Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

My dearest husband,

The weather has been milder of late, allowing me more opportunities to immerse myself in nature. The wildflowers have run amok along the brook, but I hardly have the heart to think of removing them. What a pretty sight they make! It is as if nature is offering its splendor in contrast to the manmade art we harbor within our homes.

I have been promised by the grocer that we will receive the latest array of spices by tomorrow. I cannot wait to undertake the new wafer recipe once more. You seemed to have enjoyed them so thoroughly the last time they were served.

M ary lowered her quill momentarily, taking care to angle herself in a way that would protect her letter from flying away. Her private letters to her imaginary husband—a vague, generic endeavor before—had suddenly begun to feel frightfully specific of late. No longer was the idea of marriage something she daydreamed about to an unrealized character. Sometime, somehow, in the span of the last few weeks, her fancies had taken on the shape of a tall, brooding man of war—a kind yet haunted soul with gentle words and quiet manners.

Mary sighed. It was futile to dream of such things. She had learned that lesson a long time ago. And while dreaming without expecting any of her dreams to actually come true had felt harmless enough before, her reins on her expectations had been slipping so much of late that she worried she was setting herself up for emptied hopes and a bruised heart.

It was all well and good when her imaginary husband was a wholly fictitious creature. It was much harder now that secret hopes and reality seemed to have blurred the lines between them. Why bother dreaming of what cannot be? Fanny might tease all she wanted about the captain's attentions, but Mary knew she was never made for any sort of lasting attachment. Who would want a wife, after all, who had to hedge her every decision lest another ailment whisk her away from the world for good?

She glanced down at the letter in her hand. Imagining a life had been enough before. It was extremely unsettling that it suddenly felt insufficient now.

She sighed as she folded the unfinished letter. On mornings like this, with Greybrook mostly empty and the servants occupied with work and gossip, the fact that her imaginations were falling short hurt even more than usual.

A loud huff and heavy footsteps swept by, and Mary scrambled to put away all evidence of her writing. Her family knew that she wrote often, but she had hidden these particular letters for a reason, and she had every intention to continue doing so.

It was not until she had successfully tucked away her private correspondence that she noticed who exactly had stormed across the clearing. He did not seem to notice her as he marched until he stood a mere few yards away.

"Captain Hayes," she greeted, rising slowly.

He turned sharply towards her, as if he had only noticed her now. The tempestuous look on his face, no doubt an expression that aided him in his battlefield command, melted slightly into a light frown.

"Miss Danforth." He bowed. "I did not realize the area was occupied. Forgive me for intruding. I should have known, truly."

Mary tried to smile, though it was rather difficult to when one's companion scowled so deeply. "It is no matter. I was only writing."

He nodded, still appearing greatly preoccupied. "You are often writing."

"Very often, yes." She had never felt embarrassed about writing before. But, somehow, faced with whatever great trouble the captain had, Mary felt unusually shy about her little hobby. "But I do not think that is what most concerns you right now, captain."

His eyes met hers, and an almost apologetic look crept into his gaze. "No, I suppose not. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive." She stepped closer. She almost reached for him but restrained herself in time. Mary swallowed. "I am accustomed to being overlooked. Pray, do not trouble yourself."

His frown deepened once more. "No woman deserves to be perpetually overlooked."

She knew he was speaking of womankind in general, but his words warmed her in an unexpected, unwarranted way.

"You are too kind," she said limply. "Please, sir, if you would rather take a seat."

The tall captain eyed Mary's previous perch on the slanted rock, its breadth barely enough for the two of them, and she wanted to blush all over again.

"I would be much obliged," he said before she could take back her offer, and he promptly stepped over and sat down, his coat brushing her gown as he did. Mary swallowed and shifted to the side before lowering herself beside him.

It was not the first time they shared such close proximity, but something about the rigidity of their seats today made Mary more nervous than usual. Had he detected her burgeoning feelings for him and wished to discourage her? Was she becoming overly sensitive about his actions merely because the man behind them had begun to grow dear to her?

"I fear I am poor company today," he said, his voice low and world-weary.

"Being loquacious is hardly the only measure of good company." She tugged at her shawl. "If it were, I would be a sorry sister to have around."

"Your family loves you dearly—despite their thoughtlessness at times."

"I know. I count myself blessed."

A brief silence lingered.

"I fear I cannot count myself as blessed when it comes to my own relations," said the captain.

Mary listened quietly. She could sense that his confidence was rarely bestowed, and she hardly wished to say anything that might cause him to retract it.

"Your brothers are with Peyton this morning," he said.

"I am aware," answered Mary.

"They are visiting the home Peyton shall be occupying with your sister when they wed."

"I hope they find everything in order."

"As do I—particularly when my own visit home did not unfold quite as well."

A sudden image of Captain Hayes returning to a confused, tired wife appeared in Mary's mind. In her imagination, the woman glared at him, only to soften and reach for him a moment later. A few children peered at the captain, their faces reflecting his features even as they hid behind their mother's skirts.

Was the captain married? Did Mary even know anything about the man apart from his powerful presence and his unexpected tenderness? She felt as if she could not breathe.

"You might wonder, Miss Danforth, why I have continued to avail myself of your family's hospitality when the home that ought to be mine lies a mere hour's drive away."

Mary licked her lips. "I hope we have not made you feel unwelcome in any way."

"On the contrary, I find myself much more dearly received here than in the home that supposedly bears my name."

Mary waited quietly, uncertain how to respond to his enigmatic statements.

"My brother was a married man," the captain said of his own volition a moment later. His eyes and tone both felt far away. "He, the heir, had settled into his life role admirably. And I, the second son, had followed my calling onto the battlefield. It was a dangerous calling, but it was one of purpose."

Mary nodded, a faithful audience.

The captain sighed. "Little did anyone expect that it was the brother who stayed on English soil that perished first."

Mary's heart clenched. The thought of losing any of her siblings was a sobering thought. She tugged at her shawl once more. "My condolences, captain."

"Thank you. I did not wish to lose my brother, but I did. And while my sorrow is sincere, there are some in the neighborhood who seem to think that his demise was a fortunate turn for me."

"Because of the house."

"Yes—a small but profitable estate on the edge of a growing town."

Mary nodded. Greybrook Manor had been just that two generations ago. And due to her grandfather's and father's keen sense of management, the small property had managed to grow into sustaining the life of comfort they had now.

"I suppose there are always people who do not trust in the sincerity of seemingly honorable behavior," she said quietly.

"Particularly when it is her control of the estate at stake."

It took Mary a moment to understand. She looked up to find the captain already looking at her, his expression grim.

"Did your brother have an heir?"

"Only I."

"If that is the case?—"

"But his wife had been a widow—with a son."

"I see."

"There is no reason for him to inherit—at least not apart from the small legacy my brother had graciously bestowed upon him."

"I take it his mother thinks otherwise?"

He nodded. "She believes the land the rightful property of her son."

"That is unfortunate."

"And a complication I wish I did not have to address."

The weight of his revelations surrounded them, casting a dark shadow over an otherwise sunny day.

"The home, by law, is rightfully yours," said Mary.

"Yes," he replied, "and yet I have never experienced a colder reception anywhere else."

Mary nodded, her heart heavy for her newfound friend. "It is to your credit that you do not try to evict her."

"I have been tempted, I assure you." His face hardened momentarily before returning to its earlier, resigned look. "It is difficult, at times, to tread the line between gentleman and soldier."

"If only a well-planned military campaign could assist you."

"Indeed. Or, perhaps, if I can convince a fellow soldier to marry her away."

They exchanged a more playful look. Mary smiled. "It is time that I offer my services, captain? Shall I write letters from an unknown lover to your brother's widow?"

"It would prove most convenient." His tone sounded less strained than it had earlier. "If you can make the man handsome and wealthy, perhaps even titled, one might even have greater odds of succeeding."

"Perhaps I ought to mention a partiality for widows."

"Particularly ones widowed twice over."

"I suppose that can be arranged."

They chuckled over their futile plotting, both of them knowing full well that the captain was far too honorable a man and Mary too conscientious of a lady to ever go through with such a scheme.

"I must admit myself surprised that she has not attempted to set her cap on you ," Mary mentioned light-heartedly before she looked up.

The captain's expression caught her off-guard. He looked almost abashed, as if he were a child caught by his parents at a place he ought not to be. Mary flushed.

"Of course, if that is the case," she scrambled, "it would not be a wholly bad arrangement at all. That is, of course, if the two of you are amenable to such a match. There is wisdom to be had in marrying amidst people you are familiar with. And there is, of course, the matter with the estate, which is?—"

A warm hand covered Mary's, stopping her words and her breathing. She ventured to meet his eye.

"I have no intention whatsoever to marry my sister-in-law," he said with so much conviction that Mary felt the need to nod. Then his voice and expression softened. "The church forbids it. But even if they didn't, there is no reason to desire it when my preferences already lie in a different direction."

Mary swallowed. Was it possible to faint from sheer nerves? The thought sent her into a cough, and the captain hurried to ensconce her indoors, which was perhaps just as well.

It would do no one any good for her heart to get carried away.