Page 8 of Jaxon (Gentlemen of War #4)
Amelia
4 May 1816
Lying in bed late one morning, after yet another ball and another night of deuced frustration, I could not get my mind to settle. Seven straight weeks of false flirting, painted smiles, and sweaty palms and I had reached my limit. The pleasure and amusement of the societal events had been stripped from me in pursuit of a man who might care for me beyond my purse, but with the added pressure of Katrina’s coin, I felt incapable of discerning between the two… and I was exhausted.
It had become a race against time, and with perfect clarity the revelation emerged that in order for me to “win”, I would also lose—lose my dreams, desires, and ultimately myself.
Men of all ages, backgrounds, and stations laid their chips on the table and I tired of the trifling drivel that came my way. Were any of them truthful? Maybe, but would they have still approached had I not a schilling to my name?
I pushed my pillows up against my headboard and purposefully reached for my treasure box beneath my bed, settling it upon my lap. Opening the carefully crafted wooden box, I reached past the trinkets of my childhood and a handful of broken ceramics I had found at the Roman fort ruins and retrieved the stack of letters resting inside.
I knew that meandering down this fragile path only brought forth pain, but I could not resist. Every word of every letter seared agonizingly into my chest. The papers, now crinkled and worn from handling, no longer carried the faint scent of gunpowder, tar, and cigarette smoke, but I sniffed them anyway. Unfolding the first parchment, I could already feel the chasm in my heart tear even further.
21 January 1814
Dearest Amelia,
I do not have much time to write today, for we are only waiting until sunrise and when our commander gives us the signal to advance. The weather has turned bitter cold and I can only thank you for the scarf you knitted and stuffed in my trunk when I was unaware. It has come in quite handy and is the envy of every man in my trench. It isn’t truly compatible with my uniform but my captain hardly concerns himself with our attire after the temperatures dropped to -3 ° C these two days past.
Outside of the destruction and war, France is truly lovely. One day I will bring you back here. You will love it in the spring. The colors are spectacular and the pastries are to die for.
I am sure you are enjoying the Season as you always have. I have only a vague memory of London and its enchantment. Too much sadness has replaced any good I can conjure, but do not fret for me, it is only a matter of time before we defeat Napoleon and his troops… and I will be home again.
Smile, little bird.
With all my love, Peter.
2 August, 1814
Dearest Amelia,
While many men have returned home since the exile of Napoleon to Elba, our unit has been tasked to rebuild and fortify Fort George at Mundolsheim near the border of Germany. When Napoleon occupied it, they called it Fort Desaix, and we have much to accomplish. I am not entirely disappointed I could not return to England, aside from seeing you and Lester, naturally, but I feel a sense of accomplishment here. Commander Wilhelm has taken me under his wing and wishes to teach me new skills that will only enhance my service to His Majesty’s armed forces. I believe I have found my destiny, dear sister, so rejoice with me and do not fret. All is well in France.
How do you like our new stepmother? I am not acquainted with the name and do not recall meeting her before I left England, but I can assume with your devotion to our mother that you are taking the news with difficulty. Try to be amiable for our father’s sake.
While in the village of Brumath, I came across a quaint bookshop and thought of you. I went inside simply because I wanted to sense your spirit. As mad as it sounds, the very scent of leather and oil reminds me of you. Are you still reading gothic novels? Have you been to the Roman fort recently? Have you read any more of Thomas Amyot’s works? Of course, I am chuckling as I write this… certainly you have answered affirmatively to all three. When I return, we will explore Hadrian’s Wall, Vindolanda, and Wroxeter in Shropshire. Here in France, I had hoped to see Versailles but never made it to Paris. I did, however, see La Porte de Mars in Reims. Though there is extensive damage, one can still identify the elaborate engravings on its exterior. One of the men in my company suggests they are of the ancient history of Romulus and Remus, founders of Rome. You will have to validate that for me. He is a scholar back home, so I am inclined to believe him, but this I know, you would have loved to see it. Visit the British museum for me, take notes, and keep them safe for when I return, and I can read them all at once.
Smile, little bird.
With all my love, Peter.
23 March 1815
Dearest Amelia,
This will not be a long letter. I only write to tell you with the news of Napoleon’s escape, our troops are on the move. The reports we have received state that he is headed north. He will be sorely surprised when he arrives. Do not fear, little sister, I have learned a great deal in this last year and will be more readily skilled to do my part in his subsequent defeat. His Majesty’s armies will not allow such evil to conquer and destroy all that we hold sacred. I cannot wait to finally see you and Lester again. My commander has assured me I will receive leave in time to be home for Michaelmas.
Keep smiling, little bird.
With all my love, Peter.
I clutched the locket at my throat with Peter’s miniature inside as the tears that cascaded down my cheeks remained untouched. Why had I opened the door to my carefully concealed pain? This was the last letter I received from Peter. The next time I had seen his name was in the newsprint periodical that listed the deceased at Waterloo in the United Kingdom of The Netherlands.
With only a year between us, we were raised simultaneously in the nursery, inseparable in good deeds and bad, only detached by our years away at school and, subsequently, his service. Lester was the eldest of the three of us, six years older than Peter. And while we adored him, Peter became everything to me, especially after Mother passed when I was but thirteen and Peter fourteen.
I carefully tucked the letters away and placed the box beneath my bed once more feeling the familiar threads of anger steadily creep in. I had considered leaving London at the time of Peter’s death, but Father insisted we stay, saying the Season’s events would keep us distracted from the reality of our sorrow. He was mistaken. Everything I loved and cherished was tied to my brother. Nothing held joy any longer and everything became one blur after another.
So, in my grief, I became obsessed with the Battle of Waterloo, reading every published account and periodical I could find—the maps, strongholds, enemy, survivors, and commanders; I even studied the lists of the injured and deceased. Engaging in this cruel and morbid occupation only heightened my sorrow, yet I could not extricate myself from the endeavor knowing that my brother took his last breath there… even laid to rest there.
It wasn’t until six months had passed and a great deal of coaxing from Elizabeth before I even cracked a novel again, but eventually I did, and though I often buried myself in my room, I slowly emerged to the land of the living once more. My father buried his grief in the arms of the Tigress, who quite adamantly pushed to reduce the mourning period, shed the black crepe, and resume our standing and presence in society. While the Tigress had fortune aplenty before she met my father, she claimed no title and, once she got her claws into my father, status and appearances became the very air she breathed.
She had never met Peter, she knew nothing of him, and therefore dismissed his existence like a flick of her ornately painted fan. One flick and talk of him was diminished. Another flick and he disappeared altogether.
And shortly thereafter, she focused her next flick on me—my dowry was doubled and her efforts to remove me amplified tenfold.
With all the strife she caused me, would it be so awful to live in Bridport? Certainly, the separation could only please us all, but what might I truly find there? Did they even have a bookshop or a circulating library? A literary teahouse or historic institutions of forward-thinking?
Reaching for the bellpull I waited for Daisy to arrive, knowing all the while my departure from London seemed long overdue.
While Aunt Agatha’s temperament was an acquired taste, I had enjoyed her and her feistiness each time she visited. We shared many days of laughter, but there was no doubt if I joined her, I would miss the museums most of all. Perhaps it would give me the time to compile the notes I had taken for Peter, organize them, and submit my theories to a professor or a publication. Surely there are others who delight in learning the mysteries of the past.
By early afternoon, dressed in a lavender walking dress with laced cuffs and satin trim, I entered the drawing room where my father and stepmother were enjoying their daily tea.
“I have made a decision,” I announced without sitting down and joining them.
Father clasped his hands together in delight. “Which of the young men who have asked for your hand shall I summon to my study?”
My jaw tightened and I took a deep inhale through my nose. “None of them.”
“None?” Katrina choked as her teacup clattered against her saucer.
I glared at her only briefly until I peered over at my father once more. “I have decided to accept Aunt Agatha’s request for a companion.”
“But the Season is not over,” Father pointed out. “We have yet to attend another month of events.”
“I am finished, Father.” I dared to peek in the Tigress’s direction. Her eyes narrowed as I continued, “I am only asking how long I must remain as her companion until I am privy to receive the funds of my dowry for my own purpose.”
“You have no right to that money!” Katrina stood to her feet. The red streaks in her orange hair resembled the flames from the hearth and matched the flush in her cheeks.
“Only half of the dowry belongs to you,” I snapped. “And you can have it back. I never asked for it. Mine should have come to me when I came of age.”
“It is for your husband!” Katrina shouted. My father, who remained seated between us, did not interrupt.
“I do not wish to have a husband.” There, I said it, blinking a bit, astonished at my confession. Though there was a slight element of falsehood attached, for I should have said, I do not wish to have a nonsensical husband, yet that is all I seemed to attract.
Her mouth gaped open like a fish freshly caught on a hook. I would have laughed if the tension in the room were not so taut.
“Say something, Newell.” She fisted her hands at her hips.
“By all means, Father…” I met his eyes, a hint of challenge in my voice. “Say something.”
He stood up slowly, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. His mind seemed to be spinning madly with thoughts.
“You must oblige her to be sensible,” Katrina pleaded to him. “She will humiliate us.”
“Father,” I reached for his hand. “Remember when Lester, Peter, and I used to sit with you and mother by the fire when we were little?”
He stared as if he dared not answer.
“You would ask us what our dreams were. Do you remember?”
“Newell, this is preposterous. She is trying to dissuade you.”
I ignored her as I continued, “Peter wanted to be a soldier, Lester wanted to be a knight.” Father’s chuckle had a sad lilt to it. “What was my dream, Father?”
He swallowed hard. “You wanted to study, learn… and teach.”
“Yes.” I spoke to him as if we were the only two in the room. “That has never changed.”
“Newell?” Katrina’s voice reached unearthly heights. “Do not let this child beguile you.”
He turned to her with a furrowed brow. “This child?” His voice grew in confidence. “My daughter?”
She stuttered, “Sh—she is a cunning, manipulative ch—child and is trying to persuade you to reconsider all that we have planned for her.”
“Planned for me?” I looked at her now. “It is my life.”
“Women of the ton do not have such self-seeking luxuries,” she sneered. “You are intelligent enough to know this.”
I gasped. There were a hundred different things I wanted to say to her but could not get any of them to reach my lips. Heat warmed my veins and I realized if I remained here, I would say or do something that could harm my relationship with my father… because of her . I took a deep breath to steady my pounding heart. “Father, you have raised me to be a strong and sensible woman. I know my own mind and I know what I want; and it is not a husband. At least not here or now, and especially not out of desperation or stipulation.”
Father pursed his lips and continued rubbing his chin.
Katrina seemed to hold her breath, for her cheeks turned a ruddier shade. The pressure that seemed to build within her reminded me of an exhibit I had seen once at the British Museum of the Italian city of Pompeii, destroyed by the Mt. Vesuvius volcano in 79 AD.
Father cocked his head. “If you remain with your aunt for a year, and have not found a man to your liking, I will sign your dowry over to you.”
“You cannot be serious!” Katrina shrieked.
Here it comes.
She threw her hands in the air, pacing around the room and screeching with the high-pitched cry of a cornered fox.
I only looked at my father and smiled. One year and I will have my freedom. I threw my arms around his neck and squeezed. “Thank you, Father. Thank you.”
In the background, Katrina continued to rant. “Do you have any notion what this will do to our reputations? To have a daughter who rejects marriage and desires the status of a spinster?”
When I drew back, Father’s tender smile appeared, the one I had believed buried. “Forgive me for putting such pressure on you, love. I only wished for you to find the same happiness I found with your mother—”
“Oh, for Go—” Katrina cried.
“Enough!” Father snapped at his wife. I bit my lip to keep from snorting. “She is not ready to wed, and I have no intention of forcing her to consent to marriage with someone she does not love.”
“You are a fool,” Katrina huffed.
My eyes flashed in her direction. “Don’t you ever speak such ill regard to my father again.” I let go of my father’s hands and walked over to Katrina standing almost a head above her. “He is a wonderful, amiable man. And though I question his sanity regarding his choice to marry again, I know he is good to you.” I speared her to silence with my look. “He does not deserve to be berated by his wife and neither do I.”
Katrina’s jaw tightened. “Do you even see what kind of harm your selfish independence could do to your father’s reputation? A teacher?” she scoffed. “Having a bluestocking daughter will ruin him… us.”
I narrowed my eyes. “With my departure you do not have to concern yourself with me any longer. Whatever harm I may cause from my decisions, they will not be here in Town. I will be gone in a sennight.”
Her arms remained folded defiantly over her chest and I sensed that she wanted to say more, but my father’s stern looks in her direction drove her to turn her back on us.
I hugged my father once more. “Thank you, Father. Thank you for trusting me. I will not do anything to bring you shame, I promise.” I kissed him on the cheek and curtsied my departure before practically running to my bedchamber to prepare for my journey to Bridport.