A Curious Courting by Laura Matthews Page B

she remembered the first time he had kissed her and vowed, “We will marry directly I return from the Peninsula, my love. You will wait for me, won’t you?”
    And she had waited for him through what seemed an eternity, through her father’s death and Henry’s advent. It was the thought of him which had kept her going during those trying days, months, even years, because when he returned he would share her burdens, he would love her, he would take care of her. Selina gulped back a sob and remonstrated with herself. Bitter as it was to have ended in naught, probably without that dream she would not have managed. For that at least she should be grateful. There was no sense in going over these painful memories, but they insisted on thrusting themselves on her mind.
    There was that early summer day when she had stood at the window in Henry’s room—when Henry was an invalid—and looked out over the fields, lost in contemplation, Frank’s last letter in her hand. His letters had changed almost imperceptibly. Although he still declared his affection for her, there was a growing absorption with himself that made her feel as though the letter were from a stranger. Carefully documenting each of his escapades and victories, he never asked of her own concerns or commented on the problems she poured out to him in her letters. As she narrowed her eyes against the sun, she had decided that her letters to him must seem as filled with her own concerns as his did to her. In the future she would try not to be so selfish. She had glanced over to find that Henry had at last fallen asleep when she heard the sound of hoof-beats in the drive. There could be no mistaking that glorious head of blond hair! The letter dropped from her nerveless hands and she stumbled in her haste toward the door.
    Before Frank had reached the second terrace, she was outside the house and running toward him. Although his expression was one more of surprise than delight, he caught her in his arms and kissed her. She emerged from his embrace to breathlessly enquire, “Why didn’t you tell me you were getting leave?”
    “Not leave, my love. I’ve sold out,” he said cheerfully.
    “Sold out? But you never wrote…”
    “A surprise, my dear. The old man’s not getting any younger, you know. I could tell that Mother wanted me home... and I thought perhaps you did, too.” He eyed her quizzingly.
    “Oh, yes! I’ve dreamed of your coming home! But the fighting seems interminable, and I never thought you’d leave until the last enemy was routed.”
    “They’re mismanaging the whole thing,” he grumbled. “No one is willing to listen to how the war should be conducted.”
    “But you could tell them, couldn’t you?” she asked playfully, taking his arm as they walked toward the house.
    His body stiffened and he frowned down at her. “Damn right I could, Selina. Spare me your teasing. You know nothing of war, and never will.”
    Chastened, even hurt, Selina stammered, “I... I’m sorry, Frank. We are so far away from all that horror here. You’ll have tea, won’t you?”
    Selina shifted uneasily in her chair as she remembered the days that had followed. Days of treading carefully, of watching her tongue as she was not used to do, of balancing the demands on her time from Henry and Frank. The returned “hero” had made it no less clear than Lord Leyburn that he did not share her affection for Henry. Selina had tried to rationalize that a soldier had seen too many mutilated bodies to be comfortable in Henry’s presence, but she was daily torn by conflicting emotions. Cautiously she tried to explain to Frank her feelings of responsibility for Henry, her very real affection for the boy, her desire to keep him with her. Frank was noncommittal. He bruited their engagement about the neighborhood and took her to tea with his mother.
    Most clearly Selina remembered the day they had ridden in the vale. It was unbearably hot, and her nerves were on edge