Lord Harry's Folly by Catherine Coulter (good romance books to read TXT) 📗

thank you, Miss Worthington. If you would like to go, I shall be happy to ring for John the coachman.”

Miss Worthington felt the familiar naggings of defeat. “No, Hetty, I am quite content to finish my mending.” They sat in silence until the afternoon sun began its descent into the distance. As Miss Worthington rose to light a branch of candles, a knock sounded on the drawing-room door.

Grimpston, the Rolland butler, and in Miss Worthington’s opinion, a man of great efficiency and tact, appeared in the doorway. “Miss Henrietta,” he said and waited. As his mistress did not turn, he cleared his throat to gain her attention.

Finally she looked up. “Yes, Grimpston?”

“There is a person here asking to see Sir Archibald, Miss Hetty.”

“Sir Archibald isn’t here at the moment, as you very well know, Grimpston.”

“I know, Miss, but there’s a man here, a Mr. Pottson. He tells me that he was Master Damien’s batman.”

“His batman?”

Miss Worthington watched her in surprise as Hetty nearly leapt from her chair. “Oh, do have this Mr. Pottson attend me in the back parlor. I shall be there directly.”

He returned to the entrance hall and said to the diminutive gray-haired man who stood still clutching a crumpled wool hat between his hands, “Miss Henrietta Rolland will see you. If you will follow me.”

Pottson was certain that he’d made a mistake in coming when he was ushered into the presence of a tall young lady who stood watching him come toward her, an unreadable expression in her eyes. Drat the butler anyway, he thought. What he had to say was for Master Damien’s father’s ears not for a gentle young lady all draped in black. He found himself gazing at her curiously, for unlike his late master, Miss Henrietta was very fair, with short curling blond hair framing her face. Yet, the eyes were the same a deep blue and wide, set beneath distinctively arched brows. There was a dreaming quality about such eyes, Pottson thought.

“Miss Rolland,” he said, stepping forward, his wool hat still between his hands.

“Yes, I am Henrietta Rolland. Grimpston said you were Damien’s batman.” She moved gracefully forward and clasped the startled Pottson’s hands in hers. The hat fell unnoticed to the floor.

“Yes, ma’am. I had intended to see Sir Archibald, but the butler insisted that I was to see you instead.”

How very like dear Grimpston, Hetty thought, and how very perceptive of him. She drew a deep breath and smiled warmly. “Yes, I’m the one for you to see. Do sit down, Pottson, I believe we have much to discuss.” Hetty didn’t spare a moment’s thought about the pain the batman’s words must inevitably bring her, laying raw her grief. She knew only that she had to know what had happened to Damien during those long months after he’d suddenly left London.

Pottson eased his small person to the edge of a chair. Saying what he had come to say would have been bad enough with Sir Archibald. But Master Damien’s younger sister. Damnation, scratching old wounds, that was all he was doing. It was that thought that had kept him away these summer months since Master Damien’s death.

“I only came because of the letter!”

“What is this about a letter? What letter are you talking about, Pottson?”

“You see, ma’am, me and Master Damien were together for nine months, traveling from Spain to Italy, carrying dispatches to and from the generals and such as that. Master Damien was always a right proper gentleman, ma’am, yet never too starchy in the collar, if you know what I mean. I quite liked him. He was greatly respected by the men, made them laugh, he did, and he was trusted by the generals. General Brooks always asked for Master Damien, always.”

Hetty swallowed the lump in her throat. Now wasn’t the time. What letter was he talking about? She was content to wait.

“Always ready for a good joke was Master Damien, never seeming to worry much about what the next day would bring. Several of those dispatches he carried, well, I can tell you, ma’am, they weren’t about the weather. I thought a lot of him, I did.”

“Yes, Pottson?”

“Well, ma’am, sometimes it seemed to me that all wasn’t right with Master Damien. Just when I’d expect him to be charting the route for some important document he had to deliver, I’d find him instead sitting alone in his room, not even a candle lit, brooding-like, you know. I didn’t mean to be forward or anything, ma’am, but I’d ask him if there was anything bothering him. He’d just smile at me, a kind of sad smile. And he’d say it wasn’t anything to bother me with, naught of anything really, he’d say, and I knew it was just to protect me, to make me go away and leave him to his thoughts.

“Just before Waterloo, back in the early days of June, he got his orders to attend the Prince of Orange in Brussels, a safe spot, I told him, seeing as how we all knew it was coming to a bloody battle and all. Next thing I knew, he was assigned under a General Drakeson, a very different kettle of fish, I remember him telling me, a man on the prince’s staff, a gentleman with spiky side whiskers and a back so stiff he couldn’t bend, I was sure of it. I was with Master Damien when he got orders to lead a frontal cavalry charge, right in the thick of the fighting. He wouldn’t let me come with him, ma’am, just patted me on the shoulder, that sad smile on his face. I’ll never forget what he said. ‘Well, Pottson, I must believe that my charmed existence is about to come to an end. It looks, old fellow, as if I’m to be the sacrificial goat.’ That’s all he said, ma’am. I never saw him again, ma’am.”

Pottson saw that the young lady’s face was as white as her gown was black. Her hands were trembling in