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Thomas held her eyes as the last notes of the song died on her lips. In the darkness of the tent, his cerulean eyes threw back the candlelight, glowing with fiery warmth that seemed to linger there more and more often.
“Oh, Kitty, that was wonderful! I’m dreadfully glad you came, I near passed out when it was just me—and Rosalie—and—well, thank you for coming.” Flora dragged her attention away from the Captain, smiling brightly and tugging her over to Rosalie to join the three of them in a hug.
Kitty laughed and squeezed them both, aware of the tentative friendship between Rosalie and her. Oblivious, Flora drew back and regarded the slowly emptying tent. “Do you think we managed to cheer everyone up?”
“Oh, I should say so,” Rosalie conceded, smoothing her apron down. The movement was identical to the one Sylvie used to make on a Sunday morning before church; so similar that for a moment the world tilted and Kitty stumbled off the stage, blinking rapidly.
Flora caught at her arm. “Kitty? Are you quite alright?”
“Yes, I—just a moment, I need to step outside, I’m—” she didn’t stop to finish the sentence, hurrying out of the tent as fast as the mass of chairs would allow. Flora and Rosalie didn’t try to follow her, for which she was immeasurably grateful.
In her head, Sylvie’s voice echoed. I don’t want to go to church. Mummy, my dress won’t go straight.
A sob choked in her throat. My little monkey. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, pressing her fingers to her lips desperately.
She didn’t hear the boots on the duck boards behind her until a warm hand touched her shoulder lightly. “Miss Trevelyan?”
She knew it was him before she turned; there was no mistaking that rough, lilting Scottish brogue. “Captain Gillan.” She quickly swiped a few stray tears from her cheeks and turned to face him.
He was closer than she had realised, close enough for her to suddenly realise how cold the night was in comparison to the warmth of his hand, still resting on her shoulder. His eyes were narrowed in scrutiny of her salt-stained cheeks, pupils wide in the dark. His hand dropped as if as an afterthought, looking spare at his side now that she’d felt the brush of his fingertips. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, thank you, I was just … I’m fine.” The words spilled out, hurried and quavering.
“I don’t believe you,” he retorted. His tone suggested anger, but she could find no trace of the rage she’d witnessed in his eyes when he’d yelled at her to leave his surgery tent a few weeks ago.
“Please, Thomas. I’d rather not discuss it.” She finally said, hating herself for appealing to his pity, his feelings for her. Find someone else to dance to your tune, because it won’t be me.
Thankfully, he let the subject drop, though he looked away for a second, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “You’re cold,” he said instead.
“A little,” she admitted. Even before she’d finished speaking, his hands were at the buckles of the belts that criss-crossed his uniform, unbuckling first the one across his broad chest, then the wide belt that circled his waist. “What are you—Captain, don’t—”
He ignored her, shrugging out of his jacket. “Miss Trevelyan, I insist,” he said. There was something in his voice that was almost teasing when he settled the jacket around her shoulders. “I am a gentleman in the king’s army; according to Miles it’s my duty to offer my jacket to young women in the cold.”
The thick woollen jacket was heavy and warm, it smelled of aftershave and antiseptic. “Now you’ll be cold,” she pointed out, tugging the jacket closer regardless. “What if it rains?”
“I’m from Scotland,” he muttered. “It’s perpetually wet and cold. Will you … ” he trailed off in the way he had before he’d asked her to meet him. “Will you allow me to walk you to your tent?”
Despite the darkness, Kitty would have sworn on the flush she could see rising up his neck. “Of course, Captain Gillan. Right this way.”
The walked in silence for a few hundred metres before Thomas cleared his throat. “Listen, the way I’ve been acting—the way I snapped at you and—grabbed you; I want you to know I’m not usually like that. I apologise.” He emphasised the last two words, clearly remembering the last time he’d tried—and failed—to apologise to her.
“Please—I’m sorry too. The way I behaved that night was awful.” His eyes darted to her, questioning. “I was confused, and scared, I think. I shouldn’t have pushed you away like that.” Hesitantly, she reached her hand out, clasping his jacket around her with the other. Thomas took her hand, lacing their fingers together. His hands were warm, and bore the calluses of someone who had practised the same skills over and over.
They slipped back into a comfortable silence until Kitty’s tent loomed before them, a pale mass in the night. “Well, good night then, Miss Trevelyan,” Thomas wished her.
Impulse shot through her and she turned to him quickly. Before I change my mind. She darted forwards and pressed her lips against his, pulling back before he could respond. He blinked at her, stunned. “Good night, Thomas. And please, call me Kitty.”
She pressed his jacket into his hands and ducked into the tent before she could kiss him again, certain that was what she’d do if she lingered. Flora and Rosalie lay asleep in their beds, a single candle burning on her bedside table to light her way. For a single, heady moment she felt an overwhelming urge to either run back out of the tent and jump at Thomas, or press her face into her pillow and scream. She clenched her hands in her quilt and took a steadying breath.
Unable to resist looking back outside, she watched Captain Gillan walk away until he faded into the night, his jacket slung casually over his shoulder. A smile broke out across her face and she whirled, collapsing on her bed with a girlish giggle.
I miss you, Sylvie, she mouthed the words, unable to keep them in but too raw to say them aloud. But I think, even if just for a while, mummy might be happy, with a man infinitely better than your father.
When she slept, she saw Sylvie in her dreams, sat on Thomas’s shoulders, laughing loudly.