Page 99 of Miss Vincent’s Vow

The poor fellow looked shattered, and though they had never seen eye to eye, Jethro was filled with compassion and extended his arm toward him.

The man wriggled in his seat.

“No, don’t get up,” Jethro said, moving closer. “I can come to you.”

The captain stared at his outstretched hand. “I owe you an apology—”

“All is forgiven,” Jethro said.

Alexander gave a curt nod. “Good of you,” he mumbled as he shook his hand. Jethro was shocked at the feebleness of his grip.

“I see your journey has exhausted you. There is no need for you to change your dress, but if you’ll excuse us—”

“Perhaps we should all dine as we are, so Xander doesn’t feel out of place,” said Cassandra.

Jethro agreed, but he’d grown accustomed to changing his clothes for dinner, and it niggled him to have his routine disrupted.

He was further put out when Cassandra offered her support to Alexander rather than taking his arm, as was their custom.

Jethro had to suppress his jealous desire for his wife’s attention, reminding himself that the captain was her brother, and he deserved her consideration and her care. Alexander had served his country, which was more than he’d ever done.

It was Jethro’s own fault if he felt neglected. He had said Alexander could come, and then he’d left Cassandra to it. He’d used Mr Wade’s visit as an excuse to throw himself back into his business.

Anything rather than face his fear that Alexander would come between him and Cassandra. A fear that now seemed justified.

At the dinner table, the captain sat in silence, brooding, there in body, but not in spirit, pushing his food around his plate and draining his wineglass, as often as it was refilled.

The concern on his wife’s face pulled on his heartstrings. Jethro wished he could save her from the anguish of seeing her brother like this. He had been prepared to find him surly and uncooperative, but this listlessness was even more difficult to contend with.

Cassandra tried to engage Alexander in conversation, but when he replied with a grunt for the third time, she glanced at Jethro in despair.

To help his wife, he would try, and when she rose to withdraw from the table, though he yearned to leave with her, he resumed his seat and bid the butler pour the captain some brandy.

“How did it happen?”

Alexander lifted his eyes for a moment and then let them fall back to contemplating his drink. The brandy seemed to have loosened his tongue.

“Cannon ball. Shattered the base of the mast and sent debris flying everywhere. Taverner was dead within minutes, as were two or three others. It should have been me.”

“But you were victorious?”

Alexander heaved a long sigh. “If you can call it that. Is it truly a victory when such a large number of good men fell achieving it? This war has warped all our minds into thinking that beating Boney is all that matters. Try telling that to the mothers and wives and sweethearts who will never see their menfolk again.”

“Have you seen a surgeon?”

“Too many. The first wanted to chop my leg off, but fortunately I was conscious enough to stop him. Wonder whether I would have been better off without it, though I’ve heard some men still feel the pain, even when—”

He broke off, choking on his words, as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Jethro didn’t know how to respond. Alexander had wailed over Eugenia’s desertion, but this was different. These were sobs of brokenness. Of despair.

“I’m sorry.” It seemed so inadequate, but what more could he say?

Alexander lapsed into silence again, sipping his brandy, lost in his thoughts.

“You look weary. Shall I ring for your man?”

The captain raised blank eyes to him. “Cottman? He’s dead.”