Brothers In Arms 05: Retreat From Love Read online

  “Oh,” Anne said, as indecisive as Freddy was decisive. “I suppose so, Your Grace.” She put her hand on his arm and let Freddy lead her out of the store, but she glanced back with a grimace at Mr. Howard, who was smiling in triumph, as was Mrs. Northcott. Then she looked helplessly at Brett.

  Brett smiled inwardly. Oh yes, Freddy knew just how to play this game. The man was a genius.

  “Good day,” he said quietly as he put his hat back on. Both Mr. Howard and Mrs. Northcott looked startled. They’d clearly forgotten he was there. Brett mentally shrugged. Freddy had that effect on people.

  And so it went at every shop they visited that afternoon. At the millinery, the butcher, the bakery—the proprietors would look nervous and slightly guilty as Anne introduced them, but they were unfailingly polite, even affectionate to Anne. She had, after all, known most of them her entire life. Freddy would make charming small talk, and Brett would smile and stand solemnly and make appropriate polite conversation. Then as they were leaving Freddy would inquire whether or not Anne needed anything at that particular shop. She would say no, the proprietors would remember something and Freddy would find some excuse as to why it should go on his account. Anne protested in each shop to no avail. After the first few times she stopped protesting and resorted to sarcasm. That did not deter Freddy either.

  The glovers was different. As soon as they entered, Brett took Anne’s arm and walked her over to the counter. He had her try on all their best ladies gloves, and he picked a beautiful pair to replace the old worn ones he had ruined. He tucked the old gloves in his pocket while she tried on the new pair, the softest kid gloves she had ever felt, in a beautiful shade the exact color of thick cream. They fit her exquisitely.

  “I shouldn’t,” she said softly, petting the back of one glove with her bare fingers after Brett told the shop girl they’d take the gloves. “I really shouldn’t accept such a gift.” When she raised her eyes to Brett the look he gave her was achingly tender.

  “Please, Anne.” His voice was quiet but moved through her like thunder. She trembled at the need those two words awoke in her. She nodded, biting her lower lip to keep from saying what was in her heart. The girl put the gloves in a box and handed them to Brett.

  Freddy had been uncharacteristically quiet during the whole exchange. Anne turned to leave and found him standing next to the door, watching them.

  Freddy presented his arm to her. “They are beautiful gloves, Anne. Brett has exquisite taste.”

  Anne wasn’t sure what to make of his remark. There seemed to be more to it than met the eye. She cautiously placed her hand on his arm. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured self-consciously. As her hand came to rest on Freddy’s arm she felt the lean muscles beneath her palm tense. Brett had walked up and was staring at her hand on Freddy’s arm while Freddy stared at Brett.

  Freddy broke the strange tension with a sunny smile. “Is everyone hungry? I vow I am famished from all this shopping.” He turned and opened the door to the shop, ushering Anne out. “You ladies certainly do love nattering about in the shops, Anne.”

  Anne sputtered in indignation. “Me? You are the one who has dragged me to every shop in the village, Your Grace. I have purchased nary a thing. You have picked, purchased and delivered all these items for me. It is hardly my fault you are worn out from shopping!”

  Freddy just laughed and appealed to Brett. “Now, Brett, you must tell us who is to blame.”

  Brett smiled indulgently from Anne’s other side. “You are both to blame. You have dragged me around town all morning, and I am not only famished but thirsty as well.” He indicated the inn at the end of the road they were on. “Shall we be able to find decent food there, Anne?”

  Anne could have kicked herself. Not only was he hungry, but she would wager his leg was also very sore. She quickly nodded in assent. “Yes, the Duck has excellent food, Brett.”

  Brett gave her a tight smile and then looked away. He quickened his pace, leaving Anne and Freddy to follow him. Anne couldn’t tear her eyes away. His limp was pronounced, but she couldn’t say if it was worse than normal, not having any idea what normal was for Brett. He seemed agile enough. And watching him walk was extraordinarily arousing. His backside and legs were lovingly encased in tight buckskins that outlined every muscular curve. She could actually see the muscles in the right side of his buttocks flex as he turned to cross the street to the Duck. She shivered a little.

  “Are you cold?” Freddy asked incredulously. “It is so warm I fear for my linen, and yet you are shivering next to me.”

  Anne huffed out a breathless chuckle. “No, Freddy, I’m not cold.” She quirked her head and gripped his arm tighter as she looked up at him.

  Freddy’s mouth tipped up on one side. He watched Brett for a moment and then returned her chuckle.

  “Do you think his leg is bothering him?” Anne couldn’t shake her guilt over forgetting about his injury while they were “nattering about”, in Freddy’s words.

  Freddy made a face and shrugged. “Who knows? He will never admit it when it does.” He sighed. “It has taken me years to understand that Brett’s leg is just something he, and everyone around him, has to live with. Fretting over it, or him, will not make it better. He will never be better than he is. To constantly inquire of his comfort now only irritates him.” He patted Anne’s hand and stopped right before entering the inn behind Brett. “He is a reasonable man, Anne. When something is too much for him, he admits it. He does not intentionally or deliberately do anything to aggravate or worsen his condition. And yet he has decided not to let his lameness interfere with living his life as he sees fit.”

  Anne took a deep breath. For some reason Freddy’s words made her emotional. Was it the knowledge of Brett’s pain? The idea that it would forever be a reminder of what he’d suffered? Or knowing that he had a full life that did not include Anne?

  Freddy ran his hand soothingly down her arm just as the door opened and Brett stuck his head out. “Are you two coming in? Or are you going to eat out here in the yard?”

  Anne smiled at him. Too quickly, she guessed when he narrowed his eyes at her speculatively. “I had something in my eye,” she fabricated, gently rubbing the corner, surreptitiously wiping away any telltale moisture.

  Brett reached out a hand and helped her up the step. “The road was dusty. Come inside. Do you need something for it?”

  Anne shook her head, still smiling. “No, it’s gone now. Thank you.” She turned back to Freddy where he still stood in the yard. “Your Grace? Do come inside.”

  Freddy smiled too quickly and it was Anne’s turn to look at him suspiciously. But he just laughed and placed a hand at her elbow to urge her all the way in.

  Lunch consisted of modest fare, to Mr. and Mrs. Gilchrist’s chagrin. They’d run the inn for years, having inherited it from Mrs. Gilchrist’s father. Freddy soothed all their agitation in that special way Anne was beginning to realize was as natural as breathing to him. His congenial nature simply wouldn’t tolerate being treated with too much deference. As they sat there half the village found a reason to make their way to the inn and stop to speak with the duke and his companions. Anne could see the shock and speculation in their eyes at her inclusion in the duke’s intimate sphere.

  The conversation naturally centered on reminiscences. The villagers talked about the old duke, and Bertie, and their eldest brother Jerome, who had died only weeks after Bertie from a fever. Brett listened attentively, characteristically quiet, although he did ask several questions that prompted long involved tales of Anne and Bertie’s wilder adventures.

  After a tale of an injured rabbit, a pack of Squire Tumley’s hounds and a destroyed chicken coop, Brett couldn’t stop his laughter. He looked at Anne in appreciation. “So you were Bertie’s compatriot, eh?”

  Anne’s smile was slightly chagrined. “I’m afraid so. I could talk poor Bertie into just about anything.” She shook her head. “He was so gullible.”

  That made
Brett laugh harder. “Bertie? Gullible? You mean he was not the instigator? During the war he was always making plenty of mischief on his own.”

  Anne laughed. “Yes, well, I suppose he came up with his share of our larks.”

  “So you two were inseparable from your youth.” Brett’s comment seemed more statement than question, but Anne answered anyway.

  “Yes, from the time I was six or seven, and he was nine or ten. We were so close in temperament. We were a good fit.”

  Brett looked down at the table and then lifted his glass for a drink. He put it down before taking a sip. “You always knew you would marry him, didn’t you?”

  Anne’s snort was inelegant. “Marry Bertie? Good heavens, no. The thought never crossed my mind. I felt sorry for whatever poor woman would eventually be saddled with him.”

  Brett looked shocked, as did Freddy, who had been following their conversation closely. Mrs. Crossly, the draper’s wife, laughed with Anne.

  “Anne and Bertie marry? We never any of us thought that would happen. Could have knocked us over with a feather when they announced their engagement right before he took his commission. Why, those two fought almost as much as they got into trouble.” She shook her head. “Sorry we were at young Bertie’s death. He was such a lively boy.”

  With each story that was told Anne could see the tension increase around Freddy’s eyes. But that was the only indication of his distress. He still smiled, laughed and conversed pleasantly. Finally, Anne could take no more. She herself had had enough of the maudlin tales. With a heavy heart, she sighed loudly.

  “My dear, you must be exhausted,” Freddy immediately said, putting down his glass of lemonade.

  Anne fluttered her eyelashes but tried not to overdo it. “Yes, Your Grace, I’m afraid so. I hate to interrupt your afternoon, however. I’m sure I can make my own way home.”

  “That is not necessary,” Brett interjected, standing to pull out Anne’s chair. “His Grace and I would be more than happy to see you home, Miss Goode.”

  “Yes, yes,” Freddy hurried to agree. He stood up as well and smiled at the people around them. “You will excuse us, won’t you? Miss Goode is tired. We’ve kept her out too long today, introducing us to everyone. But we shall see you all soon, I’m sure?”

  They all murmured their assent while they watched with fascinated eyes as Freddy and Brett gathered up Anne’s things and solicitously guided her out of the inn.

  Once the three of them were outside they looked askance at one another and hurried across the street. Only when they were out of sight of the inn did they break out in laughter.

  “They must have thought the building was on fire we rushed out so quickly,” Anne gasped.

  Freddy grabbed her hand and placed it on his arm. “Here, lean on me. We mustn’t forget you are practically an invalid, you are so tired.”

  Brett held out his arm for her other hand. “Surely it will take both of us to support the poor, tired, weak Miss Goode.” That sent Anne off into peals of laughter again.

  In good spirits and with a renewed camaraderie they walked for several minutes in silence, just enjoying the day. When they were far enough away from the village Anne got the nerve to turn to Freddy.

  “Freddy,” she said, her voice a little hesitant, “I’ve kept all of Bertie’s letters, you know. I’d like for you to read them.”

  Freddy stopped and gaped at her for a moment. “Anne, I couldn’t possibly. Those were not meant for others’ eyes.”

  Anne scoffed. “Oh please. He was not penning me passionate love letters, Freddy. Things were never like that between Bertie and me. His letters talk about the war.” Anne looked over at Brett who had also stopped and was watching them silently. “I’m sure Bertie wouldn’t mind.” She looked back at Freddy and smiled wistfully. “And I’m sure you can overlook the occasional endearments and romantic attempts.”

  Freddy seemed overcome. “Anne, surely this is too much…”

  Anne turned and began walking again, tugging Freddy and Brett along. “No, Freddy, it isn’t. I don’t think Bertie would be happy to know you were kept in ignorance of his last days. Brett said he wrote you constantly, as often as he wrote me. He wanted you to know. I think you should read about it all in Bertie’s own words.”

  Freddy started to protest again, but Brett spoke at last. “I think she is right, Freddy. You should read the letters.”

  Freddy stopped again, and this time Anne was dragged to a stop.

  “There, you see, Freddy? Brett agrees with me.”

  Freddy gave her wry smile. “I am not surprised Brett agrees with you.” Brett started in embarrassment and Anne smiled.

  “I agreed with her, Freddy, because Bertie did spend a great deal of time writing to you. While Anne’s letters won’t be the same, Bertie did write them. You owe it to him to read what he was going through. Bertie’s letters, the ones he wrote and the ones he received, were very important to him.”

  Anne laughed lightly. “I’m sure he got sick of my letters. I wrote him nearly every day, sometimes twice a day. Mama said I surely paupered him for the price of postage.”

  The look on Brett’s face was so solemn Anne stopped laughing. “Brett?”

  “We…he never tired of your letters, Anne. He lived for them.”

  Anne felt a painful twist in her chest. “Did he?” She looked away then, a knot forming in her throat. She swallowed. “Well, I didn’t have much to say. I can’t imagine reading about my going to the village or visiting the neighborhood was very thrilling.”

  “Those letters, they kept him going, Anne. He pored over them, and read them aloud a thousand times. By the time…” Brett stopped and Anne looked over to see him biting his upper lip for a moment. “We all knew you, Anne, from your letters. We would beg him to read them over and over. All about Mrs. Tilton, and Mr. Howard, and your mother, and…and the whole village. And about Monster.” He looked at her then. “I was so sorry when Monster died.”

  Anne laughed a little shakily. “That old cat? He had a good and spoiled life.” On impulse she grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “But thank you.”

  Anne pulled on their arms once again to get them going. “I can’t believe you remember my cat.” She hugged Brett’s arm close.

  “Monster?” Freddy asked. Anne looked over to see him smiling down at her, and his smile encompassed Brett as well. There was something about Freddy’s smile—Anne felt the whole atmosphere lighten considerably and she got back the skip in her step.

  “Mm hmm,” she answered, kicking a pebble. “He was actually Mama’s cat. The duke, your father, Freddy,” she said squeezing his arm and smiling up at him, “gave him to her right after she and Papa were married. The first morning they had him Mama went up to get Papa for breakfast and when they returned that little kitten had eaten very nearly everything off the sideboard!” Anne laughed at the memory of her father telling this tale many times over the years. “He was immediately dubbed that little monster, and it stuck.” Freddy and Brett laughed. Anne sighed happily. “But as I got older he gradually became my cat.” She closed her eyes for a minute as a shadow of the sadness she’d felt at Monster’s passing crossed her mind. She opened them to see both Freddy and Brett looking at her. “He was a good cat,” she said simply with a firm nod. “So I mentioned him in my letters?” she asked Brett lightly after a moment.

  “Yes,” he said. A typically short Brett answer, she thought with a smile.

  “Do you remember anything else I wrote?” Anne watched a little songbird flit across the road.

  “Perhaps a few things,” Brett said dismissively. “But I can’t really recall them now.”

  Next to her Freddy cleared his throat, and Anne wondered why he looked so odd.

  When they dropped her at home Anne ran up and got the bundle of Bertie’s letters she kept in a box in her closet. Freddy was very polite when he took them, but Anne could see his gratitude in his beautiful blue eyes and on impulse she kissed his cheek. Brett w
as watching, so she felt it only fair to kiss his as well.

  Chapter Five

  September 30, 1810

  My Dearest Anne,

  I’ve only just stopped shaking enough to write you this letter. I saw my first major battle three days ago, at Busaco. I want to tell you about it, but then again, I don’t wish to. The things I saw, Anne. The things I did. I can tell you I am a different man today than I was four days ago. Brett says the feelings will pass, but I think he’s simply saying what he thinks I want to hear. God, what would I do without Brett? I know he is hurting too. He lost his horse at Busaco, shot out from under him, and he had to fight his way out, hand to hand with the French bastards. He’s roughed up quite a bit and got a rather nasty cut on his arm from a poorly aimed bayonet. Yet he still smiles and tries to comfort me. The whole thing started at a convent, Anne. Can you believe it? Nothing is sacred here, not God or life. I spoke with Mr. Matthews and he said that what we hold in our hearts is sacred, and no building or book or philosophy can give us those things. He is a good man. Have I told you how much he reminds me of your father?

  I was sorry to hear about Monster. He was a good cat. Do you remember when you decided he was lonely and we took him to The Narrows to visit with the Hutchinsons’ dog? Good Lord, what a catastrophe! I don’t think the poor dog ever recovered. Poor Monster ruined him for hunting, or so Mr. Hutchinson always claimed. I’m the one who fell off the roof fetching your silly cat and broke my finger, but everyone was more concerned about that worthless dog. I cried when your mother set the bone and you called me a big baby, but you brought me a posy of wildflowers and kissed my cheek for rescuing that cat. I would break a thousand fingers for one of those kisses right now.

  Your Devoted Servant,

  Bertie

  Brett just heard about Monster and wanted me to tell you he was very sorry too.

  * * * * *

  Freddy put the letter down. He hadn’t known any of it, he realized now. He hadn’t really known Bertie. With a low curse he shoved the chair back from the desk and stood up. He began to pace around the perimeter of his private drawing room. His. How odd that sounded. He still thought of it as the duke’s. It seemed everywhere but at Ashton Park he could play the duke. But here, in this house, in these rooms, he felt like an interloper.