A True Gentleman (Regency Love Book 2) Read online

  Mrs. Kingsley smiled and stood, causing Tabby to rise. “Then it sounds as though you are the perfect candidate for the position. Can you start tomorrow?”

  A rush of relief filled Tabby as she and Mrs. Kingsley worked out the details. Employment. She would have income, and with her room and board included in her pay, the funds could go exclusively towards keeping a roof over her son’s head and food in his stomach. Tabby wanted to hug Mrs. Kingsley. This arrangement was better than she could have hoped for, and Tabby felt buoyed over the fortunate turn of events. For once, things were coming together.

  ***

  Gladwell House was a scant twenty-minute walk from the main house, and Tabby enjoyed every second of it. Mrs. Kingsley led her along the pathway connecting the two buildings, giving a recitation of the various details Tabby needed to know, but she struggled to keep her mind on the instructions while the beauty of the grounds entranced her. Great boughs of flowering branches encased the walkway, and birds twittered from the treetops. The scent of life filled her lungs, that intoxicating mixture of soil, blossoms, and all manner of growing things.

  The dower house came into view at the top of the next hill, and it captured Tabby’s heart immediately. The grey stone building had a flare of the Tudor about it, and it was nestled in the landscape in a way that made Tabby think it was an original building rather than a modern revival.

  “I feel I should warn you once more that Graham has been a bit disagreeable,” said Mrs. Kingsley, pulling Tabby to a stop on the doorstep. “He is a good man and a wonderful brother, but he has been brought low by this ordeal. Please do not judge him too harshly, and try not to take his behavior to heart.”

  That sounded quite ominous, but Tabby was unafraid. If she could handle Joshua during one of his drunken tirades, she was certain that a sick seaman was easily conquerable.

  Mrs. Kingsley led them inside, and a footman took their bonnets and spencers.

  “Where is Captain Ashbrook?” asked Mrs. Kingsley.

  “In the sitting room, ma’am,” said the footman, motioning to the front parlor, but when the ladies entered, they found the gentleman lying on the sofa.

  “Graham?” Mrs. Kingsley came to his side and pressed a hand to his head. The man swiped at it and grumbled a few crude words. Gentleman, indeed.

  Captain Ashbrook shared little resemblance with his sister, though that had more to do with the obvious differences in their coloring. Where her hair was dark, his held a touch of blonde, no doubt from years of being out in the sunshine during his time in the navy. But there was something in the shape of their face and nose that held a familial bond.

  “Dearest, you are burning up,” she said, looking to Tabby for assistance.

  Joining her new mistress, Tabby reached for Graham’s forehead and found it feverish and damp. His blue-gray eyes turned to her, though they remained unfixed.

  “Mina?” he mumbled.

  “I am here,” she whispered, taking his hand.

  “My head is splitting.”

  Mrs. Kingsley looked to Tabby, and she knew it was time for action.

  “We need to get him in bed,” said Tabby.

  The footman stepped forward and between the two of them, they were able to get Captain Ashbrook on his feet. The man was broad-chested and bulky, and far more difficult to support than Joshua was with his lithe frame, but the footman had enough heft and Captain Ashbrook had enough clarity to give them some assistance on the stairs.

  “I do not need help, Mina,” he grumbled in Tabby’s ear, his voice so weak she barely caught the words.

  “Of course, sir,” said Tabby. “Anyone can see that you are perfectly capable of managing things yourself.”

  She grunted as he listed to the side, but the footman steadied him.

  “I am a grown man,” he whispered.

  “And men of all ages get sick,” said Tabby.

  Mrs. Kingsley hurried around them to open the bedchamber door. She pulled back the bedcovers, and they got the captain horizontal once more.

  “We need fever powder and water,” said Tabby to the footman, and he hurried out the door.

  Tabby set to work stripping off the man’s boots. In other circumstances, she would be quite scandalized by it, but the situation was far too serious for such sensibilities. They had to get Captain Ashbrook comfortable and being in full clothing would not do. Between her and Mrs. Kingsley, they were able to get him reasonably disrobed and resting.

  Pressing her hand to his forehead, Tabby felt the blazing fever that had grown fiercer in just minutes. The room was stifling, and she opened the window to let in a cool breeze. Grabbing a pitcher of water on his side table, Tabby doused the fire. The footman returned with the water and medicine, and together they were able to prop up the gentleman enough to get some of it down his throat.

  Mrs. Kingsley stood, wide-eyed and wringing her hands, looking desperate for something to do but unsure of what.

  “I need rags and cool water. The colder the better,” said Tabby. “Ice, if you can manage. We need to lower his temperature.”

  “James, run to the main house and fetch a crate of ice,” said Mrs. Kingsley before she went in search of the other items.

  Tabby pulled her handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at the sweat gathering on the gentleman’s forehead. There was nothing more to do at present, so she sat beside him and pressed the cloth to his face while she hummed a tune. She never knew if her mother heard it when she had done so for her, but it was instinctual. She could only hope it soothed his fevered mind. He may be caught somewhere between consciousness and delirium, but Tabby prayed he would hear it and know there were friends nearby.

  Mrs. Kingsley returned with several rags and a bowl of water, and Tabby set to work bathing his face and neck. His skin burned so much that the cloth was warm when she pulled it away, so she cooled it in the water once more.

  “I sent for the physician,” said Mrs. Kingsley. “But who knows when he will arrive.”

  “Do not fret,” said Tabby. “It’s far too early to tell which way this will go, so there is no use in worrying yet.”

  “Easier said than done,” said Mrs. Kingsley, coming around to the other side of the bed. Sitting beside him, she reached for her brother’s hand and held it tight.

  Chapter 3

  Tabby arched her back, feeling it pop and crack as the muscles stretched. Her body ached, and her mind was a veritable mush; luckily, her feet knew the path, allowing her to march mindlessly home. It had taken several hours, but the captain was now resting comfortably after her and Dr. Clarke’s ministrations.

  What an odd day. A long one, too. But rewarding.

  Employment. Income. Unusual though the lady may be, Tabby liked her new employer. The Russells would settle in Bristow; their life would not be what it was, but as long as they did not starve and Phillip was happy, Tabby could accept that. There was no point in crying over what was lost. Not anymore. Now that she was formally employed, there was no returning to the past. Her reputation was gone. Genteel no longer.

  Her tiny home came into view, and though the single room hovel was crumbling and decrepit, Tabby adored it because it was theirs. No more begrudging charity from sneering people; they were living on their own terms, and that was worth a great deal more than mere status.

  Phillip watched from the window, beaming when he saw her approaching. He disappeared for a moment before the front door crashed open.

  “Mama!” he cried, running to her.

  Her aches and pains evaporated as Tabby scooped him up, reveling in his affection.

  “I missed you, Mama,” he said into her neck, and that brought a pang of disappointment. Though triumphant at finding gainful employment, it was equally difficult to accept that she would be forced to spend her days away from her Phillip.

  “I missed you, too, my little man,” she said, planting a kiss on her favorite spot of his cheek.

  “Papa and I have been playing the quiet game,” sai
d Phillip, pressing a finger to his lips.

  “Ah,” said Tabby. “And have you been winning?”

  Phillip gave her a nod and then wriggled out of her arms. Taking her by the hand, he led her inside, and Tabby was thrilled for the chance to sit by the warm hearth with her son and a bit of supper. Stepping through the doorway, Tabby’s eyes adjusted to the dim interior to see her husband seated beside the dying fire, his eyes closed and head tilted back; the faint buzz of his snores was the only indication that he was alive.

  Closing the door behind them, Tabby stepped around Joshua’s outstretched legs and dropped a log into the flames. With the clouds hanging heavy in the sky, there was an unseasonable chill to the summer air and they would likely need the warmth.

  Taking off her cloak and bonnet, she placed them on the hook by the door.

  “Is it time for supper?” asked Phillip. “Papa said that you’d make it.”

  Tabby stiffened. She should not have been surprised. Such a menial task would require Joshua to stir himself, and the only thing Tabby could be assured of him doing was nothing. The bed in the loft begged her to lie down and rest, but now was not the time for it.

  “Certainly, darling,” said Tabby, casting her eyes around for options. Though she had stoked the fire, it would take time for it to be warm enough to cook with. Perhaps a hunk of bread and cheese would do the trick. Gathering it up, she placed it on the table before Phillip.

  “I don’t think Papa wants any,” said Phillip. “He’s been sick all day.”

  Tabby ran her hand over Phillip’s chestnut hair. “I’m certain he’s been very sick.”

  “But I was really good,” said Phillip between a mouthful of bread. “I played with my soldiers in the corner and kept very quiet.”

  Closing her eyes against the frustration, Tabby allowed one morsel of sadness to take hold of her. This was not the life she desired for her or her son, but it was what they had. She needed to be strong. Especially when faced with a future where she would not be present on a daily basis to ensure Phillip was properly cared for. Perhaps one of the neighbors would be willing to watch over Phillip during the day, and then Tabby could be at ease. Her position with the Kingsleys was better paid than she had expected, so they should have a little extra to lay aside for that.

  Tabby looked at Joshua. She desperately needed to sit, but if she did so now, she doubted she would rise again until morning, and there was still much to do. Her exhausted body wanted to leave Joshua there, but she knew from hard experience that he would wake in the night and attempt to come to bed on his own, causing a ruckus that would disturb her and Phillip.

  Breathing deep, Tabby summoned her remaining strength, pulled Joshua’s arm over her shoulder, and hoisted him up. He was lanky and thin, but any dead weight was heavy and difficult to manage, and this was not the first insensible person she’d had to drag about today. Tabby staggered with his weight but got him moving towards the loft. With some jostling, she was able to rouse him enough to climb the stairs that were so steep and narrow they were nearly a ladder. Gravity did the rest, and Joshua fell onto the pallet that served as their family bed; with a few more grunts and pushes, she got him onto his corner of it.

  Tabby wiped at the sweat on her brow and found Phillip watching her from the stairs, his cheese and bread clutched in his hands. He studied his father with fascination but little comprehension, and Tabby hoped the lad did not fully appreciate how far gone his dear papa was.

  Legs quivering, Tabby allowed herself to sit on the top stair. She needed to pack, but she needed a moment to rest more. The instant her lap was available, Phillip climbed onto it and shoved his bread at her mouth. Tabby chuckled and pushed it away.

  “No, dearest, that is yours,” she said. “I will get some later.”

  “How long do we have to stay here?” asked Phillip, glancing up at her.

  “This is our home now, little man,” said Tabby, kissing the top of his head and wrapping her arms around him.

  “But I miss Kelland. And all my toys. And my pony,” said Phillip. “Can I get a new pony?”

  “No, dearest,” Tabby said with a sigh. “We cannot afford it.”

  “But—”

  “Rather than wish for all the things we cannot have, we must think of things we like about our new house,” said Tabby. That exercise had helped lighten her own heart in such melancholy moments, perhaps it might help her son as well.

  Phillip’s forehead crinkled, and Tabby rocked the boy.

  “It’s cozier here,” she said. When Phillip gave her a questioning look, she explained, “We are all together. No more enormous, empty rooms.”

  He nodded, biting into his cheese. “No more stuffy clothes,” he added, holding up his arms and throwing back his head to show the utter lack of jacket or lace collar.

  That brought a bigger smile, and Tabby searched for other things. “No more boring tea parties and morning visits with uppity ladies.”

  “I get to play in the mud!” said Phillip.

  And so it went. It took some creativity, but they managed a suitably long list of things they adored about their new life and did not miss about the old one. Their life was hard, but there was much to be grateful for, and Tabby simply needed to focus on those good things. She had a position near her son. They had income. They had a home. Casting a glance at her dozing husband, Tabby wondered how long her strength would last, but for now, she clung to the little victories.

  However, such good thoughts were beyond her when the next morning arrived and she was forced to bid farewell to her little Phillip.

  “Dearest, please,” said Tabby, peeling Phillip’s hands from her skirts. “I will return in three days, and we will spend a whole evening together. Won’t that be fun?”

  “Mama, please!” He sobbed, tugging at her. “Don’t leave me!”

  Tears filled Tabby’s eyes, but she forced them away. Falling to piece would only make things worse. She could not allow herself to get distracted from her goals: a roof over his head, clothes on his back, and food in his belly were foremost, closely followed by saving for his schooling and preparing for his future. None of that would be possible if Tabby stayed.

  Joshua pulled the boy away, lifting him into his arms. “Mama has to go.”

  “Why?” cried Phillip.

  Joshua held the boy close, resting Phillip’s head on his shoulder as the lad sobbed for Tabby. The sight of it tore at her heart. She wanted to care for her son, but their family needed the money. Staring at Joshua, a dark part of her soul hated that her husband had forced her into this heartrending situation. The multitude of positions available for a man with his connections guaranteed he’d need not work away from home. Not so for Tabby.

  “I shall return soon,” she promised before hoisting her portmanteau. Tabby had to leave. She had done the best she could for her son. Mrs. Allen had agreed to keep watch over Phillip. They had a home. They had food. Now, Tabby had to make certain that did not change.

  Chapter 4

  The devil take him. Graham stared at the bedroom ceiling, cursing the French for injuring him, his body for not healing properly, and the entirety of the medical profession who were incapable of doing a thing about it. A relapse. That was what Dr. Clarke had called it. A little word for a monumentally frustrating ordeal. This would set his recovery back again. Delay the next round of treatments. More time in this bloody bed like some skulking layabout.

  Graham gritted his teeth as a stab of pain struck his thigh. When it passed, he let out a heavy grunt.

  “Are you in pain?” asked a woman as she pushed open the bedroom door with the corner of a breakfast tray.

  Something about her was familiar. It was an itching recognition that Graham could not name; she was pretty enough that he was certain he’d remember her if they had been introduced. She stared at him with brown eyes that were framed with delicate blonde eyebrows. Quite pretty, in fact.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  The woman
raised those eyebrows, though he had no idea why she should be surprised at such a simple question.

  “I am Mrs. Russell, the new housekeeper. We met yesterday. I’m surprised you have no memory of it. You were incoherent at points, but I was with you most of the day.”

  Her accent surprised him. It was authentically genteel with none of the practiced elocution of the upper servants mimicking their masters.

  She brought over the tray, and Graham held in a groan as he sat upright. His right arm supported him for a quick moment before giving out—accursed relapse. Placing the tray before him, Mrs. Russell reached over to lay a napkin across his lap, but he grabbed her wrist, and her eyebrows shot upwards yet again.

  “I can manage that,” he said.

  “You could have said so.”

  Graham grunted and grabbed the spoon. His fingers were stiff, and it took greater effort than he wished to admit to get them around the utensil. But he did it. He supposed he should be grateful. After all, he was able to accomplish what any tot could do with a fraction of the effort. A day for celebration.

  And that was when he noticed that Mrs. Russell was still in his bedchamber. Rather than disappearing the moment she had delivered the tray, the lady drew open the curtains and straightened a few incidentals.

  Ignoring her, Graham focused on the spoon. He should use his left hand, but Graham would not concede defeat so easily. The soup sloshed, but the utensil inched towards his lips. He leaned forward to keep the mess above the bowl, but his muscles protested, and he splattered it on his front, letting loose a string of words that would’ve made his mother blush.

  “Allow me,” said Mrs. Russell, and Graham found himself, once again, at the mercies of a fluttering female.

  “I am capable of doing it myself,” he insisted, snatching the napkin to dab at the mess.

  “I did not say otherwise,” said Mrs. Russell. “I am standing here and am able to help, so I am.”