A True Gentleman (Regency Love Book 2)

by M. A. Nichols

  Tabby’s stomach convulsed with each cry. She tried to block the sounds from her mind, but they broke through her defenses, stabbing at her heart. Looking at the knife in her hand, images filled her mind of the surgeon’s tools that were slicing into Captain Ashbrook’s broken body. Even with a floor between her and the makeshift operating chamber, Tabby could hear his whimpers. The kitchen knife clattered to the table, and she tore off her apron and rushed out into the garden.

  But there was no respite to be found. Tabby felt each of the captain’s cries as if the butcher were cutting into her flesh. Dropping to the bench, she covered her face, hiding the tears that coursed down her cheeks. The pain was too much for her. Listening to anyone’s agony would be tortuous, but with it being someone so dear to her, it was excruciating.

  And he was very dear to her.

  Though his family paid Tabby to attend him, she had grown fond of Captain Ashbrook. She had never considered a gentleman a friend before, but she could not deny that she thought of him as such. After all, she had spent more time with Captain Ashbrook in these short weeks than she had with anyone else in the past year. Hours of reading together, conversing. She may care for his physical needs, but they shared a bond that was greater than caretaker and charge.

  Tabby could not stand the thought that he was in such pain at that very moment. That no matter how foolhardy she thought this plan, there was nothing she could do to stop that charlatan of a surgeon from going about his work.

  Dropping her head, Tabby allowed the tears to flow for her friend and said a silent prayer on his behalf.

  Captain Ashbrook let out a painful groan, the sound lingering in the air long after he’d gone silent. Getting to her feet, Tabby paced the garden, searching for any way to distance herself from the bloodshed happening inside the house. But she could not abandon her post, and there was no respite from the captain’s pained cries.

  Blast the stubborn man for putting them both through this torment.

  ***

  Heat engulfed him, blazing through Graham’s body. His eyes felt like they were boiling in his head. Sweat soaked his sheets, but he couldn’t move to push them away. In the darkness, the sounds of shouts and splintering wood blasted his ears. Voices were speaking, but he couldn’t make out their meaning. The room around him exploded, shards of wood stabbing into him, ripping his body to shreds.

  “Lieutenant, make it stop!” wailed little Ian. He would recognize that voice anywhere. The young midshipman who’d been under his command back when Graham had been nothing but Lieutenant Ashbrook. Then the boy appeared, lying on that bloody table as the ship’s surgeon hacked at his arm. Blood coated the table and floor, covering them all.

  The boy thrashed and screamed, rolling off the table and crawling towards Graham. He bent to help, but when he turned the lad over, it was Lieutenant Willis’s face, his mouth gaping as he fought for his last breath. But his feature rearranged to form yet another poor soul he’d served with who had perished in the never-ending battles. Shifting and twisting, the distorted creature tugged at Graham’s legs, and he screamed, kicking at it.

  Rearing away, Graham ran through the darkness. The air pulsed with heat until he felt like he would melt into the floorboards. He slogged through the mist that wrapped around him, pulling at his limbs. Onward, he fought, looking for any escape from those demons.

  And then a light appeared from above, illuminating a bed that sat just feet from him. In the center lay his mother, her dark russet hair cascading across the pillows, the bedclothes pulled tight across her chest. Her skin was pale, tinged with blue, and her eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, her lifeless babe tucked into the crook of her arm.

  “Mother?” he called for her, but before Graham reached the bedside, the ground opened up, swallowing it into the earth below. Dirt poured in, filling it as the bed sunk deeper. And then his mother’s eyes opened.

  “‘Tis as it should be, Graham,” she said, clutching her daughter utmost serenity as the dirt trickled in on top of her.

  Moments later, there was no sign she had ever been there. Graham fell to his knees, digging at the ground frantically. His nails scraped the soil, cutting into his hands, but no matter how long he worked, the hole never deepened.

  Sweat streamed down his skin, filling his eyes, and Graham swiped at it, but he couldn’t see. His lungs sucked in a breath, but he couldn’t breathe. His arms and legs shook, collapsing beneath him. Graham twitched, fighting to control his body, but it would not respond. And the ground began to sink. His eyes watched the edges of the hole deepen until he was surrounded by dirt walls. They tumbled inwards, covering his hands and feet.

  Graham screamed, but his mouth would not open. His soul shrieked as he willed his arms to move, but not a single muscle twitched. There was nothing he could do as the soil inched up his body. He fought it, pushed himself, strained against it, but the dirt covered his face and swallowed him whole.

  And then he heard the singing. A faint hum in the blackness that wrapped around his heart, calming it.

  Tabby.

  Cold hit his forehead, and rivulets of water ran down his temples. The feel of it made him sigh. It disappeared, and Graham turned his head to find it. But there was nothing. Nothing but burning emptiness.

  Another tune wound its way through the air, soothing him, and another press of cool, damp cloth touched his forehead, resting for a moment before moving to his cheeks and neck. Everywhere it touched was a little piece of paradise. But it was the sound that brought Graham the most peace. Tabby was there.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He needed her to know that. “I should have listened to you.”

  The dream tugged at him, pulling him back into its horrid embrace, but Graham fought against it. He could not return to those horrors.

  “I’m just so afraid,” he said. “I need to fix it.”

  “Why?” The question hovered there beyond his grasp, and Graham did not know if it was from the dream or reality. His fevered brain did not care.

  “What am I without it?” He whispered the words as flashes of his nightmares flickered around him. “I have nothing.”

  “That is not true,” she said. “And you know it.”

  Her words faded into music, her sweet notes cutting through the dark despair around him. The tune never wavered, never stopped. It simply shifted from one to another. It sounded like something a nursemaid would sing to her charge, and it only further lightened Graham’s soul.

  Something in her words pricked at Graham, tugging at his conscience. What did he have? What was he? The fever plagued his mind, making it impossible to formulate a coherent thought, but those questions lingered there in the background, caught with him between the waking world and the unconscious abyss.

  “Thank you, Tabby,” he whispered.

  Chapter 19

  Lifting the teacup to her lips, Tabby took a sip. It was cold but brought blessed relief to her dry throat. Savoring it for a moment, she set the cup on the nightstand and retrieved the book resting beside Captain Ashbrook. With her free hand, Tabby touched his forehead and cheeks, testing the temperature. She had done so countless times, and it was a welcome thrill to find his fever had broken.

  “Now, where were we?” she asked. Not that she expected an answer. Captain Ashbrook had not spoken more than a few feverish words since the surgery, but Tabby found herself speaking to him as though nothing were amiss. It helped keep his sad words from haunting her. He thought he had nothing. At certain points during her vigil, Tabby wanted to shake him for such a foolish belief, but mostly, it tore at her soul. More than the words, it was his tone. The hopelessness in it.

  Tabby batted away those thoughts and found her place on the page. They had read this novel before, but Tabby could not bring herself to open a new book. There was no indication that the captain heard any of it, and it felt wrong to begin something different if he was too incoherent to enjoy the story. Besides, she rather liked this one and did not mind rereading it
, though she would never admit it aloud. After all the times the captain had teased her about her literary preferences, she was not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had successfully converted her to his tastes.

  “‘The behaviour of the huntsman struck Brown, although he had no recollection of his face, nor could conceive why he should…’” began Tabby, halting mid-sentence when she looked over the top of the book to see Captain Ashbrook watching her. Tossing it aside, Tabby leapt from her chair.

  “Captain?” she asked, taking his hand. “Can you speak?”

  He swallowed, his brow tightening, but his eyes remained focused on her.

  “Here,” she said, grabbing a glass of water. Carefully, she leaned him up enough to get him a few sips. Immediately, her hands checked his pulse and fever. Though she knew both would be as they were when she had checked them mere moments ago, it gave her such comfort that she could not stop herself from doing so once again.

  His lips opened, though his voice was rough. “I do not need a woman fluttering over me,” he croaked.

  For a single, awful, infuriating moment, Tabby stared at him, but then she noticed the twinkle of humor in his eye. “Yes, you are a pillar of manly strength. A veritable Hercules ready to leap from his sick bed.”

  “How long?” he asked, and Tabby saw the pinch of his lips that she had come to recognize as a sign for thirst mixed with a stubbornness of not wishing to bother her. Without waiting for his express request, Tabby helped him drink a bit more.

  “Three days,” she said, laying him on his pillows. His eyes were fixed on hers as she stood so near him, and Tabby felt a blush creep across her face. “Your fever broke last night, and you have been in and out of consciousness since then.”

  She sat on her chair, but his gaze never left her. It held an intensity that left her wondering if a hint of the fever lingered in his mind.

  “You look as though you could use some rest,” said Captain Ashbrook.

  And for the first time in days, Tabby laughed. “It is very wrong of you to point out that a lady looks haggard and tired, especially when it is your fault that she is in such a state. I have been unable to rest since the surgeon arrived.”

  At that, the captain finally looked away, staring at the ceiling. They sat in silence for a few minutes, but Tabby could not stop herself from pressing the issue.

  “You nearly died,” she whispered, swallowing past the lump in her throat. Memories of those terrifying hours had worn Tabby thin until she felt fragile enough that the smallest bump would break her.

  His gaze fell to her, and though he did not say a word, she read the disbelief in it. The stubborn, bull-headed fool. But Tabby did not have the strength to summon her righteous anger.

  “Don’t you dare look at me that way, Captain Ashbrook,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “There is no way you were coherent enough to know what was happening, so do not act as though I am exaggerating. Your sister called the vicar in to pray over you.”

  The memory of Mina’s tears as her husband led her away echoed in Tabby’s mind. The poor lady had been inconsolable, but Tabby couldn’t bring herself to talk about that yet. That was Mina’s story to tell, and though Captain Ashbrook deserved to know how much distress he had caused, she knew this was not the time for it.

  Something shifted in the captain’s eyes, and Tabby leaned forward to test his forehead once more, but his temperature remained healthy. Sitting so close, she saw the true cause of the change. The beginnings of tears shimmered in his eyes. Ignoring them, as she knew he would prefer her to, Tabby helped him take another drink.

  “Why are you so determined to throw your life away?” she asked as he lay propped in her arms. Tabby had held the gentleman thus many a time before, but in this moment, there was something so familiar about it. Comfortable. Some part of her wished they could remain like that.

  The thought startled her, and Tabby put him down and sat in her chair, giving herself some distance.

  “The navy is my life,” came the raspy reply.

  And at that, Tabby knew it was time to steel herself to say the blunt truth he needed. “The navy is your past, Captain Ashbrook. No matter what treatments you pursue, there is no way you shall ever return to it. There is no undoing the damage done. This is your life. A landbound life. And if you do not accept it, I doubt you will survive the year.”

  The captain looked away from her, turning his head to stare at the wall, but Tabby saw the sheen of tears.

  “But…” He stopped and cleared his throat but didn’t turn to face her. “To accept that it is gone is to accept that I have lost everything.”

  Tabby dropped her head at the selfsame hopelessness that had been in his voice when he’d spoken those similar, fever-addled words. Resting her hands on the edge of the bed, Tabby gathered her thoughts, struggling for the words to say to him. Sending out a silent prayer, she hoped that she’d find the right ones.

  “I know,” she said, swallowing past the emotion gathering in her throat. Sucking on her lips, she allowed a few tears of her own to fall, knowing that restraint would not help her cause. “I know what it is like to feel that way.”

  Her breath hitched, and Tabby squeezed her eyes shut as memories best left undisturbed rose to the surface. “I felt it when the physician placed my lifeless babe in my arms.”

  Tabby could not speak for several moments, allowing the feeling of it to wash over her. Her sweet baby with his golden fluff of hair. His perfect little fingers and toes. She remembered the weight of him in her arms, the feel of his tiny body clutched to her breast. All the pain that swept over her as she realized that her dear child was stillborn. Months—years, even—of hoping and waiting for that blessed day to arrive, and it had ended with a hastily dug grave.

  A touch returned Tabby to the present, and she opened her eyes to see Captain Ashbrook resting his hand atop her clasped ones.

  “You lost a child?” His brow bunched, his clear eyes filling with sympathy.

  “Two,” she said. “Both stillborn.”

  He blinked away the tears forming in his eyes, and Tabby felt his heart reaching out to hers. Heaven help her, she reveled in the kindness and support as his hand entwined with hers.

  “I know what it is to lose everything,” she said. “Being a mother is such a part of who I am, yet I was childless for many years. Teased with the promise of babies of my own, only to lose so many of them. And that was only the beginning. Little in my life has unfolded as planned. So many of my hopes and dreams have rotted away, but I know allowing that heartache to define me would be my true downfall.”

  Like Joshua. Tabby did not say it aloud, for she did not wish him to be part of this conversation, but he lingered there in the back of her mind. That was what Joshua had done. Allowing the disappointments to become the focal point of his life until it had infected the whole of him, ruining the good along with the bad. Always searching for some way to consume happiness rather than generating it within himself. Searching for meaning in a bit of gin and whiskey and the flick of a face card.

  Tabby squeezed the captain’s hand, her wet eyes meeting his. “There is nothing wrong with mourning a loss, but you must move on. You must. Joy is not an accident. It comes from living one's life, finding the good among the bad, and moving forward. Until you accept it, you will never truly heal. Please, you—”

  But she stopped short when the door opened and Jillian entered.

  “Oh, sorry, ma’am,” she said, blushing, and turned to leave, but Tabby stopped her.

  “What is it?” Tabby asked, pulling her hand from Captain Ashbrook’s to wipe at her eyes.

  “Mrs. Bunting had a question about dinner, ma’am,” she said.

  “I shall be there directly.”

  Jillian bobbed and shut the door, leaving Tabby and Captain Ashbrook alone together. Folding her arms, she stared at the floor. In the moment, sharing such personal things had seemed wise, but the interruption had broken the spell between them
, leaving her feeling flush and fidgety as she thought about what had passed between them.

  One does not speak of such things in polite society, but it had felt right to share her secret heartache.

  “Please…” she whispered, a fresh tear crawling down her cheek. Not another lost life. Not again. Suffering her own heartache had been bad enough, but watching it tear apart her husband and destroy her marriage compounded that pain.

  “Please, do not let this crush you. I cannot stand to watch it,” she said before fleeing the room.

  *

  The door closed with a click, and Graham desperately wanted to call her back. Pull her into his arms. Give her the comfort she deserved. But Graham sensed she needed the distance. Truth be told, he could use it, too.

  With his good hand, he rubbed at his head. Exhaustion pulled at him, his brain still fogged from the fever, yet his mind refused to stray from the scene that had just unfolded.

  His heart was twisted from the pull of a dozen different emotions, and Graham could not sort through it all. He did not know what he should feel or what he wished to feel. It was a tangled mess, which was only further complicated by his sluggish thoughts and weary body.

  But there was one prevalent sentiment that overtook it all. He was awed by Mrs. Russell’s fortitude. It was not as though he were unaware that she had suffered in her life. She had shared bits of it before, but he’d had no true understanding of what the poor lady had been through. Her words dug into him like a surgeon’s knife. All that pain. He wished there were some way he could have sheltered her from such hardships.

  Yet, Mrs. Russell soldiered on. More than that, she seemed a genuinely happy sort of person. And Graham wanted to be like her.

  Acknowledging that made him realize how empty he felt. Perhaps it was simply the strength of his desperation that had sheltered it from recognition, but lying there, seeing the type of person he wished to be made him see the void inside himself for what it was. It was as though his soul had atrophied.