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W illiam had been home over a month, though he still felt a stranger to it.

Napoleon had been sent into exile once more, and Britain had begun to pick up the pieces left from the war.

For William, this meant being placed on half-pay, as the government could not afford to keep an army four hundred thousand men strong when there was no one to fight.

All around, the news was that of misery.

Those who were lucky enough to return to the bosoms of their families did not always do so whole, nor was there employment waiting for them all.

There was talk of famine and riots. General despair ruled the mood.

William had refrained from visiting his parents.

His mother would have fussed and his father would have tried to give him a sense of purpose.

He wanted none of it. At Thorn Bush Hall, where he had chosen to hide himself away, James Trenton was refreshingly insensitive, feeling no need to coddle William, instead inviting him to the usual cigar and a game of cards as if nothing had changed.

Charlotte worried, William could tell, but she let him be.

Mostly, he occupied himself with long walks in Munro Park or sat in the garden and read.

The sweet domesticity of his sister’s household contrasted too sharply with his memories of the fields and streets of Brussels and beyond.

Outside, he could breathe. The reliable constancy of nature was reassuring.

It needed nothing from him. He could just exist.

Though she gave him much room to recover himself, Charlotte still received the occasional visitors, all of whom he had avoided successfully. It was the weekly tea with Miss Lockhart and her sister that had proved more challenging.

“But they will want to see you,” Charlotte had explained when William headed to the stables just as the Sinclair carriage had arrived. “They have been a great support to me while you were away and shared my concern for your wellbeing. Let them at least greet you and welcome you home.”

“I do not wish to be put on display as some curiosity from the infamous Waterloo,” had been William’s surly reply.

“That is an unkind thing to say,” Charlotte had scolded. “They deserve better from you.”

“Which is why it is best I make myself scarce, for I have no social graces at present.”

Charlotte had pursed her lips and said no more, and William had made his escape. Yet the ride had given him no satisfaction. He knew it would hurt Miss Lockhart when he refused to see her. But he could not bear to have her pity. For pity him she must.

If she did not already hate him.

Because of him, Westbridge was no more. His animosity with Foyle had cost the doctor his life, and Miss Lockhart had been robbed of her betrothed. No good could come of meeting her. He would spare her the painful reminder that he lived while Westbridge was lost.

At the second visit, the two sisters had arrived early.

William had just been coming in from the garden to pre-empt running into them when the two ladies took their seats in the drawing room.

Miss Lockhart had spied him in the hallway and jumped up from her chair, calling after him as he fled to his rooms. Her cries, bold and urgent, grew sad and faint as he widened the distance between them.

William could not face her. Images of the war still flashed before him.

His scarred hand and silken eye patch were a constant reminder.

And Arthur Westbridge lay buried in Brussels.

The world was an ugly place. All his dreams and hopes were shattered.

The last thing he was capable of was looking into the fearless eyes of Miss Lockhart.

In this fashion, four visits had come and gone, and William believed himself settled into a tolerable pattern of solitude and quiet.

His days consisted of largely meaningless conversations with his brother-in-law, meals that filled his stomach without demanding much by way of social intercourse, reading, and the outdoors.

Slowly, the burdensome aspect of being alive was lifting.

He even allowed Charlotte to arrange a picnic with the children where he would be included.

On that cloudless day, William and the footman carried the wicker baskets and blanket to the clearing that Charlotte pointed out to them while the nurse carried baby Jane and led Clarence by the hand.

Charlotte had chosen a surprisingly secluded spot in Munro Park for the picnic.

Trees formed a natural boundary that blocked the view William thought she might otherwise have enjoyed.

“I do not want Clarence to go near the stream or fountain,” she explained. “Here he can run for a hundred yards while I watch him, without any other sights to tempt him further.”

William accepted her explanation and settled upon the blanket, lying on his back, his head cradled in his hands with fingers interlocked to support it. The sun was bright, but the trees kept it from blinding him as he lay staring up at the heavens, at peace, and grateful for it.

It had never occurred to him that Charlotte, his patient and kindhearted sister, could conspire against him.

Nor that she had, in fact, chosen this spot for a different reason altogether.

Indeed, the trees blocked his view of anyone’s approach, the footfalls muffled by the grass, so that he had no chance to flee before a newcomer was almost upon him.

A soft shadow fell over him just before a familiar voice he had been avoiding said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Cole. How lovely to see you out and about.”

William sprang up, his senses now on high alert, but no obvious escape presented itself. He blamed the jolt of surprise for the clumsy greeting he now gave.

“Miss Lockhart, what are you doing here?”

She looked down at herself with an appraising air, then up at him again, and replied, “Preparing to make a fool of myself, Mr. Cole.”

“Take Miss Lockhart for a stroll, William,” his sister commanded. “I can chaperone you just as well from here, though you may be walking a hundred yards away. The line of sight is quite clear.”

So, it was an ambush, planned and orchestrated by the two women he trusted the most.

“I do not feel in a mood to walk,” he protested stubbornly. “Why don’t you take a turn together while I read my book?”

Charlotte glared at him, then sighed. “Very well, if you’re going to behave in that way, I shall invite Miss Lockhart to stay for the entire picnic rather than for the short conversation she had hoped for.”

William turned from Miss Lockhart so that she might not stare at his covered eye. She promptly circled around until she was facing him once more.

“I see you are well,” she said, gazing directly into his face, brazen and unflinching. “Certainly well enough to listen. That is all I ask.”

Confronted now with her presence, William found his resolve slipping. Her clear, blue eyes were like pools of peace, sans judgment or hatred or pity. They saw him and were content. The sun lit up her pale hair so that it shone like a halo about her face. He felt his resistance melt away.

“I will hear you,” he said in a low voice.

“Will you not offer me your arm, that we may walk?”

William complied by offering his right arm so that his damaged left eye might be largely hidden from view. They set off in a wide circle that followed the edge of the clearing.

“You have been somewhat of a recluse,” began Miss Lockhart, straight to the heart of the matter, as it was in her nature to do.

William did not argue. It was the truth. With Charlotte, he may have been defensive, but Miss Lockhart, he knew, would not tolerate it.

“That is so.”

“Understandable, of course,” said Miss Lockhart. “You have experienced tragedy that most would take every measure to avoid. You have sacrificed for the lives of others. You deserve time to recover from the pain it surely inflicted upon your person and mind.”

William had expected a rebuke, bitterness, dismay. Not this. Not wholehearted understanding.

“I… Yes… It has been a difficult adjustment.”

“I understood this,” Miss Lockhart said, suddenly shy, “yet I confess it has been a challenge to be patient in waiting to see you. We worried so for your welfare while you were away. And then we worried, it seems, in equal measure when you returned.”

“I am sorry you felt neglected.”

Miss Lockhart stopped and turned to him. “Being kept from your company was not neglect, Mr. Cole.” Her voice hitched. “It was agony.” Her lashes were cast low, as if she were afraid of his response.

“I have been a poor friend,” said William. “I… I could not face you. Not after…”

Her eyes lifted. “There is nothing for you to fear, Mr. Cole.”

“But Westbridge… It was my doing…”

“What?” Miss Lockhart frowned. “How have you reached that morbid conclusion?”

“I was stubborn,” William said wretchedly. “I should have let Foyle have his way.” William hung his head. “Your betrothed paid the price for my sense of honor.”

Miss Lockhart was silent for a while. Perhaps she pondered his words.

Perhaps she refrained from uttering her disgust. When she did finally speak, it was with an unexpected edge of urgency.

“Hear me, sir.” Her voice was almost pleading.

“You carry no blame. None at all. Lieutenant Foyle is a foul creature. He has brought nothing but shame upon his family, now more than ever. I pity his father and mother. You had every right to insist the truth be heard about him. Only a monster like Foyle could think, in his depravity, of murder as a solution to his petty, self-inflicted problems.”

Miss Lockhart grabbed a quick breath and continued. “Furthermore, Dr. Westbridge was himself a man of honor. If the roles had been reversed, he would have acted exactly as you did. The crime is Foyle’s, and no one else’s.”