Captain of Her Heart: Captain of Her HeartA Father's Sins Read online

  A Dream Lost…and One Found

  With her family’s fortune in ruins, Harriet Handley has given up her aspirations of becoming an author. All effort must go to helping her pretty sister Sophie marry well. But when Sophie’s wealthy beau returns from the war, he is no longer a wild, lighthearted youth. And while Sophie is dismayed by the transformation, Harriet finds this thoughtful, war-weary man utterly intriguing.…

  Waterloo left Captain John Brookes scarred in body and mind, and Sophie’s lukewarm reception only adds to his pain. In contrast, Harriet’s compassion and gentle faith bring solace as they collaborate on his memoirs. Perhaps joyful new memories can be made—if the wrong sister turns out to be the right wife.A Dream Lost…and One Found

  With her family’s fortune in ruins, Harriet Handley has given up her aspirations of becoming an author. All effort must go to helping her pretty sister Sophie marry well. But when Sophie’s wealthy beau returns from the war, he is no longer a wild, lighthearted youth. And while Sophie is dismayed by the transformation, Harriet finds this thoughtful, war-weary man utterly intriguing.…

  Waterloo left Captain John Brookes scarred in body and mind, and Sophie’s lukewarm reception only adds to his pain. In contrast, Harriet’s compassion and gentle faith bring solace as they collaborate on his memoirs. Perhaps joyful new memories can be made—if the wrong sister turns out to be the right wife.

  Harriet bounced from one bookshelf

  to the next, exclaiming in delight.

  “What do you like to read, Harriet?” Brookes asked.

  “Classics—like the fall of Troy in Homer’s work. It’s so heroic and romantic.”

  Brookes gazed deeply into her dark eyes. “Not all wars are heroic or romantic.”

  She colored under his gaze, staring at the floor. “I suppose that’s true.”

  He had gone too far, lecturing like a stern schoolmaster. “I’m sorry.” He studied her a bit longer, mesmerized by the pretty flush warming her cheeks. He attempted a lighter tone. “After being in battle, one realizes there is very little romance in war.”

  She looked up at him. “Someone should write a realistic novel about war.”

  Drowning in those eyes, he had to tear himself away. “I doubt anyone would read it.” He cast a rueful grin her way.

  After Harriet was gone, Brookes stood at the window. He was not easily flustered by anything, especially a pretty face. Rarely did anyone cause him to change his purpose or his mind.

  But what if he had chosen the wrong sister?

  LILY GEORGE

  Growing up in a small town in Texas, Lily George spent her summers devouring the books in her mother’s Christian bookstore. She still counts Grace Livingston Hill, Janette Oke and L. M. Montgomery among her favorite authors. Lily has a BA in history from Southwestern University and uses her training as a historian to research her historical inspirational romance novels. She has published one nonfiction book and produced one documentary, and is in production on a second film; all of these projects reflect her love for old movies and jazz and blues music. Lily lives in the Dallas area with her husband, daughter and menagerie of animals.

  Lily George

  Captain of Her Heart

  Dear Reader,

  In 2012, Love Inspired Books is proudly celebrating fifteen years of heartwarming inspirational romance! Love Inspired launched in September 1997 and successfully brought inspiration to series romance. From heartwarming contemporary romance to heart-stopping romantic suspense to adventurous historical romance, Love Inspired Books offers a variety of inspirational stories for every preference. And we deliver uplifting, wholesome and emotional romances that every generation can enjoy.

  We’re marking our fifteenth anniversary with a special theme month in Love Inspired Historical: Family Ties. Whether ready-made families or families in the making, these touching stories celebrate the ties that bind and prove why family matters. Because sometimes it takes a family to open one’s heart to the possibility of love. With wonderful stories by favorite authors Linda Ford and Ruth Axtell Morren, an exciting new miniseries from Regina Scott and a tender tale by debut author Lily George, this month full of family-themed reads will warm your heart.

  I hope you enjoy each and every story—and then come back next month for more of the most powerful, engaging stories of romance, adventure and faith set in times past. From rugged handsome cowboys of the West to proper English gentlemen in Regency England, let Love Inspired Historical sweep you away to a place where love is timeless.

  Sincerely,

  Tina James

  Senior Editor

  I’d like to thank my wonderful agent,

  Mary Sue Seymour, who talked me down

  off the proverbial ledge when all hope failed me.

  To my critique group, who kindly and patiently pointed out my many writing foibles and helped me to become a stronger writer in the process.

  To Melissa Endlich, my editor,

  who brought me so much joy and hope.

  To my pastor, who encouraged my writing, and never forgot to check my progress every Sunday.

  To my husband, who made sure I had time to write and always encouraged me.

  To my daughter, who is the reason I chose to write inspirational books.

  * * *

  I can do all things through Christ

  who strengthens me.

  —Philippians 4:13

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Dear Reader

  Questions for Discussion

  Chapter One

  Tansley Cottage

  Tansley Village, Derbyshire

  July 1816—the year without summer

  “What does the letter say, Mama?” Harriet ducked as her mother cast the missive aside, scattering sheets of paper around her bedroom. Alarm bells clanged in Harriet’s mind. If it were good news, Mama wouldn’t carry on so. Harriet gathered the foolscap sheets into a bundle, scrutinizing the bold handwriting scrawled across each page.

  “They refuse to help us. Your father’s own family. And what are we to do? What is left to us? I vow I am a prisoner in this dreadful cottage.” Mama burst into angry tears.

  How many times had Mama cried over the past year since Papa died? Harriet had long ago lost count. Their lives had gone from easy pleasantness to perpetual sorrow in just a few short mon
ths. Now—well, they had all poured their last hopes into assistance from Papa’s family, and Mama’s hysteria was frightening. ’Twas time to grasp control of the situation, and steady her mother’s nerves.

  With the expert precision borne of months of practice, Harriet flicked open the bottle of smelling salts on Mama’s bedside table. The acrid smell filled the little chamber, causing her eyes and nose to burn.

  “Here, Mama,” Harriet murmured gently, trying to hold the vial under her nose. But Mama knocked it aside with a brusque gesture. Goodness, was it broken? Harriet scrambled after the bottle. No, but it had spilled. That was a waste they couldn’t afford. Harriet sponged the solution with her handkerchief, wringing the cloth against the lip of the jar. She had to salvage as much of it as she could.

  “Rose,” she called to the family’s faithful remaining servant, “could you please bring Mama some chamomile tea?” Sometimes the chamomile worked when the smelling salts didn’t.

  “Of course, dearie,” Rose called back, banging the kettle in the kitchen below.

  “Mama.” Harriet placed the bottle back on the dressing table and sank onto the foot of her mother’s creaky mahogany bed. “Even if the Handleys won’t help us, I know Captain Brookes will. You know he has inherited the estate after his brother’s death. He’s a wealthy man now, and when Sophie marries him, I am sure he will see to our welfare.”

  “This whole situation is absurd.” Mama lay back on her pillows, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I am Lady Handley, after all. I am no longer Cecile Varnay. I should need no one’s assistance. I should have to depend on no one’s sense of duty. Your father was wealthy beyond measure.”

  “Papa died bankrupt.” The harsh words fell before Harriet thought them through, and she scrambled to lighten her tone. “Thanks to his vast library, I am an educated woman. But you know as well as I do, Mama, that we spent it all. On books or on jewels, it makes no difference now.”

  Mama turned on her side, away from Harriet. A brief knock on the door announced Rose’s arrival with the tea tray.

  “Here you go, my lady.”

  “I don’t want it. Take it away.” Mama buried her face in a lumpy pillow.

  Harriet sighed. Usually the smelling salts or the chamomile tea did the trick, but this hysteria wouldn’t back down. There was one last resort. She shrank from using it, because it cost so much, but there was nothing else that could be done. “Rose, if you please, go fetch Dr. Wallace. He can be here quickly if he’s not out on another call.”

  “That’s a good idea, dearie.” Rose patted Harriet’s shoulder and ran downstairs.

  The floorboards squeaked in protest as Harriet paced the length of Mama’s bedroom, seeking the solution to their problems. Mama’s sobs had eased until she fell asleep, and that suited Harriet just fine. As she slept, Harriet racked her brain for a way out of their situation. They had to have money. Some other means of security than her sister’s possible marriage. All of their possessions were gone. What was left? Harriet’s head began to pound. There had to be a way they could survive. Harriet caught a glimpse of her reflection in the cracked mirror over Mama’s vanity. Her face, drawn and pale, contrasted sharply with her eyes, which had darkened to an inky blue. Distracted, she tried to tuck a few of her dark brown locks back into their pins. She looked as disastrous as the situation she now faced.

  A commotion sounded in the front entry. Relief washed over Harriet as she recognized a gruff, masculine voice that must belong to Dr. Wallace. She hurried down the stairs to meet him.

  He strode into the tiny vestibule, dumping his black leather bag on the rickety bench at the foot of the stairs. Harriet steadied the bench and glanced at his wrinkled but kindly visage. “Oh, Doctor, thank you for coming. We don’t know what to do with my mother—she took ill and finally cried herself to sleep.”

  He didn’t spare her a glance, or any common courtesies. “Well, I’ll have to awaken her to do a proper examination. What caused this outburst of hysteria?” he grumbled as he dug through his case, bringing forth a small vial.

  “She received a letter that made her most upset.” Hopefully that was enough explanation to satisfy him. She refrained from revealing the entire sordid tale.

  With a curt nod, he hurried up the stairs.

  Rose embraced Harriet, holding her as tenderly as a mother. “Come into the kitchen, dearie. We’ll have a nice cup of tea.” Drinking in Rose’s steadfast strength, Harriet leaned on her, allowing the old servant to lead her away.

  After an agonizing half hour, Dr. Wallace entered the kitchen, wiping his hands on his handkerchief. Harriet leaped from her chair. “Is…is she all right?”

  He leaned against the doorframe and gave her a curt nod. “Sit down, Miss Handley. You look a bit peaked yourself.”

  Harriet complied, but grasped her teacup, hoping the movement would steady her hands.

  The doctor peered at her from under his grizzled eyebrows. “I’ll come straight to the point. Your mother is suffering from a bout of nervous hysteria.” A deep frown creased the corners of his mouth. “Rest is the best thing for her at the moment. I’ve given her laudanum and I want you to administer more whenever the hysteria returns.”

  “Yes, Dr. Wallace. Is there anything else I can do?”

  “If there could be a change in your mother’s situation, it would be best. Something more like the style of living she knew. Are there any relatives who would take her in?” He folded his handkerchief and stuffed it back into his pocket.

  “None that speak to us, sir.”

  The doctor was already turning to leave. “Too bad. It’s her best chance. Work on that, my girl. And keep giving her the laudanum.” He wagged a warning finger at her.

  Harriet swallowed. She must improve Mama’s situation. The Handleys wouldn’t lift a hand to help, so ’twas up to her to make things right. Squaring her shoulders, she pronounced, “I shall persevere, Dr. Wallace.”

  Rose pushed Harriet out the door. “Go for a breath of fresh air, dearie. The doctor was right—you do look peaked. Ramble over to the millpond and back, there’s a good girl.”

  She breathed deeply of the damp afternoon grasses, which smelled sweet as they dried in the pale afternoon sun. She meandered up the hill toward the pond, a large, flat oval that glinted in the sunshine. The moor grass tugged at her skirts, catching her hem, slowing her progress. Gazing out over the scrubby trees, Harriet paused for a moment, bowing her head in prayer.

  Dear Father, please show me the way. I don’t know what to do. Help me find the answers.

  As a woman, her options were limited, but still, there had to be a way she could prevail. At one time, she thought she would become an authoress, but that idea died along with her father. He encouraged her writing, but Mama called it a dreadful waste of time. Could some sort of position be the answer to her prayers?

  The bright jingle of a bridle pierced her reverie as a horse and rider approached. Harriet glanced over at the pair, as they crossed the field by the millpond, the black horse stamping easily through the tall grass. She frowned, her mind fixated upon her troubles. She was in no mood for politesse.

  But wait—that man was familiar. He wore an army uniform with the same careless assurance that a dandy might wear an outrageous cravat. Her pulse skittered. Something was not right about his leg, though. His muscles didn’t flex with the movements of his mount, yet his hands grasped the reins easily, as though he were born to the saddle.

  She smoothed her hands over her wrinkled attire. Why hadn’t she put on something more attractive than her lavender gown? Too many washdays had left the once-pretty dress worn and limp with age. She was perfectly attired for housekeeping, not for social graces.

  The soldier reined in the horse and gazed down at her, a brief smile touching his lips. A faint scar zigzagged across his chin. She was gaw
ping at his handsome yet rugged visage. Where were her manners? She shut her mouth with a snap.

  Dismounting with care, he limped toward her, extending one gloved hand. “Miss Handley?”

  “Sir?” Harriet bobbed a quick curtsy as she clasped his hand. Who was he?

  “Don’t you remember me? I am Captain Brookes.”

  “Oh!” Harriet gasped. Where was the dashing young lad who swept Sophie off her feet? Standing before her was a square-jawed man with a somber expression in his gray-green eyes. He had little in common with the wild youth she remembered. She picked up the pieces of her shattered composure. “I am so happy to see you home safe, Captain. My family will want to see you again. Have you been home long?”

  “I settled in Tansley yesterday. I am home to set up house in Brookes Park and to clear up my brother’s business affairs, but I haven’t yet had time to make social calls.”

  “We were very sorry to hear of his passing, Captain.” She dropped her gaze, staring in fascination at the burrs clinging to her skirt.

  “Thank you.” He offered his arm, and she allowed him to guide her back down the hill toward the cottage. He tucked the reins into his other hand, leading his black mount along beside them. Harriet slowed her steps to match his pace. Was he always this tall? Her head didn’t even reach his shoulder. And his shoulders—were they always so broad? Being in the army made a boy into a man.

  His touch burned through her sleeve. She needed a distraction, anything to curb her reactions to his presence and his touch. She cleared her throat. “I’m sure you saw a lot of Belgium, sir, what did you think of the country?”

  “Not too much, I confess. Most of it was spent on horseback or slogging through the rain and mud. I spent some time at a home in Brussels.”

  “Brussels? The dispatches never mentioned that. I thought you remained at Waterloo.”

  “No, the surrounding villages were too crowded to contain all of the wounded, you know. The townspeople collected many of us who were injured.” His eyes darkened to gray, and his lips stretched into a taut line.

 
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