LITMIR.BIZ

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its door open to the cooling breezes. Inside he glimpsed a red-coated officer holding up a glittering bracelet. “This is a perfect betrothal gift,” the man said. He recognised the fellow, one of the Royal Scots. Buying a betrothal gift?

      Gabe walked on, but the words repeated in his brain.

      Betrothal gift.

      Who was the man planning to marry? One of the English ladies in Brussels? A sweetheart back home? It made no sense to make such plans on the eve of a battle. No one knew what would happen. Even if the man survived, the regiment might battle Napoleon for ten more years. What kind of life would that be for a wife?

      No, if this fellow wanted to marry, he ought to sell his commission and leave the army. If he had any intelligence at all he’d have taken some plunder at Vittoria, like most of the soldiers had done. Then he’d have enough money to live well.

      Gabe halted as if striking a stone wall.

      He might be talking about himself.

      He could sell his commission. He had enough money.

      He could marry.

      He started walking again with the idea forming in his mind and taking over all other thought. He could marry Emmaline. His time with her need not end. He might share all his evenings with her. All his nights.

      If she wished to stay in Brussels, that would be no hardship for him. He liked Brussels. He liked the countryside outside the city even better. Perhaps he could buy a farm, a hill farm like Stapleton Farm where his uncle worked. When Gabe had been a boy all he’d thought of was the excitement of being a soldier. Suddenly life on a hill farm beckoned like a paradise. Hard work. Loving nights. Peace.

      With Emmaline.

      He turned around and strode back to the jewellery shop.

      The shop was now empty of customers. A tiny, white-haired man behind the counter greeted him with expectation, “Monsieur?”

      â€œA betrothal gift,” Gabe told him. “For a lady.”

      The man’s pale blue eyes lit up. “Les fiançailles?” He held up two fingers. “Vous êtes le deuxième homme d’aujourd’hui.” Gabe understood. He was the second man that day purchasing a betrothal gift.

      The jeweller showed him a bracelet, sparkling with diamonds, similar to the one his fellow officer had held. Such a piece did not suit Emmaline at all. Gabe wanted something she would wear every day.

      â€œNo bracelet,” Gabe told the shopkeeper. He pointed to his finger. “A ring.”

      The man nodded vigorously. “Oui! L’anneau.”

      Gabe selected a wide gold band engraved with flowers. It had one gem the width of the band, a blue sapphire that matched the colour of her eyes.

      He smiled and pictured her wearing it as an acknowledgement of his promise to her. He thought of the day he could place the ring on the third finger of her left hand, speaking the words, “With this ring, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship ….”

      Gabe paid for the ring, and the shopkeeper placed it in a black-velvet box. Gabe stashed the box safely in a pocket inside his coat, next to his heart. When he walked out of the jewellery shop he felt even more certain that what he wanted in life was Emmaline.

      He laughed as he hurried to her. These plans he was formulating would never have entered his mind a few weeks ago. He felt a sudden kinship with his brothers and sisters, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. With Emmaline, Gabe would have a family, like his brothers and sisters had families. No matter she could not have children. She had Claude and Gabe would more than welcome Claude as a son.

      As he turned the corner on to the street where her lace shop was located, he slowed his pace.

      He still had a battle to fight, a life-and-death affair for both their countries. For Gabe and for Claude, as well. He could not be so dishonourable as to sell out when the battle was imminent, when Wellington needed every experienced soldier he could get.

      If, God forbid, he should die in the battle, his widow would inherit his modest fortune.

      No, he would not think of dying. If Emmaline would marry him before the battle, he would have the best reason to survive it.

      With his future set in his mind, he opened the lace-shop door. Immediately he felt a tension that had not been present before. Emmaline stood at the far end of the store, conversing with an older lady who glanced over at his entrance and frowned. They continued to speak in rapid French as he crossed the shop.

      â€œEmmaline?”

      Her eyes were pained. “Gabriel, I must present you to my aunt.” She turned to the woman. “Tante Voletta, puis-je vous présenter le Capitaine Deane?” She glanced back at Gabe and gestured towards her aunt. “Madame Laval.”

      Gabe bowed. “Madame.”

      Her aunt’s eyes were the same shade of blue as Emmaline’s, but shot daggers at him. She wore a cap over hair that had only a few streaks of grey through it. Slim but sturdy, her alert manner made Gabe suppose she missed nothing. She certainly examined him carefully before facing Emmaline again and rattling off more in French, too fast for him to catch.

      Emmaline spoke back and the two women had another energetic exchange.

      Emmaline turned to him. “My aunt is unhappy about our … friendship. I have tried to explain how you helped us in Badajoz. That you are a good man. But you are English, you see.” She gave a very Gallic shrug.

      He placed the basket on the counter and felt the impression of the velvet box in his pocket. “Would you prefer me to leave?”

      â€œNon, non.” She clasped his arm. “I want you to stay.”

      Her aunt huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. How was Gabe to stay when he knew his presence was so resented?

      He made an attempt to engage the woman. “Madame arrived today?”

      Emmaline translated.

      The aunt flashed a dismissive hand. “Pfft. Oui.”

      â€œYou must dine with us.” He looked at Emmaline. “Do you agree? She will likely have nothing in her house for a meal.”

      Emmaline nodded and translated what he said.

      Madame Laval gave an expression of displeasure. She responded in French.

      Emmaline explained, “She says she is too tired for company.”

      He lifted the basket again. “Then she must select some food to eat. I purchased plenty.” He showed her the contents. “Pour vous, madame.”

      Her eyes kindled with interest, even though her lips were pursed.

      â€œTake what you like,” he said.

      â€œI will close the shop.” Emmaline walked to the door.

      Madame Laval found a smaller basket in the back of the store. Into it she placed a bottle of wine, the cream, some eggs, bread, cheese, four mussels and all of the frites.

      â€œC’est assez,” she muttered. She called to Emmaline. “Bonne nuit, Emmaline. Demain, nous parlerons plus.”

      Gabe understood that. Emmaline’s aunt would have more to say to her tomorrow.

      â€œBonne nuit, madame.” Gabe took the bouquet of flowers and handed them to her, bowing again.

      â€œHmmph!” She snatched the flowers from his hand and marched away with half their food and all his frites.

      Emmaline

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