Trusting Miss Trentham

Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

November 11th, 1808

Basingstoke, Hampshire

Icarus woke to the sound of someone moving quietly in his bedchamber. He blinked his eyes open. For several disorienting seconds, he didn’t know where he was. India? Portugal? England?

“Good morning, sir.”

Icarus stared at the young man blankly—and then recognition came. Green. With the recognition came comprehension, and memory. Basingstoke. The Plough.

“Good morning,” Icarus said, and pushed back the bedclothes, feeling dazed and off-balance. Where had Miss Trentham vanished to? Why were the shutters open? Was it actually daylight outside?

He looked around the bedchamber with incredulous disbelief. He’d fallen asleep again? “What time is it?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“Ten?” Icarus felt even more off-balance, even more incredulous.

“Mrs. Reid said to let you sleep, sir.”

Icarus stared around the bedchamber again. There was the brandy, there the vial of dark liquid, there The Odyssey.

“I have hot water, sir. Do you prefer to shave yourself, or would you like me to do it?”

“Uh . . . I’ll shave myself.” Icarus rubbed his face, ran his hands through his hair, shook off the incredulity.

“Very good, sir.”

Half an hour later, washed, shaved, and dressed, Icarus went down to the parlor. Miss Trentham was there, reading. She looked up at his entrance and studied his face. What she saw made her smile. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Icarus eyed her. How in God’s name had she managed to send him to sleep again?

The landlord’s daughter bustled in, carrying two plates. Not sausages this morning, but fried ham. The scent made Icarus’s mouth water.

Miss Trentham was some kind of witch, he decided, as they sat at the table.

“Three eggs today, don’t you think?” Miss Trentham said, unfolding her napkin. “And two slices of ham.”

A bossy, despotic witch.

After breakfast, they went their separate ways, Miss Trentham to buy Eliza a new gown, Icarus to arrange for an outrider to accompany the post-chaise into Wiltshire tomorrow. They met again for a late luncheon, when Miss Trentham forced him to eat rather more than he wished to.

“What I should really like to do this afternoon,” Miss Trentham said, putting her napkin neatly beside her plate, “is go riding. Do you think that’s possible?”

“Very possible.” He examined her face. There was no sign of the blow he’d struck her two nights ago. He felt relief that the injury had been minor—and horror that he’d hit her in the first place.

The Plough had no suitable hacks, but the commercial stables had a neat bay mare that Miss Trentham liked the look of, and several geldings that were up to his weight.

“What do you ride, sir?” the groom asked, sizing him up. “Twelve stone?”

Icarus swallowed the fifteen he’d been about to utter. “Thereabouts.” Twelve stone? Had he really lost that much weight?

They followed the man’s directions, rode south to the downs, and put the horses to a canter. Icarus hadn’t known where he was when he woke this morning, but there was no mistaking where he was now—the gently undulating hills, the neat hedgerows, the plump sheep. It was utterly unlike India. Utterly unlike Portugal.

When they dropped to a walk, Miss Trentham came up alongside him. “May I ask you a question, Mr. Reid?”

Icarus eyed her warily. Was this about his nightmares? Because he was damned if he was going to discuss them with her.

“As a soldier, you’ve killed men, haven’t you?”

Icarus felt himself blink, felt himself stiffen. “In battle, yes.”

“Did it bother you?”

“I didn’t enjoy it, if that’s what you’re asking.” He’d vomited after his first battle. Vomited after his second one, too.

Miss Trentham’s brow creased slightly “And yet you enjoyed soldiering?”

“There’s a lot more to soldiering than killing people,” Icarus told her. Some of his affront leaked into his voice. What did she think he was? A murderer?

“Have you ever tortured anyone, Mr. Reid?”

Icarus rocked back in his saddle. “I beg your pardon?”

“Have you—”

“Of course I haven’t!” The gelding caught his outrage and tossed its head and skittered two steps sideways. Icarus brought the animal under control, and glowered at Miss Trentham.

“Does it happen?”

He opened his mouth to tell her hotly that British soldiers weren’t barbarous savages—and then closed it again. Sometimes, they were.

Miss Trentham watched him steadily.

“I can’t tell you that it never happens in the British Army,” Icarus said, uncomfortably. “One hears rumors from time to time. But I can tell you that I’ve never witnessed anything that could be classed as such.”

Miss Trentham nodded. She was going to ask another question—he could see it on her face—and he knew where that question was leading: Vimeiro.

“Let’s ride,” he said curtly, putting his heels to the gelding’s sides. The animal plunged forward.

Icarus held to a canter for almost a mile. His hot outrage dwindled to mere anger, and then to annoyance and a reluctant acknowledgment that Miss Trentham’s questions had been valid. Any English man or woman had a right to ask them. As a soldier, he’d been answerable to his superior officers. To the king. And to the people of England.

He slowed to a trot, and managed a polite smile. “Ready to turn back?”

Miss Trentham met his gaze squarely. “I apologize if I offended you, Mr. Reid. It was not my intention.”

Icarus drew his horse to a halt. “You did offend me,” he told her. “But you’re not a soldier. You don’t understand soldiering. We’re not blackguards and murderers.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

Icarus looked away from her, and then back again. “There are soldiers who’re little better than criminals,” he admitted. “But I assure you I wasn’t one of them.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Miss Trentham said again.

The last of his annoyance evaporated. Icarus gave a nod.

They trotted leisurely back to Basingstoke and returned the horses. Icarus felt weary, but not exhausted. His legs were barely shaking.

“Spare a penny for an old soldier?” he heard someone say distantly, as he walked across the square with Miss Trentham.

Icarus glanced around. A beggar sat on a bench outside the Hogshead. He had a graying beard, a crutch, and only one leg.

The townsman the beggar had petitioned—stout and self-important, with a beaver hat and a topcoat with three capes—walked past without acknowledging the man.

Icarus halted.

“Spare a penny for an old soldier?” the beggar said again, to a housewife bustling past, who also ignored him.

Icarus dug in his pocket. “Won’t be a minute,” he told Miss Trentham.