Page 38 of The Forbidden Love of an Officer (The Marlow Family #7)

‘Ellen.’ She had not given him permission to use her given name, and yet she was too tired and hurt too much to care to correct him.

‘I think much of you. You are a charming woman. I have always thought so. I can be patient. You need not worry. I understand you are grieving for your husband, and I shall allow you to do so…’

Ellen nodded. ‘Thank you.’ She wished to return to her rooms, to cry over Paul. There were too many memories of eating with him here crowding into her head.

She did not ask to withdraw though; it would be too rude, when he had been kind enough to give her a place to stay and food and clothing.

So she remained at the table, picking at her food, and eating what little she was able while he watched her, smiling and talking, as though the woman beside him did not have a broken heart.

She did not listen; her mind was too absorbed with memories of Paul.

* * *

Ellen sat at a small desk in the sitting room, a quill in her hand.

A week had passed since she had discovered she was with child, and now, the lieutenant colonel had received orders to go to Paris.

Napoleon had given himself up on the 15th of July, in the process of trying to escape to America.

The 52nd were to follow the Prussian army across France as part of the Allied forces, ensuring the peace they had fought so hard for, and so many had died for, lasted.

Ellen stared at the blank sheet of paper.

Paul had said, ‘Write to my father,’ if he died. But she did not know what to say. The army administrators would have written and told him Paul was dead.

A sharp pain cut into her chest, the pain that could still not believe those words.

What to write? My name is Ellen, you do not really know me, but we did meet last summer, I am your deceased son’s wife. Every word she thought of sounded so much like begging. And she could not bring herself to write the word deceased anyway.

My Lord,

She began. The nib of the quill hovered over the paper.

Paul asked me to write to you, and seek your help, should he…

The words halted as a tear dropped onto the paper, then she wrote.

…die. I am to move to Paris with his regiment. I thought I should do as he said and let you know I am with child.

There was no more to say.

Yours sincerely, Eleanor Harding, your daughter-in-law.

She had met Paul’s father when he had come to the house party with Paul. She had no idea if the man thought kindly of her. Paul had said very little about his father following their marriage.

Ellen understood that now. Her sisters’ images crept through her thoughts. Her father’s house was another world, they would never be able to imagine this one. She would have nothing to speak to them about.

Still, Paul had told her to write, and he seemed confident the Earl would help her.

Having folded and sealed that letter, Ellen began another, to her father.

Father, I do not know if you have heard, but Paul died in the battle of Waterloo.

Again tears ran over and spilled onto the page.

His Lieutenant Colonel is taking me as far as Paris. But I have nothing of my own, no money or items left. Would you send me the money for a passage home? I am with child. Yours affectionately, Eleanor.

Surely her father would know how hard things were here. Surely he would understand and help.

Once she’d addressed both letters she took them down to the hall. Lieutenant Colonel Hillier had said he would send her letters through the army packets.

He was there. He came from the drawing room as her foot left the bottom step of the stairs.

‘Ellen.’

‘These are the letters I spoke of,’ she said quietly.

‘Take them,’ he said to a footman, who immediately moved forward to lift them out of her hand.

Lieutenant Colonel Hillier gave Ellen a stiff slight bow, his hands clasped behind his back. Then he straightened and met her gaze. ‘Will you take tea with me?’

It would be impolite to refuse. ‘If that is what you wish.’

‘It is. Come then.’ He lifted a hand, encouraging her to join him in the drawing room, while looking at the butler to fulfil the order for tea to be delivered.

When Ellen entered the room his hand momentarily touched her lower back as she passed him. A prickle ran across her skin, but she ignored it.

‘Do sit.’ He lifted a hand, directing her to one of the two soft chairs in the sunshine pouring through the window which looked out onto the garden.

Brushing her dress beneath her to stop the black calico creasing, she did as he said.

He took the seat opposite her. ‘Your maid said your sickness has eased a little…’

‘Yes.’

‘And do you feel any better in yourself?’

No. She still missed Paul, like there was a burning hole within her. ‘I am able to think a little easier now. But I shall always miss my husband.’

He was silent, his eyes looking into hers, with unspoken questions.

Then he sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose you shall.’ He leaned forward and held her hand.

It was a habit he had formed, holding her hand on many occasions without asking her permission.

She wanted to pull it away, but it was not within her to be rude.

He lifted it. A shiver stirred across her skin as he pressed his warm lips against her glove.

The grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked through the seconds his lips remained on her glove, and her skin crawled with invisible insects.

Why did he not let go? Everything like this he seemed to do for a little too long. After a minute, or two, he released her hand.

She clasped her hands together in her lap, unable to meet his gaze, but he reached out and touched her chin. ‘I know you are hurting, Ellen, I understand that, and I shall be here for you.’

His hand fell.

‘Ah, here is our tea.’ He turned to look at the maid as she carried it in. She was blushing as she set the tray down.

‘Will you pour, Ellen?’

She did so.

She had lived in a sheltered safe world in her father’s home, and then she had lived an ever-changing, unsettled life with Paul, but now… Now she did not know where she stood… What life should be, or could be…