Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(85)

The Stony Cross Inn was well-worn and comfortable, smelling of ale and food, the plastered walls aged the color of dark honey. The innkeeper, Mr. Palfreyman, had known Christopher since his boyhood. He welcomed him warmly, asked a few jovial questions about the honeymoon, and readily supplied the location of the room that Fenwick occupied. A few minutes later, Christopher knocked on the door and waited tensely.

The door opened, one corner scraping against the uneven hallway flooring.

It was jarring to see Lieutenant Colonel William Fenwick wearing civilian attire, when all Christopher had ever seen him in was the scarlet and gold cavalry uniform. The face was the same, except for a complexion faded to an indoors pallor that seemed utterly wrong for a man who had been so obsessed with horsemanship.

Christopher was instinctively reluctant to go near him. “Colonel Fenwick,” he said, and he had to check himself from saluting. Instead he reached out to shake hands. The feel of the other man’s hand, moist and cool, gave him a creeping sensation.

“Phelan.” Fenwick moved awkwardly to the side. “Will you come in?”

Christopher hesitated. “There are two parlors downstairs, and a taproom.”

Fenwick smiled slightly. “Unfortunately, I’m troubled by old wounds. Stairs are an inconvenience. I beg your indulgence in remaining up here.” He looked rueful, even apologetic.

Relaxing marginally, Christopher entered the room.

Like the other sleeping rooms in the inn, the private space was commodious, clean, and sparely furnished. He noticed as Fenwick took one of the chairs that he didn’t move well, one leg noticeably stiff.

“Please be seated,” Fenwick said. “Thank you for coming to the inn. I would have called at your residence again, but I’m glad to have been spared the effort.” He indicated his leg. “The pain has worsened of late. I was told it was miraculous to have kept the leg, but I’ve wondered if I wouldn’t have been better served by amputation.”

Christopher waited for Fenwick to explain why he was in Hampshire. When it became clear that the colonel was in no hurry to address the subject, he said abruptly, “You’re here because you want something.”

“You’re not nearly as patient as you used to be,” the colonel observed, looking amused. “What happened to the sharpshooter renowned for his ability to wait?”

“The war is over. And I have better things to do now.”

“No doubt involving your new bride. It seems congratulations are in order. Tell me, what kind of woman managed to land the most decorated soldier in England?”

“The kind who cares nothing for medals or laurels.”

Giving him a frankly disbelieving glance, Fenwick said, “How can that be true? Of course she cares about such things. She is now the wife of an immortal.”

Christopher stared at him blankly. “Pardon?”

“You’ll be remembered for decades,” Fenwick said. “Perhaps centuries. Don’t tell me that it means nothing to you.”

Christopher shook his head slightly, his gaze locked on the other man’s face.

“There is an ancient tradition of military honor in my family,” Fenwick said. “I knew that I would achieve the most, and be remembered the longest. No one ever thinks about the ancestors who led small lives, who were known principally as husbands and fathers, benevolent masters, loyal friends. No one cares about those nameless ciphers. But warriors are revered. They are never forgotten.” Bitterness creased his face, leaving it puckered and uneven like the skin of an overripe orange. “A medal like the Victoria Cross—that is all I’ve ever wanted.”

“A half ounce of die-stamped gunmetal?” Christopher asked skeptically.

“Don’t use that supercilious tone with me, you arrogant ass.” Oddly, despite the venom of the words, Fenwick was calm and controlled. “From the beginning, I knew you were nothing more than an empty-headed fop. Handsome stuffing for a uniform. But you turned out to have one useful gift—you could shoot. And then you went to the Rifles, where somehow you became a soldier. When I first read the dispatches, I thought there had to be some other Phelan. Because the Phelan of the reports was a warrior, and I knew you hadn’t the makings of one.”

“I proved you wrong at Inkerman,” Christopher said quietly.

The jab brought a smile to Fenwick’s face, the smile of a man standing at a distance from life and seeing unimaginable irony. “Yes. You saved me, and now you’re to get the nation’s highest honor for it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“That makes it even worse. I was sent home while you became the lauded hero, and took everything that should have been mine. Your name will be remembered, and you don’t even care. Had I died on the battlefield, that would have at least been something. But you took even that away. And you betrayed your closest friend in the process. A friend who trusted you. You left Lieutenant Bennett to die alone.” He watched Christopher keenly, hunting for any sign of emotion.

“If I had it to do again, I would make the same choice,” Christopher said flatly.

An incredulous look came over Fenwick’s face.

“Do you think I dragged you off the battlefield for either of our sakes?” Christopher demanded. “Do you think I gave a damn about you, or about winning some godforsaken medal?”