Some of the local churches had charities that sought to reach out and help the poor, but so often those efforts did not extend into the slums. George knew of only one barrister who volunteered time to help win any allowances for the tenants there, and he was a man of staunch beliefs that George had only become acquainted with due to their frequenting the same households.
George let his thoughts run where they would. There was no point in trying to rein them in. He was soon enough knocking on the door to the building where the Stantons lived. Once a mason, the husband had fallen ill. Mrs. Stanton met him at the door, frail and tired.
“Doctor Rowley, I was hoping you’d make it by. Lawrence is doing a might awful today.” She waved him in, and George caught sight of the dirty strips of cloth wrapped around her hand to protect herself from the machines at the factory.
George frowned. “Did you just get home?”
She nodded. “Bout to leave out again, but glad you came before my next shift starts.”
“Will there be anyone here to sit with Lawrence?” George was already pulling the cough syrup free of his bag as he followed her into the decrepit house.
Mrs. Stanton nodded. “My youngest will be here. He’s eight and can handle most things.”
George nodded. The boy probably could handle giving a bit of medicine. He handled working in the factories, after all. George did not like the idea of children working so, but he knew how on the brink such families were. They constantly teetered on the edge of losing their homes, each other, and being tossed into government programs to make use of them.
George took out the bottle and handed it over to Mrs. Stanton. “He’ll need one spoonful every few hours. Might be best to wait for coughing to start so that you know he needs it.”
Mrs. Stanton nodded and clenched her hand around the bottle as if it were so precious that she did not dare drop it. “Lawrence,” Mrs. Stanton called into the dimly lit room they had approached.
“Ah, Lisa, I’m still breathing,” called a hoarse voice.
Mrs. Stanton chuckled, but George heard the crack in her voice as she replied, “Never thought you’d give up the ghost so easily. Stubborn old thing that you are.”
The lamp, which was barely flickering, was set so low that it did not burn much fuel, giving the room a dim ethereal glow. Mrs. Stanton hurried over and turned the knob on the side of the lamp. The flame leaped up and flickered grandly as it got a taste of fuel for the first time in a long while.
“Doctor Rowley,” Mrs. Stanton said in a dry, cracked voice. The man’s hair was flat against his head, held there by dirt and sweat. The hand he held out was dirty and callused.
George did not hesitate to take the man’s hand. He grasped Mr. Stanton’s hand in a firm grip. “Even on your sickbed, your grip is stronger than mine, Mr. Stanton.”
“You and your joshing never change. We both know I’m weaker than a malnourished kitten.” Mr. Stanton gave George a well-worn grin for his efforts.
Mrs. Stanton shook her head. “Don’t go giving the doctor a hard time. He walked all this way to bring ya some cough syrup.”
“And a fine man, Doctor Rowley is,” Mr. Stanton said as he put his hand sincerely over his heart. “Too fine a man to mess about with the likes of us.”
George shook his head. “Not fine enough to be in your presence. Now, I told your wife that you should get a spoonful of that syrup every few hours, or as soon as you start coughing. She said your boy would be looking after you tonight.”
“Oh aye, Noel will be here with me. He’s a quiet one, but he has a good head on his shoulders. You tell him something one time and that boy will remember.” Mr. Stanton beamed with pride. “Where’s the boy?” He looked over at his wife.
Mrs. Stanton said, “I’ll go fetch him. You just rest and let the doctor listen to ya.”
Mr. Stanton accepted his wife’s words good-naturedly and settled back against the stained pillows as George took his stethoscope out of his bag. Once Mrs. Stanton was gone, George asked, “So, how are you feeling?”
“Useless,” Mr. Stanton said with a grin. His face contorted and he started coughing. George braced the man with a hand on his shoulder.
George whispered, “Easy. Try to not cough up both of your lungs.”
“Aye,” Mr. Stanton chortled in a strangled voice. He breathed in a ragged breath. “They do tend to work better on the inside, or so I’ve been told.”
George smiled. “You have been told correctly. I dare say they may not do you any good at all on the outside of your body.”
“Better to keep them in then,” Mr. Stanton sighed.
George fetched a spoon off a tray that set on the bedside table and poured out a spoonful of the cough syrup that Mrs. Stanton had left behind. “Here. Take this.”
Mr. Stanton eagerly accepted the bitter-tasting syrup. George saw the man visibly relax at the taste. He had given Mr. Stanton the medicine before and the association was a strong thing. George breathed a sigh of relief himself as he saw the man relax, his breathing calm. “Thank ya, Doc.”
***
Priscilla tried over the next few days to put the situation with her sister out of her head. After all, what if she were truly just making a mountain out of a molehill? Doctor Rowley seemed busy with his other patients as well, which did nothing for Priscilla’s mood.
Gwen came into the room, a bustle of rustling skirts and the scent of lilies. “Your mother asked after you.”
“Did she?” Priscilla did not mean to sound so glum, but the idea of talking with her mother was about as pleasant having her teeth removed without anything to soften the pain.
Gwen giggled. “It is a good thing she’s not hiding by the door. I think she might have taken offense to the way you said that.”
“I do not mean to be so irritable,” Priscilla said with a sigh. “I just do not know of anything pleasing that my mother would wish to speak to me about.”
Gwen offered, “She might just want to check and see how you feel?
“I suppose,” Priscilla said, instantly feeling like a horrible daughter for her thoughts. “Lately it seems all she wishes to speak to me about is, well, things I do not wish to speak about.”
Gwen sat down on the bed next to Priscilla. She put her hand on Priscilla’s shoulder. “I thought she was quite settled with the idea of postponing the marriage.”
“Maybe she is. She just tends to bring up love and how it helped her through so many things,” Priscilla said with a frown. “I would adore talking to Mother of love and how much it has helped me, but I do not think she would appreciate the subject of that talk.”
Gwen gave her a smile. “Doctor Rowley comes from a good family. He is also a nobleman unto himself. Do you honestly think your mother would be so hung up on Lord Ridlington’s rank?”
“I honestly do think just that, Gwen,” Priscilla said ardently.
Gwen dropped her hand back to her lap and gave Priscilla a concerned look. “I think it folly to worry over something that is nothing to worry over just yet.”
“I suppose,” Priscilla agreed hesitantly. “I just wish I knew what the words of sister and Lord Ridlington really meant.”
With a sigh, Gwen stood up. “I thought ya were set on following em all over creation?”
“Yes, well, my sister has gone nowhere other than to the library to fetch a book for the past few days. I fear she may know that I am watching her.” Priscilla lay back on the bed with a dramatic exhale of her breath.
Gwen chuckled. “Then all you need do is stop watching her for a bit and she’ll think she’s got the better of ya.”
“That is not a bad idea.” Priscilla nodded as she thought it over. “Not a bad idea at all. Plus, I’m probably not the stealthiest person.”
Gwen gave her a grin. “I think you can get around pretty well by yourself these days.”
“Better than before, certainly,” Priscilla acknowledged.
Gwen went to the wardrobe and laid out Priscilla’s
nightclothes. “You think you’ll want your woolen dressing gown?”
“The mornings have been a bit chilly,” Priscilla said with a nod.
She changed into her bedclothes with Gwen’s aid and then she sat down to comb out her hair. Gwen chattered on about her children. Priscilla did not mind. She enjoyed hearing about her home life. How different Gwen’s life was to hers.
It sounded lovely really. Gwen grinned into the vanity mirror as she told Priscilla, “I do think my youngest is going to end up in chains somewhere, but if I can keep him on the good path, he’ll be a fine man.”
Priscilla giggled. “He sounds like he will be a force to be reckoned with that one.”
“Much like his father,” Gwen said with a nod.
Priscilla turned slightly to look at Gwen. “I was thinking that it sounded a lot like you.”
Gwen chortled with laughter. “Maybe that’s where the child’s stars got crossed. Maybe he got it from both sides and the angels didn’t know what to do with that much fire.”
They laughed together and Priscilla sighed in contentment as she slid the brush through her brown locks. It was nice to just relax. She had been so wound up for so long it felt like everything in her was ready to burst apart most days.
“Thank you, Gwen,” Priscilla said softly.
Gwen’s eyebrows rose. “For what?”
“For talking to me as a friend. For simply being with me here and not making me feel a fool or a leech.” Priscilla felt her eyes moisten. “I feel foolish for crying, but I just appreciate sharing space with you.”
Gwen came over and wrapped Priscilla in a warm hug that smelled vaguely of lilies and cinnamon. Priscilla hugged Gwen around her waist. “You never have to thank a friend for their presence, Miss.”
Priscilla laughed. “Yet you call me Miss.”
“Well, it is almost a nickname between us, isn’t it?” Gwen gave her a wink as she stepped back over to her work of putting away the clothes for the day and tidying.
Priscilla nodded. “I suppose it is.”
Gwen gathered up the things that needed to be taken away. She turned back to Priscilla with a smile. “You need me to bring you some warm milk?”
“No. I think I shall get to sleep just fine,” Priscilla said with a grateful smile.
With a smile, Gwen ducked out of the room, and Priscilla was left with the sounds of crickets from through the window that was still slightly cracked. She eased over to the window and smiled at the twinkling stars. She bent down to shut the window, but as she did so she saw a figure step off into the garden. Bridgitte.
Priscilla made sure her dressing gown was in place properly and slipped her feet into her soft shoes. The hallway outside was deceptively quiet, for Priscilla knew that the staff was still about getting the house ready to sleep.
She walked as quickly and as quietly as she could down the stairs. Her eyes went to the doorman’s normal position, but his chair was empty. She let out a sigh of relief that he had already gone to bed.
Priscilla quickened her pace once she was near the back door. She slipped through the patio door and hurried along in the direction that Bridgitte had been going in. Surely her sister was not going to meet up with Philip again.
There was only one way to find out, and Priscilla quickened her pace. She instantly regretted wearing her soft shoes as the stones bit into her feet. She could not choose her footing wisely in the dark, and she had to put her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out at the sharp jabs.
Finally, she heard voices not far ahead. She eased well off the path, into the bushes. She did not need to see them. She could hear that it was Philip and her sister. Their voices came seeping through the hedgerow that Priscilla knelt down next to behind a large rose that hid her very well, in case Bridgitte came that way to get back to the house. She keened her ears to listen.
“This is ridiculous,” Philip hissed. “Why did you beckon me here? We were almost caught last time!”
Brigitte gave a brittle laugh. “Almost? Who's to say we were not caught? Priscilla has been watching me like a hawk. I cannot bear it any longer, Philip!”
There was a sharp intake of breath, Priscilla assumed from Philip. “Are you certain that she saw us talking?”
“Yes, Philip,” Bridgitte said in a low voice. “She came to me about overhearing us talking.”
Priscilla could hear the scowl in Philip’s voice when he asked, “And what did you say?”
“I convinced her it was about a wedding present, of all things,” Bridgitte huffed. “Do not smile, Philip. I do not like lying.”
He chuckled. “For someone who does not like lying, you do it well.”
“Let go of me,” Bridgitte said, her voice grumpy.
Philip’s voice was low, coaxing. “Come now, Bridgitte, you know you do not hate me enough to scorn me.”
“I do not,” she said with a sigh. “But I cannot keep this up, Philip. It is bad enough that she caught us once, but now twice. It goes to show that this is not something we can hide. We may as well tell them now.”
Priscilla felt a strange sensation wash over her. This was familiar. The world seemed to shift and she saw those stairs, that night.
Priscilla had been on her way to get Bridgitte to agree one way or another to join the wedding party. Yet when she had reached Bridgitte’s room she had found her sister, her own sister, wrapped up in a passionate embrace with Philip. They had startled apart but Priscilla had seen them.
She could hear Bridgitte calling out to her, but she had turned, so quickly she had turned. Her foot caught on the carpeting and she fell. Priscilla did not even recall the sound of her own screaming; she just fell. And then there was nothingness.
She came to some time later. She did not know how long it had been. A fine sweat covered Priscilla’s skin and she lay where she had fallen back against the hedgerow, thankfully still out of sight.
The realisation of where she was did nothing to stop the crash of emotions that washed over her. No wonder she had not wanted to remember, had not wanted to trust Philip. All the little pieces fell into place and then Priscilla crumbled.
Tears slid out of her eyes and she wrapped her arms around herself as she cried silently in the night, the rose thorns tugging at her skirt, the hedge tangled in her hair. What she would give to not remember now? Oh, she would give anything to not remember.
It took a long while before she could calm herself enough to remember the two people she had been listening to. She listened to the night but heard no sounds. Priscilla tentatively untangled herself from the plants and stood up on shaking legs. She walked cautiously toward the house, her wounded pride and heels making her limp along slowly.
She saw no one. The house was dark and she eased back in the patio door. As she was coming down the hallway she saw the familiar form of Doctor Rowley. He looked like he was coming back down the stairs. Had he been to check on her?
“Doctor Rowley,” she called softly. Priscilla was not sure if he was alone, and she had no interest in drawing attention to herself as she was.
He turned toward the sound of his name and his mouth fell open. “Miss Morton,” he gasped. He looked around and then hurried over to her. “Are you well?”
“I was in the garden and I fell,” Priscilla lied. Tears pooled up in her eyes.
Doctor Rowley gasped. “Would it be permissible for me to carry you the rest of the way to your room?”
The Awakening 0f A Forbidden Passion (Historical Regency Romance) Page 24