Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

I t was the strangest thing. Since meeting Miss Montrose in his rose garden, Daniel had been preoccupied with apologizing. Nothing else had entered his mind. But now that he'd apologized, his mind was a battlefield again. He'd only slept for a few hours, but even the moments of sleep brought with it the nightmares.

He pushed his pillow more firmly over his eyes, wishing he could smother the constant chaos in his brain. He'd had the mental fortitude to live through the horrors of war, so why now did they plague his mind and threaten to overcome him at every turn? He was home; he was safe. Yet the memories became more vivid, haunting not only his dreams, but his waking hours as well.

Where was the man that had conquered the battle? He was Captain Daniel Blackwood, a respected leader of men. He had fought alongside brave comrades who had become like brothers to him. But with each life lost under his command, the weight of responsibility grew heavier on his shoulders. The faces of the fallen haunted him, their names etched into his memory like gravestones. He knew that their families would never see them again, and it burned in him like a festering wound.

He left his bedchamber, all hope of sleep having left him hours ago, and made his way down to his study. The familiar scent of leather-bound books and polished mahogany greeted him as he crossed the threshold. He sat down at his desk, determined to do something for his estate, when he saw the stack of letters atop his desk, just as Mr. Barnaby had left them. Their unopened seals taunted him with the knowledge of more burdens to bear.

Hesitating for a moment, Daniel clenched his jaw before forcing himself to sit down. With trembling hands, he reached out and picked up the first letter, breaking the wax seal that held its secrets closed. As he began to read, the words seemed to leap off the page and echo in his mind, stirring up emotions he had tried so desperately to suppress.

"Dearest Daniel," the letter began, "I hope this finds you well ..."

As Daniel's eyes scanned the flowing script, he could feel his heart grow heavier with each word. "The nightmares continue to plague me," one friend confessed. "I cannot sleep for fear of the images that await me in the darkness." Another letter spoke of the strain on relationships: "My wife says she no longer recognizes the man I have become."

Daniel felt a pang of empathy, his own sleep fraught with similar terrors. He could not escape the relentless march of memories—the thunderous roar of cannon fire, the acrid scent of gunpowder, and the anguished cries of men cut down before their time.

"Dear Captain Blackwood," another letter began, "You may not remember me, but I served under your command at Waterloo. My brother was among those who fell in battle, and I wanted to thank you for the kindness you showed him in his final moments."

The words struck Daniel like a blow to the chest, conjuring the face of a young soldier, barely more than a boy, whose life had been extinguished in an instant. He recalled the look of terror in the lad's eyes as life slipped away, and the whispered plea for reassurance that death would not be in vain. Daniel had offered what comfort he could, though he knew it could never be enough.

"Your leadership saved my life," yet another letter proclaimed, "but I find myself questioning the cost. Was our victory worth the lives lost? The suffering of so many?"

Anger flared within Daniel, fueled by the same doubts that haunted his own thoughts. How could they measure the weight of their sacrifice against the outcome? Were the horrors they had endured truly justified?

"Daniel, my old friend," the next correspondence read, " I know you carry the burden of our fallen comrades with you. But remember that we fought for something greater than ourselves—for freedom, for honor, and for our country."

Tears welled in Daniel's eyes as he struggled to reconcile the words of encouragement with the gnawing guilt that refused to be silenced. His heart ached for his fellow soldiers, each fighting their own battle against the shadows of war.

"Captain Blackwood," another letter stated. "I write to inform you of my husband's passing. You may remember him from your time together at the front. Since returning home, he was never truly able to leave the battlefield behind ... The demons of war proved too mighty an opponent."

A wave of grief washed over Daniel, consuming him in its depths as he read through a considerable portion of the letters. He mourned not only for the man who had been lost but also for the countless others whose lives had been forever altered by the ravages of war—including his own.

"Never forget," one final letter implored, "that you have friends who understand your pain and would gladly bear it with you. We are bound by more than just our shared experiences; we are brothers in arms, united in our triumphs and our heartaches."

The words resonated deep within Daniel, stirring something inside him that had long lain dormant. It was a glimmer of hope—faint but undeniable—that perhaps there was still a path toward healing and redemption. For now, however, the darkness persisted, leaving him adrift on a turbulent sea of conflicting emotions.

Something shimmered in the distance out his window. He leaned closer, peering into the early morning world outside. It was a candle in Miss Montrose's house. What was she doing up at this early hour? He watched the small light for several minutes, but it stayed lit.

With the presence of Miss Montrose's candle, Daniel's mind reviewed the last day. His apology had not been received at all in the way that he'd hoped. Miss Montrose had been so irritated and defensive that it was a wonder that he'd even begun an apology. He shook his head. He couldn't worry about his neighbor. She was going to be judgmental and bothered by his inability to have grounds as lovely as hers. But it shouldn't concern her. It was none of her business, and she should learn that trespassing on property was not acceptable.

Still, the candle burned in the window across the expanse between their properties. Daniel took a breath. He'd been unable to sleep. Thoughts of Miss Montrose continued to swirl around him. He'd dismissed her idea of gardening and improving his own space. But with another night of night terrors, he'd been forced awake, and he did not want to try to sleep.

He needed something different. Reading the letters from his fellow soldiers and their families hadn't helped. He paced up and down the length of his study, stopping each time at the window to see the light from the cottage window.

Miss Montrose and her ideas, indeed. She had spouted nonsense about peace and tranquility in her garden. The woman was so taken by flowers. Such a typical thing. Such work was not for him. And yet, her taunting words came back to him. Miss Montrose clearly did not understand the role of a Captain—she was na?ve, just like the rest of Society on how matters worked during a war. But he was not at war anymore. He was home, in a land free from the constant firing and acrid smells.

He looked out at the pathetic state of his grounds and blew out a breath. Maybe there was something to the nonsense of working the land himself. It couldn't hurt to try. And no one would have to know. He would merely test the theory, not commit to it. It was still well before sunrise. He could do a little. And most likely, it would be enough to prove to Miss Montrose that her theories were preposterous.

Daniel wiped his brow with his shirt sleeves. He didn't want to admit it just yet, but there was something to the manual labor and working in the dirt. The first hour had been a little tricky to figure out what to do, but pulling weeds had been an excellent form of exercise. As the sky had turned from black to a light gray, he gained more confidence, seeing a little more clearly, and able to pull more weeds at a faster pace. The bending, the pulling, the sweating. He'd been so focused, and his mind had been quiet. So blessedly quiet. There it was—the beginning of finding peace and tranquility. He almost felt like he could laugh out loud. It couldn't be that easy. He couldn't believe that it would stay that easy, either. But in this moment, his mind had been quieted for long enough that he'd caught at least a glimpse of change.

The sun broke the horizon, and the birds that had likely been chirping for some time filled his ears. He focused on the distinct sounds of the different species. Each had their own song and their own tune. And still his mind stayed quiet.

He closed his eyes and smiled, feeling a small measure of relief at the monumental accomplishment. Then he opened his eyes to see the physical work that had gotten him to that part. He'd cleared a considerable portion of the garden bed. Miss Montrose had been right. This was soothing in a way he couldn't explain.

"What are you doing?" Miss Montrose's voice came from beyond the hedge. In the morning sunlight, she looked like an angel. How had he ever thought this woman could be a ghost on his grounds? The sunlight landed on the curls that were atop her head, like a halo. Definitely an angel .

He smiled, happy that she was out in the garden so that he could thank her for this experience. He'd happily eat his humble pie and give her the credit for this amazing turn of events. "I'm doing as you suggested."

Her eyes widened. "I thought you had better things to do than play in the dirt like a child. I did not suggest this. You've ruined it."

His defenses rose. "You said that there was peace to be found in working in the garden. And I am not the kind of Captain that gives orders and leaves my men without support. I'm not waiting for a gardener. I'm trying to love this dirt that you love so much, and there actually might be something to working in a garden."

Her eyes narrowed into slits. She shook her head. "Those were flowers, not weeds." She huffed and stormed to the opposite side of her garden.

Daniel picked up a bundle of the plants he'd torn out of the ground. He could not tell the difference between the weeds and the flowers. They'd blended together, and he'd thought he'd been doing it right. He threw the plants down—there was no way to revive them now, and he didn't want to replant weeds. He kicked at the dirt. So much for gaining peace. He had no clue what he was doing. And he couldn't even pull weeds right.