorrow."

Captain Delafield got to his feet. Papa rose, and the two men shook hands before the captain turned and bowed to Jo. "Miss Stretton, it was a pleasure to meet you in person."

"A pleasure for me, too, Captain." She smiled as she stood. She wondered if it would be appropriate to offer her hand, but then decided to ignore what convention might say and held it out anyway. He hesitated a moment and then shook it, his hand warm on hers, before taking his leave with another of his endearingly wry smiles.

Papa went into the entrance hall to see him off. When he returned, he looked at Jo with a brow raised, waiting for her to make some comment.

"Dinner, Papa? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Oh, did I not?"

"You know you did not." Papa was plotting again, she was sure—the twitch of his lips confirmed it. "Who else is to come?"

"Only Captain Delafield, Lieutenant Moorven, and their friend Lieutenant Chadwick, the engineer. Chadwick might be able to give some advice on that canal proposal that you had doubts over."

"That's a good idea. "

"You may join us if you wish, Jo."

"I… Yes, thank you."

"Your mama, too, if she feels up to it, but I suspect the talk would not interest her."

And if Mama did not join them, there was less likelihood that she would find out about Jo's correspondence with Captain Delafield.

Papa had a knowing look in his eye. "What a tangled web we weave, eh, Jo?"

Jo nodded, mutely—but she could not regret any part of their correspondence.

"Don't worry. I doubt the captain will say anything to your mama about you writing to him. You will have to tell her at some point, but not just yet."

"Yes… I mean, no, Papa. If you'll excuse me, I need to tidy my hair."

In her room, she opened the drawer where she kept the letters from Alfred and from Captain Delafield. Her hand hovered over the latter bundle, wanting to re-read them now she could picture the smile that would have accompanied some of his anecdotes.

Then she pushed the drawer shut with far more force than necessary. She was as good as betrothed to Alfred, and she should not possess letters from another man, let alone be re-reading them.

Rob went over his meeting with Miss Stretton as he walked back to Grosvenor Street. Her appearance wasn't quite what he had been expecting, in spite of Moorven's description, but now he'd met her he'd be hard pressed to say what it was he had thought before. Her manner, though, did reflect the way she'd written to him, and although some of her questions had been quite personal, he hadn't minded. They had already shared thoughts and feelings about many things in their correspondence.

Why she wanted to marry a man like Bengrove was beyond him. Could she really be in search of a connection with the aristocracy, as Bengrove said? He shook his head. It was none of his business—if anyone were to protect her from the kind of life she'd have with Bengrove, it would have to be her father.

He'd been looking forward to tomorrow night's dinner, but now he was not so sure. He'd already liked her from her letters; now, he suspected he was in danger of liking her far too much.

"Tell me again why we're dressing up like this?" John Chadwick lifted his chin as he allowed Moorven's valet to adjust his cravat the following evening.

"Many reasons. Have patience!" Moorven was lounging in a chair watching the final preparations. "I got Father's man of business to look into Stretton's… well, reputation, I suppose. He is known for making shrewd investments in all sorts of things."

"Including canals?" Rob asked, putting the finishing touches to his own cravat.

"I believe so."

"Could be a good contact for you, John," Rob said. "If you want to dig canals, you need to know?—"

"I don't want to dig them!"

"Don't rise to it, Chadwick," Moorven warned.

"How do you know him, anyway?"

"Rob has been writing to his daughter for more than a year," Moorven said. "She's the one who has been sending the books and newspapers."

Rob winced.

"Rob, you haven't told him?"

Rob tried to hide his irritation. "It's not the kind of thing that comes up in general conversation."

Moorven shrugged. "It's better that he knows." He turned to Chadwick. "Miss Stretton is also the young lady unfortunate enough to be betrothed to Alfred Bengrove."

"I'll just go and see if your man has found a hackney," Rob said, hastening out of the room and leaving Moorven to finish the explanation. Although when he was halfway down the stairs, he did wonder if leaving had been wise. God knew what suppositions Moorven was passing on. But when the other two came downstairs nothing further was said, and they got into the carriage with Chadwick still muttering about having to dress up.

"Regard it as payment for a free dinner," Rob suggested. "Or a job interview."

"Just the thought to help me relax and enjoy the evening!" Chadwick protested. "I'm inept enough at polite conversation without having my future prospects possibly at stake."

"You'll be fine," Rob said. "Just remember to bow deeply when you first meet?—"

"No, no, Rob. That's what Bengrove would want him to do."

Chadwick ignored them. Rob looked at his friend's legs stretched out before him in the carriage, clad in trousers rather than the standard knee breeches he and Moorven were wearing.

"That new leg is good - you can hardly tell you lost your own," Rob said seriously. Chadwick's wooden leg had a shoe fitted to the bottom, and with his loose trousers the loss of his real leg was scarcely noticeable. "Have you tried riding yet?"

Chadwick nodded. "It works well enough if I don't try to gallop. But it's still obviously a false leg when I walk."

"You weren't so bothered by it in Verdun," Rob said, not quite making it a question.

"It's one thing with other military men, who understand about such things. Not the same with people I don't know. And not with strange young women. Feel like a fish out of water." He ran his fingers around his neck to loosen his cravat.

"Does it help to know that Stretton's house is nowhere near as grand as Moorven's?" Rob asked. "And," he added ruefully, "you won't be the only one limping."

"If you're lucky," Moorven said, "he won't have invited his nephew."

"Nephew?" Rob asked.

"Stretton is related to Lord and Lady Yelden. When we had dinner together, their son was very keen on extracting the details of all the actions I was involved in."

"I'm sure he'd be interested in bridge demolition, then," Rob said.

"Or facing down cavalry," Chadwick put in, getting his own back. "Or the fine art of climbing ladders."

"Cease, children," Moorven said. "We have arrived."

Now it was Rob's turn to feel strangled by his cravat.

It's an evening amongst friends, he told himself. Just friends.