Page 32 of Twelve Drummers Drumming

Jemima stared at the chaos causing the evening to fall apart before her eyes. Caroline had fallen to the ground beside the gentleman as Dr. Walsingham cradled his head in his lap, clearly distressed.

Arthur Fitzroy was roaring orders to the servants, and Selina was attempting to calm Sophia, who had been permitted to sit and watch the last hour of dancing and was now in tears.

Guests moved around the room in a frenzy, half of them trying to help though they could offer no real assistance or expertise, and the other half gossiping about the catastrophe that was occurring right in front of their eyes.

Dr. Walsingham was still repeating his great-uncle’s name. “Uncle Edward, please speak to me…”

Beside him stood Hugh, his complexion pale and waxen. He wasn’t swaying exactly, but he was certainly struggling to stand upright. Jemima could see that the fingers around his crutch were white as he clenched it desperately.

“Captain Rotherham—” Jemima clung onto him, unsure what she intended to say but knowing she had to say something. Hugh was pale, paler than she had ever seen before.

Without a word, he released her.

“Hugh?”

Before she could move toward him once more, Hugh had clearly had enough. Ignoring her completely, he marched out of the room onto the garden terrace.

Jemima took one look at Caroline and saw she was ably comforting Dr. Walsingham. A glance around the room saw Arabella now caring for their younger sister Sophia.

And so, Jemima turned on her heels. The garden terrace was her destination, and at that moment, she truly believed nothing but an earthquake or some similar disaster could hold her from it.

“Captain Rotherham?” She said, peering around the corner of the door to the garden terrace. The air was cool here, welcome after the heat of the dancing. “Hugh?”

He was standing on the balcony, looking out at the moon. It was full and sat heavy in the sky, without any clouds to hinder its light.

“It’s the same moon, you know,” he said softly.

Jemima stepped lightly over to him and impulsively placed her hand over his right, placed for balance on the balcony.

“It’s always the same moon.”

Hugh did not look at her, did not smile—but he did not move his hand away. His expression seemed pained, and Jemima wanted nothing more than to help him, to care for him—perhaps, even to love him.

Love. She should not think such a thing. Not until he had spoken first, and this was not the moment.

“I used to think when I was in France or wherever else Napoleon forced us to be, that when I looked up at the moon, it was the same moon,” said Hugh quietly. “No matter where I was, I would always be able to look up at the sky and see the same moon. When my parents looked up at the night sky, the light that fell on them would be the same moonlight that fell on me, wherever I was.”

Jemima’s heart ached for him and his pain, his loneliness. It was loneliness she now realized, she could fully comprehend.

“It’s the same moon,” she said in barely a whisper.

Hugh shifted his hand so he could squeeze hers. Then he brought it to his chest and held it over his heart.

“I…” He tried to speak, but he didn’t seem to have the words. Jemima waited a moment, then he began again. “I must apologize to your family when we return. Was not that gentleman a member of your family?”

Jemima shook her head slightly. “A relation of Dr. Walsingham, as far as I am aware.”

“Still, you have a family connection to the man,” said Hugh angrily, “and all I could do was stand there. A soldier should know better!”

“A soldier does know better,” said Jemima forcefully. She pulled on her hand so Hugh was forced to face her. “You have seen more of sickness and death than everyone else in that room combined! It is no wonder that, at the fresh sight of it, you were hesitant to embrace it!”

“There goes the pacifist,” said Hugh in a low mocking tone, but a smile danced across his cheeks. “I am glad, believe me, that you can have such ideals. The chance to hold such things are not afforded to all, and any knowledge you can be spared is a gift that is my pleasure to bestow upon you.”

“Meeting you…knowing you have opened my eyes,” admitted Jemima quietly. “I look back on all my opinions now with a little surprise. How could I hold such passionate thoughts without fully knowing what I spoke?”

Hugh gazed at her intently. “I wish I could make you understand,” he said quietly, “I wish I could even comprehend it myself, the way that I have changed. Not just my leg, of course.” A wry smile followed this statement. “I mean in myself. In my character, in the way I view the world, the way I think. I know scars of the body will eventually fade, and I shall never win any races, but my leg will probably heal. Yet the scars of the mind I do not think shall ever fully mend.”

Jemima’s hand was still trapped by Hugh’s, held close to his chest. If she concentrated, she could feel his heartbeat.

---