Page 74 of The Forbidden Love of an Officer
Ellen opened her eyes, looking at her image in the mirror. Her hair was curled, with ringlets slipping across her shoulders and pinned high, as though she were going to a ball.
Megan did not smile. Nor did Ellen.
As she walked downstairs, her heart pounding like a thumping hammer, Ellen’s thoughts raced through the options she had now. She could open the door and run – but she had seen the injured soldiers, on crutches, begging in the streets; if no one helped them, who would help her? She could stay, simply let this happen, and in her mind pretend it was not, biding her time – then one day, surely, she would meet one of the women she had known in Brussels and ask for help. She could also write to her father…
She had written before…
Her feet stilled on the step of the stairs. She had placed the letters to her father and Paul’s in the hand of the lieutenant colonel’s servant. Were they ever sent?
Cold fear held her shoulders as she walked down the last few steps, her feet heavy and hesitant. The footman who stood beside the dining-room door opened it for her to pass through.
Lieutenant Colonel Hillier stood up as she entered, looking at her, though he had enough self-recrimination to be unable to look her in the eyes. Her back straightened, and her chin tilted upwards, she would not be cowed. If she had to remain here for now, she would not allow him to control her head or her heart – even though she knew he would invade her body again.
She looked at him, directly. Accusing him. Anger flooding her. She hated him, she wished to scream at him, and hit him, claw and scratch.
‘Come, sit beside me, Ellen.’ His tone sought to charm as he withdrew the chair.
Ellen could not move her feet; the floor had become thick mud.
He beckoned her with his fingers. ‘Come, no need to be hesitant.’
The muscles in her jaw tightened with anger. There was every reason to be hesitant.
‘I have a gift for you.’ He lifted a small square box from the table.
He had still not looked into her eyes, when every other time, it was all he did. His skin was flushed red, she hoped with embarrassment. She knew she had not blushed, she refused to feel embarrassed when it was him at fault.
‘I am sorry, Ellen. If I upset you, I did not intend to. But I have been very patient. Come and sit.’ His voice changed in depth and strength at the last.
When he said the word sorry he had sounded remorseful, then his pitch had slipped into an order.
He had never intended kindness when he took her from the place she and Paul had called home in Brussels, he had only ever intended this, and slowly, carefully, slyly, he had closed a prison door on her. There would be no escape unless she found someone to help her.
She sat down. Her hand rested on her bump, the child reminding her she had a reason to stay alive – even if it meant enduring this.
‘Wine?’ He beckoned a footman forward.
Ellen lifted a hand. ‘None for me, thank you,’ she told the footman. Then she told the lieutenant colonel, ‘It only makes my morning sickness worse.’ She wanted him to remember she was with child. She wanted his guilt to grow and cut deep.
He reached across and lay the box he held before her. ‘It is a little present to say thank you. Open it and let us be happy again.’
The box was made from a black wood, inlaid with a pattern of pale roses, probably made from rosewood. Ellen lifted the lid. There was a little slip of parchment there. He had written upon it,To my love.
A shiver tore through Ellen.
Those words had been precious to her when Paul spoke them.
His hand touched her forearm. Ellen jumped. ‘Take a look.’
She lifted the parchment, wanting to crush it in her fingers and throw it in the flames of the fire.
Beneath, a little brooch, a blue enamel bird, lay on a bed of blue velvet.
Lieutenant Colonel Hillier stood. ‘I thought of your eyes. Let me put it on for you.’
She stood too; she could not bear for him to lean over her.
He picked up the brooch and to her horror slipped one hand into her bodice. ‘I would not wish to mark your beautiful skin, Ellen. I will prick my fingers, not your skin, if I am not cautious with the pin.’
