Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

T he wind blew subtly as Mary mulled over her latest creation.

Sweeter than the songbird's tune

Fairer than a springtime bloom

Philomena seems to me

God's greatest creature one could see

Mary grimaced at the last line. She had plenty more polishing to do if she were to actually aid Silas in his courtship of Miss Oswald. She ruminated on a few more choices as she drifted leisurely across Greybrook Manor's back lawn. Fanny was away shopping with Mama today. And her little sister knew Mary well enough to understand that curating a trousseau was hardly her preferred way of spending time with her family. Mary harbored no bitterness over Fanny's impending happiness—but fashion was hardly her favorite way of celebrating it.

The soft breeze provided coolness without any potential risk to her health, and Mary allowed herself a deep draft of morning air as she wandered towards her favorite writing spot. Mornings like this were rare, and she was determined not to waste the opportunity when one presented itself so perfectly. She closed her eyes briefly, letting her feet find their own way across the familiar turf for a few short seconds. Perhaps, with the right inspiration, she might even pen another letter to her imaginary husband.

"Miss Danforth," a deep voice greeted her. Mary opened her eyes, drawing to an abrupt stop.

"Captain Hayes." She recovered in a moment and quickly folded the foolscap back into her reticule. How ridiculous the man might think her if he found her scribbling letters to an unknown man! It was bad enough that she had been wandering with her eyes closed like an irresponsible child. "I apologize for intruding."

A small tick that might have been a smile passed over his lips. "Given that I am but a temporary occupant of this house while you remain a permanent one, I would consider myself as the trespasser."

"It is hardly necessary to be so harsh upon yourself, sir."

"But it is true, is it not? I am a visitor—an unexpected one at that—invited only by your brother and his unending assurance of your mother's ready hospitality."

"I hope we have not made you feel unwelcome."

"Not at all," he assured, looking almost solemn for a moment before softening once more. "I am unaccustomed to being left to my own devices while visiting, but it has been a refreshing change."

"I hardly know if that is a request for me to stay or to leave."

He looked abashed. "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive."

He nodded once before falling silent. Mary waited, uncertain what to say.

She was rarely this awkward in conversation. Even if she had never been as eloquent with spoken words as she was with a pen, she seldom found it difficult to put together a decent sentence.

Then again, she seldom conversed alone with men outside her family.

"Thank you." The captain's voice was low yet gentle. Mary had no doubt that he could easily wield command over his men with a harsher tone, but she was thankful that he chose to be mild-mannered with her. "I'm afraid that I speak thoughtlessly at times. I must admit that after years away from society, one forgets how to be tactful."

"Some people have never been away—and yet display little tact nonetheless."

He met her eye over her olive branch. She offered the hint of a smile, and he released a breath he had apparently been holding in.

"Thank you," he said.

"Whatever for?"

"Your understanding, I suppose."

Mary shrugged, her shawl falling off her shoulders. She tugged it back. "I am hardly capable of truly understanding the breadth and depth of what you must have endured on the battlefield. An inevitable spinster such as I can have no true knowledge of what you must have experienced."

"Perhaps not." He turned away, his eyes roaming, as if taking in the scenery before him. It was not a particularly grand view, but it was a comforting one, and Mary allowed the calmness of the English countryside to soothe her soul. "But I believe you capable of things far beyond your immediate realm of experience."

"I find your confidence complimentary yet unfounded, sir."

"Is it?" He looked sideways at her. The harsh lines of his face made him look every inch an army captain, but there was a softness to his gaze. "You proclaim yourself an inevitable spinster—and yet even your brothers cannot rival your ability to encourage love with your words."

Mary flushed. "That is hardly—I do not?—"

"Am I mistaken?"

"No." How could he be—when her brothers talked so freely of availing of her assistance over every dinner at Greybrook? Mary tugged at her shawl. "I do try my best to be of help."

"And yet none of them seem to understand the value of your service."

Mary chuckled, unusually shy. "It is hardly a service."

"But it is."

"That is little compared to what you must have had to endure on the battlefield."

"Perhaps—yet I am not ignorant of the fact that many battles on the home front might prove more difficult than physical enemies wielding swords and guns."

"That is a generous statement."

He smiled wryly. "There are times, Miss Danforth, when I wish I could be strategizing a military campaign rather than entangling myself in domestic matters."

The contemplative turn of his words intrigued her. "You hardly strike me as a man who likes to arbitrate between the cook and the housekeeper."

Captain Hayes chuckled, and Mary followed. He seemed to muse privately over something for another quick moment before deciding not to expound on his enigmatic statement. "You seem to be quite unaccompanied today, Miss Danforth. And as I am not vain enough to assume you wandered over just to entertain me—I cannot help but conclude that another reason must have brought you to this particular location."

Mary sighed softly. "It hardly matters. It is only that I visit this rock often."

"To view the woods? Or to think upon life?"

She pondered the implications before admitting, "I come to write."

His eyes seemed to light up with interest. "For yourself—or for others?"

"A bit of both."

" I have heard that you are also a faithful correspondent. Silas is blessed. Many soldiers were sustained through the war only by news from home."

It struck Mary just then how lonely many of the kingdom's bravest men must have been as they defended the crown. Her compassion loosened her tongue. "I write to my siblings, yes—but I almost just as often write on their behalf."

"So it is true then—all this talk about your courting on their behalf?"

Mary smiled, suddenly shy. "I do not know to consider it a greater embarrassment for them or for me to admit such a thing."

"You pen their letters for them then?"

"Worse, I'm afraid." Her smile turned sheepish. Encouraged by the curious look on the captain's face, she lowered herself onto the flat rock beside them. He sat beside her, no doubt having just occupied the same spot before her arrival. Fingers trembling, she procured the latest poem from her reticule. "You see. The poem is an utter mess, and I just might have to retire my position as the family's laureate if I cannot produce something more adequate for Silas."

To her surprise, the captain laughed. "Silas, the little dunderhead. I should have known he could not woo a woman on his own merits."

"Now that is hardly fair." Mary chuckled along. "For his incessant talking at dinner is all his own work."

"Of that I have no doubt."

They shared smiles over their mutual acquaintances. It was unusual to find such serene, soothing company. Even with her beloved family, gatherings were always boisterous or deeply emotive. Serenity had always only ever been available to her in solitude.

To know that such a tranquil version of contentment was possible with other people was as intriguing as it was depressing. One day soon, the captain would inevitably leave—and with him, the hope of a lovely friendship.

"Do you ever write for yourself then?" asked the captain, a moment later. "It seems hardly fair that you play scribe to all your siblings' happiness only to overlook your own."

It was an honest question—although the true answer hovered dangerously close to something Mary hoped no one would ever discover.

She inhaled deeply before replying, "I am, amongst many other things, a realist. And I know full well that the sort of happiness in store for my brothers and sisters is unlikely to be in the cards for someone like me."

"You think too little of yourself, Miss Danforth."

"No, I do not." She met his eye, relieved when she saw compassion without pity. "I know my own physical limitations—and I choose to contend with them with contentment and peace."

"You do not envy your siblings?"

"No. I love them far too much for that."

A shade of admiration and respect touched his gaze. He reached over and squeezed her gloved hand briefly before letting go. "You are as brave as half of the soldiers I have ever encountered, Miss Danforth."

"I consider that a compliment, Captain Hayes."

He nodded. "As you should."

"Oh, but the pink one is so much prettier," Mama insisted as Fanny twirled around with the fabric draped around her shoulders the following afternoon. The shopping in town was insufficient, apparently, and Greybrook had been overtaken by a veritable army of silks and muslins and needles today, "This would do for a day dress, perhaps, but hardly for evening attire."

"We are not to be wealthy landlords constantly hosting dinner parties, Mama," Fanny reminded, her smile as sweet and refreshing as ever. "Peyton and I shall have our own home, but it is modest at best."

"Never let it be said that any Danforth daughter marries with an unbecoming trousseau."

"A dress need not be expensive to still be every bit beautiful," Fanny assured.

Mary watched with a quiet, wistful smile as the womenfolk of the house—mistress and servants alike—rushed to assist Fanny with all the fabrics. It was not the first time Mary witnessed a sibling taking this step in her journey, but there was something particularly plaintive about watching a younger sister, and one who shared her room for years, taking the final steps to prepare for her new life. Soon, Mary would be the only sister left at Greybrook Manor. And while she had always known this to be her future, there was some melancholy to watching it unfold with so little variation.

No gallant knights rode down the lane to announce her secret betrothal to a prince. No wandering wizards came to declare her role necessary to the success of a hero's quest. No fairy godmothers appeared to grant her reprieve from her unremarkable life, even for the mere span of a single evening.

Mary sighed as a bout of dizziness assaulted her. She closed her eyes until it passed. She was content with her lot in life. Her family loved her, and her parents had afforded her every care they could from the local apothecary and any visiting physicians. If she had been born to a lesser set of loved ones, she might long have been deserted or overlooked for her healthier siblings. But her contentment did not mean she stopped dreaming—especially when it seemed at times that it was the only thing left for her to do.

"Mary, darling, will you not convince Fanny that she looks so much more becoming in pink?" Mama called over the length of the parlor.

Mary glanced at her sister, who was shaking her head vehemently while the local seamstress tried to pin the rose-colored fabric around her body. Mary chuckled. "Fanny looks good in any color, Mama. Did you not always praise her for her complexion? The blue would look just as good as the pink."

"You two—always taking each other's sides." Mama shook her head fondly. "I cannot have my peace with any more than one of you in the house."

"I suppose it is good then that your children are marrying one by one," said Fanny. "Did you see Silas and Philomena this morning? He looked quite ready to propose."

"It shall do me much good when he does," said Mary, "for I can finally stop agonizing over that poem."

All the women chuckled, and Mary enjoyed the fleeting sense of normalcy the moment yielded.

"Don't rest on your laurels just yet," said Mama as she disapproved of yet another piece of blue fabric, to Fanny's great dismay. "Siegfried mentioned to your father last night that he might wish to be courting Miss Peyton soon."

"Siegfried?" Fanny shrieked. "The boy is two years shy of twenty. What does he know about courting."

"Did you not already know Peyton when he was eighteen?"

"I suppose." Fanny seemed to breathe in relief when the seamstress unwound another rose-colored muslin from her chest. She truly seemed to detest the color. "But Siegfried is a child."

"As were you once upon a time."

"As all of us were," Mary said.

"And soon all of you will be leaving us." Mama sighed. "Although at least I shall have Mary."

Mary could hardly decide if it was flattering or disappointing to be regarded this way by her mother.

"Nonsense, Mama, Mary might yet marry before Siegfried," Fanny declared confidently. The servants exchanged curious looks, making Mary wish Fanny hadn't been so quick to jump to her defense. "Did you not notice how Captain Hayes seems to be constantly watching her?"

Now the servants began to whisper, and Mary wished she could slink away in mortification.

"Is he now?" Mama asked with rounded eyes. "Mary, dear, is there something you are not telling us?"

There was, of course—but it was not what Mama seemed to be implying.

"Captain Hayes has been nothing but civil to me," said Mary. "I appreciate his being so. Not all men are so gallant."

Mama and Fanny murmured their assent before moving on to discuss the last three samples of fabrics, leaving Mary to consider to herself if the thought of Captain Hayes ever noticing her that way was a hopeful or a hopeless prospect.

Dinner with a full table, difficult to imagine a mere two weeks ago, now felt almost commonplace as the Danforths, the Peytons, and their respective guests settled in. Silas was as energetic as ever, babbling endlessly about his military campaigns, often earning a chuckle from Peyton or a reproving grunt from Captain Hayes whenever his stories grew too embellished. Young Siegfried, perhaps having been chastened by Papa, spoke more circumspectly than he did the nights before. And Peyton and Fanny continued to make doe eyes at each other while Mama cooed over their blossoming love.

It was a familiar scene, a comforting scene. And Mary smiled sincerely throughout the entire meal at her family's lighthearted banter. She even braved staying after dinner, choosing to linger close to the fireplace instead of retiring to her room.

One day soon, she would be the only child left sharing her parents' home. She would have plenty of time to write then.

She would treasure these rare moments of everybody's presence for now.

"Miss Danforth," a low tone sounded behind her soon after the men joined the women.

Mary turned halfway around.

"Captain Hayes." She nodded.

He bowed in response before surprising her by pulling up a spare ottoman and seating himself beside her.

She had spoken with the man before—alone, even. But something about being in the presence of her family, mixed with Fanny's flippant comment this afternoon, made Mary feel unexpectedly flustered. The captain was tall, his features handsome in a severe, almost solemn way. And tucked onto a small ottoman that looked mostly the worse for wear, he felt almost overwhelmingly masculine beside her.

"I am surprised not to find you reading—or writing," said the captain, beckoning Mary out of her self-consciousness.

Mary chuckled, trying her best not to sound nervous. "I suppose there must be some respite at times. My siblings do not always have to be wooing their women."

"And succeeding only thanks to you."

"I dare not claim so much credit."

"You might be surprised, sometimes, at how little a man may know about talking to a woman—even if said man shows every confidence on the battlefield."

"You speak from observation then? Or perhaps from experience?"

Mary watched, fascinated, as an uneven flush crept up the captain's long neck.

"A man suited for the battlefield is often ill-suited for the drawing room," he offered by way of an indirect answer.

"I suppose I can understand that. I cannot imagine my brother having much use for his pranks in the trenches."

"He tried."

Mary stopped suppressing her smile when she saw the captain sporting one of his own. "I suppose one cannot truly change one's nature merely by changing one's circumstances."

"No, I would think not."

"I cannot imagine it easy—to be trained for war and yet be taught to pursue peace. We all have long prayed for our soldiers to come home, but I must admit that not many of us have given thought to how suited a time of peace might be for those accustomed to battle."

An almost appreciative glint touched the captain's steady gaze. "You see what many do not see, Miss Danforth."

His tone sounded far too close to admiration for Mary's sanity, and she busied herself momentarily with the fringes of her shawl. "Perhaps being a quiet observer of life has lent me the ability to see what some might not."

"But are you always an observer?"

"Sir?"

"Is there never a time when you are the one living life—rather than one merely observing it?"

In her personal dreams, perhaps—but never in reality. Mary steeled herself. "I do not think many people would be eager to keep company with a woman frailer than their grandmother."

"Frailty of the body is hardly the same as frailty of the mind. And almost all the women I've crossed paths with are in possession of the latter."

"Surely, you do not mean?—"

"Or frailty of character, perhaps." His face turned thoughtful. "And if one were to be truly honest, it is strength of character and of heart that truly matters, at the end of it all."

"Unexpected words from a military man."

His smile looked wry at best. "Or perhaps merely a world-weary man."

"Perhaps you have observed things I have not observed then."

"Perhaps." He sighed, long and low.

She waited a moment before asking, "Do you miss it—the war?"

"I do not miss the dangers or the risks—the knowledge that a comrade who stands beside you now might not be breathing the very next moment," he admitted freely. The rest of the room chattered away happily, leaving them to their private conversation. "But the purposefulness, I must admit, I yearn for at times."

Mary reached out to touch his arm only to pull back abruptly when he looked at her in surprise. She tugged her shawl closer around her. "I—I understand. I do not know what peacetime harbors for you, sir, but I hope you know that you are most welcome here until your path becomes clear."

He angled slightly more towards her. The edge of his lips ticked up slightly, briefly. "Am I?"

It was growing difficult to breathe. Perhaps she ought to retire sooner than she expected.

Mary swallowed. "We are in no hurry to lose good company."

The captain nodded, his gaze softer than before. "I am glad we are of an accord." Then, as if teasing her, he added, "I would so hate to have to stop sampling the wafers at Greybrook. Nothing in the army can quite compare."

Silas called for both of them to join the card games just as Mary's chuckle trailed off. And while both of them declined, their privacy was drawn to an end by the need to spectate.

At least, spectating was what Mary did best.