Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(93)

“Yes,” she said. “Maybe I will not go.”

Could this young woman with the lackluster voice possibly be the vivid, eager girl who had twirled for his approval in her new gown on the evening of that fete? The girl who had sparkled on the brink of womanhood and all it promised in the way of parties and beaux and courtship and marriage?

“There were men out on the Peninsula, both officers and those in the ranks, who cracked,” he said. “Not for any discernible reason, in most cases. Some would rave, out of their minds, and have to be hauled away in a straitjacket. A few ran away. Others curled up on the ground somewhere, covered their heads with their arms, and refused to move. Any threat of punishment—a whipping for the enlisted men, court-martial in the case of the officers—had no effect whatsoever. There were no physicians for them as there were for those who were physically wounded. Their condition was considered shameful. It was attributed to cowardice or to weakness—to not being a man.”

He paused for a moment, but she said nothing.

“They were just the few, though,” he said. “There were many more who did not crack but were nevertheless shattered inside. They kept the facade of manliness. They carried on. They followed orders and did their work. They often showed great courage and were held up as an example to other men. But inside they were lost and empty. Even if there had been physicians able to treat their condition, they would not have appealed to them for help. They would have denied that anything was wrong at all.”

Still the silence from behind him. Though no, she had broken it.

“As you did,” she said. “And do.”

Oh, hell! That was not where he had been leading. He spun around to look at her. She was gazing back, her eyes large and blue in a pale face.

“Pippa,” he said. “You were fifteen. I think it was probably worse for you than for anyone else. Nicholas was able to set out for the new life he had been preparing for. Owen and Stephanie were still children. Mama was an adult with an adult’s experience and maturity. You were betwixt and between any of those things. Our father was no longer a rock upon which to lean. Ben and I were both gone. I see in you what I saw in some of my men. Differently manifested, of course, but essentially the same thing. Life has been too much for you, and there has been no one to give you the help and support you need.”

She was half smiling at him, a ghastly expression. She shrugged but said nothing.

“What in particular has overwhelmed you?” he asked. “Or is there no single thing?” There probably was not. And that was the whole trouble. With his men it had often been the guns. The incessant pounding of the cannons.

“Nothing,” she said. “I adored Papa and then I hated him and then he died. And I was glad.”

The brevity of her story, especially its ending, chilled his already cold heart. But she was not finished.

“You think you were the only one who noticed,” she said, “because you were out there on the hill when he was there with that woman. I saw her at church and a few times in the village before that day, and I was afraid because she looked at him and he looked at her, mere darting glances, but I felt like vomiting though I did not understand why. And that day. She came to dance about the maypole while Steph and I were there and then you. And Papa stood and watched and laughed and clapped for everyone. But she was dancing for him, and he was there to watch her. Oh, they were very careful all day long, and I tried very hard just to enjoy myself and not even see them. I hoped and hoped she would not return for the ball, but she did, and he danced with her, smiling and laughing as he always did, though it was different with her. And then after supper he took her outside and did not come back and every minute as I danced I felt like screaming and screaming without stopping. And then . . . it started. I heard raised voices and realized one of them was yours. I knew before you came close what must have happened, and I was glad that at last someone else had found out and was doing something about it.”

He bent over her and took her ice-cold hands in his. He drew her to her feet and into his arms. He held her tight. Good God! Where had this come from? She had noticed even before the day of the fete and been uneasy? Just as he had noticed when he was in London with his father? But she had denied it, just as he had, and bottled it all up inside. That bright-eyed, happy girl. Was there no end to the illusion under which this family had lived?

“The one thing we could never seem to do,” he said, “was speak truth to one another. Yet we considered ourselves the happiest family in the world. Pippa! This has to change. For all of us.”

“I was glad,” she said again, her voice muffled against his neckcloth. “But I left it all to you to deal with. I did not say anything—at the time, or when everyone was in the drawing room afterward, or when you were leaving. I only begged you to talk to Mama. I was horrified that you were the one being sent away and that Ben was going with you. But I did not say anything. I did not have the c-c-courage.”

“Pippa,” he murmured against the top of her head. “You were fifteen. For God’s sake, you were still just a child. You were absolutely, totally innocent.”

“I never did say anything,” she said. “Not until— Oh, never mind. I never said anything.”

“Until . . . ?” he said. “Tell me. Please tell me, Pippa.”

She tipped back her head to look up at him.