Page 2 of What the Heart Knows

Had he not heard her name, he might’ve lingered. Battlefronts lacked pleasing female company, and Miss Fenneman was quite appealing.

George scurried behind with Kit’s saddlebags and a small sack.

In his rooms, Kit gulped in air. He felt as if he’d just eluded pursuit by ten of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard. Leaning on the table, he shook his head. How was it possible that a woman—a not so extraordinary woman in fact—had such an effect? Given her family, forgetting her might be best.

“Are you well, Captain?” George asked.

“Fine, fine. I was simply surprised to see you toppled.” He turned a grin on his valet. “Famously, Napoleon’s army failed to fell Sergeant Major Brewster. Now you are brought low by a passel of parcels and a pup.”

George beamed at his employer. “Thank you, sir, but the war’s in the past now, and Hector’s hardly a pup.”

“Indeed. Speaking of the present, I must send you down to your father, to pay our shot. When you return, perhaps you could tell me more about Miss Fenneman and her aunt.”

George’s jaw dropped. “Lordy. Father wasn’t at the desk when I came in. He doesn’t even know I’m here. Unless you told him?”

“No, I thought you might wish to surprise him.” Kit handed a purse to his valet.

“Aye ’tis right surprised he’ll be, as will all my family.”

“Then I shan’t expect your return until supper. Now get you gone.”

“I must unpack your bags, sir.”

“George, you’ve been my batman as well as my valet. By now you know I can manage on my own.”

“Aye, sir. That I do.”

“Then go surprise your family. Spend time with them.”

“Yes, sir.” George came to attention, snapped a salute, pivoted and marched from the room.

Kit smiled. Turning his attention to stowing the few items he’d brought with him, he considered the benefits and dangers of encountering a relation—no matter how distant—of former Major Frederick Fenneman.

***

Meg blinked as she watched the door close behind George Brewster. She’d recognized him instantly. They’d been playmates in the days before her mother died, when her father was a much kinder man. Years’d passed since she’d more than caught a quick glimpse of George at church of a Sunday morning. Still, she recalled him fondly.

“Oooh,” Aunt Patricia moaned.

Meg tugged the bell pull. “I’ll send for a tisane, Aunt. While we wait, let’s get you to bed.”

By the time the tisane arrived and the maid left, Meg’s night-robed Aunt lay against a mound of pillows.

“Dear me, I’m sorry to be so overset, niece, I am delaying you. Your father will be upset when you return home late.”

Meg dampened a kerchief, wrung it, folded it, and placed it on her aunt’s forehead.

“Don’t worry yourself, Aunt. I can manage Father,” Meg hedged. Father—the man who loved his wife so much he could not bear being in the home where he lost her—was loving, affectionate even cooperative as long as his wants and needs took priority.

“My brother-in-law can be quite unreasonable, when he feels he has been disobeyed. Your mother often confided in me about Sir Fenneman’s volatile nature.”

Wishing she’d more than a child’s memories of her mother, Meg pulled a chair up to the bed and took her aunt’s hand. She could not agree with her aunt. “Father has never harmed me, even though he’s changed some since the war. Still, I wish he would treat the servants with a bit more understanding and kindness.” He’d become much less considerate of others. His indifference resulted in small, thoughtless cruelties. She told herself she was oversensitive.

“He never harmed your mother either. He did neglect her shamefully, as he has you.”

“As a result of what you call neglect, I’ve a great deal more freedom than many young women.” However, in the months since Father returned, she only had that freedom when he wasn’t home.

Her aunt pursed her lips. “I’m uncertain that’s a good thing. You’ve much too independent a mind.”