Page 33 of For The Love Of A Widow

Everything about him was in conflict. She knew him well, but at the same time suspected she knew nothing of him.

She’d been tempted to confess the damage and irreparable harm caused by war to the entire gathering. The immense isolation she’d felt during the last six years, though Gregory had only left her side during battle. They’d slept next to one another every night unless she had injured men to see to, and even those times, Gregory had forgone sleep to help her, gathering supplies and medicine as she needed them.

But Daniel’s presence stopped her.

The women, even now enjoying a meal of delicate dishes and sweet desserts, hadn’t experienced the last breath of a soldier lying prone on a gurney as they worked diligently to staunch the flow of his life blood. Or the way it felt to be greeted with the rattle of death as a man exhaled for the final time. She could not think past the differences between her and the other women. It shouldn’t matter, yet it did.

Could Daniel understand the damage left behind after witnessing everything she did while at war?

Lettie’s legs quaked, and she searched her room for a place to sit. The girlish white dressing table was not fit for a woman who’d seen as much crimson as Lettie had. Despite the chill of Waterloo and the unrelenting rain, her hands had been coated in warm, red blood for most of her waking hours. No amount of lye soap had removed the flakes left under her trimmed nails.

The bed was no better an option. If she took to its softness, she’d likely never gain the willpower to leave it. After years of sleeping on the hard, muddy ground, the delicate, plush, four-poster bed with its sheer drapes was more than she’d ever expected to enjoy again. Even the night before had been a restless, fitful sleep. No amount of indulgent pillows or well-sprung, straw-stuffed bedding could dispel the dreams that plagued her nights.

Her cavernous bedchambers were too tranquil—and still foreign to her even after nearly two weeks home.

It made her erratic heart rate spike once more, the sound of her thrumming blood deafening in her head.

She was uncomfortable in a boisterous group and panicky in a quiet room.

Could it be she would never again feel any sense of rightness?

Lettie needed to go to her parents—and speak with Daniel. Needed to tell them of her brokenness, beg them to take mercy on her even if they couldn’t understand her turmoil. Something within her mind wasn’t right. It was as if whatever connected everything in her brain had been destroyed. They needed to allow her to journey to the country, away from any prying eyes, and give her permission to implode on her own. At least then, she could shield them from her disgrace.

Grasping the lone source of light in the room, Lettie shook her head before slipping through the open door of her dressing closet. Freshly laundered and pressed gowns hung neatly and orderly, blacks fading to greys, and finally her deep midnight-blue velvet gown. Her only turn of frivolousness. She reached out and allowed her fingers to caress the fine material—the stitching perfect without a visible flaw. The dexterity of the garment certainly must have taken hours to achieve. Then again, she’d stitched wounds so tightly and precisely nary a scar was seen once the soldier healed.

Lettie placed the candle on the floor, safely away from her line of brocade slippers and hanging fabrics. Her fingers shook as she undid the row of buttons holding the front of her gown closed. Pulling her arms from the black gown she’d selected for the evening, she pushed the material down and over her waistline. The muslin pooled at her feet, leaving her clothed in only her shift and underpinnings.

A shiver coursed down her spine, and she removed the new lovely gown from its hanger. The velvet was pleasing to her touch, at odds with the sturdy, thick, coarse garb she was used to wearing.

The dress was perfect.

It would be beautiful evening attire to any other woman, but for Lettie, it was a costume, a mask to hide from others what lay beneath—and within her. She’d thought her rash decision to have this particular gown commissioned was a piece of her youth coming back, her flight of fancy tendencies reawakening. But, no, it was her true self, the one who had been created while witnessing the travesties of life. That was the Lettie who had had to have the gown, regardless of the cost.

Slipping the dress over her head, she let it float down her body, hugging every curve. What little curves she still possessed anyway. The only flaw she found was that it did not extend far enough to cover her shortened hair. Her costume would be complete with a matching hood.

The hem appropriately swept the floor at her feet.

Lettie reached behind her to fasten the buttons at her back. After three, she reached just above her waist and stretched but was unable to secure another. It didn’t matter, she wasn’t leaving her dressing closet. No one would see her with her back exposed, the front gaping loosely.

It was only rightly so.

The gown was perfection.

Lettie was the epitome of imperfection.

The finest dress, gloves, hat, and slippers would never be able to mask Lettie’s flaws. It may be enough to mislead some, much as it had with her friends below; however, with time, the person she’d become would be apparent to all.

Shattered.

Fragmented.

Defective.

Unequivocally broken.

And with additional time, fractured or splintered so entirely a gust of wind would blow the remaining parts far and wide. Would her damage then affect others? Burrow deep inside those who inhaled her splintered being.

Lettie could not allow that to happen. If wearing a binding gown of rich fabric was all it took to keep the pieces together, maybe that was worth her dying inside so others didn’t have to.