Mrs. McVinnie's London Season by Carla Kelly Page B

down at the table and reached for another
biscuit.
    “ Wapping, these are truly excellent,” he said, indicating the
biscuit in his hand. “Only think how much better they will be in
six months’ time when I have to bang them on the table to scare out
the weevils.”
    Jeannie choked over her
tea.
    Wapping turned quite
noticeably green under his London pallor, but to his credit, he did
not flinch. After a moment of silent reflection and considerable
exercise of restraint, he addressed the captain.
    “ Very
good, sir. Now, is there anything else?”
    “ Nothing. Send Pringle to me in ten minutes.”
    “ Very
good, sir.”
    Captain Summers dipped
his biscuit in his coffee. “I do so love to torment Wapping,” he
said, almost to himself. “Notice how well he holds up? A butler is
the triumph of science over nature. I should like one for my
own.”
    Jeannie laughed in
spite of herself.
    Captain Summers
finished his biscuit and thoughtfully brushed the crumbs from his
coat. He poured himself another cup of coffee, and as he did so,
Jeannie took the moment to observe him.
    He was as neat as wax,
sitting there impeccable in his morning coat. He was not in
uniform, but no one, not even the downiest slow-top, could ever
have mistaken Captain Summers for other than a military man. There
was an air of pride about him, a superiority that reminded Jeannie
forcefully of Tom, even as she told herself that they looked
nothing alike. She would have continued her scrutiny and her idle
speculation on what was the certain something that gave a man such
an air of command, but he was looking at her now with his own
intensity.
    Jeannie waited for him
to speak, but he only watched her. She did not think to be upset by
his acute observation. She had only just that moment given up
watching him, so could scarcely cry foul. There was nothing
insolent in his manner. He regarded her carefully, as he would have
an opponent.
    Finally Summers leaned
back slightly. He sipped his coffee and eyed her over the rim of
the cup. “Pringle tells me your husband was with the Fifteenth
Dumfries Rifles.”
    “ He
was, and so was my father-in-law.”
    “ I
remember the lads. Didn’t the Rifles make up the rearguard in the
retreat to La Coruña?”
    “ They
did. That was where my husband sustained his fatal
injuries.”
    Captain Summers nodded.
There was nothing in his face of sympathy; there was something
better. Jeannie saw an understanding of the harshness of war, a
matter-of-factness that was bracing but infinitely superior to
sensibility, no matter how well-meaning.
    “ We
did everything we could from the sea,” he said simply. “I threw so
much lead at the Spaniards behind them that I am surprised the land
did not sink.” He looked down at his hands. “Swear to God my ears
rang for days.”
    There was a brief pause
while Captain Summers took another sip of his coffee and then set
the cup down. “General Moore commended the Dumfries before he
died,” he said. “We came in as close as we dared, and took off as
many soldiers as we could. I remember the Dumfries pipers on the
headland, when every other man was running and dodging. God, I
shall never forget the sound.”
    “ It is
a regiment well-known for bravery,” she whispered, and the thought
stung her. She turned away so he would not see the desolation in
her eyes.
    He pushed himself away
from the table and stalked to the window, as if the memory was too
big for the breakfast parlor.
    Jeannie drank her tea
in silence, curiously warmed by his words. Galen McVinnie had never
told her anything of the beach at La Coruña. Probably he remembered
nothing of it himself. The whole terror came into focus for the
first time as she sat at a breakfast table in Mayfair, and she
discovered that she could look at it with equanimity. Thank you,
Captain Summers, she thought suddenly.
    He turned back to her.
“And now, Mrs. McVinnie, can I persuade you to change your mind and
remain here in our