A True Gentleman (Regency Love Book 2) Page 3

  “Of course,” said Mina, returning to her seat. “A large, manly difference. Would it help if I started talking about battening the hatches and rigging the mainsails? Perhaps I could even manage to curse or spit. Would that make you feel better?”

  She smiled at him, though it faltered as he glowered.

  “Do you find this humorous?” he asked.

  Mina’s eyes widened and her eyebrows rose. “Of course not, I did not mean…of course, I would not presume to make light...I…”

  “Graham.” Simon’s tone held a warning, his posture tightening.

  He sighed. Graham had known the words were rude before he had spoken them, but he had been unable to stop himself after hearing her jest about his situation. She had meant no harm, though Graham struggled to erase his lingering frustration at her words. “Mina, I apologize. I did not mean to speak so harshly. I am just so bally uncomfortable.”

  “Graham,” Simon repeated himself, and it took a moment to identify his newest offense.

  “Apologies again,” said Graham. And that put the final nail in the proverbial coffin. He missed his ship, his crew, his life. There was no need to watch one’s language when aboard a vessel filled with men who thought “bally” was a weak word.

  “Are you truly that bad off?” Mina asked, nibbling on the corner of her lip. “I know the last surgeon said that it could take another week or two to recover, but it seems as though you should be feeling somewhat better by now.”

  “I fear he may have done more damage than good,” said Graham, taking a sip from his glass. In truth, his pain was worse than before the surgery, and there was a shocking lack of dexterity in his right hand that worried Graham, but he would not spread all his fears to his sister. She was worried enough.

  “But it is too early to tell, Graham,” she said, reaching over to lay her hand on his knee. “There is hope that all will be mended.”

  Graham nodded. He was counting on it. Hope is what drove him. It was all he had at this moment. Hope.

  He reached for his spoon, but Mina scooted her chair closer to snatch the utensil from him.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded as she scooped a bit of soup.

  “Whether or not you want to admit it, you should not be using your hand yet,” she said, offering the bite to his mouth.

  “I have two hands, Mina,” he said, leaning away.

  “Oh,” she replied, her eyes downcast as she placed the spoon in his bowl. “Of course. Apologies.”

  Graham gave Mina a sideways look as he tucked into his meal with his good hand. She stared at her soup as she ate, and he wondered what was going on in her head. Simon filled the silence with talk of the estate. Some vastly boring details about harvest and crop rotations or some such nonsense. Graham could not care less what it was, as long as it meant he could eat without being bothered.

  And he did. Until the next course.

  Staring at the beef on his plate, Graham retrieved his utensils. Using his bad hand to hold the meat steady, he sawed at it, but his grip on the fork faltered, and his hands slipped, knocking bits of potatoes and gravy onto his lap. The napkin caught most of it, but it could not stop his pride from getting more dinged and scarred.

  Graham smacked the utensils on the table, making the dishes rattle, and he glowered at the plate of food. He felt Mina and Simon’s eyes on him, but he could not speak. His temper was holding on by the weakest of threads, and it would not do to unleash it on his family.

  A year. It had been a year since that cannonball slammed his ship. With quick thinking and a lot of luck, the vessel and crew had been saved, but Graham’s body had borne the brunt of the damage. Heaven help him, he was more terrified than when he had awoken to the ship’s surgeon cutting the massive bits of wood from his body. At that time, he’d had the welfare of his crew and ship to keep him preoccupied. But sitting at home with nothing but time on his hands, Graham had to face the fact that his body had been severely broken.

  Hands reached for the cutlery, and Graham barked at Mina before he could think better of it. “Stop coddling me, Mina. I do not need help!”

  She retreated, and Graham’s heart twisted. Simon reached for Mina’s hand as he leveled a hard look at Graham. If he were not Mina’s brother, he might be afraid of Simon calling him out for that. Mina kept her face turned away, but Graham saw the slump of her shoulders.

  “Mina, I apologize,” he said with a sigh. “I did not mean it. I am grateful for your help, and you have been too kind to put me up for so long. It is just frustrating to be an invalid.”

  “Then why do you keep putting yourself through these surgeries?” she asked, turning her eyes to him. “If you would stop having every quack in the country come cut on you, you could heal.”

  “And be a cripple for the rest of my life?” he asked. “Forsake my ship, my men, my career? My entire life?”

  Mina’s shoulders fell even farther, and she looked drained of all her spirit. “But they are not helping, Graham. You seem worse with each one.”

  “They are my only chance,” he insisted. It was so frustrating to argue about this again. She did not understand. How could she? She had no idea what it was to have something you love so greatly be ripped away from you. To find yourself adrift. Graham would not let himself become one of those broken husks he had seen over the years. The dry-docked seamen who were left with nothing but their memories.

  “Then you will not stop?” she asked, though it sounded as if she already knew his answer.

  “I cannot. I have to return to the sea. It is my life, and I will not abandon it.”

  Mina nodded and squeezed Simon’s hand. “Then perhaps it is time to reexamine our situation.”

  Graham’s spine stiffed. “You wish for me to leave?”

  “No,” said Mina, wide-eyed. “Never.”

  “You always have a home here, Graham,” added Simon, though his tone was far colder than Mina’s.

  Perhaps it was time to do a little mending of fences.

  “Good,” said Graham. “I far prefer it here. Between Louisa-Margaretta and the boys, I doubt I would get a moment of peace at Nicholas’s. And Ambrose’s bachelor lodgings is not exactly an Eden for the injured.”

  But Mina did not respond to that. Her eyes slid to the side, and Graham could see her gathering her courage.

  “I was thinking it might be a good idea to have you move into Gladwell House,” she said.

  “The dower house?” scoffed Graham. “Like some old lady?”

  “I think it a splendid idea,” said Simon. “It has been empty for years and could use some repairs, but it would give you a bit of independence while keeping us nearby to lend a hand while you continue with your…treatments.”

  Again, Graham heard the ruckus laughter of his men echoing in his mind. Sequestered in a widow’s villa, and living off his sister. What a sight Captain Ashbrook made. Though he had the financial means to be independent, he did not have the physical capacity. Not to mention he hated the thought of renting a house. He would be at sea the moment he was well, and it was pointless to find something more permanent on land. He did not want anything holding him back when his health allowed him to return to his ship.

  Graham wanted to refuse her offer. To pack his things and find his own way, but if he ever hoped to heal, Graham knew he needed Mina’s help, even if he did not want it. Perhaps this would be the best solution for them all. Support and a measure of independence. Enough distance without abandoning him on his own.

  Giving an inward groan, Graham agreed. Heaven help him.

  Chapter 2

  Tabby held herself upright, refusing to allow the situation to break her spirit. There were worse things than abandoning one’s pride. Starvation for one. And it was not as though she were resorting to truly horrific means to avoid that fate. She still had a modicum of dignity, and she was not the first genteel lady forced into service.

  Standing in the middle of the sitting room, Tabby reminded herself not to sit.
The instinct to rest for a moment was strong. Just like the instinct to go through the front entrance of Avebury Park. But she was no longer an honored guest or lady of equal footing. She was a servant—or hoped to be, at any rate—and such luxuries were not given to people of her station. No, she was to wait upon the whims of her betters.

  Clutching her reticule, Tabby smoothed the edge of her cloak and waited. With one hand, she pulled out the letter and reassured herself that she had the correct time and name of the housekeeper, Mrs. Witmore.

  Hold still and wait. The clock on the side table ticked away the seconds, its mechanisms making the only noise in the room.

  The room was a cozy space. Not terribly different from any number Tabby had visited in her life, but there was something decidedly comfortable about it. Her mama would have described it as well-loved, which was her euphemism for something that was not of the finest quality but beloved all the same. Mama had claimed it sounded so much better than the less pleasant words the rest of their class used for describing anything that was not of the peak of perfection, and her mama had a weakness for that which was well-loved. When Tabby was younger, it had been an embarrassment, but she had come to appreciate her mother’s tastes; the sentiment attached to well-loved objects made their value far greater than the money spent in purchasing it.

  Tabby’s heart grew heavy with the memories of her mother. Having lost her several years ago, the pain was not as acute as it had been, but grief was a crafty hunter, cropping up at unexpected moments to catch its prey unawares. But this would not do. One of the last things Tabby needed was to get emotional before meeting her potential employer. She took a cleansing breath, allowing the here and now to wash away thoughts of the past.

  She eyed the sofa and wondered if she could sit. If she heard Mrs. Witmore coming, she could pop back up. It would be so nice to rest her feet. The walk here had been rather long, and Tabby could use a rest.

  Then the door opened, and Tabby flinched. Thank the stars above that she’d remained standing because Mrs. Witmore had been completely silent in her approach. Turning to greet the woman, Tabby found instead a lady who could only be the mistress of the estate.

  “Tabitha Russell?” she asked.

  “Yes,” she replied, tacking on a curtsy and belated, “madam.”

  With a gesture, the lady offered Tabby a seat. “I am Mrs. Kingsley—” She halted when she got a good look at Tabby’s face. “Miss Granger?”

  Tabby’s eyes widened as she stared at Mrs. Kingsley. One of the prime enticements of taking a post at Avebury Park was its isolation from anyone of her acquaintance. The Kingsleys were known in Society, but as they had never traveled in the same circles or been introduced, Tabby had assumed she would be safe from recognition and the accompanying embarrassment and questions. Apparently not, though Tabby could swear she had never met the lady seated before her.

  “Yes, madam, but it is Russell,” Tabby replied. “I married nearly twelve years ago.”

  Mrs. Kingsley clasped her hands in her lap, casting her eyes to the side with a furrowed brow. “Yes, I had forgotten that. The lady who tamed the infamous Mr. Joshua Russell.”

  Tabby’s heart constricted, her soul twisting inside her, but she maintained a properly dignified exterior. When she was younger, hearing people say such things brought her pride and joy; the changes that had been wrought in Joshua had been no small thing. Now, it was nothing more than a mockery. Mrs. Kingsley said the words innocently enough, and Tabby did not detect any malice behind them, so it was easier to remain calm and collected.

  “I would not say that, madam,” she said.

  Mrs. Kingsley's eyes returned to Tabby, snapping back from wherever her mind had wandered. “I’m afraid we were never formally introduced during our Seasons. I was Miss Mina Ashbrook in those days.”

  Tabby sifted through her memories of that time of her life, trying to place the name. “As in Mr. Nicholas Ashbrook’s elder sister?”

  Mrs. Kingsley laughed. “Yes, that is my grand claim to fame and generally the only reason anyone knows my name.”

  Tabby had not meant to offend, and she hurriedly pieced together an apology. This interview was not going as she had hoped.

  But Mrs. Kingsley waved it away. “I did not mean that as anything more than a simple comment. You had your hands plenty full during your Seasons, and I do not blame you for not knowing me. When Mr. Kingsley announced our engagement, most everyone scratched their heads and asked, ‘Who is she?’”

  Tabby smiled. There was something about the lady that was so disarming. She had no airs and embraced a rather self-deprecating view of herself without wandering into self-pitying. Frankly, Mrs. Kingsley was amusing, and Tabby quite liked the lady already. Until she asked the question Tabby dreaded answering.

  “But I am confused,” she said, “and I do apologize if I am being forward or presumptuous, but I understood Mrs. Tabitha Russell was looking for employment. Is that why you are here?”

  If there had been any calculation or the societal smugness in Mrs. Kingsley’s demeanor, Tabby would have rebuffed her or simply not answered, but Mrs. Kingsley looked so genuinely concerned and confused that Tabby could not fault her for voicing the question aloud, even if most would not dare to speak of something so gauche as finances.

  “I am looking for employment,” said Tabby. “I saw your advertisement for a maid and thought it might be a good fit.”

  It was easy to see that Mrs. Kingsley wished to ask more questions. The push of curiosity and pull of compassion tugged at her. The lady had no artlessness and seemed unable to strike her emotions from her face; it was such a difference from the ladies of her acquaintance, and especially during this last year when so many of her former friends smiled at her face and laughed behind her back.

  “I am so sorry…” Mrs. Kingsley’s hands twisted in her lap, a frown tugging at her lips.

  “I’m not looking for pity,” said Tabby.

  “Of course not,” said Mrs. Kingsley. “I prefer to think of it as sympathy, for I cannot imagine how difficult your situation must be. Surely, there is someone who can offer you a better option than servitude.”

  Tabby shook her head. “My parents both passed a few years ago. I have a distant cousin who inherited the property, but he shows no inclination towards assisting me, and my husband’s family and our friends have done what they can, but I cannot trespass upon their generosity any further.”

  Mrs. Kingsley’s eyebrows rose. “That is admirable. There are not many who would feel that way. Most of the gentry seemed conditioned to believe that they are entitled to their expensive lifestyles whether or not their coffers can maintain it.”

  This interview had veered off into uncharted territories, and Tabby could make no sense of Mrs. Kingsley, even if she appreciated the vote of confidence in the decision that had made her a pariah to their social circle.

  “Yes, I am quite certain that I like you, Mrs. Russell,” said Mrs. Kingsley with a smile. “Though I think you may be a good fit for a different position than a maid. When I read through your qualifications, I had thought you might be suited for it, but now that I have met you, I believe you will fit the bill quite nicely.”

  Tabby had no response, so she waited patiently as Mrs. Kingsley arrived at the point.

  “I have been searching for a housekeeper that is not a housekeeper,” said Mrs. Kingsley. “My brother is recovering from injuries he sustained at sea. He is a naval captain, you see, and he was severely wounded in a battle. The surgeons were able to save him, but they were not able to heal him fully. He has it in his head that he will be able to return to his ship even though any reputable medical practitioner says his body shall never be fit for it. In his determination, he has resorted to unsavory treatments that are doing him more harm than good, and it has reached a point where I cannot bear to watch him suffer anymore.”

  Mrs. Kingsley paused, her eyes falling to her tightly gripped hands resting in her lap, and she took a moment to
compose herself. “But I cannot abandon him, either, for he will die of a fever or infection if he has no one to watch out for him. So, he is to move into our dower house where he will be close enough for my peace of mind but free to continue on as he sees fit.”

  Tabby gave a huff. “Men’s pride. It takes a lot of work for women to work around them.”

  A flash of a smile broke through her pinched expression, and Mrs. Kingsley chuckled. “It does, indeed, and what I am hoping for is that you will serve as the housekeeper of that property. It has been empty for quite some time and needs cleaning and organization, and with your experience running a household, I am confident you have the skills to handle overseeing a cook, maid, and footman.”

  Tabby nodded.

  “But more than that, you will also act as his nurse and companion. He is under the belief that your position will solely be a housekeeper, but I need someone there to watch over him.”

  “And be your spy,” added Tabby with a smile.

  “Precisely,” she said with a responding smile, though her hands remained clenched. “I worry about him. He has always been a good-hearted man, but I find that his injuries have hardened him. He seems lost and melancholy, but he will not allow me to comfort or aid him. I want someone who will help heal him and also pull him out of his doldrums. Can you do that?”

  Listening to Mrs. Kingsley’s worries and fears, Tabby felt a strong sense of responsibility. Though she had not known this lady for more than a few minutes, Tabby liked her and could see the pain caused by this situation. And then there was the mysterious brother—the man desperate to return to his work, doing whatever he could to fix his broken body. There was something admirable about that kind of passion even if it was misplaced.

  “As to his emotional state, I cannot give any guarantees,” said Tabby. “Change has to come from within a person, and I cannot do it for him.” Tabby had ample experience with that truth, though none that she cared to share with Mrs. Kingsley. “But I am certain that I can act as his caregiver. My mother had a sickly constitution, and I often nursed her.”