"Real love is always chaotic.You lose control; you lose perspective. You lose the ability to protect yourself. The greater the love, the greater the chaos. It's a given and that's the secret." Jonathan Carroll, White Apples

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Chapter Twelve

“Is it really possible for one person to this happy?” whispered Alexandra gleefully.

Alexandra had stolen into Imogen’s bedroom after the family had retired, as she so often did, but this time under happier circumstances.

At the conclusion of the evening, Imogen could not bear to stand any longer. Just as soon as their guests had taken their leave, she had collapsed in a nearby chaise. Her good brother had carried her upstairs, as he had done so often in her adolescence.

The sisters were cuddled together underneath the duvet. Alexandra’s elated expression was very evident in the flickering candlelight.

“Indeed, so it seems,” Imogen said lethargically, though smiling. She was very happy for her sister. “Did he make you an offer?” she asked curiously. Toward the end of the evening, she did see Joaquín subtly steal away with Alexandra for a brief moment. Had Imogen had the energy, she would have followed them to act as her sister’s chaperone, but alas, her wearied legs would not allow it.

Alexandra’s smile lessened. “No … not exactly. He merely told me that he was very pleased that I was unattached and he looked forward to becoming better acquainted with me.”

“Well, that is good, is it not?” Imogen said encouragingly. She had not expected Joaquín to propose immediately. After all, they did not know each other that well. The attraction was there, now they needed to talk, to decide if a marriage was what they both desired. “If a man wants to know your mind, Allie, then he has a true heart. How many gentlemen have we met that have merely seen Papa’s bankbook when noticing us in a ballroom?”

Alexandra smiled and nodded. “Of course, you are right. You always see sense, Imogen.” Alexandra began to chew on her lip nervously. “But what if he does not like my mind? He desires a queen, does he not? What if he does not see those qualities in me? What do I know about being royal?”

Imogen could see the worry and stress in her sister. “Allie,” Imogen said firmly, “what you forget is that this is an opportunity to know Joaquín better for yourself. You are under no obligation to accept him. You might find that he is not the man for you after all this. He is handsome, to be sure, but will he make you a fine husband? You must endeavour to answer these questions before any talk of an engagement. He does desire a queen. He requires a queen. You must also decide whether or not that life will suit you.” Imogen would not pretend that Alexandra accepting Joaquín, that her leaving England for Spain, would sadden her greatly. Alexandra was her twin, and they had not been far from each other since birth.

Alexandra rolled on to her back and sighed. “He would make any lady a fine husband, Imogen, of that I am sure. But I will, as you say, endeavour to know him. I shall not make any hasty decisions, I promise you. I will be sensible, as you are.”

“Good,” replied Imogen.

Alexandra turned her head on the pillow to look at Imogen. “What were you and Colonel Spencer discussing so intimately in the corner? It did not escape my notice. He pays you particular attention. I did notice this.”

Imogen merely shook her head, tangling her hair on the pillow beneath her. “He feels sorry for me, Allie,” she explained. “He wanted to help me, and he has. He is kind.”

“No, no,” replied Alexandra, “I do not believe that. The Colonel’s eyes seem to find you when you are parted in a room, they follow you, as an admirer’s would.”

Could it be that Colonel Spencer had some sort of affection for her? Imogen could not fathom why. What sane man would want to attach himself to her? Perhaps the poor Colonel thought that the only woman that he could attract was a woman with no prospects other than a handsome dowry.

Imogen did not know whether or not to be angry at the thought, or saddened by Simon’s lack of confidence.

But she was getting stronger, thanks to Simon. Soon she would be able to properly fill out a dance card, she hoped. She could now manage to stand for extended periods of time and walking was not so strenuous. While she would not grow any taller than her pixie-like height, Imogen hoped that she would be considered amiable.  

“Perhaps the Colonel believes that I am all he can achieve in a match,” mumbled Imogen.

Much to her surprise, Alexandra slapped her arm over the top of the duvet. “Hold your tongue,” she snapped angrily. “I think the Colonel has fine taste. Do not prove me wrong with such nonsense assumptions.”

Imogen was so used to consoling and counselling Alexandra that it was a refreshing change to have her sister talk sense. But if Alexandra was right, did that mean that … “The Colonel fancies me?”

“So it seems,” Alexandra said with a wry smile. “What are your thoughts on the subject?”

“I … I do not know,” replied Imogen honestly. Imogen rarely thought of the prospect of a husband for herself. The idea had been ludicrous for a long time. But now, with the Colonel? She was unsure.

Simon had trusted her with such personal and private information. Could this have been a display of his affection for her? Had informing her of his wife and Harry’s existence been Simon’s way of testing her, to see if she could handle his past?

“What? What are you thinking?” asked Alexandra.

“Colonel Spencer trusted me with some information this evening,” replied Imogen quietly, “information that I am sure that he would not share if he did not trust me with it.”

“What information?” pressed Alexandra.

“Allie, do not pry,” scolded Imogen, “for I cannot tell. Should he ever give me permission, then you shall be the first to know, I promise.”

“Of course,” said Alexandra in an understanding tone. “But if he chose to share such information with you, then he must hold you in high regard.”

After hearing the information, Imogen held Simon in high regard. It took a man of impeccable character to take in the illegitimate child of a man’s wife. Simon had to be an extraordinarily decent man to see Harry as a baby, and not as a bastard.

“Let me say that Colonel Spencer has been through much more than war, Allie,” said Imogen are a moment of silence. The poor man had been through more than any gentleman in Imogen’s acquaintance. War, death, injury, pain, betrayal, and now a surrogate son.

Simon stood in front of the little Somerset cottage, as nervous as a schoolboy as he approached the Headmaster’s office. He straightened his red coat and ensured that the bandage on his face was properly covering the still gruesome wound he sported.

Simon could now see through both eyes properly, though the wound made blinking and moving very painful, so he refrained from it.

Simon had been released from the hospital a week ago, and he had been given some leave to spent time with his family and to convalesce. He had no desire to travel to Derbyshire to burden his brother. He had but one mission before he returned to his regiment. He needed to speak to the widow of the man who had shot him, the man whose blood was on Simon’s hands.

That was what had brought him to Somerset. He had tracked down Mrs Hepburn. He needed her forgiveness.

Simon opened the little gate that led into her quaint garden. The flowers and shrubs were pruned neatly and were all giving off pleasant perfumes. When he reached the door, he knocked twice.

A minute later, the wooden door opened. Before him stood a woman of about thirty years. She had dark brown hair that was tucked underneath a white cap. She wore a black cotton gown and a patched apron. Mrs Hepburn’s face appeared frightened as she stared at Simon’s uniform. Her brown eyes were watching him carefully.

“Yes?” she said softly.

“Mrs Hepburn?” Simon checked.

Mrs Hepburn nodded.

“I am Lieutenant-Colonel Simon Spencer,” he introduced himself. “Your husband was one of my officers.”

Mrs Hepburn motioned towards Simon’s bandage. “Did he do that to you?” she asked. “They told me he …” She could not finish the sentence. She merely stifled a sob and opened the door wider, allowing Simon entry into her home.

Simon took a deep breath and crossed the threshold. Inside, the cottage was small. He was standing in the sitting room, a room that was being kept warm by a crackling fire. Behind the sitting room was a little kitchen with a stove and a kitchen table. Off to the right were two doors. Simon guessed that they were bedrooms.

There were three laundry baskets on the settee, filled with clothing, far too many for just Mrs Hepburn alone. Simon presumed that she was doing laundry for others for money.

“Would you like some tea?” asked Mrs Hepburn.

“Please,” said Simon, nodding.

She retreated to the kitchen and took her kettle from the stove. There was steam coming from the spout so it was boiled. She fetched a teapot and cups from a cupboard and collected tea leaves from a tin.

A cradle caught Simon’s eye. A small, wooden cradle was sitting near the fire place. There was a child. Simon’s ignorance had left that poor child fatherless. He cursed himself. If only he had been paying attention, if only he had seen it sooner.

Simon took a few steps towards the cradle and peered inside. A baby, dressed all in white, was sleeping. It was not newborn, but it was still an infant. The child had a mass of dark hair and lovely, long eyelashes. It was very sweet looking.

Mrs Hepburn nervously set the tea tray down on the kitchen table. Simon could see that she was shaking. What did she have to be nervous about? Could she not see Simon’s guilt?

Simon left the cradle and went to take a seat at the table. Mrs Hepburn clumsily poured him a cup, spilling some through shaking. He gratefully accepted the cup and took a small sip.

“Mrs Hepburn –” Simon began, but he was interrupted.

“Sir, I do not have any money to give you!” Mrs Hepburn exclaimed, her sudden outburst startled the sleeping baby and it began to cry. She immediately went to her baby and lifted it out of the cradle.

“Money?” repeated Simon.

“I have no money for you,” Mrs Hepburn said as she soothingly rocked her child. “That is what you are here for, is it not? Compensation.”

Simon nearly choked on his tea. “Compensation?” he repeated. “Mrs Hepburn, you are mistaken.”

Mrs Hepburn did not seem to hear him. “They refuse to give me a pension!” she continued. “Because of what George did to you, they do not consider me a war widow. I am ineligible for a pension. We have to fend for ourselves. My only source of income is my neighbours’ laundry!” She nodded towards the clothing in the baskets. “I have no family to help me, no husband. Hannah and I are on our own!”

Simon’s nerves evaporated. He could help this woman. He could earn her forgiveness through helping her. “Mrs Hepburn, calm down. I do not want compensation from you. I wish to help you. I wish to help you and Hannah.”

Simon’s eyes opened and his dream ended. That dream did not startle him as much as the others did. He felt good about what he was going for George Hepburn’s widow, and his now five year old daughter, Hannah.

Helping them was the only solace he felt when he thought about what his neglect had done to them. Mrs Hepburn had repeatedly told Simon that she did not blame him, and that she was sorry for what her husband had done. While Simon appreciated her forgiveness, he still could not banish the guilt.

Simon sent Mrs Hepburn the equivalent of a war widow’s pension out of his own pocket. He frequently received letters from Mrs Hepburn, telling him just what she was doing with the money and how Hannah was growing. He knew that she felt guilty for taking the money and felt it necessary that he knew that she was not wasting it. He was glad that he could help.

“Are you awake, Uncle Simon?” cried Simone from behind his bedroom door. Subsequently, there was a loud knock.

“Yes,” he called back.

His bedroom door opened and his niece and nephew ran inside, still wearing their night things. James and Simone climbed onto his bed and sat before him.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully to the children before him. Having his niece and nephew around made him feel as though he was missing out on being a parent. He was Harry’s father, and he was the closest thing to a father that Hannah would have unless her mother remarried. He knew that merely sending money did not make him a father but he did want to try … one day.

“Mama says we are all going on a horse rise and picnic today,” James said excitedly. “We are to show you and our Spanish guests the peaks!”

All included the Ascot clan, did it? He had to admit that he enjoyed that idea. He wanted to spend more time with Imogen. She was unlike any woman that he had ever encountered. She had kept a cool head when he had revealed such damaging secrets about himself. She was extraordinary.

“I look forward to it,” Simon said sincerely.

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Well, it's 1:48am, so it's technically Tuesday, but I started writing this on Monday so I did my best! 

I'm back at uni as of today :( Had an hour lecture today in research methods. Most mind-numblingly boring subject. Though the lecturer had a really cute Afrikaans accent :)

I went to the netball on the weekend :) My Vixens vs the Adelaide Thunderbirds. Vixens won!! The video on the side is the highlights. I have people asking me all the time what netball is - well that's what it is. It's a sport that will destroy your knees and ankles but it's the best fun! 

Good news though! Both of my netball teams are on the top of the ladder in their sections!! Woo Hoo!!! So proud of my girls! My younger girls are on top of the ladder by 300%! Their percentage is 400 and something and 2nd place is 100 and something. I'm bragging, I know, but I'm going to get them to the grand final if its the last thing I do!! I'll keep you updated!!! 

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