Lily George by Healing the Soldier's Heart Page B

of hers.
    He hastened his steps, fear melting away as he imagined her quick, slanted gaze, the freckles dusting the tip of her nose. It would be nice to have something good to tell her. To show her that he was becoming more of a man.
    And there was Bennett Street. The Assembly Rooms loomed ahead, gracious and aloof. And there, with a handsome wooden sign bolted sturdily to a pole, was Felton’s shop.
    He poked his head in the door, breathing deeply of the fresh, exhilarating scent of newly shaved wood. He stepped inside, his boots scratching against the sawdust that littered the floor. The shop was strangely hushed, as though not a living soul were present. James scanned the room with a nervous eye. What if they were all gone? He needed to speak with Felton now. He needed to go through with the matter now that he’d finally screwed his courage to the sticking-place.
    He scuffed his boots across the floor. The sound echoed through the building. He strained his ears to hear any scrap of sound. And then he caught the faintest tsk-tsk-tsk of metal scraping against wood and strode toward the sound.
    A tall, graying man was bent over a workbench, using a chisel of sorts to carve an intricate scroll onto a piece of fine, unblemished mahogany. Without thinking, James let out a cheerful whistle of appreciation. Startled, the man dropped his chisel and turned an affronted gaze toward Rowland.
    “Well then, who might you be?” He challenged, a glint of either mirth or annoyance in his faded blue eyes.
    ’Twas now or never. “Rowland. I—I—I’m a veteran. Cantrill sent me here to see about a position.”

Chapter Six
    ’T was Thursday, so the veterans would surely be gathering at Saint Swithin’s for their weekly meeting. Lucy hastened her steps. She must find the ensign alone, before the large crowd of men began clustering into the vestibule of the chapel. If she were to have any hope of convincing him to see Dr. Phillips, she would have to make her argument to him when they were alone. His pride would make it impossible for her to convince him around his brothers in arms, even though they—if they had any sense at all—would agree with her.
    The bells tolled the hour as she trotted up the interminable steps. She flicked a glance around the courtyard, seeking out the willow tree they’d sat under when she read to him before. He was not waiting. Oh, well. The weather wasn’t especially fine today. ’Twas humid with only the occasional fitful breeze. Perhaps Rowland was inside, waiting with Cantrill.
    She paused at the top of the steps, panting. Goodness, she was always arriving to meet Rowland with a flushed face and bated breath. He must think her a very curious sort of person, always rushing about. Funny, she wasn’t like this with anyone else. She was always cautious and deliberate in her dealings with her charges and the household staff. What was it about Ensign Rowland that made her scurry about, like a mouse after a delicious morsel of cheese?
    She wrenched open the door and was confronted with a roiling mass of humanity—men, some wounded and some whole, talked in small groups, while women, old and young alike, stood slightly apart. Children darted in and out of the pews, playing hide-and-seek. But nowhere in this throng did she spy the man she sought. She stood on tiptoe, straining her gaze past a cluster of men who were talking in measured tones amongst themselves. But nowhere was a lanky young man—easily a foot taller than these others. Not that she noticed his great height. Well, not especially.
    “Looking for someone?” A pleasant voice rumbled behind her. Lucy started and turned around, heat rushing to her cheeks at being caught gawping. How embarrassing.
    “Lieutenant Cantrill.” She bobbed a quick curtsy. “I was...looking for the ensign. Our reading lesson, you know.” She wasn’t ready to admit to Cantrill that she was trying to help cure Rowland. Or that there might be anything more to their