Twisting, he dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward. His right arm would not take much weight, but using his left side, he was able to get to his feet. It was thrilling, which was simultaneously demoralizing; he was only standing, yet it seemed like a monumental accomplishment. He had not felt this good in months. Though weakened by bedrest, Graham could feel a new vitality coursing through him. His cane sat beside the bed, but he ignored it. He might have needed it before the last procedure, but his leg felt stronger now.
Taking a step forward, Graham was elated when his legs kept him upright. His right had a pulsing ache, and he was wobbling and unsteady, but they held him. It was a far cry from what was needed in order to stand on a heaving, wave-tossed ship, but he was better than he had been in weeks. Progress.
Another step forward and Graham drew closer to the door.
And then the muscles in his right leg spasmed, clenching in excruciating pain and gave way. Graham toppled to the floor, landing on his bad arm, which sent more stabs of agony through him.
***
“You should cut them smaller,” said Mrs. Bunting, picking up a piece of Tabby’s vegetables. “Larger pieces, longer cook time.”
Tabby looked at her cutting board and her pile of sliced potatoes. It had seemed right to her, but glancing over at the cook’s own board, Tabby saw that they were at least twice the size of Mrs. Bunting’s. Nodding, she set about recutting her ingredients. Cooking was not as easy as it seemed at first glance. It took more skill than throwing ingredients into a pot, but Tabby found herself enjoying the process. There was something so satisfying about taking all these random bits and making them into something delicious.
A loud thump sounded on the ceiling, followed by a bellowing shout so excruciating that Tabby felt a sympathetic pain. Abandoning her cooking, Tabby rushed for the stairs and hurried into Captain Ashbrook’s bedchamber. He was collapsed on the floor, his jaw gritted as sweat gathered on his red face. After the initial shout, he was silent, but Tabby could see that it was because of his own force of will and not because he was unharmed.
“Sir!” She crouched beside him, uncertain of what to do. He needed to be moved back into bed, but after such a fall, he would need a moment to regain himself before she attempted it. She turned her head to call for James, but Captain Ashbrook grabbed her hand with his good one and shook his head.
Kneeling beside him, Tabby held his trembling hand; his nightshirt was drenched with sweat by the time his grip loosened. She held her breath until he relaxed, his head resting against the floor as his lungs heaved.
Sensing it was time, Tabby helped him upright, and with some effort, they were able to get him off the ground and into his bed. Once he was settled, Tabby’s irritation grew until she could contain it no longer.
“What were you thinking?” she asked, standing over him with hands on her hips. “You could have done yourself a harm!”
“It seemed a good idea at the time,” said Captain Ashbrook with a shaky voice. “If I wish to make progress, I must take risks.”
Tabby grabbed a clean rag on the nightstand and wiped his brow clean. “Being assertive is one thing, and being foolhardy is another. What if I hadn’t heard you fall? Or if you had cracked your head on the bedpost or nightstand? You should have called me, and I could have been here to help keep you from hurting yourself further. Let me get you some medicine.”
She moved for the door, but Captain Ashbrook growled, “I do not need medicine. I need to get better.”
Crossing her arms, she turned to him. “Medicine is how you get better.” Captain Ashbrook gave her a dark scowl, but she only raised her eyebrows. “You are being disagreeable again.”
His scowl deepened for a moment before it shifted, turning inward. With a sigh, he let his head fall onto his pillow. “I apologize. I need to get better, and this slow pace is so infuriating. It is so infernally boring being confined to bed all the day long.”
At that, Tabby had a brilliant upon brilliant idea. One that she should have thought of sooner. Lifting a single finger, she went in search of entertainment.
*
Disagreeable. Graham could not believe that this was what he had become. Surly. Ill-tempered. Snipping at everyone. Graham had never shied away from being stern or strict—it was paramount on a ship—but that was different from cruel or mean-spirited. But Graham did not know how to contain the frustration and helplessness he felt at the situation; run aground and surrounded by people who did not understand his desperation to get himself afloat.
He must heal and return to the sea. It was his life. His heart and soul belonged there. To be ashore for so long was torturous, and he did not know how much more of it he could bear.
Simon may lecture him over his behavior, but Graham knew he would not be so passive if Avebury Park were threatened; to be powerless and confined while the world he had built fell apart. With each sennight and month, Graham’s life at sea was floating farther away. A man cannot lose something so important and be expected to smile and spout pleasantries.
Graham needed to get better, and that fall had done more than bruise his body. For all his elation at the first few steps, it came crashing down in a trice. And not in a metaphorical sense. His body was still broken, and his dreams were far out of reach.
The door opened again and Mrs. Russell crossed to the bed, carrying a deck of cards. Graham sighed and laid his head on the pillows. An afternoon of playing a bunch of ladies’ games was not at all what he wanted or needed. Pulling a chair close to his side, Mrs. Russell smoothed out a section of the bedcover, nudging Graham’s legs to facilitate the cards.
“What is your game?” she asked.
Graham raised his eyebrows. “You propose spending an afternoon playing cribbage?”
Mrs. Russell fanned out the cards with one hand while dropping a small purse onto his lap with the other. “I was thinking more along the lines of ecarte or piquet. Perhaps vingt-et-un.”
Graham gave a huff of laughter. “And what would you know of such things?”
Mrs. Russell looked at him with her mahogany eyes, her lids lowering while her spine straightened. “I know plenty about such things. I was taught well.”
“Yes, because all ladies are taught dance, embroidery, and how to fleece young men in gaming clubs.”
Mrs. Russell turned the cards in her hands, her fingers cutting the deck and shuffling them together with a dexterity and skill Graham had seldom seen. “My husband spent a lot of time in such places and taught me well, sir, and for all your mockery, you have not answered my question. Soldiers and sailors are notorious for gambling away the hours, so which game do you favor?”
“You wish to lose your wages to me?” he asked.
A smile crept across Mrs. Russell’s lips. “You are assuming that you will win. Do you wish to test your mettle against a lady?”
Graham reached for the purse with his right hand but stopped when his bicep pinched. Mrs. Russell saw it, but bless the woman, she said nothing. Graham switched tacks and reached with his left hand. Inside was a mound of pennies, and he smiled.
“Penny stakes?”
Mrs. Russell gave him an arched eyebrow. “I do not wish to beggar you, sir.”
Graham actually felt like chuckling. And he did. A little moment of mirth that the residual pains from his fall did not care for, but it warmed Graham’s soul. Even for someone labeled as “disagreeable”.
“All right, madam,” he said, dumping out the purse. “Let us start with piquet and work from there.”
Mrs. Russell organized her own pile of coins on her portion of the bedspread and dealt their hands. Graham moved slowly, struggling to hold the cards, place his wagers, and play.
“Try holding them with your right,” said Mrs. Russell. “It does not require dexterity to do so, and it could be a good exercise for that side.”
Graham did as she bid and found she was correct. It was a struggle to get his damaged hand to keep hold of them, but with a f
ew softly spoken prompts, Mrs. Russell had him sorted out to the point where he could play.
And then she trounced him. Soundly.
Every time Graham thought he had the upper hand, she out-maneuvered him, and his pile of pennies shriveled and died while hers grew healthy and stout. It would be infuriating if she weren’t so amusing as she did so. Mrs. Russell had a dry wit, making just the right remarks about the card play to set him smiling. He could see her jests coming by the way her dimples peeked out at him. They were faint little things. Hardly noticeable at first glance and quickly overshadowed when the laughter reached her eyes and wrinkled her nose.
Graham watched the lady, speculating over the turn of fate that had driven her to become the caretaker for a dour invalid. It was clear she was a lady of breeding. Her accent and deportment were evidence of that. Yet, here she was in service. As all housekeepers were called Mrs., the title was not a clear sign of her marital status, but Mrs. Russell had mentioned a husband, so she had been married at one time or other.
A penniless widow. A genteel lady beggared upon her husband’s death. Such things happened, and it would certainly explain Mrs. Russell’s reduced circumstances.
It was beyond Graham’s comprehension that a husband could leave his wife so unprotected and desperate. Setting aside a contingency in case of death was the first thing a responsible gentleman did after his marriage. To provide was a husband’s premier responsibility, and Graham could not understand the arrogance behind not planning for his wife’s future. No one lives forever, and it was foolish to assume one would always be around to do one’s duty.
Mr. Russell had perished, leaving Mrs. Russell to fend for herself, and the genteel lady had been forced to surrender her former life and status to become a drudge. That bothered Graham. It would be difficult enough to lose one’s spouse, but to have one’s life so upended must be grueling. Only to be made worse by her unpleasant patient.
“Why are you so determined to continue injuring yourself?” she asked, glancing from her cards as she played yet another killing blow.
“Pardon?” Graham placed his own card, though he knew this hand was a lost cause.
“The surgeries.” Mrs. Russell sifted through her cards and spoke with a tone that was neither demanding nor accusatory.
Graham clenched his jaw. “That is none of your concern.”
Mrs. Russell nodded and played another card. They continued on in silence for a few minutes while Graham waited for her to push the matter, but she did not. She was neither perturbed by his temper nor did she demand answers. Mrs. Russell simply asked the question and let it go. In many ways, it was more effective than if she had pestered him, for that would have allowed Graham to hold onto his righteous indignation at such an invasion into his privacy.
“What, no retort?” he asked.
Mrs. Russell looked up from her cards. “Do you wish for one?”
“Not particularly, but after our last clash of wills, I expected more of a reaction.”
“That was about keeping you healthy and maintaining my position,” said Mrs. Russell. “This is simply curiosity. I asked because I wish to understand your situation so that I might better help you. If you choose to not tell me, that is your prerogative. I can fulfill my duties without your answer.”
The way she spoke was distant, and Graham missed the camaraderie that had blossomed between them. A grown man in need a friend. How pitiful. But true nonetheless. He loved his sister and brother-in-law, but they were occupied with their own lives. They spent spare moments with him, but most of their days were taken up with their duties at Avebury Park and now with becoming parents. He spent his days in bed, healing. He could not even hold a book for long or write letters. His time was spent in quiet solitude.
But as Graham thought on that, he realized it was his own fault. In the beginning, Mina and Simon had spent a fair bit of time with him. And Nicholas and Louisa-Margaretta had brought their children for visits. Even Ambrose had torn himself away from London on several occasions. There were people who wished to help him, but he had driven them away with his foul moods. And now, he was doing the same with Mrs. Russell.
Graham sighed and put down the cards. Mrs. Russell watched him with questioning eyes but said nothing.
“I’m being a boor again, aren’t I?”
Mrs. Russell’s eyes widened, her lips twisting into a smile. “Truthfully?”
“I suppose that is my answer.” Graham took a breath. “I apologize. Once again.”
Mrs. Russell gathered her cards into a stack and held them in her hands. “In less than a sennight, I have received not one but two apologies from a gentleman. I must consult the Book of Revelations, for I believe that may be one of the signs of the Last Days.”
“That is not a kind assessment of my sex,” said Graham.
Mrs. Russell’s gaze broke from his, turning to her cards. “It is not in the nature of men to admit their shortcomings.”
Nothing changed in her posture, but little cues—the tightening of her shoulders and the pursing of her lips—made Graham suspect that there was a world of emotion behind those few words, which made Graham feel for her. No, it was not fair for him to add to her burden.
“I suppose that depends on the man,” said Graham, “but I hope that I am not that intractable. And I do hope you will accept my apology. Or rather, apologies.”
Mrs. Russell’s tension faded, and she fanned out her cards once again. “I suppose that depends on whether or not you intend to do better. An apology implies penitence, and unless it is paired with action it is nothing more than lip service.”
“So you accept my apology but with conditions?” asked Graham, retrieving the cards from his lap. It took a bit of work, but he got them into his right hand. “That seems a bit unjust.”
“So is blaming others for that which is neither their fault nor in their control.”
“Touché.”
Mrs. Russell added a few more pennies to her wager. “But if you work on your shortcoming, perhaps I can, too.”
Graham chuckled. “It is a deal, madam. And I think it is time to abandon piquet and try my luck at ecarte.”
Mrs. Russell gave a low chuckle as she gathered the cards, her dimples making an appearance. At his questioning glance, she replied, “I am even better at ecarte.”
“I have been warned,” he said with an answering grin. “Deal the cards.”
Chapter 9
“Do you feel the texture? It’s time to add the water,” said Mrs. Bunting as Tabby dug her fingers into the mixing bowl.
Tabby had flour all over her arms and apron, and likely on her face, too, though she could not see the damage for herself. Slowly, she added the water to the crumbly mixture until it formed the dough for her crust.
Her mother would be mortified to see her daughter doing such menial labor, but Tabby adored cooking. It was slow progress, but with each lesson, she gained more knowledge and skill, and Tabby had managed to make not one but two deliciously edible meals. The next time she was home, Tabby would make Phillip a pork pie. It was his favorite and something that had been beyond their pocketbook for some time, but a homemade one was an affordable treat for the lad. Tabby could hardly wait.
Life was far from perfect, but it rarely was. However, at this moment, Tabby felt quite content with her lot. If Phillip could be with her, it would be perfect, but beyond that, Tabby had little reason to complain. There were aspects of being on a lower rung of society that Tabby found preferable to her previous position; she was learning new skills and talents that had previously been denied her, and Tabby reveled in the silver lining this cloud had produced.
But then the calm morning air was broken by the maid’s sobs. Flying into the kitchen, Jillian dropped the breakfast tray onto the table and covered her mouth to stifle the noises, but Tabby saw fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Wiping the flour off her hands, Tabby ushered the girl to the table while Mrs. Bunting produced a sweet to calm her nerves.
/> Then Tabby went “once more unto the breach”, as her father was fond of saying.
Captain Ashbrook was in a foul mood again. It had been a fortnight without a spark of temper, but the lull was over, and Tabby knew it was time to do battle once more. Cleaning off the flour as well as she could, Tabby scooped up the tray Jillian had abandoned and went straight to the captain’s bedchamber. When she opened the door, she found him in bed, his eyes staring at the ceiling.
“Someone is being a bear this morning,” she said, placing the tray on the table next to the bed and taking the seat beside him. Perhaps it was a bit too informal for a housekeeper to sit without being asked, but with as much time as she spent with the captain, it felt foolish to stand on ceremony.
“Bear?” Captain Ashbrook straightened and furrowed his brow. “What is your meaning?”
“Are you claiming that Jillian burst into tears for no reason?” Tabby crossed her arms, but Captain Ashbrook looked positively perplexed.
“She came in with the tray and placed it on my lap, but I asked her to move it there,” he said, motioning to a side table.
Tabby tried to hide her smile, but from the narrowing of his eyes, she hadn’t done a good job of it. “Did you ask or bark?”
“It was a normal statement with no meanness of spirit to it,” he said. “She must be a sensitive soul, but if she took offense, that is her concern, not mine.”
Tabby pictured what Captain Ashbrook’s “statement” had been. She had been on the receiving end of such commands many times since coming to work at Gladwell House, and there was a definite harshness to them. “You have been at sea too long, sir. On land, we do not need to raise our voices to be heard above the roar of the waves or to keep an unruly crew in place.”
“I am not as bad as all that.”
“Jillian would beg to differ,” said Tabby.
A True Gentleman (Regency Love Book 2) Page 7