The Soldier's Dark Secret

Jack leapt to his feet. So much for his naive belief that he had been covering his tracks. It was mortifyingly clear that Charlie and Eleanor had merely been pretending not to notice his odd behaviour.

I’m sparing you, he wanted to roar at Charlie. I’m preserving all your sad, pathetic illusions about me, he wanted to tell him. He wanted to shake his brother into silence. He wanted to be sick, because he loved Charlie, and he even cared about Eleanor, dammit, because Eleanor loved Charlie too. He wished to hell, for Charlie’s sake, that he could sit down with Robert and tell him tales of derring-do. He wished that it was true, that he really was the hero mentioned by Wellington in despatches, but it was not the case. Heroes didn’t have stains on their soul.

Jack crept from the room. He might not be a hero but he had survived. He would continue to survive. To live, to be truly alive though, that was quite another matter. An aspiration for the future, perhaps. In the meantime, it was a question of enduring.

Chapter Three

Next day, Celeste set to work in the walled garden, the morning sunshine sending fingers of light creeping along the western border. She knew from the landscaper’s plans which Jack had shown her that the oldest of the succession houses and the pinery were to be demolished and replaced with modern structures which could be more efficiently heated. There was a charm to the original buildings which she had started to capture in charcoal, the paper pinned to a large board propped on a portable easel.

She had not seen Jack since he so abruptly left the Topiary Garden. He had not appeared at dinner, nor breakfast. According to Lady Eleanor, this was not unusual behaviour, as Jack often skipped meals. Sir Charles had reminded his wife that the remains of his late-night snacks were regularly found by the kitchen maids, so there was no need to worry that Jack had no appetite whatsoever. Which meant that they clearly were worried, and equally clearly set upon pretending to the source of their concern that they were not. Celeste was not, after all, alone in thinking Jack Trestain’s behaviour decidedly contrary.

She pinned a fresh sheet of paper on to her easel. She would not speculate as to the cause. She found him intriguing. She found him interesting. She found him very attractive. All of these, she took as positive signs of her own return to normality, but she would not allow herself to dwell on the subject any further. She had more than enough issues to occupy her thoughts without adding Jack Trestain to her list.

She picked up her charcoal, decided to adjust her perspective and set to work.

* * *

Half an hour later, deep in concentration, Celeste did not notice Jack’s arrival until he was behind her, making her jump, squiggle a line across her drawing, drop her charcoal and swear rather inappropriately in French. ‘You gave me such a fright. Look what you’ve made me do.’

‘I didn’t mean to startle you, but you were miles away.’

‘I was concentrating on my work.’

Jack was looking at her drawing, but Celeste got the impression he was thinking about something else. She had not misremembered how attractive he was. Nor the strength of her reaction to his physical proximity. Her skin was tingling as if the space between them was charged, like the atmosphere prior to a lightning strike. ‘What do you think?’ she asked, in an attempt to restore some semblance of normality. She was on sure ground discussing art.

He blinked. ‘I think I should apologise for my abrupt departure yesterday.’

Celeste too kept her eyes on her drawing. ‘I was actually referring to my sketch, but since we are on the subject, I fear we were at cross purposes yesterday. When I said— When I mentioned abstinence— I know nothing of your circumstances. I was speaking for myself.’

‘You may as well have been speaking for me,’ Jack admitted ruefully. ‘I have not— It has also been some time since I...’ Their eyes met briefly, then flickered away. ‘I was therefore rather taken aback.’

‘As was I.’ This time their gaze held. Celeste smiled faintly. ‘I am sure that was the reason for the— It explains why we allowed ourselves to become somewhat carried away.’

Jack touched his hand to the squiggle Celeste had drawn, tried to rub it out, then stared at the resultant smudge. ‘Stupid thing for me to get so aerated about. It was, as you pointed out, just a kiss. We’re adults, not flighty adolescents.’

‘Yes, exactly.’ She nodded determinedly to disguise her disappointment. She should not be disappointed. He was agreeing with her, after all. ‘Most likely we would be disappointed if we—if we repeated the experience.’