Page 15 of Love’s Refrain at Roslyn Court (Noble Hearts #2)

Fifteen

ISAAC

W here was he? This was not Badajoz. There was no smoke, no yelling, no sticky rivers of blood. Was it the camp in Portugal? This cot on which he lay was too soft, the air too clean. Where was the screaming? The biting tang of gunpowder, the smell of death in the air?

Isaac let his eyes crack open, only a hair’s width. Then, when that did not hurt, a little more.

He was inside. Somewhere clean, comfortable. The ceiling above him was not cracked, and no wind whistled through holes in the walls and ill-fitted windows. Instead, steady lamplight flickered softly, casting a gentle glow on the walls and the tops of the draperies.

He opened his eyes fully and looked around enough to see more of the space. It was a parlour, nicely appointed, elegant. It seemed very English.

Oh, heavens.

English.

It was English.

What had happened?

Screwing his eyes closed again, he fought to remember. All that came to his tortured mind, however, was the rattle of the wagon as the artillery hit, the panicked cries of the horses, the heavy rasp of yelling men.

But no, he was here, in England, safe and whole. Was that merely a memory? It had seemed as real as if he were in the midst of battle once more, rolling on him like the smoke from the cannons, crushing him under its weight like the walls that tumbled, pinning men beneath like insects.

A sound, a thread of something comforting and familiar, reached out to him through the turmoil that was his mind. It was like sweet water after the parching desert, dousing the fire that consumed his being, a balm, soothing…

Sophia.

The name came to him in an instant, and the world resolved around him.

He was home, in England. Visiting the Pooles at Roslyn Court.

He was lying on a sofa and there, just at the edge of his vision, was Sophia, playing a sweet melody on a small guitar and singing.

It was a simple tune, a song that had been popular before he left these shores. It was familiar.

Sophia had been correct. She did not possess a particularly beautiful voice, not like Mrs Ashburton, whom he now recalled hearing only today—was it still today?

Or had he been asleep, out of his senses, for longer?

But her voice, pleasant and tuneful, and more wonderful than anything he could think of, eased his anguish.

She was here, singing to him and playing that guitar, giving him what she could to help him.

She stopped playing and looked up at once when he spoke her name.

“Isaac!” She rushed over at once to kneel at the side of the sofa. “Are you well? We were so worried. I was so worried… what happened?”

Mist filled his head where that thought should be.

“I… I cannot say. I have no recollection of how I got here.”

“You were well until the horses startled on the way home. There was a fox that dashed into the lane and when Robert got them calm once more, you were… gone.”

The horses. That was the screaming, the jolting cart, the cries. All terrible memories crushing in on a perfectly ordinary event. He groaned. Would he ever be free of this torture that lived in his head?

His tongue still thick, he scrambled for words.

“I thought, for a moment, I was back on the Peninsula, in battle… and then, when I could face it no more, I hid from myself.” He grew angry at himself.

“I am a fool. A weak, pathetic excuse for a man. Hopeless and helpless.” He spat the words out like bitter dregs, commanding tears to stay out of his eyes. “I am worthless.”

A cool hand touched his, sending ripples of sensation through his body that had no right to exist, especially not now.

“You are none of those. You experienced terrible things, and something reminded you of them. You are well now. I…” She coloured.

“Matthews helped to loosen your clothing, to make you more comfortable. I shall leave to allow you to right yourself, and then I can request a light meal to be sent to your room.”

Clothing? He groped about with his free hand, the one not still gripping hers. He was under a light blanket, and yes, his waistcoat was open. He moved his hand to his head, to discover a damp cloth draped across his brow.

“I thought it would help.” She sounded apologetic. “I did not mean?—”

“It did.”

“Then I shall leave you. Matthews is here.”

She got to her feet and turned to leave, but Isaac reached out, brushing his fingers on her skirt. She stopped.

“No, do not go. Please. Sing to me some more. That is the medicine I need.”

For a moment, Sophia stood perfectly still, and Isaac feared she would not stay, but then, with a release of breath, she lowered herself once more to sit on the chair beside the sofa.

“Can you sit up?”

Isaac struggled upright, aware now of his partially unclad state. He fumbled under the blanket at his waistcoat buttons, but after a brief attempt, gave up all hopes of fixing his neckcloth.

“You worry too much,” Sophia said through a smile. “You are no less respectable than the men on the farms, or those toiling in the village. Here, take a sip of wine. And yes, I shall play and sing for you, for as long as you require it.”

This she did.

She sang until the words dissolved into nonsense syllables, and then, apologising for not knowing all the words, she hummed the melodies, and at last, repeated all the songs she knew.

Every note was a shining beacon, casting light into the shadows and driving away the nightmares.

With each verse, the immediacy of that onslaught of recollection lessened; with each new song, the weight of his torment lightened, until the memories were just that: memories.

They were terrible memories; they would never leave him. But he could, for the time being, at least, lay them aside and see them for what they were. They were part of his past, but not of his present.

For tonight, he hoped, and truly believed, he would sleep.

But how would he ever manage when he had to leave this place, and this remarkable woman?

Despite everything, Isaac slept well that night, and when he descended to the breakfast room the following morning, it was with a clarity of mind he had not felt in a while.

He had made a decision, and while it was a difficult one, he was certain it was what he had to do.

He had discharged his obligations to Henry Poole; he had delivered the dead man’s effects to his family.

Now, for his sake and for that of Miss Bradley—for it would do him no good to continue thinking of her as Sophia—he must leave.

He said as much to Sir Neville as they sat over their morning tea and eggs.

“I have imposed enough upon your hospitality, sir. I believe it is time for me to move on.”

Sir Neville placed his teacup down on its saucer, looking rather perplexed.

“What? No, do not say so. You have only just arrived, and we are so enjoying having another around, after so long with very little company. You must stay a little longer. Have you somewhere you must be?”

His words and manner were so sincere that Isaac could not dissemble.

“I have no pressing engagements, but I must, at some point, establish myself somewhere. London, perhaps. Or closer to my uncle’s estate.

I will not—cannot—present myself there as heir presumptive whilst my cousin is still alive.

Indeed, I can only pray that the doctors are mistaken and that he recovers and lives to inherit.

But I must also be nearby and available in the event that the doctors are correct. ”

“Yes, a sad situation. We pay for our rank with the lives of those we love.”

Sir Neville stared into the distance, and Isaac wondered who was now in that man’s thoughts. His own father, presumably, or perhaps an uncle or a brother. Gaining a title was not a reward a man should want. Better to have one’s relations still alive and well.

“Sad, indeed,” was all he said in reply.

“Then you will stay, for a short time, at least? I promised you a fine time at the races, and those are three weeks hence. You cannot deprive me of your company, surely!”

“Who is depriving whom?” Lady Poole’s voice sounded from the doorway, and the woman herself stepped into the breakfast room.

“Our young guest here has declared an intention to leave, my dear,” Sir Neville answered, “and I am hoping to persuade him otherwise.”

“What? Leave?” His hostess sounded quite shocked. “No, that cannot be. For?—”

For I need you to marry Louisa . Her implication was as clear as words.

“For I have...” The woman paused. “I have arranged an evening here, at the house, in your honour.” Isaac could almost hear the thoughts assemble in her head as she spun her story.

Sir Neville looked alternately amused and aghast at being informed of this event he was presumably hosting, despite it being created as his wife spoke.

“I have… I have invited people already. You cannot think to desert us now, Major? Surely not!”

“You have, my dear? How interesting,” Sir Neville intoned.

“You are always such an excellent hostess, that I find my contributions to the schemes quite unnecessary. Well, lad,” he turned back to Isaac, “it appears plans have been formed without our knowledge. Can I appeal to you to delay your own? I still have hopes of bringing you to the races.”

“You must stay,” Lady Poole added. “I quite forbid you to go.”

“I really do need to…”

“I beg you, Major Hollimore, to remain.” Now Lady Poole’s voice became soft and wheedling. “You have met some of our neighbours, but there are others, still, whom have yet to have the pleasure. They have, after all, heard so much about you.”

“I can hardly believe that, Madam.”

“Oh, indeed, they have,” she replied. “Why, Henry’s letters home were full of wonderful words about you. They all must want to know the man whom Henry counted as such a friend. For their sakes.”

She paused and took a deep breath before delivering the coup de grace .

“For Henry’s sake.”

And, for lack of any argument to the contrary, Isaac’s resolve failed him.

He would stay.

And oh, how he would suffer for it.