The Awakening 0f A Forbidden Passion (Historical Regency Romance)

by Emily Honeyfield

  “Too true,” Priscilla said before she took a bit of her lemon bar. The creamy, tangy confection made her toes curl a bit at the taste. There were few things Priscilla loved more than lemons. Perhaps her piano was a close second.

  Gwen asked, “Are you really going to apologise to her?”

  “Seems odd that I am the one apologising when I am not the one who did anything, yet, as the oldest I feel as if it is my place to put things right.” Priscilla could not hide the fact that she thought it was unfair. She did not even care to. It was unfair and that was just the way it was.

  Gwen’s face did not look as if she agreed with Priscilla’s words. “Sometimes even younger siblings have to make an effort, Miss.”

  “I know. That is why I have not apologised to her as of yet. We both know the likelihood of her actually apologising is very low. Mother wants her to walk down the aisle willingly. I just want things to go smoothly.” Priscilla shrugged.

  Scene 2 Priscilla POV (A few weeks later)

  The wait for Bridgitte to apologise was long and agonising. She had not lied to her mother. Priscilla had tried to talk with Bridgitte to close the distance between them, but she simply could not find a way to do away with the space between them.

  The wedding was looming the next day and all day Priscilla had tried to talk to Bridgitte, but she had been busy with one thing or another. Priscilla should have been relaxing before her big day. She had finally resigned herself to making the best of the marriage to Philip. Everything was ready for a perfect wedding day. Everything, that was, except Bridgitte.

  Priscilla could not even bother being surprised that Bridgitte was going to be the one thing to ruin her wedding day. That was very like her sister. Bridgitte could not cause havoc any other way, so she was going to do it literally by withholding her participation. If it were up to Priscilla, she would have just written off Brigitte’s part in the whole thing.

  Yet, their mother was insistent. How could they possibly have the perfect day without Bridgitte? Priscilla could think of a dozen different ways.

  If she had any hope of getting Bridgitte to agree, she would have to actually force her to talk to her. When Bridgitte made up her mind, she was woefully hard to get through to. Priscilla smoothed her skirts and steeled her determination to be stronger.

  She made her way from the kitchen toward the entrance hall. The evening meal was over and almost everyone had retired to their own rooms. She would find her sister when she retired for the evening.

  After all, it was hard to run from the bedroom while she was in her nightclothes and Priscilla would have her as a captive audience. This was her last act of desperation and perhaps it would finally show Bridgitte how serious she was about all of this. Her mother might still consider Bridgitte a child, but Bridgitte was only two years younger than Priscilla.

  She was fully capable of being treated as an adult. Priscilla was going to get through to her if it was the last thing she did. She had just stepped into the hallway that led to the kitchen when her father’s voice made her jump. “Priscilla,” he called.

  Priscilla put her hand over her heart. “Father, you have scared the life right out of me!”

  Lord Chaplin chuckled. “Sorry, I did not know that my approach was so stealthy.”

  “It was more likely that my mind was simply elsewhere,” Priscilla said to apologise for her tone.

  Lord Chaplin gave her a warm smile and put his hand on her shoulder. “That is understandable. It is not every day that a young lady gets married.”

  Priscilla could not help but be curious as to why he had sought to stop her. “Was there something you needed?”

  “Merely a father’s whim to look upon his little girl,” Lord Chaplin said with a sigh. “I remember you and Bridgitte as children running up and down the halls. Your governess never could keep up with you. You would end up in the study, sitting on my knee and asking me about my papers.”

  Priscilla smiled as she too remembered those days. “I had forgotten that.”

  “It is amazing what nostalgia will make one remember,” Lord Chaplin said with a smile. “I suppose you are headed up to bed?”

  Priscilla nodded. “I will be headed that way in due time. I wanted to tell Bridgitte goodnight, and perhaps persuade her to reconsider her stance on the wedding.”

  “You two girls could not be more different,” Lord Chaplin commented with wonder. “Bridgitte reminds me a lot of your grandmother.”

  Priscilla nudged him with her elbow in his ribs. “Is that a bad thing?”

  “No,” Lord Chaplin said with a grin. “But she was a singular kind of woman who sometimes made you wish that you were anywhere else.”

  Priscilla giggled. “That sounds about right.”

  “I wish you the best of luck in your quest,” Lord Chaplin said grandly. He started to turn away but stopped. He looked at Priscilla and said in earnestness, “If she still refuses, do not let her spoil your day. It is your day, after all, not hers.”

  With his message given, Lord Chaplin gave her a small wave and bid her goodnight. Priscilla watched her father go toward the entrance hall where the stair landing was, and she pondered his words. They contained good advice. She had no idea if her mother would abide by them, but they were indeed very good advice.

  Priscilla hoped her mother would understand if things did not work out. However, her father’s words had made her think about when they were young. Priscilla had forgotten the picnics in the garden and games of hide and seek. She had forgotten the love she used to have for her sister before they began to obsess over how different they were.

  She wanted to have her sister back. She wanted to have Bridgitte by her side on her special day. Now, if only she could perhaps remind her of the same things that father reminded her of. It would not be easy, given that Bridgitte might have completely different memories of their childhood.

  Time distorts things, and Priscilla knew that Bridgitte being younger might make things different for her. Priscilla could even sometimes understand where her sister was coming from, but surely she had to see that her parents had a plan for her too. Priscilla getting married first did not negate Bridgitte getting married and being happy.

  The doorman was not at his post, and Priscilla wondered if he too were already in bed in the little room just off from the entrance hall where he resided. She made her way up the stairs.

  ***

  The insistent knocking at his door brought George fully awake. He opened the door to a rather flummoxed looking carriage driver. “Doctor George Rowley?”

  George nodded. “Yes, who is calling?”

  “I have been sent by my employer, the Earl of Chaplin, to come to fetch you, Sir. There has been a terrible accident.” The carriage driver was wringing his hat and shifting from foot to foot as if he was anxious, too anxious for this to be some sort of jest.

  George nodded again. “Just let me fetch my coat.” He shut the door and rushed upstairs, all the while pondering why the Earl of Chaplin had sent his driver to his door. Why not the physician he had on retainer? Surely the man had one.

  Once he had his coat and his bag in hand, George followed the fretful driver to his carriage while the man professed his thankfulness for George’s aid. Once he was in the carriage, George pondered what sort of accident it was. He began to worry that he would not have enough gauze or thread to stitch up large wounds. It must be worrisome for them to fetch a doctor in the middle of the night like this.

  He smoothed his hair down nervously. The streets of London were quiet tonight. It felt so surreal to be back in a carriage. How long had it been since he had been in a carriage?

  George checked his pocket watch. It was close to 11:00 pm. He had been asleep for a few hours. He was grateful that he had chosen to go home when he had, otherwise he might have had no sleep at all.

  The house they pulled up to was a large manor house. It must not have been far from the heart of London because the trip had been considerably shorter
than he thought it would be. No sooner had they stopped than the door was pulled open and the concerned face of an older gentleman came into view.

  “Doctor Rowley?” The man’s accent was not noble. He sounded very much like the people talked with down near the docks. By his dress, George took him to be the doorman.

  George nodded and accepted the man’s aid in exiting the carriage. “What sort of accident am I here about? I fear that I may not have enough thread to mend large wounds.”

  The doorman waved off his concern. “It is the Miss,” he said. “She has taken a fall down the stairs and hit her head.”

  The way the man said the word miss was filled with warmth and concern. It was clear that the man cared about his master’s daughter. George was worried at hearing about the girl’s head. “Her head, you say?” George asked as he followed the man up the front steps. “Has she been moved? Is she awake?”

  “We moved her into her room, Sir,” the doorman said almost apologetically. “Couldn’t leave her lying on the cold floor.” He shook his head. “She isn’t awake, Sir.”

  George frowned. “Very well. I shall need to see her at once. I shall need the mother and a female maid to assist me. How old is the child?”

  “She’s a full-grown lady, Sir,” The doorman’s smile was sad. “Tomorrow was her wedding day.”

  George put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I shall do all I can for her. Would you lead me to the room?”

  “I can do that,” a gentleman said as George stepped into the entrance hall. This was a true gentleman, George judged by his clothes, and by his worried expression he was the father, George wagered.

  “Your Lordship,” George said with a slight bow.

  The man waved off the formality. “Follow me. I believe her lady’s maid and her mother are already with her.”

  George followed the man up the stairs. There was something about the house that was vaguely familiar, the way all manor houses were that had been built in certain years. Yes, it reminded him vaguely of home.

  Down the hallway, George could hear the sound of women. It was the sound that had greeted him often with worried mothers and grandmothers standing watch over sick children. In the room, he saw three women standing around the prone form on the bed: a red-haired maid, an older blonde-haired woman, and a young blonde woman.

  George allowed the Earl to make introductions before he took control of the room. “I know this has been a trying night. I must insist that all except the mother and the young lady’s maid leave the room so that I can work unhindered.”

  The Earl did not look fond of this but he assented with a nod. “I shall be just outside,” he told Lady Chaplin.

  Lady Chaplin gave him a weak smile. She turned to the younger blonde woman. “Go on, Bridgitte.”

  George bowed his head to his patient’s sister as she left with her father. Then he turned back to the two women waiting by the bed. “Now, does she have any other injuries besides her head?”

  “Not that we saw, Sir,” the maid said hastily. “We tried to check her over as best as we could. We only saw the gash on her head.”

  George nodded and came over to the side of the bed. The two women huddled together on the other side of the bed, watching him closely. He looked over the gash. It was deep, but he was worried about other injuries.

  He took out his stethoscope and listened to her breathing, her heart. He opened her eyelids and looked at her eyes. George stood up to stretch his back. “She sounds good. Her color is good.”

  George bent back over and ran his hands under her neck, feeling for anything out of place. He moved her arms and legs. He could see that she had been undressed and placed into a nightgown. A dress lay crumpled to the side with a bloodstain on it.

  “You saw no bruises or red spots on her when you were changing her?” George eyed the women and they both shook their heads. “I think she just knocked herself unconscious, but it is a very deep gash. I can put some stitches in the cut.”

  He sighed and looked at the mother. “There is a chance that she has injured her brain. With a fall like this, it is not out of the question. How far down the stairs did she fall?”

  “We are not sure,” Lady Chaplin said. “We just heard her scream. Bridgitte was closest but she was in hysterics and just kept saying that she saw her fall.”

  George nodded. “We will know more when she wakes. I shall stay here for the night and watch over her.”

  “That is very kind of you. Lady Tate said you were a wonderful physician,” Lady Chaplin said with relief. “Our regular doctor is out of town and we did not know who else to try.”

  Well, that solves that mystery, George thought. Lady Tate had told them of him. “Well, I am glad Lady Tate thought to mention me. She is a lovely woman.”

  “Do you need a room?” Lady Chaplin asked.

  George shook his head. He looked around. “Just a chair that is comfortable, as I do not want to leave her alone in case she wakes up in the middle of the night. She is likely to be very confused and possibly frightened.”

  Lady Chaplin put her fingers to her mouth as if she were just now thinking of that. “You are right. She will be so scared to wake up all alone. I shall stay with you.”

  “A friendly face would be best,” George agreed. “After all, she might think I am some kidnapper and not a doctor if she does not remember the fall.”

  ***

  The first thing Priscilla noticed when she woke up was that she hurt. It was not as if she had laid wrong the night before, it was as if she had been trampled by a herd of horses. It felt like the first time she had fallen off a horse at full gallop.

  She tried to sit up but the room tilted and she grabbed hold of the sheets. “Oooh,” she groaned as she grabbed her head.

  “Easy,” a warm baritone voice said beside her. Priscilla blinked her eyes back open where she had squinted them shut when the room started spinning. “Lie back down and give yourself time to wake up properly,” the soothing voice said.

  There were two figures above her, urging her to lie down. Once she was lying down again the figures came into focus. “Gwen,” Priscilla whispered. “My head hurts.”

  Gwen nodded. “I know, Miss. You hit it awful hard.”

  “What?” Priscilla wanted to shake her head. Or was she already shaking her head? The room seemed to be moving again. “I feel so sick.”

  The man beside the bed took the stethoscope out from around his neck. He was a doctor? Their doctor was an older man. This man was young, very young. Priscilla looked at him as he leaned over her. “Just try to breathe normally.”

  She tried, but she could see him clearly now. She knew this man. She knew him. It was that handsome man from the ball that she had seen but never talked to. How lucky she was to have a chance to finally talk to him. “I know you,” she whispered.

  “Do you?” He gave her a confused look and then smiled. “I am Doctor George Rowley.” Priscilla wanted to introduce herself, but she stumbled over her own name and blushed. He did not seem to notice, “Do you remember what happened?” She shook her head and winced at the pain it brought. “What is the last thing that happened that you can remember?”

  Priscilla frowned. It was all so fuzzy. When she tried to think her head hurt. She put her hand on her forehead and felt the bandage there. “It hurts to think.”

  “Just try a little,” the doctor said coaxingly.

  Sure, she would try a little. She would try anything he asked. Priscilla gave him a smile. “I remember being in the dressmaker’s shop and getting my dresses for Season. I picked out a green one that I really liked.”