Page 2 of Love’s Refrain at Roslyn Court (Noble Hearts #2)
Two
ISAAC
I saac Hollimore struggled to keep a pretence of calm.
All he wanted to do was leap from the creaking cart, dash off into the trees, and weep.
It was all he had wanted to do for weeks, first on that blasted ship, pitching and lumbering its way back home from Portugal, and then during an interminable succession of meetings and interviews upon his much-delayed return to England.
How could there possibly be this much administrative nonsense and bureaucracy involved?
Surely there was not that much paper in all the empire to satisfy the clerks at the Home Office.
And now, when he wanted nothing but quiet and solitude, he must smile and preen around and play the gentleman for poor Henry Poole’s family.
This was going to be worse than the last two months put together.
His duty in returning Henry’s belongings was both an obligation and an honour, for the young man had been one of the few Isaac had called a friend, and his selfless sacrifice had saved the lives of six other men.
Bringing the chest of papers to the young man’s family was the least he could do.
But the cost to himself, he knew, would be dreadful.
People terrified him.
Isaac had never been one for excessive revelry.
Not for him were nights of carousing with a band of brandy-soaked dandies with too much coin in their pockets, nor gaming nor any other activities he would not wish to discuss with his mother.
An intense conversation about some new scientific discovery or political event was more for him, or a concert or stroll through a park.
Content to spend his time with a few chosen intimate friends, Isaac found society exhausting.
Oh, he had been pleased enough to attend some event every now and again, but he longed for that moment when he could take his leave and return to his quiet rooms. He had once laughed as well, although he hardly recalled what that felt like.
Joy was a thing of the past, a dim memory of a life before… before Spain.
His time on the Continent with the army had only made things worse.
The endless cannon fire, the screams of injured horses, the worse silence of injured men, had left an indelible mark on his psyche, bringing black moods upon him with no warning, turning his thoughts from mild pleasure to the pits of despair in seconds.
He slept ill, when he slept at all, and he feared that at any moment he would descend into a black pit, rendering him no fit company for anybody, and making him feel all the more guilty for surrendering to his demons and spoiling the gathering. Oh, would his mind never be easy again?
There was no more time for thought, and certainly no time to fly from the vehicle and run away. The hired cart turned onto the sweep before the great house and rolled to a stop, the bearded driver calling to his horse, before leaping off the conveyance.
“Roslyn Court, Major.” The announcement, expected though it was, was equally unnecessary.
What else could this grand building be, all massive columns and red stone in the Palladian style, with its lovely formal gardens in front and black crepe still draping the front door?
“I’ll help you with yer bags and trunks, now. ”
He was here. He was committed to his course.
He was doomed.
Isaac had no sooner set a booted foot on the gravel when a whirlwind of activity sprung up around him.
Servants were there to take his valise, to carry his greatcoat, his portfolio.
Others wrestled his trunks from the back of the cart, giving no mind to the driver, and a phalanx of smartly dressed people swirled around him, sweeping him into the house as surely as the tide carries with it the flotsam of old wreckage.
These were Henry’s family. He must struggle with his nature and be charming.
Sir Neville strode up to shake his hand, bushy-browed and bald of pate, his long limbs still carrying the vitality of youth, even though his face betrayed the strain of losing a son to war not so long before.
Isaac saw Henry’s dark eyes in his father’s face, and he swallowed the lump that came to his throat.
Next was Lady Poole, still rather handsome in a faded sort of way, round and plump, as fair as her husband must once have been dark, looking quite overwhelmed by the heavy black fabric of her frock and shawl.
Her smile was welcoming, but her eyes assessed every inch of him, and he wanted, once more, to leap back onto the cart and have the driver whisk him away.
Then came two sisters, who he knew from Henry’s tales and sketches were Louisa and Diane.
His friend’s pencil had been sure, and there was no question which sister was which.
Louisa, about nineteen, more than pretty enough to catch a man’s eye, with her father’s long-limbed elegance and her mother’s golden hair, and Diane, younger and still carrying the vestiges of girlhood, with tendrils of dark curls escaping her pins.
Then there was another, standing at the back, under the shadows…
But he had no time to look before he was ushered into the grand entryway and welcomed in the most serious tones he could imagine to Roslyn Court.
Nor was there time now to retreat into the dark places he carried within him. He was shown to his room by an efficient housekeeper, and informed that he must take all the time he needed to rest after his journey, with the unspoken expectation that he present himself downstairs almost at once.
“Thank you, Mrs Oswald. I am not fatigued. I shall change into less dusty clothing and be down shortly, if that suits the family.”
These seemed to be the proper words, for the housekeeper gave a crisp and satisfied bob to her head.
“That will be most suitable, Major. They await you in the parlour. A footman will be in the hall to show you the way.” She graced him with a small smile and disappeared through the doorway.
Very well. Better get this done.
He had no valet, no batman who had joined him in this new foray into civilian life, but a footman had been assigned to him for the duration of his stay, to serve in that function.
He hoped to one day move up to be a valet, Mrs Oswald had explained, and hoped it was acceptable.
With no reason to object, Isaac had agreed, and now gladly let the young man help him off with his coat, dusty and grey from the road, and on with a fresh one.
“I’ll have this cleaned, sir, and your boots polished. I have requested hot water should you wish to wash your face. Is there anything else you require?”
This might not be so very terrible, after all.
“That is all for now, Matthews.” Then, on instinct, “Thank you.” The young man flashed a huge grin before plastering his bland servant’s expression back on his face.
With the footman’s aid, Isaac found the parlour easily.
The Pooles were all present, gathered around a low table as if arranged for a portrait, and all rose as he entered.
The customary civilities were offered: was he feeling suitably refreshed, was the room comfortable, had he everything he needed?
Then the next set of inquiries, equally rote: Would he like some tea, or perhaps a glass of wine, was the sun too bright, or the fire too hot?
He replied suitably and before long found himself seated in a large, overstuffed armchair, back to the window, with a cup of freshly steeped tea on the small round table to his side and a lemon-scented biscuit balanced beside it.
After the deprivations of Spain and the barely adequate meals on the ship and in Portsmouth, this was akin to heaven.
Or, at least a less dreadful version of his personal hell.
He sipped at his tea and inhaled the bright aroma of the biscuit.
“I had all Henry’s belongings packed up in the crates I brought with me,” he said at last, once these preliminaries had been dispensed with. “His uniform, his sword, his personal effects, some books, all that. And his medals. He was a hero.”
Across from him, four sombre faces nodded.
“I did, however, wish to give this to you in person, with no delay.” He slipped his hand into a large but slim bag he carried and drew out a folder. “Henry’s drawings. He had a gift, and I thought you would like to see what he sketched, see the camp and his fellow officers through his eyes.”
“Indeed, we would, Major,” Lady Poole breathed, blinking back the moisture that began to cloud her eyes.
“Is there a table I can set this on? Yes, that will do. See, this is the house where we lived whilst in Lisbon, here the Castelo de S?o Jorge, here our colonel, and the men at cards in the evening.”
He did not mention that half those men were now dead, nor had he brought the impressions Henry had sketched of the destruction at Ciudad Rodrigo or the carnage at Badajoz, set down on paper a few months before he died.
Oh, God! Badajoz… Salamanca… that last disaster at Tordesillas… No!
With no warning, it happened. Memories, unbidden, rushed at him from nowhere with the speed and fury of Napoleon’s armies, relentless, crushing, unstoppable.
Go away , he screamed in his head, trying to fling those thoughts from his mind. Leave me alone. Leave in peace! The images swelled up at the mere recollection of the names of those dreadful places; they rounded on him, attacking, assaulting.
No, not now , he commanded again, but they would not listen.
Like the men in Badajoz, they swarmed, frenzied, out of control.
The screams rushed in on him until he could hardly breathe.
He was burning hot, freezing cold. Icy fingers squeezed his heart, even while he felt his forehead become drenched with sweat.
That cloud, thick as night, began to gather about him, impenetrable as the miasma of Hades, as these unwanted memories assailed him.
The tea wavered into nothingness, the biscuit crumbled to dust, the eager faces of the Pooles, desperate for one last tale of Henry, dissolved into the fire-soaked deluge in his mind.
“I… I…” he began, trying to fight his way through, back to the present, but his thoughts were untameable and overwhelming. “Forgive me...”
The words were garbled, meaningless groans, misshapen, hideous lumps of foetid sound. What must they think of him?
“Please, Aunt,” a cool voice floated through the numbing weight in his head, a sliver of light in the dizzying storm that threatened him.
“Poor Major Hollimore must be more tired than he wishes to say. Perhaps we can let him rest a while longer. He has been travelling for days—no, weeks, just now having sailed back from Portugal—and surely needs more than half an hour to recover from the strain.”
“Yes, of course. Thoughtless of us not to realise. Of course.” That was Sir Neville’s voice, disembodied in the acrid smoke that clouded Isaac’s thoughts and vision. He could barely see, barely feel the chair on which he knew he must still be sitting.
He tried to speak, but words would not come.
Then a hand, gentle, as cool as the calming voice, settled upon his, guiding him to his feet.
“Come with me, Major. I will help you to your room again.”
Something about it soothed him, cleared a path through the chaos in his head, enough at least to form words of apology to his hosts and stagger from the room without causing too much damage.
“Forgive me… later…” he managed.
The cool hand, still holding his own, led him down a hallway.
“Can you manage the stairs, sir? You look quite ill.”
He felt ill enough not to take offense at the words.
“Matthews,” that cool and comforting voice called into the ether, “a lavender compress for the major’s head, and some lemonade, something cold and sweet.”
Propelled by the gentle pressure of that cool hand, his feet moved beneath him, until he was once more in the safety of his room.
Matthews was there, quiet and efficient.
The footman stripped him and helped him into his bed before exiting the room, and for the first time since leaving Portugal, Isaac was able to curl up into a ball and weep.