Trusting Miss Trentham

Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

November 18th, 1808

Whiteoaks, Wiltshire

In the morning, her nighttime fears seemed faintly foolish. Letty’s certainty became doubt. By the time she’d eaten her breakfast, she’d convinced herself that her imagination had been overactive. Reid was no more going to kill himself than he was going to grow wings and fly to the moon. His bleakness yesterday, the despair she’d glimpsed in his eyes, were entirely natural—given what had happened to him at Vimeiro—but he had too much strength of character to commit suicide. Reid was a soldier. If he was backed into a corner, he’d fight his way out; he wouldn’t turn his face to the wall and die.

Accordingly, when Sir Henry Wright asked to speak with her privately, Letty was able to give him her full attention.

Sir Henry didn’t make the mistake of trying to propose in the windswept, leafless garden. Nor did he make the mistake of trying to present his offer as anything other than what it was: a marriage of convenience.

“You know my circumstances, I think,” he said bluntly, when they were seated across from one another in the cool privacy of the library.

“Yes,” Letty said. Wright’s father had left him saddled with massive debts.

“I can’t offer you anything—except a baronetcy.” He made a throwaway gesture with one hand, as if to indicate how worthless that title was. “The manor’s well enough, but nothing compared to Whiteoaks.”

“What are your feelings for me?”

“I think we could be friends,” Sir Henry said, and meant it.

Letty nodded. She thought they could be friends, too. “If we were to marry, would you be faithful to me?”

Sir Henry flushed faintly. He glanced away from her, and then back. He met her gaze squarely. “No. But I’d never give you cause for embarrassment.”

Letty nodded again. She looked at his forthright face and steady brown eyes. She liked this man. “If I was looking for a marriage of convenience, I’d accept your offer. But I’m not. I’m very sorry, Sir Henry.”

He shook his head. “It’s what I expected. A one-sided bargain, after all. I can see what’s in it for me—but not what’s in it for you.” He smiled ruefully. “To tell the truth, I’m almost relieved. Marrying for money is not . . .” An expression of distaste crossed his face. “Not something I ever envisaged myself doing.”

“What will you do now?”

Sir Henry looked down at his hands. “What I want to do . . .”

“What?”

He looked up and met her eyes again. “What I want to do is sell everything, right down to the last teaspoon. Get rid of the whole mess.”

Letty listened to the bell-like tone of his words. He meant it. “Would that cover the debts?”

“Just.”

“And your family?”

Sir Henry shrugged. “My sisters are both married. They’d be sorry to see the manor go, but they have their own homes.”

“And you? What would you do?”

Sir Henry smiled faintly. “Take the king’s shilling.”

“The king’s shilling? You can’t enlist, Sir Henry!”

He looked almost amused. “Any man can enlist.”

Letty stared at him. “Do you want to be a soldier?”

“Begged m’ father for a commission when I came down from Oxford, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Nothing he can do about it now.” Sir Henry grinned, as if he found this amusing.

“Yes, but an enlisted man!”

The grin faded. Sir Henry shrugged again. He didn’t tell her that commissions cost money; she knew that.

“A cavalry regiment?”

Sir Henry shook his head. “The Ninety-fifth Rifles.”

Letty lifted her eyebrows. “You have thought about this.”

“A lot.” Sir Henry pushed to his feet. He held out his hand. “Thank you for your time, Miss Trentham.”

Letty stood and clasped his hand—and didn’t release it. “I don’t wish to marry you, Sir Henry, but I do wish to buy you a commission. I hope you’ll accept it.”

Sir Henry opened his mouth, and then closed it. He blinked, swallowed, spoke: “Miss Trentham, you can’t—”

“Yes. I can.”

Sir Henry looked at her for a long moment. “Why?” he said, finally.

“Because I like you. You tell the truth. You are exactly the sort of man who makes a good officer. I shall write to my man of business today and set it in motion.”

“Miss Trentham . . .”

Letty kissed his cheek, part farewell, part blessing. “Enjoy your soldiering, Sir Henry.”

“Thank you,” he said, looking almost dazed. “I . . . Thank you!”

Letty composed a letter to her man of business, not merely about Sir Henry’s commission, but also about securing a place for Eliza at the lying-in hospital next month. I know it’s too early, she wrote, but she has no relatives and I wish for her to be somewhere safe and comfortable. That done, she ate a light luncheon, changed into her second-best riding habit—her favorite was still damp from yesterday’s drenching—and sat in the blue parlor awaiting Reid’s arrival. The window seat had a good view of the carriage sweep. At five after two, she saw him trot past on a chestnut horse.

Letty caught up her gloves and riding crop and hurried out to the stableyard. Reid was just dismounting.

“Mr. Reid! Good afternoon.”

He gave her a nod. “Miss Trentham.”

“Would you like to go for a ride? I’m just heading out myself.”

Reid seemed to hesitate. “Alone?”

“Sadly, yes,” Letty said, trying to decipher his expression. Did he not want to go riding with her? “Lucas and Tom are already over at the folly, Almeria’s taken the girls to Marlborough to look at fabric, and Sir Henry left not an hour ago. I should be glad of your company.”

Again, that infinitesimal hesitation. “Of course I’ll accompany you,” Reid said politely.

Letty turned to one of the grooms. “The bay mare, please. The one with the white socks.”

The groom hurried off.

A saddlebag was strapped behind the chestnut’s saddle. Reid unfastened it and handed it to a groom. “Please have this taken up to Lieutenant Matlock’s room.”

“Yes, sir.”

The bay mare was brought from the stables and led to the mounting block. Letty climbed into the saddle.

Reid swung up on the chestnut again. The horse was a good hand shorter at the withers than the gray had been.

“Is that horse up to your weight?” Letty asked.

“Barely. I’ll take care not to use him too hard.”

They trotted from the stableyard. Letty was aware of an awkwardness between them, a constraint in Reid’s manner. She didn’t need to wonder why. It was because of what had happened at the stream yesterday. Because of what he’d told her.

She studied Reid’s profile. It seemed to her that he held himself more tautly than usual. Whether his tension was due to shame that she knew his secret or fear that she’d reveal it, she couldn’t guess.

“I shan’t tell anyone,” Letty said. “You have my word.”

Reid glanced at her. He gave a short nod, but didn’t speak.

They rode silently, at a trot. Reid’s horse had a placid, knock-kneed gait. The sky was overcast, the wind damp, the woods dank and gloomy. Dead leaves squelched beneath the horses’ hooves. The trees stood like great, gray skeletons. The bleakness of the day pervaded Letty’s mood. Her thoughts swung back to her nighttime fears. “Mr. Reid,” she said abruptly. “You don’t intend to kill yourself, do you?”

Reid’s head swung round. She saw his astonishment—and then he blinked, and his face became expressionless. He didn’t answer her. He looked away again.

Letty’s stomach contracted. “You do, don’t you?”

“Shall we canter?”

Letty leaned over and caught his arm. “Mr. Reid, tell me! Are you planning to kill yourself?”

Reid shook her hand off. “That is absolutely none of your business, Miss Trentham.”

The evasion was an answer in itself. Letty stared at him, aghast. “But why?”

Reid didn’t reply. He nudged the chestnut into a canter.

Letty followed. She felt almost stupid with shock. Horror grew in her chest; horror, and fear, and a terrible sense of urgency. Thoughts swarmed in her head, as frantic and disordered as bees chased from their hive. Reid was going to kill himself?

It was several minutes before Letty was able to think coherently. Don’t panic, she told herself sternly. Find words he’ll listen to.

Reid chose the path up to the downs. They cantered slowly, not pushing the horses. Letty fastened her gaze on Reid’s back and cudgeled her brain, turning over arguments, examining them, discarding them. By the time Reid dropped to a trot, she thought she’d found the words she needed. She came abreast of him. “There’s a good viewpoint ahead. You can see Whiteoaks.”

Reid made no reply, but he let her take the lead.

At the viewpoint, Letty halted. Reid came up alongside her. They gazed down on Whiteoaks—the black river, the dark woods, the ruined castle on its rocky prominence. “We should ride back past the folly. You’ll want to take your leave of Tom.”

Reid nodded.

Letty fixed her gaze on his face. “They did the same to that Portuguese officer, didn’t they? Drowned him over and over.”

Reid glanced at her—his eyes meeting hers briefly—and then away. After a moment, he nodded.

“What was his name?”

For several seconds, she thought Reid wouldn’t answer, and then he said, “Pereira.”

“Was he a good soldier?”

“Yes.”

Letty took a breath, and prayed that Reid would listen to her. “If Pereira had told the French what they wanted to know—and if he’d survived—would you have wished to see him hanged as a traitor? Or would you have thought that he’d already suffered past human endurance? That he’d already died several times, and that perhaps what he deserved most was forgiveness?”

Reid’s face tightened. He turned his head even further from her. All she could see was the hard right angle of his jaw.

Letty bit the tip of her tongue against further arguments. Let him think it over. She nudged her horse into a trot.