Page 17 of Holding Onto Love

First, she was very, very pretty. She was not beautiful. At least, she was not startlingly beautiful; not, for example, like Earl Darlington’s look-alike twins. Their alabaster skin and bow lips disadvantaged them, as gentlemen could not decide which of the beauties to court, so ended up courting neither. Or both. He himself had decided upon neither.

Or, at the opposite end of the social spectrum, there was the groin-tightening beauty of the queen of the demi-monde, Henrietta Pindar. He’d gone so far—this was well over a year ago—as to make inquiries. He learned that he could, by spending a year’s allowance in one fell swoop, bed her once. To his embarrassment, he’d actually considered it. She was said to know secrets. But thankfully Crispin, whose regiment had not yet been posted and was still in London, smacked him on the side of the head.

“Her secret is a mirrored ceiling. She will straddle you so that you can watch yourself be taken by ‘the most beautiful woman in the world.’” He snorted.

Jasper had envisioned something more mystical. His interest flagged. But rallied. “How would you know that?” His brother’s funds were nonexistent after he’d purchased his own commission.

Crispin sneered. “Sources. Save your blunt. Hire a doxy, close your eyes, and use your imagination.”

Jasper never learned Crispin’s sources, but he recognized sense when he heard it.

And, everything considered, had he not “saved his blunt,” he would not have taken the lease on his townhouse. Things would not have sorted as they had. The thought made him inexpressibly grateful. Vanessa’s skin might sport blotches of freckles, darker on her left cheek than the right, her chin might be a little too severe and her eyelids a little too heavy—but only if one analyzed her individual features. To gaze upon her face as a whole was to see its rather sublime prettiness. He gazed upon it a lot.

He did so now, while she remained sleeping. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating her side of the bed. There was nothing he would rather look at than her form beneath a tangled white sheet. One perfectly shaped arm flopped at her side; the other, under her head, propped her splayed chestnut-brown tresses. Her hair carried a scent of tree bark. Not flowers. Bark. He couldn’t explain it, but it was the headiest fragrance he’d ever inhaled.

The second thing he knew was that Vanessa was an energetic lover. Not in the performative way of women paid to please, thank goodness; he’d always found that off-putting, after the fact.

Before Vanessa, he had indulged in a few very brief affairs with women interested in such. Sex was hurried and furtive and while there was a certain allure to that sort of energy, it could grow tiresome. Hence the brevity of the affairs.

Sex with Vanessa was an altogether different experience. They shared a togetherness, a coequal desire to please and be pleased. He felt it also in his heart, if that made sense. “Energy” might not be right; perhaps he meant passion.

But how ridiculous to try putting it into words.

The third thing he knew was that she was brave. Following the drum was not for the faint of heart. Before Vanessa—it seemed his life was now divided into “before Vanessa” and “now,”—he hadn’t ever questioned the day-to-day reality for soldiers’ wives. After formalizing their arrangement, as she still seemed reluctant to speak of those days, he’d made discreet inquiries elsewhere.

Most soldiers did not bring their wives. They could not. Numbers were restricted and there was a lottery of a sort. Those chosen were told at the last possible moment so as not to create dissent in the ranks before ships were even boarded. Women were afforded no official military protection. No allowances were made for children, even though they inevitably arrived. Wives were given some food, but only a mere fraction of the soldiers’ meager rations. In truth, a good part of the reason that any women were permitted to accompany their husbands was for the role they played in foraging for extra sustenance. Not to mention all the other tasks they performed without maids or cooks or laundresses. They slept on the ground. They traveled on foot all the miles the men traveled and then some. It all strained credulity. Especially the fact that when a soldier died, his wife’s rations were cut off. There she would be. On the damned Peninsula. With no way to return home and no means of support.

Yet wives were assets. They provided comforts. A soldier would not be cold in his grave before his friends lined up at his widow’s “door” and awaited her choice. Jasper thanked God that Crispin had extricated Vanessa from that.

Why did women go? He’d asked that one night—naïve earl’s son that he was—of the tavern bawd who’d brought him his ale. He paid with a crown to loosen her tongue, then had to refuse other favors, to the amusement of Carleton and Waverly. Because, she explained, the government provided nothing at all for the wives left behind. Not a farthing.

These were not women who had other resources. Their husbands joined the army because they had no choice. They needed to take the King’s Shilling. They might have intended to send their wages home, but most found a pittance could not stretch that far.

What Jasper could not understand, what Vanessa had indicated she was not ready to discuss, was why she had gone. Wives of common soldiers were undoubtedly common women. Vanessa was no aristocrat. She was not even gentry. But she had the manners and mannerisms of a lady. Her voice and vocabulary were cultivated. She played the pianoforte. That fact slipped out one evening and now he was determined to provide one for her, as soon as she acquiesced. Her husband could not have been a laborer or some bumpkin. Jasper could not, would not, believe it. There had been money there somewhere.

So why had they gone to war?

He didn’t know. All he knew was that she had been brave enough to do so. Now he needed to learn if any of that bravery was left.

A bit of a breeze rippled the sheet and Vanessa stirred. She opened her eyes and gave him a lazy smile. He trailed his finger down her exquisite arm.

“I fear I miscalculated.”

She propped herself on her elbow. “What do you mean?”

“I skipped Tattersalls out of impatience. But now it is a mere three o’clock in the afternoon.”

They’d spent themselves, then napped. He supposed he’d envisioned making love to her for hours on end. He’d felt so amorous he thought cavorting would carry them through until a late supper. But it was only teatime. So he was rather nervously considering asking if she played cards.

That was not true. He wanted to ask her something else. If she would assent to something. If she were brave enough.

She murmured, “Is it too late to meet up with your friends at Tattersalls?”

He shrugged. He’d rather spend time with her. “If I did, what would you be doing?”

She paused, glancing away, then back to him. “I have some sewing to do.”

“Sewing?”