3. Looking Out for Mrs. Gilcrest

LOOKING OUT FOR MRS. GILCREST

N aomi stood on the porch long after Major Cockfield had ridden away. Her limbs felt heavy, and the slightest task, such as getting dressed, making tea, or forcing her feet to carry her back into the house, seemed to require tremendous thought and effort.

It was easier simply not to move. If she didn't move, then she didn't have to feel, and if she didn't feel then she didn't have to think. All of which made no sense at all because she couldn't summon the energy to make her brain function properly.

Lord Major Lucas Cockfield had gone above and beyond the call of duty when he'd come to inform her about Gil. Now that he was gone, his part was over. She realized that at some point, she was going to have to face the future.

But for now, she didn't want to think into the next minute—the next hour.

Because she faced it alone.

"He seems an honorable sort."

Naomi glanced over her shoulder. She hadn't realized Ester had joined her outside. When Gil had insisted she hire someone to help her, she'd initially resisted. But now…

Now.

Ester was all she had.

Naomi touched her little bump. Until the baby was born, anyhow. Which summoned an entirely different set of fears.

"Looks like rain," she muttered somewhat inanely, and then she sighed.

Naomi was going to have to raise her and Arthur's child alone. Her husband was never coming home to do it with her.

How dare he die? How dare he leave her alone?

She blinked away fresh tears that threatened. Her eyes ached already from all her weeping.

How had she ended up so alone? Even her mother wouldn't be here to help her. And it was no one's fault but her own.

Her father had forbidden her from associating with Arthur. He and her mother had been convinced by rumors and speculation that Arthur wasn't an honorable gentleman.

Oh, but he had been . He'd spoken of marriage to her even before she'd informed him of her condition. He would have met with her father if only…

She would not regret lying with him that one time before they were married. To regret that would be to regret the life growing inside of her. If not for this child, she would have nothing of him.

And how could she regret the most romantic memory of her life? The carriage ride to the country, the picnic. The compliments Arthur had showered on her, the flirtatious smiles, the secret assignations.

Arthur had been an expert at wooing her.

"Gah!" She swiped her arm at the tears streaming down her cheeks.

A gust of wind had her hugging herself as she watched a small vortex of debris blow into her garden.

"Come inside, Missus." Ester opened the door. "You don't want to catch a chill. It's not good for the baby."

And reminding Naomi of that was the best strategy anyone could use.

It reminded her that, like it or not, she was going to have to address all of these problems facing her. Not for herself, but for their child. She was a grown woman, no longer dependent upon her mother and father. Arthur was counting on her.

A frisson of panic sliced through her grief.

The handful of notes he'd pressed into her hand after kissing her goodbye was all but gone. She'd not been a spendthrift with the money but neither had she been overly frugal. Naomi had never in her life had to worry about funds. Arthur had assured her she would begin receiving a portion of his officer's pay in no time at all.

Her recent purchases at Mr. Clopwell's Store, however, had been made on credit and the balance of her account was becoming not insignificant.

In the few months since he'd gone, no monies had arrived—not a single pound. The inkling of fear she'd had when nothing had come the first month was becoming a torrent of worry. And fretting about something so worldly as coin right now made her feel selfish and guilty.

Because he'd died.

Her husband had gone and died on her.

She stepped inside and glanced around the parlor, quiet now that her guest had left.

It should not have been Major Cockfield sitting in the chair taking breakfast with her. It should have been Arthur.

Her gaze landed on a vase sitting atop the mantel of the fireplace. It was empty. She'd thrown out the flowers after they wilted and died.

Why had she thrown them out? She should have pressed them and now…

She would never have those flowers again! They'd been an apology, of sorts, for failing to return from the village one night.

He would never bring her flowers again.

Naomi had barely made it into her bedchamber and thrown herself onto the bed they'd shared before more sobs escaped. She wanted her husband back. The man she'd vowed to love forever. He was supposed to come home and protect her.

As morning turned to afternoon and then evening, she only rose from her bed once, to pull one of his shirts out of the wardrobe. She comforted herself with his scent. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend he wasn't gone.

For the remainder of the day, she lay curled up in their bed.

Ester had peered in to check on her, but Naomi feigned sleep. She would eat later. She was so tired. As the storm arrived and it drizzled on and off for the rest of the day, so too did her consciousness.

Even the leak above the window wasn't enough to rouse her. She was so tired. Tired and alone.

Upon riding away from Milton Cottage a second time, Luke made his way toward the inn feeling conflicted. It wasn't right that she should be alone right now.

Mrs. Gilcrest was an adult, and it wasn't as though she'd given any indication his help was needed, or would even be tolerated, but he'd seen the condition of the house.

The porch was a hazard. One wrong step and she could tumble through the floor, breaking an ankle or worse…

He leaned forward, urging The General to increase his pace as the rain began to fall in sheets.

What additional items needed repair to ensure she could live there safely? Were there other floorboards that needed to be replaced? What of the roof? And the windows? He ought to have done an inspection while he was there.

Even after unsaddling, brushing, and putting The General up in the stable himself, these and other questions plagued him. Did she have a groom in her small stable? Did she even have a conveyance for travel?

Uncertainties persisted as he ducked in from the rain and brushed the water off his jacket. When a smiling barmaid approached and offered him ale, he declined politely, and despite her pouting protest, climbed the stairs to the room he'd lain awake in for most of the night. After removing his jacket, which had been soaked through, he opened the pack for his change of clothing and his heart dropped.

How had he forgotten about the satchel, empty but for a few paltry items Gil had left behind?

Luke withdrew the small canvas pack, and then, staring out the window at the now driving rain, came to a decision. It would seem Mrs. Gilcrest had not yet seen the last of him.

He changed into dry clothing, opened his valise, and located the items he'd require for his tasks.

His first missive was intended for the War Office. If Naomi Gilcrest truly was as alone as he suspected, it would be vital that she receive Gil's pension. The pension could not be sent to her unless the cogs of the military knew of her whereabouts.

And her existence. Gil had often been casual about filing reports. Luke hoped his friend hadn't treated this administrative requirement so lightly.

The second letter was addressed to his brother. Blackheart would have heard that Luke was on leave, and he and their younger sisters would be expecting him any day. Although Black likely had already been apprised of Gil's death, Luke nonetheless relayed the most general of details in his missive. Tempest, Black, Gil, and Luke had been each other's first chums, after all.

Careful in his wording, Luke explained the circumstances in which Gil had left Mrs. Gilcrest. There was no need for him to write anything else. Blackheart would read between the lines and take matters into his own hands. After sealing both envelopes, Luke posted them downstairs and arranged to keep the room indefinitely.

The following morning, for the third day in a row, Luke found himself yet again approaching the poorly maintained house where Gil had planned to make his home with his wife. Luke had managed a few hours' sleep and, now with the purpose he'd laid out for himself, felt better than he had in weeks.

She must have heard his horse because, before he was even fifty feet from the house, she burst out the front door and came running down the steps. She was smiling brightly in greeting but then halted suddenly and her shoulders fell.

Ah, hell. She'd seen the uniform and assumed…

Ah, hell.

She raised a hand to shade her eyes, and there was no mistaking the look of not just disappointment but devastation as he drew his horse to a halt.

"Did you forget something, Major?" Her voice sounded defeated. It was possible she'd forever remember him as the bearer of the worst news she'd ever received. He didn't blame her.

"As a matter of fact." Luke dismounted. He'd pretend he didn't know that she'd imagined he was Gil returning home to her. He removed the pack he'd forgotten about and then stepped forward to hand it to her.

She hesitated a moment before taking it from him.

"I meant to give this to you before."

She nodded slowly. "Where is he buried?"

He'd guessed she'd eventually ask for more details. "We couldn't recover..." He gestured toward the bag. "This is everything." It was all the insurgents had sent back. They'd kept Gil's sword, his pistol, and of course, his horse. Luke had inspected the few contents left over to represent a man's life. Not much but they were some of the last items Gil had touched.

She hugged the bag close. "Thank you." It was as though today she'd built a barrier around her emotions.

"The thing is, Mrs. Gilcrest…" Luke rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not going anywhere until I receive word from the War Office, and I'll be fit for Bedlam without anything productive to do. I'd be grateful if you'd put me to work."

For the first time since he told her about Gil two days ago, the look she sent him wasn't filled with abject sorrow, resentment, or even polite devastation. For the flash of an instant, he spied a glimmer of the girl he'd met last spring.

"Arthur asked you to look out for me." Her eyes were sad, but there was also a hint of resigned exasperation in those stormy depths.

"He would have done the same for me." It was true. Only no one had been waiting for Luke to return, no one who needed him, anyhow. "We were like brothers."

She dipped her chin and her slate-colored gaze perused the land around them. "I know." And then she sighed. "Arthur has such grand ideas for this cottage… Had such grand ideas. He managed a few repairs before he left, but…" She grimaced and lifted her hand to point at some trim hanging from the porch roof. "He isn't as skilled a carpenter as we had hoped."

At this, Luke chuckled. "I'm not surprised. Luckily, he had other valuable skills. He was a master at reading and drawing up maps. Did you know that?"

"He might have bragged about that just a little. Perhaps the first time we met."

"At the Willoughby Ball?"

She nodded. "I'm certain that if my parents could undo one thing in their lives, it would be allowing that introduction."

"I can't say that I blame them." Luke nearly bit his tongue after the admission. As far as he knew, Gil had been loyal to his wife. Luke would allow Gil the benefit of the doubt and believe that marriage had changed him.

Of course it had changed him. What man wouldn't be faithful to the woman standing before him? "Perhaps they will change their minds once they've met their grandchild."

Mrs. Gilcrest shook her head gently. "My mother, sister, and brother have all been forbidden to write to me. All my life, I've thought I would have my family's unwavering support. I thought that was what love was about." She offered the information easily.

"Do you regret it?"

She tightened her jaw, and not for the first time, Luke noticed her hand circling the material of her dress where it caught at the top of her belly. "Never."

"Is it possible they will see things differently now, knowing you are alone?"

"I think my father will say I invited it."

Luke couldn't stop the grunt of disgust at her comment. Each new revelation he gleaned from their conversation reaffirmed his decision to remain here for at least a few weeks.

His gaze landed on one of the puddles from last night's rain. "Did the roof hold up against the storm?"

She winced.

"I suppose that's as good a place as any to begin." He'd barely uttered the words when the door to the cottage swung open. Mrs. Gilcrest's housekeeper stepped out onto the porch, but before the woman could do or say anything else, she tripped on one of the floorboards and only barely managed to avoid falling. Words that would have blistered any soldier's ears flew from her mouth.

"Perhaps you should start a little lower," her mistress suggested.

And then he saw it. That hint of a smile. His chest loosened the slightest amount. Hell, if he'd had that smile waiting for him, there was no way in hell he would have accepted another mission. Gil had been an idiot. A selfish fucking idiot.

But Luke wasn't allowed to think that. He also needed to stop thinking of Gil's wife in terms of complimentary adjectives.

Because Gil was dead. She was mourning the loss of him.

Luke swallowed hard. "Tools in the stable?"

Her answer was to shrug, as though their brief conversation had exhausted her. Her grief was a palpable thing.

"I'll find them." And with one last glance in her direction, he turned and marched the short distance to the small building set off from the house. If he wasn't incorrect, it was leaning precariously toward the left. Floor. Roof. Stable. He began a mental list of tasks for himself. All that, and he hadn't yet ventured beyond the parlor.

If he took on the entire estate, perhaps he wouldn't have to meet with Blackheart for damn near a year or so.

Or he could return to the conflict and avoid the meeting indefinitely.