Page 50 of The Untamed Heart

Eustacia sighed and set down the cup of tea she had just made herself, reaching for a plate of biscuits. She offered them to Marcus, who took one.

“He has received a commission from the same paper that printed the article to write a story, to be published in instalments during November and December, with the last chapter to be published on Christmas Eve. It is an enormous sum, ridiculously so, but the paper knows they will have a rapt audience. For they have given Wilbert Averythe the same commission, and the public are being asked to compare the two writers.”

Marcus winced. “Ah. I see the difficulty.”

“Indeed. He cannot refuse without looking as if he fears the comparison. Yet, he does fear the comparison, and I am afraid he will struggle to do his best work under such conditions.”

Marcus sipped his tea thoughtfully. “I don’t know about that,” he said, setting the cup down again. “I suspect anyone with genuine talent will always rise to the occasion and, as you know, the public adores Mrs Wildblood. It will also coincide with the publication of his next title, will it not? The one you allowed me to see. For my part, I thought it quite a spectacular read and enjoyed every word.”

“Which is what I’ve told him,” Eustacia said impatiently. “Averythe may have a more formal literary background, but if it is a popularity contest, Seb will win hands down.”

Marcus grimaced, and Eustacia laughed. “Yes, I know. I realised what I’d said too late, however. He does not wish to win under those circumstances because he wishes for the admiration of those who sneer at Mrs Wildblood for being merely popular.”

Marcus shook his head. “Poor fellow. One day he may realise that other people’s opinions aren’t worth a damn. So long as one can look oneself in the mirror, well, that’s a gift not to be underestimated,” he said, and with such regret that Eustacia’s heart went out to him.

How was it that this brave, honourable man still suffered, that the world’s view of him as a hero only caused him pain, not pride?

“Surely you can do so, Marcus?” she asked, wishing she had the right to take his hand and squeeze it in her own, or to hug him tightly to her until he stopped looking so wretched.

He gazed down into the tea she had poured him and took some time to reply. When he did, he looked up, and she saw the pain and doubt in his eyes. “How? How do I do that? Knowing how many men died under my command?”

“You did not line them up and put a bullet through each of them, Marcus. The war killed them,” Eustacia said, setting down her teacup with such force the tea slopped into the saucer.

His jaw tightened. “With respect, that is rather too simple. I was the officer in charge. My decisions had a direct impact on who lived and died. There is no avoiding that responsibility, and how many might I have saved if I’d acted differently, made different decisions?”

Eustacia shook her head. “Do you think Napoleon is not thinking at this moment, ‘ah, if only I had ordered my men to do this instead of that, to attack here instead of there’? Hindsight is a wonderful thing, Marcus, but you are not omniscient.”

He looked up, meeting her eyes, clearly startled by the vehemence of her words. Eustacia took a breath, trying to sound less emotional, less like she cared more than she had any right to do about how he felt.

“You were just a man, doing the best you could do in impossible circumstances. Think of what might have happened if someone else had been in your position, how would they have acted? Would they have done a better job than you?”

He frowned, and Eustacia thought perhaps he was doing just that, and so she held her tongue, allowing the silence to stretch on as he went back to staring at his teacup.

The quiet was so profound that they both jumped at the sharp rap on the door. Marcus had left it ajar, being the perfect gentleman, and Neil poked his head into the room.

“Sorry to bother you, Miss Eustacia, Colonel, but there is a message. It’s for Colonel Hamilton.”

“Come in, Neil,” Eustacia said.

The boy darted in and handed the note to Marcus, who opened it.

“It’s from Hawkney. It seems he has news.”

Eustacia nodded, though she was disappointed, realising she had likely lost her afternoon of painting him.

“I’m sorry, I should really—” he began apologetically, but Eustacia waved this away.

“Of course you must go.”

He finished his tea, ate the biscuit in two large bites, and Eustacia stood up so he might do likewise.

“I’ll be back this afternoon for my sitting,” he told her earnestly.

“Oh, well, not if this business takes your time. I shall not expect you.”

Marcus shook his head. “Expect me. Unless something drastic occurs, I shall be here. That is… unless you would prefer—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with a laugh. “You know I would never let you leave the room if I didn’t know you needed to eat and sleep and move your limbs.”