Chapter 1

Julia Clemence had visited the ancient church of St. Stephen's daily, and twice on Sundays, for very nearly the entirety of the past five years. It was four years and nine months ago that Simon had gone to war--fifty-seven months of anxiety and fear, two hundred and twenty-eight weeks of daily prayer and loving hope. And now Simon was to come home.

She had known for a week. She knew that he had been wounded, hospitalized, invalided out and intended to sell his commission. He would be changed, she could not doubt it, but how, she could not conjecture. Surely though, nothing could alter their affinity.

The worst was the waiting; she did not know when he would return to her small corner of England, to the green forests and sapphire rivers of Hampshire. It was sunny this day, an over-heated summer day with a dazzling light. The old churchyard was murmurous with bees and brightened by cornflowers and sweet william. Ripening corn scented the breeze, and the ancient church drowsed in the brilliant sun of late summer as it had for more than five hundred years.

When Julia slowly entered St. Stephen's, her blue-grey eyes bedazzled by the sunlight, she could see nothing in the dim, cool depths. It was of no consequence. She knew the old building to the smallest detail for it was her parish church and besides, there had been the daily visits of the past five years. The years that Simon had been gone.

She moved silently down the north aisle, trailing one slender hand along the cool stone wall, her pale muslin skirts whispering about her. Her fingers sought the carving of the rood screen and she drifted into the chancel, deep in thought.

She had been only sixteen when Simon bought his commission over the anguished protests of his parents. He had gone to war, proud, confident and courageous. He had kissed her cheek, telling her to be brave and good. As though he had been her older brother--or an uncle even--though he had not yet been two and twenty.

His family had received news of him over the years; they shared the letters he had written to his parents, brothers and sisters with Julia's family, their closest friends and nearest neighbours. Julia even had had two letters; letters written to the girl she had been, not to the young woman she had become. Nevertheless she treasured them, kept them close by her always. She carried them now tucked in the bosom of her round gown.

In the chancel her sun-dazzled eyes adjusted to the faint, faltering light reluctantly offered by the deep-set windows. There was someone else present, a man, kneeling at the altar rail. He was muttering, whether to himself or to his God, she could not say.

His presence was disturbing, an intrusion she resented. Nevertheless, Julia was unwilling to intrude on him and she slipped into a choir stall seat. Her thoughts continued to wander.

She loved Simon with more than a sister's love, more than a friend's devotion. She had realized it when she was fourteen. And she had thought perhaps he had shared her feelings. She had treasured every touch of his hand, believed that his glances held more than companionship and friendship. She had waited for him to speak, for it was not her place to first declare her love. But in the autumn of 1808 he had turned distant and cold. Then he announced he had bought a captaincy in the infantry and he would be going far away, possibly for a very long time. The news had devastated Julia, but Simon had paid no heed to anyone's strictures and departed Hampshire, leaving everything most dear to him behind.

His absence had made no difference to her love. She had been honest enough to wonder if her devotion would fade as she was launched into local society in 1810. It had not; even the exalted society of London's ton a year later had not altered her heart's fidelity. The young men drawn to her fair, blue-eyed beauty meant nothing to her. Her two seasons in London left her unmoved by any other gentleman. She laughed, danced and drove out with them, but her heart remained untouched, loyal to Simon Mancroft-Martley. And every day she was at home at Edenton Park, she went to the little church to say a simple prayer for Simon's safety, for Simon's return.

The man at the altar spoke, drawing Julia from her sad reverie. His words are unintelligible, but his deep voice was wonderfully familiar. Her hands pressed, tight-clasped, to her bosom, and she considered him closely now. He was a soldier, for he wore a once-fine braid-decorated coat now torn and stained. He bent his dark head to rest on the rail, in despair or exhaustion, and his left sleeve moved eerily. Julia realized it hung empty. She stared at him, the sharp angle of his jaw and the tumble of black curls. She was afraid to hope, unable to trust the evidence before her.

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