that.
After the meal Martine cut and pinned her new gown while Mrs. Arbuthnot muttered dire warnings about the wages of sin. At nine o’clock, Martine went to the kitchen to make their tea. Mrs. Arbuthnot had hers with a tot of rum every night, to help her sleep, she said. She never seemed to have any problems with that, declaring it bedtime as soon as the tea things were put away. So Martine put on her cape and put out the cat. She stayed outside, the door partly open so she could find her wreath, then find a place where Digby would notice it, but not think it was a decoration for the door. Then she stayed out, wondering if he was near, trying to feel his presence.
“What maggot have you got in your brainbox now, missy?” Mrs. Arbuthnot shouted from the parlor. “Leaving the door open and standing outside in the middle of winter!”
“Someone in the village today said a storm was coming. I’m just trying to see if it feels like snow.”
It didn’t. It felt like springtime in her heart.
Tuesday
Martine was up before George. Considering that she’d stayed up half the night basting the gown—and looking out her bedroom window—that was quite a feat. She hadn’t got much sewing done, and she hadn’t seen or heard a thing, so she couldn’t sleep for hours even when she blew out the candles, wondering if he was coming back at all.
He had come, though. The wreath was gone, and in its place were two packages tied in silver paper, atop a sealed letter. She opened the letter first.
I remember, my precious darling. I never forgot. Three more days, and we can share the memories and make new ones.
I want to buy you the sun and the stars, but I cannot, so I had to be content with these trifles for now. The combs are from Spain, for I thought of you so often there, and how your silky hair would look in the señoritas’ style. And the book is because you deserve sonnets written to your beauty, but I am just a soldier, not a poet.
I must tell you that I do not intend to stay a soldier, if you will have me. I do not intend for you to follow the drum any more today than I did four years ago, and now there is no reason. I have proved myself in my own eyes, if not the eyes of the world, and I have prospered. I might not afford to buy you the moon, but I can purchase a small estate for us somewhere, with a few acres to farm. No more paltry cottages. My saved-up pay, a tidy competence I receive, and an unforeseen inheritance make me a man of substance, if not wealth. Yes, I am puffing off my prospects, sweeting, in hopes that you will look more favorably on my suit.
Other officers spoke of their futures, of travels and Town life. I have had enough excitement to last the century. I want nothing more than to settle down, to put roots into the land, to see things grow finally, instead of the death and destruction of war. I want to watch our children run and play where the air is clean and good, with you by my side. I would take you to London if you yearn for the glamour—I would take you anywhere, dearest—but oh, how I have dreamt of the peace and quiet and contentment of a country home, a family. In three days I’ll ask you to share that with me.
A home, a family, a loving husband—and two presents! What more could a woman want? Martine swore she would not weep, not again. But she hadn’t received a single present since she’d been in Chelmstead, except for the occasional dead mouse from George. Now here was Digby Hines, the man from her past, offering her a golden future, showering her with gifts.
The combs were intricately carved ivory masterpieces that demanded she unbraid her long auburn hair and try them in different styles. The book was Shakespeare’s love sonnets, in hand-tooled leather with gilded pages.
Martine’s resources hadn’t extended to books, so this was even more precious. She’d even had to let her subscription to the lending library expire, because Mrs. Arbuthnot declared novels to be the
After the meal Martine cut and pinned her new gown while Mrs. Arbuthnot muttered dire warnings about the wages of sin. At nine o’clock, Martine went to the kitchen to make their tea. Mrs. Arbuthnot had hers with a tot of rum every night, to help her sleep, she said. She never seemed to have any problems with that, declaring it bedtime as soon as the tea things were put away. So Martine put on her cape and put out the cat. She stayed outside, the door partly open so she could find her wreath, then find a place where Digby would notice it, but not think it was a decoration for the door. Then she stayed out, wondering if he was near, trying to feel his presence.
“What maggot have you got in your brainbox now, missy?” Mrs. Arbuthnot shouted from the parlor. “Leaving the door open and standing outside in the middle of winter!”
“Someone in the village today said a storm was coming. I’m just trying to see if it feels like snow.”
It didn’t. It felt like springtime in her heart.
Tuesday
Martine was up before George. Considering that she’d stayed up half the night basting the gown—and looking out her bedroom window—that was quite a feat. She hadn’t got much sewing done, and she hadn’t seen or heard a thing, so she couldn’t sleep for hours even when she blew out the candles, wondering if he was coming back at all.
He had come, though. The wreath was gone, and in its place were two packages tied in silver paper, atop a sealed letter. She opened the letter first.
I remember, my precious darling. I never forgot. Three more days, and we can share the memories and make new ones.
I want to buy you the sun and the stars, but I cannot, so I had to be content with these trifles for now. The combs are from Spain, for I thought of you so often there, and how your silky hair would look in the señoritas’ style. And the book is because you deserve sonnets written to your beauty, but I am just a soldier, not a poet.
I must tell you that I do not intend to stay a soldier, if you will have me. I do not intend for you to follow the drum any more today than I did four years ago, and now there is no reason. I have proved myself in my own eyes, if not the eyes of the world, and I have prospered. I might not afford to buy you the moon, but I can purchase a small estate for us somewhere, with a few acres to farm. No more paltry cottages. My saved-up pay, a tidy competence I receive, and an unforeseen inheritance make me a man of substance, if not wealth. Yes, I am puffing off my prospects, sweeting, in hopes that you will look more favorably on my suit.
Other officers spoke of their futures, of travels and Town life. I have had enough excitement to last the century. I want nothing more than to settle down, to put roots into the land, to see things grow finally, instead of the death and destruction of war. I want to watch our children run and play where the air is clean and good, with you by my side. I would take you to London if you yearn for the glamour—I would take you anywhere, dearest—but oh, how I have dreamt of the peace and quiet and contentment of a country home, a family. In three days I’ll ask you to share that with me.
A home, a family, a loving husband—and two presents! What more could a woman want? Martine swore she would not weep, not again. But she hadn’t received a single present since she’d been in Chelmstead, except for the occasional dead mouse from George. Now here was Digby Hines, the man from her past, offering her a golden future, showering her with gifts.
The combs were intricately carved ivory masterpieces that demanded she unbraid her long auburn hair and try them in different styles. The book was Shakespeare’s love sonnets, in hand-tooled leather with gilded pages.
Martine’s resources hadn’t extended to books, so this was even more precious. She’d even had to let her subscription to the lending library expire, because Mrs. Arbuthnot declared novels to be the
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