her?
“One of the lads from the village was lost in the war about that time,” Mr. Martin mused. “I thought he must have been killed in battle. Now I wonder if he perished on that retreat, poor fellow.”
“Well, there will be no starving here tonight.” Mrs. Martin did not sound as if she approved of the somber turn the conversation had taken. “I’ve made a lovely pudding and I hope you’ve all saved room for it.”
“Oh, aye.” “Yes indeed.” The others replied in various ways that signaled their eagerness.
Were they only grateful for Mrs. Martin’s toothsome pudding, or for an opportunity to lift the mood around the table as well?
Cassandra welcomed the excuse to rise from her place and help Mrs. Martin serve out hearty slabs of the dense, raisin-studded pudding. When she slid a piece onto Brandon’s plate, he murmured his thanks and cast her a look she could not properly interpret.
The rest of the party began to discuss the hopeful turn the war had taken during the past year. Brandon did not join in, though he must be the most knowledgeable on the subject. Instead he seemed to sink back into his thoughts.
Had the events of the afternoon and the recent conversation roused disturbing memories of his experiences during the War? Were those the stories with which he had not wanted to bore her when they’d spoken together that morning? Perhaps it would have been more apt to say he had not wanted to horrify her.
What had provoked him to bring up that miserable business of the retreat from Tordesillas? Brandon chided himself as the party retired to the parlor after dinner. The wretched details were hardly the stuff of polite mealtime conversation. The pallor that had come over Cassandra’s face as he spoke, and the stricken look in her dark eyes, had reproached him for his lack of consideration.
But when the coach guard had inquired about the retreat in a tone that suggested war was some kind of romantic adventure, Brandon could not permit such a popular misconception to go unchallenged. He was sorry to have distressed Cassandra, though, particularly after the worry he’d caused her earlier.
Yesterday he would not have believed Lady Cassandra Whitney capable of caring about the fate of nameless soldiers who had lost their lives on that terrible march. Now, he began to suspect her experiences during the past four years had changed Cassandra, as his had changed him. That did not make her any less dangerous to his hard-won peace of mind, yet the thought still soothed him somehow. It made him want to talk to her again, the way they had that morning, even if it meant she might ask questions he did not wish to answer.
She and Mrs. Davis had stayed behind in the kitchen to help Mrs. Martin clear the table and wash the dishes. The other two women now rejoined the party in the parlor, but there was no sign of Cassandra.
“Can I fetch you a drop more cider, Sir Brandon?” Mrs. Martin inquired.
“You have done more than enough to see to my comfort for one day, ma’am,” he replied. “You should take a seat and enjoy a few minutes of well-deserved leisure. If it would not be imposing upon your hospitality, I will help myself to a bit more of your excellent cider, along with anyone else who would care to have their cup refilled.”
He thought Mrs. Martin might insist on doing the honors, but instead she sank onto an empty chair and lavished him with a grateful smile. “You would not be imposing in the least, sir. While you and the others are our guests, we would like you to make yourselves quite at home. I would not refuse a drink while you are fetching more for yourself.”
Brandon asked the others but no one else seemed thirsty at the moment. So he strode off to the kitchen with the assurance of having a good excuse to take him there. He thought back to the previous night when he had surprised Cassandra alone in the kitchen and suggested they treat one another like new acquaintances. His attitude had
“One of the lads from the village was lost in the war about that time,” Mr. Martin mused. “I thought he must have been killed in battle. Now I wonder if he perished on that retreat, poor fellow.”
“Well, there will be no starving here tonight.” Mrs. Martin did not sound as if she approved of the somber turn the conversation had taken. “I’ve made a lovely pudding and I hope you’ve all saved room for it.”
“Oh, aye.” “Yes indeed.” The others replied in various ways that signaled their eagerness.
Were they only grateful for Mrs. Martin’s toothsome pudding, or for an opportunity to lift the mood around the table as well?
Cassandra welcomed the excuse to rise from her place and help Mrs. Martin serve out hearty slabs of the dense, raisin-studded pudding. When she slid a piece onto Brandon’s plate, he murmured his thanks and cast her a look she could not properly interpret.
The rest of the party began to discuss the hopeful turn the war had taken during the past year. Brandon did not join in, though he must be the most knowledgeable on the subject. Instead he seemed to sink back into his thoughts.
Had the events of the afternoon and the recent conversation roused disturbing memories of his experiences during the War? Were those the stories with which he had not wanted to bore her when they’d spoken together that morning? Perhaps it would have been more apt to say he had not wanted to horrify her.
What had provoked him to bring up that miserable business of the retreat from Tordesillas? Brandon chided himself as the party retired to the parlor after dinner. The wretched details were hardly the stuff of polite mealtime conversation. The pallor that had come over Cassandra’s face as he spoke, and the stricken look in her dark eyes, had reproached him for his lack of consideration.
But when the coach guard had inquired about the retreat in a tone that suggested war was some kind of romantic adventure, Brandon could not permit such a popular misconception to go unchallenged. He was sorry to have distressed Cassandra, though, particularly after the worry he’d caused her earlier.
Yesterday he would not have believed Lady Cassandra Whitney capable of caring about the fate of nameless soldiers who had lost their lives on that terrible march. Now, he began to suspect her experiences during the past four years had changed Cassandra, as his had changed him. That did not make her any less dangerous to his hard-won peace of mind, yet the thought still soothed him somehow. It made him want to talk to her again, the way they had that morning, even if it meant she might ask questions he did not wish to answer.
She and Mrs. Davis had stayed behind in the kitchen to help Mrs. Martin clear the table and wash the dishes. The other two women now rejoined the party in the parlor, but there was no sign of Cassandra.
“Can I fetch you a drop more cider, Sir Brandon?” Mrs. Martin inquired.
“You have done more than enough to see to my comfort for one day, ma’am,” he replied. “You should take a seat and enjoy a few minutes of well-deserved leisure. If it would not be imposing upon your hospitality, I will help myself to a bit more of your excellent cider, along with anyone else who would care to have their cup refilled.”
He thought Mrs. Martin might insist on doing the honors, but instead she sank onto an empty chair and lavished him with a grateful smile. “You would not be imposing in the least, sir. While you and the others are our guests, we would like you to make yourselves quite at home. I would not refuse a drink while you are fetching more for yourself.”
Brandon asked the others but no one else seemed thirsty at the moment. So he strode off to the kitchen with the assurance of having a good excuse to take him there. He thought back to the previous night when he had surprised Cassandra alone in the kitchen and suggested they treat one another like new acquaintances. His attitude had
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